Under My Skin by Kenner J

Author:Kenner, J. [Kenner, J.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781472226327
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2015-08-31T07:00:00+00:00

fifteen

The enticing aroma of yeast and cinnamon wafts through the boat, making my stomach growl. “That smells amazing,” I say, as Jackson opens the oven in the galley-style kitchen and pulls out a tray of cinnamon rolls.

We’d come to the marina before dawn, and had been lucky not to meet many paparazzi hanging around the gate. Presumably they knew Jackson wasn’t on the boat and had gone home to sleep—or to the Tower to camp out.

Now we’re getting close to the island, and making up for skipping breakfast in order to get under way quicker.

Jackson picks up a plastic bag full of gooey white stuff that I assume is a sugary icing for the rolls. I ease up beside him and take it, figuring I ought to contribute at least a little something to our breakfast. He snags the first one I ice, holding it on a paper towel as he nods generally toward the front of the boat. “I’m going to go check our position. I’ll be right back.”

I nod, then focus on my culinary task until he returns.

“Getting close,” he says. “Ten more minutes and I’ll take her off autopilot. But it’s a gorgeous day. Let’s take these up to the deck.”

Since that’s a brilliant idea, I don’t argue. He takes the rolls and I grab some orange juice, plates, and cups, then follow him up.

He’s right. It is a gorgeous day, and I silently decree that today there will be no talk of murder or jail. There will be no worries about Ronnie. No fear that I will be raising that little girl alone.

There will be only work and the island and Jackson and me.

Today, I’m holding tight to normalcy, and these moments at sea are a damn fine start.

The sky is a crystalline blue, and there isn’t a cloud to be seen. The ocean ahead is smooth, the surface only rippled by a soft wind. We’re close enough to both Catalina Island and Santa Cortez for seagulls to be flying overhead, and I watch as a few dive-bomb the water for their breakfast. I toss out a piece of my cinnamon roll and watch the closest one rocket toward it.

“Hey,” Jackson says. “I slaved over those. Took them out of a box and everything.”

“You picked a good box. They’re great.”

We’re sitting on the main deck on a bench on the port side just over from the captain’s chair. It’s cushioned and the back of the bench is also the side of the boat. I’ve poured us both juice and we have the cups tucked into built-in holders. The pitcher is jammed into the center of a life preserver to keep it steady.

I’ve put the rolls between us, and Jackson makes a grab for his third. He takes a bite and grins at me, a tiny bit of white icing stuck to the corner of his mouth. I reach over and wipe it off with my thumb, then put my thumb in my mouth and suck it clean.

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