An Ordinary Drowning, Book One of The Mermaid's Pendant by LeAnn Neal Reilly Page A

as
she popped the last of the alcapurria into his mouth. She said nothing,
just pushed the basket closer to him.
    He ate
three more orders of alcapurrias before the hollowness inside him had
been satiated. He’d had no idea how hungry he’d been until the relief at not
being hungry left him drowsy and unfocused. He slouched in his chair and played
with the label that he’d stripped from his Medalla bottle. Through its brown
glass, he saw Zoë’s postcard lying under an empty basket. Grease spots speckled
his handwriting. He found that he didn’t care.
    They sat
drinking and talking for another half an hour. A few more customers wandered in
and the conversation at the bar grew lively, but no one looked their way. John
let words slip from his mouth, too overwhelmed by Raimunda’s scent, her throaty
laugh, the hollow at the base of her neck, to have more than a passing interest
in the sound of his own voice. He floated just outside his head, detached from
himself and yet aware of how hot he was, how slick his palms were on his
thighs. When Raimunda edged her seat closer, he knew only the reality of the
pulse fluttering in her throat.
    “Let’s
leave.” She spoke low, sending a thrill through him.
    “You got
someplace in mind?” He heard the tremor in his voice.
    She
stood up. Held out her hand. “Come, gringo .”
    They
left his bike outside Isla Encantada. She held his hand in her warm, dry one
and led him through Dewey, past the disapproving Catholic Church and the darkly
officious post office. A few Culebrenses congregated on lit porches drinking
beer and listening to tinny radios, their warm laughter muffling John’s steps.
Raimunda padded along on cat’s feet. On the far side of the plaza a couple of
sailors sauntered into the liquor store, but the pueblo was otherwise
deserted at this hour. No one called out to them or even looked their way—they
were wraiths. Near the clinic, Raimunda turned west and headed away from town.
John tried to picture where they were going, but a fuzzy Culebra map only
flickered and died in his memory.
    They
walked close to each other, Raimunda’s arm grazing his every so often. As she
moved, she exuded the spicy scent of cloves and musk that he already associated
with her. It made him lightheaded. Perhaps Raimunda clicked no castanets nor
seductively twirled any long skirts, but in her company he had no desire to
meet a señorita . He’d just begun to wonder where she was leading him
when he saw the sign for Playa Melones, a small stony beach near the southern
tip of the canal. Except for a red navigation light glowing at the tip of a
thin tower on the point, only the sound of lapping waves and the pungent odor
of seaweed and salt greeted them.
    Before
John could speak, Raimunda sank down onto her knees and tugged at a sandal
strap. She braced her shoulder against his thigh and lifted his foot to remove
the loosened shoe, running her warm fingers lightly up his calf afterwards.
John let his hand drift to her shoulder where it rested among soft dark hair.
He leaned into her as she stripped the other sandal off. Again she caressed his
calf. Gooseflesh sprung up in the wake of her fingers, which traveled as far as
his shorts. Just as they tickled the skin under the hem, she jumped up and
pulled John toward the water. As soon as their feet touched the wet stones, she
ran ahead of him on the thin strip of beach.
    John
stood, gasping faintly.
    “Catch
me, gringo ,” Raimunda called over her shoulder.
    His legs
carried him forward before his mind had chosen to act. As John ran after her,
she swerved into the ocean. Water swirled around his ankles before he realized
what he’d done and stopped. She appeared not to notice and continued until the
water reached her thighs. She turned around to face him.
    “You
must follow me to catch me, my friend,” she said. The warm huskiness of her
voice made the night intimate. “Rescue me .”
    The soft
sibilance of her rescue twined around