her spine as the black rubber suit heated up. Her eyes scanned the road for the tan Forerunner Ching and Kamuela drove. If he didn’t show up soon, she was going to have to jump in without him or expire of heat prostration. On that thought, the Forerunner drove up.
“No, I can’t talk about it on the phone, and I feel bad…I might be wrong. I have to check something out first before I say anything more.”
“Well, we’ll call you first thing tomorrow morning,” Marcella said, her eyes on Kamuela getting out of the Toyota SUV, his wet suit already halfway on, the rubber torso and arms dangling around his waist. Her breath hitched at the sight. Damn.
“Okay.” Moku’s voice sounded wobbly and uncertain. She hung up.
Marcella handed the phone back to Rogers. “I gotta get into the water ASAP before I die of heatstroke. Where’s my BC?”
“Right here. And here are some beacon markers and a high-powered flashlight for your head and a handheld. You’re going to need both.”
The rented Buoyancy Compensator Device, or BC, was an unfortunate hot pink. Marcella curled her lip but clamped the strap around the air tank. The BC, an inflatable vest, was the secret to being able to descend and ascend in the water, compensating for a weight belt worn to create negative flotation. Marcella bent over, slung the weight belt across her lower back, and straightened up, slipping the plastic buckle into its cradle with a click.
“You’re forgetting something.” She heard the rasp of the long zipper running from her ass to her neck ascending, felt the tightness and restriction of the rubber suit molding itself to her body.
“Thanks.” She turned, but it wasn’t Rogers who’d zipped her up—it was Kamuela. He was packed into his suit as tightly as she, and it wasn’t the heat that made her cheeks flush.
“Scuba would be a great sport if it weren’t for all the equipment.” He already had his weight belt on. “Let me hold your gear for you, dive buddy.” His voice was carefully neutral.
“Sure.”
He hoisted the BC, tank, and regulator up and held them out to her, the vest arms open for her to slip into. A moment later she did the same for him. They turned on each other’s oxygen, checked their dive computers, and compared their compass readings.
Marcella took a look at the murky water before them. “Can’t believe it’s looking good to me, but I’m hot enough to be ready to get in there.”
“You got that right.”
The last touches were mask and fins, which they put on while sitting on the cement edge of the canal. Marcella was the first to slide forward into the murky, briny water, bobbing easily with the BC fully inflated.
Marcella and Kamuela turned on the flashlights and gave each other thumbs-up. Marcella reached up to compress a valve on her vest. A stream of bubbles emitted, and she sank into greenish dim pierced by the yellow lances of their lights and a silver stream of bubbles. She tracked Kamuela beside her, descending at the same rate, and let herself smile a little around the rubber regulator in her mouth.
He looked even better in the wet suit than she’d imagined.
They hit the bottom in seconds—the canal was no more than twelve feet deep. Marcella’s fins sank into the muck on the bottom, and as she pushed up, a cloud of mud obscured visibility even further. They were going to have to get very close to the bottom and try not to disturb the silt.
Marcella took a compass reading and set her first tracking beacon, a triangular cone with a flashing light on top of it. Two feet over, per protocol, Kamuela set a second beacon.
Marcella inflated the vest slightly without moving her legs and rose a couple of feet off the bottom, high enough to reach down into the muck with her hands. She experimented with height by manipulating the air in the BC until she was able to hover at just the right depth. Kamuela rose to parallel her, and they waited for the silt to settle.
The deep inhale of
“No, I can’t talk about it on the phone, and I feel bad…I might be wrong. I have to check something out first before I say anything more.”
“Well, we’ll call you first thing tomorrow morning,” Marcella said, her eyes on Kamuela getting out of the Toyota SUV, his wet suit already halfway on, the rubber torso and arms dangling around his waist. Her breath hitched at the sight. Damn.
“Okay.” Moku’s voice sounded wobbly and uncertain. She hung up.
Marcella handed the phone back to Rogers. “I gotta get into the water ASAP before I die of heatstroke. Where’s my BC?”
“Right here. And here are some beacon markers and a high-powered flashlight for your head and a handheld. You’re going to need both.”
The rented Buoyancy Compensator Device, or BC, was an unfortunate hot pink. Marcella curled her lip but clamped the strap around the air tank. The BC, an inflatable vest, was the secret to being able to descend and ascend in the water, compensating for a weight belt worn to create negative flotation. Marcella bent over, slung the weight belt across her lower back, and straightened up, slipping the plastic buckle into its cradle with a click.
“You’re forgetting something.” She heard the rasp of the long zipper running from her ass to her neck ascending, felt the tightness and restriction of the rubber suit molding itself to her body.
“Thanks.” She turned, but it wasn’t Rogers who’d zipped her up—it was Kamuela. He was packed into his suit as tightly as she, and it wasn’t the heat that made her cheeks flush.
“Scuba would be a great sport if it weren’t for all the equipment.” He already had his weight belt on. “Let me hold your gear for you, dive buddy.” His voice was carefully neutral.
“Sure.”
He hoisted the BC, tank, and regulator up and held them out to her, the vest arms open for her to slip into. A moment later she did the same for him. They turned on each other’s oxygen, checked their dive computers, and compared their compass readings.
Marcella took a look at the murky water before them. “Can’t believe it’s looking good to me, but I’m hot enough to be ready to get in there.”
“You got that right.”
The last touches were mask and fins, which they put on while sitting on the cement edge of the canal. Marcella was the first to slide forward into the murky, briny water, bobbing easily with the BC fully inflated.
Marcella and Kamuela turned on the flashlights and gave each other thumbs-up. Marcella reached up to compress a valve on her vest. A stream of bubbles emitted, and she sank into greenish dim pierced by the yellow lances of their lights and a silver stream of bubbles. She tracked Kamuela beside her, descending at the same rate, and let herself smile a little around the rubber regulator in her mouth.
He looked even better in the wet suit than she’d imagined.
They hit the bottom in seconds—the canal was no more than twelve feet deep. Marcella’s fins sank into the muck on the bottom, and as she pushed up, a cloud of mud obscured visibility even further. They were going to have to get very close to the bottom and try not to disturb the silt.
Marcella took a compass reading and set her first tracking beacon, a triangular cone with a flashing light on top of it. Two feet over, per protocol, Kamuela set a second beacon.
Marcella inflated the vest slightly without moving her legs and rose a couple of feet off the bottom, high enough to reach down into the muck with her hands. She experimented with height by manipulating the air in the BC until she was able to hover at just the right depth. Kamuela rose to parallel her, and they waited for the silt to settle.
The deep inhale of
Similar Books
