Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
People stand and start shuffling out. Cole’s already cutting down the central walkway as if trying to get to . . . me. His dark eyes meet mine across the crowded room, and I blanch. Oh crap. I can’t just stay here like a sitting duck. For all I know he’s trying to hunt me down so he can terminate me on the spot. Nuh-uh, not happening. He told Todd I had a week, right? I intend on staying until the bitter end, like the quintessential badass in action movies who takes eleven bullets to the chest but still somehow manages to pull himself up and keep fighting. (Plot writers: I’m sorry, how?)
At least I have the advantage of already being in the back of the room.
“Oh, excuse me. Yup, just gonna . . . yeah, slipping on through. Oops. Sorry. ’Scuse me!”
I slither right out of that ballroom like only a determined female can do when faced with a large crowd. Put me at the back of a concert, and I could be front row in no time, believe it.
Then I’m speed walking along the path like I actually expect Cole to follow me.
When a hand grabs my biceps, I scream.
“Relax, weirdo.”
It’s only Camila. She and Lara must have hurried out the ballroom right after me. We walk together back toward staff housing.
“I can’t believe it,” Lara says with a shake of her head. Her eyes are still wide with shock.
“Yes, I know. But more specifically, what can’t you believe?”
I’m hoping they can give me the CliffsNotes version of the meeting so I’m not totally lost.
“Didn’t you listen to any of that?”
I pfft. “All of it. Just . . . what were the craziest parts for you?”
Lara shakes her head. “Todd got up there first and told us this was nothing, that we had nothing to worry about. But after he left, Cole took over and sang an entirely different tune. I can’t believe he talked through all those worst-case scenarios. If the hurricane causes as much flooding as they suspect it will, they’ll move all of us out of our dorms and into the hotel. Since there’s still so many guests on site, though, they’ll have to maximize the empty rooms.” She sees my shocked expression and frowns. “Didn’t you hear them say that?”
“No, audio wasn’t great in the back.”
“Right. Well, it’ll be groups of four in the double queen rooms and groups of two in each of the king rooms. But we don’t get to pick! It’ll all be randomly assigned roommates!”
Tragic.
“Surely it won’t come to that, though. I mean, it’s just a little hurricane, right?”
Cut to me getting swept up in a squall, carried away, never to be seen or heard from again.
Chapter Sixteen
PAIGE
From the moment I open my eyes the next morning, I hear the drumming of the downpour on my roof. When I open my door to check the conditions outside, I find a cobbled-together hurricane prep bag leaned up against my door, courtesy of the resort. Inside, there’s a bright orange poncho, a flashlight, a bag of cashews, and a . . . Frisbee branded with the Siesta Playa logo. I know leftover swag when I see it.
Later in the break room, someone will ask me, “So did you get the Frisbee or the stress ball? I’ll trade you.”
Along with the kit, there’s also a little note urging us to pack a go bag with essentials, in case we need them. Essentials, got it. It’s tough deciding between my hunter green and navy blue sandals, but in the end, I make the right call and pack them both. I stuff in a few changes of clothes, underwear, bras, chargers, my computer, a few books, toiletries, and a file folder with my important documents. All said and done, it’s not much.
After, I don my new bright orange poncho and head to work. The rain is relentless as I hustle along the path. I can hear the chaos of the lobby even before I enter. Ringing phones, demanding guests, apologies, assurances, arguments.
“What do you mean my fishing trip is canceled?!”
“Sir, the water is too choppy,” a receptionist says with a compassionate frown. “It’s a matter of safety.”
The prepper guy waves a hand down his tactical vest and cargo pants. In the process, the half dozen carabiners hanging off his belt loops jinglejangle with survival accoutrement. “You think I’m worried about safety? I can protect myself. I’m carrying a Fällkniven F1 made of laminate steel. One of the all-time greats. Full tang with mixed-grade strength.”
The receptionist offers him a little nod. Her eyes have nothing behind them. Physically, she’s here. Mentally, she’s rubbing coconut oil on Tom Hardy. It’s self-preservation. I wonder how many people have already shouted at her today. I pity her. I am her.