Page 94 of Crush
Sweeping my arms out into a breaststroke, I swim to the left, toward the cliff Damion marked as the first qualifier. My head bobs between waves. Away from the rocks, the ocean is fairly calm but by no means flat. The white-capped waves don’t begin until I’m closer to the base of the cliff, and like Damion warned, I stay back a few paces, unwilling to risk getting caught between an angry wave and an even angrier piece of rock.
The current becomes faster, my legs and body seemingly pushed in different directions, making my strokes harder to keep smooth. Once, my head goes all the way under, and then twice. Three times. I’m having trouble taking deep enough breaths before I’m submerged again.
Instead of panicking, I think about my swimmer’s training at Winthorpe and my old school. Fear is what will pull me under the fastest. Remaining calm and targeting one spot on the shore will keep me from drifting against my will.
It’s challenging to do in the dark, but I find one crevice in the cliff more unique than the others in the moonlight, larger and climbing up the face like a vine wanting to suffocate the stone. Keeping my attention on it, I swim hard, kicking and forcing my arms forward, then pulling them back, aiming for a longer, surer stroke.
At the topmost point of the curve, the current becomes more possessive, pushing me toward the base where the rocks are the shallowest. My chest starts to ache. My lungs burn with effort, and my breaths come out in grunts. I risk a glance back to shore, noting that Jaxon follows my distance as much as he can until the sand turns to rock and he can’t climb to see me anymore. Damion stays where he is, at the torch, his gaze somewhere past me, like he doesn’t give a shit where I am, so long as I drown.
Not today, asshole.
Gritting my teeth, I keep going.
The panic sets in when my ankle hits a rock underwater, and pain sears up my calf. Crying out, I resist the urge to bring my knee to my chest and check the damage. I’m too close to the cliff-face. My focus on the shore, at Jaxon and Damon, cost me my center point.
The saltwater acts like acid against the cut. At each kick, I wheeze with pain. I have to get out of these rocks.
The waves shove me harder, aiming for the jutting pieces of rock arching out of the water like unsheathed fangs. I avoid one, but I can’t bypass the next. My shoulder slams against the stone. I have a few short seconds of air to cry out before I’m pulled under, spiraling into the deep.
With the night sky above, I don’t know up from down. My heart flails against my rib cage, deafening me with a panicked pulse. I pop my eyes wide, as if that can gain me any sort of clarity, then hope I’m right when I start to swim where I think is up.
My hand hits something hard and slimy. Not a rock.
There’s blood in the water from my ankle.
Sharks.
That thought alone is enough to propel me to the surface like a missile. I break through the surface, coughing and sputtering, but don’t waste time splashing around. Despite the stinging saltwater, I force my eyes open to get my bearings.
The current’s pushed me farther away from shore. I’ve escaped the cluster of rocks, but I’ve gained more yards to have to swim before I reach any kind of safety.
I cut through the ocean, refusing to give up just because I’ve lost some ground. I’m strong. I’ve trained many lengths in the pool. If Thorne can do this, so can I.
Even though Thorne’s the top-ranked swimmer in the school, I think wryly, breaking records that my wins couldn’t reach even if I were given flippers.
But Thorne’s hurt. I can’t simply drown without answers. I have to make sure he’s all right. For him to receive news that I died in the same spot he saved me from, he’d be furious. I imagine him having to tell my parents how I died or how Malcolm would react to the news. Neither would be well-received. Even worse, Thorne would be epically pissed off at imparting the news of my demise. Instead of fighting, she gave up. That perfect future she laid out for herself? She didn’t factor in having to battle for it. She thought it would just be handed to her. She’s a pussy, and not in the delicious sense. Frankly, she deserved what happened to her—
Oh, fuck you, imaginary Thorne.
My strokes come out faster. Harder. My aching ankle forgotten, I follow the curve of the cliff, floating when I hit a riptide, then rolling over and starting up my front stroke again when I sense that it’s safe.
While I’m gasping and swimming, I search for the best place to land without being stabbed by broken stone. I think I see a gap between jagged edges at the very end of the curve, so I cut left, aiming for a direct line instead of the coasting curve I’d been using.
I’ve upped the risk, but I can’t stay in the ocean for much longer. I’m cold, dangerously numb in key places, and I can’t hear my breaths. With the way my chest heaves, I know they’re haggard and loose. I don’t have much time before my body shuts down.
Avoiding the rocks is also more difficult. My mind clouds with frost. I flop against a few, their unyielding forms using my body as a battering ram, but I let them, protecting my head and allowing the ocean to take me under before I kick to the surface and start it all over again.
It seems like eons before I reach the calmer waters near the shore. At this point, I’m doggy-paddling, gasping, and using all my strength to keep my head above water.
Finally, my feet hit the soft bottom, and I use it to skip-bounce to the gap in the stone I spotted. I grab for a handhold, missing it more than once, finding purchase only when I toy with the idea of letting the ocean take me. It takes three attempts to pull myself up, then pathetically crawl until I’m out of the water.
Collapsing on an angled piece of rock, I stare up at the night sky, counting stars until my breaths level out and I can sit up.
How much time has passed? I don’t know and don’t dare try to find out. I just have to keep going, and catching my breath has cost me precious seconds.
I heave to a stand, stumbling until I find a poor excuse for a trail up the cliff. It looks decent enough, and I half hobble, half climb as my lungs protest my continued abuse of them the entire way.
Thorne.