Miss Adventure (7 page)

“The team from Sawyer called again,” Alan explains with dispatch. “They're insisting on a meeting.”

I cannot believe it. They’re conducting business right over my head, as if I’m not even here. Like the woman in the ugly bra doesn’t matter. Then again, their ignoring me in my un-sexy undies is probably a good thing.

“I'll deal with them later.”

“Right.” Alan scoots away, leaving us alone.

As Jack pulls back to button his cuffs, he gives me a once over.

“What?” I demand.

“Interesting,” Jack muses. “Your first reaction to intense fear is to strip.” He nods thoughtfully. “Good to know.”

“That's it?” I ask. “That's your reaction, to make a joke? Your whole staff is going to think I'm your booty call. Don't you care?”

He slides me a look, then grabs a duffle off a shelf. “No one is going to think that.”

“Why?” I challenge. “Am I so out of your league? Would the idea be just too absurd to anyone who knows you?”

He stops and looks at me. “Lisa, I don’t have sex in the office. It’s not a rule, exactly, but I just never do. And I don’t encourage it among my staff.” He starts to fill the duffle with gear from his drawers and shelves. “But if it will make you feel better, I’ll tell Peg how crazy hot I think you are.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“That’s because you’re whacko.” He doesn’t even pause what he’s doing when he says this.

“So,” I say, trying to step back into a more professional mode, “what's up with Sawyer?
The
Sawyer, right? The big sport shoe company?”

Jack zips the duffle shut. “I already told them once to go fuck themselves because I’m not interested in joining up with some nightmare conglomerate of cheap labor and mass marketing. Let’s go.” He brushes past me on his way to the door.

“Jack,” I say. “This deal is never going to work if you get mad at me every time I ask a question or make a suggestion.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Then why are you so edgy?”

He turns to me, his hand on the doorknob. “Because I hope to God I’m doing the right thing.”

“Why?” I ask. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking you on your first adventure.”

“Yes, Lisa. Naked.”

“Naked, naked?” I swallow, then take a deep breath. He can’t be serious. “You want my naked skin touching this thing?” I look at the long, black wetsuit in my hands. We drove all the way back to his house up in the hills of Glendale just to get this stupid suit that’s not going to fit me, no matter how naked I get.

“It’s the best way.”

“So there
are
other ways.”

Jack sets the duffle on his kitchen table. “Yes,” he says, unzipping the bag. “Some people wear a swimsuit underneath, or Under Armour.”

“Armor?” It’s for the sharks, I know it!

“Under Armour. It’s like a spandex body suit.”

“Let me do that, then. You must have one lying around here somewhere.” I look around Jack’s house. Nothing.

Just beyond the big wooden table in the kitchen, the room morphs into a family room. But the kitchen looks like a normal kitchen with a fridge and stove and all, and the family room just looks like regular family room. Couch, TV, coffee table. No spandex lying around anywhere.

I wander into the living room at the front of the house and hit pay dirt. At least, potential pay dirt. The spacious room, which I think is supposed to be part dining room—the demarcation is unclear because of the mountain bike and the saddle—is messy with gear, junk and working-type stuff just like his office at Into the Wild.

Jack follows me.

“Lisa, do you know the point of a wetsuit?”

I don’t answer. As far as I’m concerned, a wetsuit is for wearing if you’re on a show like
The Man from Atlantis
or if you work at Sea World.

He gets in front of me, right in my face. “It keeps frigid water away from your skin.”

“But you were in shorts this morning!”

“I had to test the suit, and I didn’t want to wait until July. Anyway, I’m a little more used to it than you are.”

“Then the body armor stuff will keep me a lot warmer than wearing a wetsuit with nothing on underneath.”

“Wrong.”

In that one word I hear the thumping finality of a guillotine.

“Anything you wear underneath,” he explains, facing me squarely, “even a bathing suit or a pair of underwear, allows air between the suit and your skin.”

“Letting your skin breathe is good. I saw that James Bond movie where—”

“Air in a wetsuit is bad,” he says, cutting me off as he heads back to the kitchen.

I have no choice but to follow him. Back to the kitchen. Back to the duffle of doom. He starts unloading the bag. A small yellow box, flippers.

“It increases the chances that ice cold water can seep in,” he continues. “And guess what, Lisa?” He turns to meet my eyes. “It won’t seep back out again. You’ll just freeze your ass off until you become a medical risk. Then I’ll bring you back.”

The mean bastard turns his attention back to unloading the duffle. Is that a bulletproof vest? What the hell kind of adventure is this going to be? Beginners have to deal with bullets? He must be purposely trying to scare me to see if I’ll back down.

I look back at the wetsuit I’m holding. It looks so much slimmer than I feel.

“So I just get naked and squeeze in?”

Jack hands me the little yellow box. “This should help.”

I look down at it. “It’s cornstarch.”

He taps his nose. “Full marks for being able to read your native language.”

I look at him. I’m guessing he doesn’t want me to bake a cake with it. “Thanks?”

“Use it like talcum powder.”

I am so totally screwed. “Where do I suit up?”

* * * * *

He put me in a downstairs bathroom. It’s cheery with its yellow tile and colorful shower curtain sprigged with open umbrellas. Despite the décor, I’m still depressed. Why did he have to bring me back to his house, anyway? The place is clean and comfortable, making me want to leave for the ocean even less.

Okay, so I couldn’t exactly get suited up at the office where the staff could see me, but still. Donna Reed’s bathroom is hardly the best place to prepare for diving into shark-infested waters.

Anyway, wasn’t it enough of an adventure today when he made me get into that damn glass elevator again?

I look at the suit and suck in my stomach. I don’t like this.

* * * * *

I meet Jack back in the kitchen, where he’s suited up himself. When he sees me, he looks at me kind of funny but doesn’t say anything.

“What?” I ask, wondering if I put it on backwards.

He looks me over. “Nothing.”

I look down at myself. Jeez! I forgot to dust off the cornstarchy handprints all over me. Jack now has a veritable map of where I put my hands to press in my bumps and bulges as I stood in front of the mirror.

“I…uh…had a little trouble getting it on…making sure it fit right.”

Jack just nods. “Let’s fill the pockets.”

The pockets are in weird places on the suit—the forearm, the outside of the upper arm, the outside of the thigh.

I especially hate the thigh pockets. When filled, my quads look as monstrously invincible as Godzilla’s.

And I don’t even know what they’re filled with.

The only things I recognized that Jack handed me were power bars and some kind of gun. I hope not the kind with bullets. Unless it’s for the sharks.

I don’t ask though. I don’t want to know.

In a few minutes, we’re ready.

“Let’s go.” Jack opens the kitchen door to the garage.

My stomach lurches. Oh God. OhGodohGodohGodohGod. “I really like your shower curtain!” I shreik. “The one with umbrellas.”

“Really?” he asks, big smile. “I have little towels that match.”

“Really?”

“No.” His smile disappears as he swipes the duffle off the table. “Let’s go.”

“You know,” I say, looking out the glass doors of the kitchen, “this is an awesome view. Do you own that mountain?” I gesture to the steep incline starting about two hundred feet from his back patio.

Jack turns to face me. “No, Lisa. I don’t own the mountain. My property ends where the grass stops and the scrub starts.”

I scrunch up my nose. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I just expected a guy like you to own a ranch or a mountain or a lake or something like that, since you’re so into nature and the outdoors and everything.”

“I don’t have to own it to love it.”

“So,” I continue, “you just tramp around the globe, conquering nature wherever you find it?”

“I don’t conquer it,” he tells me. “I try to understand it. At least to the point that it doesn't conquer
me
.”

He stands on the other side of the garage door threshold. It’s as if he’s daring me to cross over.

If I don’t do this, I’m a failure.

I step into the garage.

“Lisa? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I answer lickety-split. “This just feels weird. I don’t usually wear my clothes so tight.”

It takes me three tries to get myself into his truck, and then we’re off.

We drive from Glendale down to rainy Santa Monica, heading toward the beach. The ocean gets closer with every block, making the lining of my stomach feel electrified.

I hate this so much. I think about what a lucky girl I was just yesterday before I had to put on a wetsuit and dive into the ocean during a storm.

Jack turns south, instead of heading west toward the Pacific. He pulls into a parking lot.

“What are we doing at the airport?” Even to my own ears, my voice sounds unnaturally tinny. Please just let him need a map of tides or something.

“We’re taking a helicopter,” he explains as he parks. Then he gets out of the truck.

I fly out after him, stumbling awkwardly on the pavement. I try to get my panic under control.

“Taking one
where
?”

“About a mile or so out.”

“Out over the ocean?” I squeal. “We’re jumping in from a
helicopter
? From how high? Is it safe? What if the wind blows me into the propeller?”

“Regular rules of gravity apply,” he says, opening the tailgate. “When you jump, you’ll head straight down and hit the water. Promise. Here, take this.” He shoves the vest thing at me.

“Why do I need a bullet-proof vest?”

“It’s a buoyancy compensator,” he says. “Put it on.”

“So it’ll make me float?”

I try to look graceful as I struggle into the thing, but it has lots of straps and buckles like one of those monster backpacks teenagers take to Europe.

“Or submerge,” he says. “It does both.”

“Submerge? How far? I’ve never done deep sea diving. Will I get the bends?”

“Today,” he says, slamming the tailgate, “we’re just going to float.”

Jack adjusts my straps and gets the vest ready, and I have to say, it looks pretty complicated. “Couldn’t I just wear a life vest or something simple?”

“This covers more of your body,” he explains. “I want to test the accessibility of the pockets and a BCD is the greatest hindrance to the ease of use.”

Oh.

Carrying our flippers, we walk through the rain toward a chopper. Holy . It’s
tiny
. Like a metal chestnut with an angry wasp stuck to one end. And it HAS NO DOORS.

“Jack.” I stop on the tarmac and put my hand on his arm. “Should we really be taking a chopper? I mean, how many rookie divers are going to be dropped down from a helicopter?”

“Very few, probably.” He shrugs. “Most would be dropped off by a boat, but this is faster and much more manageable.”

“So, what happens? The pilot drops us off then picks us up later?”

“Pretty much.”

“How much later? What if he can’t find us?”

“The pilot is a she, and she’ll find us. I’ve got a transmitter on me.”

Once I’m seated in the helicopter, I notice the pilot’s graying hair curls up at the ends and her rosy cheeks dimple when she smiles. Honestly, she looks more like a country grandma than a sadistic harbinger of death. As the blades begin to pump, I wonder whether Jack hired her on purpose to relax me. As if. A helicopter with doors would have been better.

We begin to move.

Our Father, who art in heaven
…

No. Not heaven. It’s way too close to the sky.

Strapped in, headphones in place, microphone I can use to communicate with Jack right near my mouth, I shut my eyes tight and stiffen my entire body. I hang on to the edge of my seat with the grip of a snapping turtle.

Don’t look
.
Don’t look
.
Don’t look
.

My stomach dips and rolls anyway. Oh, God.

Don’t think
.
Don’t think
.
Don’t think
.

Tears squeeze out from under my closed eyelids. Then I feel Jack’s hand on my arm.

Bam!

Just like that, my eyes pop open. I jerk up straight, sitting high in my seat. I can’t let Jack think I’m a coward.

I can’t
be
a coward. Not anymore.

This is my chance to change, to prove myself worthy to live my life. I look at open sky through the windshield in front of me and tell my brain to just stop working.

The tears continue to fall, but I keep my eyes wide open and focused straight ahead. The pilot doesn’t seem concerned about flying so high up with no doors, and neither does Jack, so that gives my sanity something to hold on to.

I think Jack is trying to talk to me quietly through the headphones, but I don’t care. The ocean stretches out before and below me, so I’m concentrating on feeling courageous.

“Jesus,” I hear him say more loudly. “I knew this was a big mistake.”

“Oh, God!” I scream. “We’re crashing!”

“We are NOT crashing.”

“We’re not?”

“Damn! I
knew
you were all wrong for this.”

“All wrong? No, I’m not!” I stiffen my spine, making myself as tall as I can. “This is my first time in a hel—”

“It’s not the helicopter,” Jack says. “It’s you. You’re just—never mind.”

“What?! Tell me! I can do this! I AM doing this!”

“I better just take you home.”

“No!”

“Yes. You said this was what you wanted, but you clearly don’t want to be here.”

“Yes I do! I can do this and I will.”

“Okay.” In a flash, he rips off his headphones and mine, snaps open his seatbelt and mine, and pulls me against him as he stands.

“Hey!”

Jack turns me around and wraps his arms just under my ribcage. I figure out what he’s doing just as the helicopter banks sharply.

Out we go, tumbling backwards through space.

“AAAAAAAAHHHH!”

We fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and—

Shoom!

We hit the water and IT’S COLD IT’S COLD IT’S COLD!

We're under water and I'm confused but then we surface.

He lets me go.

I flop around, slapping at the water like a Labrador puppy.

Jack unhooks a pair of flippers from a Batman-like utility belt and slips them on. He unhooks a second pair.

Grabbing my feet one at a time, he fits a flipper snugly onto each foot. I’m bobbing up and down, batted around by the choppy waves. I’m in the middle of the ocean. I can’t get my bearings or hear anything but the chopper and the churning water.

Jack swims right up to my face. “Are you okay?”

My heart is beating so fast. I can’t catch my breath. Shouting is impossible. I give him a thumbs up instead.

“Answer me!” He raises both hands out of the water, palms facing me, pulsing toward me gently.

Calm down
.
Calm down
.
Calm down
.

“I’m good!” I finally shout, and Jack beams.

I think it’s a real smile.

The first one I’ve ever seen from Jack.

Oh God! I must be dying! I must have landed wrong!

But then Jack signals up to the chopper and it flies away. He probably wouldn’t have done that if I were dying.

He takes my hand and pulls me along. We start swimming side by side like Tom Hanks and Daryl Hannah at the end of
Splash
. Waves keep whapping me in the face, but this doesn’t really slow us down. I’m surprised at how much the flippers propel me. But not enough to outswim a shark.

I saw that movie where the couple gets left in the middle of the ocean. Just like I am now. Sharks come and eat them. Eat them! What the
hell
kind of movie ending is that?