Furious Jeffrey Higgins (english love story books TXT) 📖

don’t hate this voyage too much, maybe we can try the South China Sea next year.”

“You got me here . . . how, I’m not sure, but don’t push your luck.”

I set the table for dinner, some kind of white fish and salad, and Brad opened a bottle of Louis Jadot Pouilly-Fuisse.

I never drank much alcohol, probably because of my mother’s raging alcoholism. I could not remember a night when she drank less than three or four glasses of wine. After the incident with my father, when I was ten, whatever self-control she had possessed completely disappeared. It had not taken long for her to fall into an uncontrollable skid. She drank every night, then every afternoon, then every morning. When I pictured her, I could still smell the whisky on her breath and the stale odor of sweat and desperation. Her liver failed halfway through my freshman year at Boston University.

I reclined on the bench and sipped the tangy wine, tasting hints of grapefruit and hazelnut. It soothed me, numbed me. It dulled my mind, clouded my memories, and took the edge off my pain.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“More nauseous, but the Tylenol lessened my headache and joint pain.”

“Are you improving at all?”

“I’ll be fine. Maybe it’s something I ate on Bali.”

“It’s not food poisoning. I hope it’s nothing serious, but you’ve been getting worse, not better, and I need you healthy enough to sail.”

Brad nodded and gazed at the sea. “I needed this, Dags.”

“What?”

“This. To get away from it all.”

It may have been the motion of the boat or the wine, but I felt dizzy and a little tipsy after only two glasses.

Brad leaned across the couch and parted his lips to kiss me. It took me by surprise, and I turned my head away without thinking. His lips landed on my cheek. He looked sexy, but how did I feel about him as a person—his lack of empathy, his narcissism, hiding the lawsuit from me? His violence. My feelings were ill defined, but I did not desire him. Not now.

He paused and looked at me, not appearing to notice my lack of interest. He cupped my breast in his hand. It had been six months since we had had sex, six months since I had an orgasm, six months since I had touched myself. My nipple rose to his touch. He draped his muscular arm over my leg and slid his hand between my thighs.

“No, not now,” I said. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Brad pulled away and glared, the fierceness returning to his eyes.

I tensed.

“Damn it, Dagny. When?”

“I don’t know. Soon.”

“I can’t wait forever. I need sex.”

“I will. I promise, but not right now.

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

Brad slid off the bench and clambered to his feet, bumping into the table and knocking over his glass of wine. The liquid sloshed onto the table.

“You’re ruining both our lives.”

“Brad, I—”

“Fuck this. Everything is so fucked up.” His face reddened and the veins in his neck bulged.

“I’m sorry, really.”

“The baby, the hospital . . . you. It’s too fucking much.”

“Why don’t we—”

“How much of this can I take?” He balled his fists.

A flash of adrenaline hit my system. I sat up and placed my hands on the edge of the table, ready to move.

“Seriously, fucked up,” Brad said.

He stomped through the cockpit and climbed below.

I did not blame him for being frustrated, not with the pressure of the lawsuit weighing on him, but his anger had boiled to the surface without warning. It happened fast, like a flash storm. He held a deep rage inside him, and it scared me. What if he became more violent? We were alone at sea, and I could not dial 9-1-1.

What would I do if Brad lost control?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The wind intensified and shifted, coming out of the north the moment we reached the end of Sumatra. I took a starboard tack, and the yacht heeled to port, the sails filling and stretching. My fingers tightened against the wheel and I glanced at my safety harness. The early morning sun hovered low above the sea. Brad slept, leaving me in charge. Captain Dagny. I bit my lip as my eyes darted between the sails and the horizon.

Brad popped out of the companionway a minute later. He inspected the sails, checked the radar, and smiled.

“Welcome to the Andaman Sea,” he said.

“Are we heeling too far?

“Let me take the helm.”

I unlatched my tether and Brad slipped behind the wheel. He was not wearing a harness, but if that concerned him, he did not show it. A lifetime of sailing in New England had endowed him with a confidence on the water I wished I possessed. I sat behind him and clipped onto a lifeline.

Brad clicked through the control screens, studied the chart, then turned off the autopilot. He plugged in a new course—due west.

“I’m glad the wind woke me up. We head west from here, across the Andaman Sea, the Bay of Bengal, and the Indian Ocean. Next stop, the Maldives.”

“How are you feeling today?” I asked.

“Achy, jittery, sick to my stomach. I don’t know.”

“I’m getting concerned. Let’s head to Sumatra and see a doctor.”

“No.”

“But you’re getting worse,” I said.

“It’s only a stomach flu.”

“It doesn’t sound like a stomach flu. I can’t sail this yacht without you, and this is our last chance to make port until we hit the Maldives.”

“Turning to port,” Brad said.

“Our discussion’s over?”

Brad spun the wheel and the yacht responded. Wind poured over the transom, the sails tightened, and we heeled hard to port. I held onto the bench as the bow oscillated between large swells and our speed increased from five to twelve knots. My legs and arms tingled.

“Is this too fast? Is it safe?”

Brad smirked. He let out the main sail, and the yacht slowed. “This is perfect. The currents change from east to west in winter. We’re in a transition phase, and by the end of our voyage, they’ll be moving counterclockwise across the northern Indian Ocean.”

“Can we