Furious Jeffrey Higgins (english love story books TXT) 📖

one foot on each side of the hull. My arms were weaker than I had realized. My strength and energy almost gone.

When I was a few feet from the deck, I reached for the gunwale and wrapped the fingers around its lip. I kept my right hand on the rope, because falling into the water would bring a fast and ghastly death. I lifted my head level with the deck.

I locked eyes with Brad.

He crouched on his hands and knees and snarled at me from three feet away. He must have heard the shark strike the bow. He growled and reached for me.

I ducked below the deck and my injured foot slipped on the bloody surface of the hull. I slammed against the bow. I grunted in pain, twirling in the air as I dangled from the line. The polypropylene cut into my palms. My muscles ached and my grip slipped.

Brad glowered over the side at me, his mouth foaming and his eyes afire.

I eased my grip and slid toward the water, burning more skin off my hands. I squeezed hard to stop my descent but continued to slide. I swung my feet and touched the loop with my foot, but it bounced away and I slid past it and into the water. I jabbed at the loop with my injured foot and hooked it. My weight landed on my laceration and I screamed.

I stood on the rope and lifted my other leg out of the water. I pulled myself upright. My skinned palms reddened the line, and blood dripped off my foot into the ocean. I jerked my head around searching the water for the shark but saw nothing but blue water.

Brad growled above me, and I stared back with a hatred mirroring his own. Brad pulled on the line with both hands, and I rose a few feet in the air.

He’s so strong.

I pressed my foot against the hull and yanked the line away from him. I fell two feet and bounced against the yacht. The impact knocked the wind from my lungs and the knife fell. It disappeared into the ocean.

My only weapon—gone.

Brad growled and paced, radiating pure aggression. The neurological nightmare had consumed his mind. At least his hydrophobia would prevent him from getting close to the water. He would not follow me down the line.

That’s it! Brad’s hydrophobia.

I could use his rabies-induced, pathological hydrophobia as a weapon against him.

The hair on my neck rose, and I glanced over my shoulder. The dorsal fin headed for me. I gripped the rope and straddled the bow. I had to be ready.

This time, the shark advanced from the port side and dove below the surface.

I rappelled to the other side of the hull as the shark burst out of the ocean. It snapped at the port side, exactly where I had been.

I had pushed too hard off the boat and the tension on the line swung me back across the bow. My momentum carried me towards the shark.

Oh God, I can’t stop.

The shark shook its head as I slid toward it.

I raised my legs to avoid its open mouth and kicked its nose, pushing off the beast. I smacked against the hull and braced my feet against the fiberglass.

The shark thrashed, searching for food, but came up empty and disappeared below.

It’s now or never.

I pulled my bikini top off with one hand, leaned over, and dragged it through the water. If the shark appeared now, it would bite me in half. I held the soaking-wet bikini top in my teeth and climbed like a mountaineer, my fear giving me a surge of strength. Brad clung to the bow sprit and hung over the edge—waiting for me. I stopped, a few feet out of his reach, and took the bikini out of my mouth.

“Want some water, Brad?”

He cocked his head as if trying to process my words.

“Don’t forget to hydrate,” I yelled.

I threw the bikini, heavy with saltwater, and it struck him square in the face, dousing him. He yelped and fell away, out of sight.

I climbed hand over hand until I reached the top. I could not go back, or the shark would have me, and with my strength depleted, I did not have the stamina to climb the line again. I had to confront Brad now. I grabbed the gunwale and hauled myself up and over. My bikini top lay in a puddle on the deck.

Brad had vanished.

CHAPTER FIFTY

The water had frightened Brad away—for the moment. I did not understand what was happening in his virus-addled mind, but he would return to hunt me down, and he would do it soon. With my energy exhausted, I functioned on adrenaline alone. I had to find another place to hide.

The entrance to the foresail locker lay in front of me. I opened the hatch, climbed halfway down the ladder, and shut the hatch behind me. The stifling cabin had been closed since we left, and the pungent odor of fiberglass tickled my nose. I rubbed my face to avoid sneezing. I locked the hatch, but only a thin piece of plastic held it closed. If Brad found me, he would breach it, and I would have nowhere to run.

A minute later, Brad ran across the deck toward the bow. He shook his head, frothing with rage.

I had barely made it. I let go of the handle and descended the ladder on my toes. I pressed against the wall in the cramped compartment, as far away from the hatch as possible.

Brad stomped on the deck and banged his hands against the lifelines. The stanchions creaked under his furious rage. He had realized I escaped, but did he think I had fallen in the ocean and the shark had taken me? He howled in a frenzy.

I wanted to scream, to cry, to make it stop, but I could not make a sound. I hugged myself and whimpered, too dehydrated for tears.

Brad stepped on the hatch and