The Actor's contract

Surprise

RIB = rigid inflatable boats

Karl = the name given to the fog in the Bay Area by the locals

Date = 1 April

Same birthday.

Place = San Francisco (boat on the bay)

Upgraded venue.

POV – Enrique

“Wait! Take those two down. We’ll start with them.” The man with the folded arms doesn’t even blink as he points straight at Jackson and me. What the f**k now?

I glance at my brother, and sure, he has a menacing grin on his face, as if he’s having a good time.

Typical Jackson.

I love my twin to death, but I’m not blind. He’s a walking landmine — a hair-trigger personality wrapped in muscles, scars, and bad decisions. Putting him in a situation like this? It’s like grabbing a tiger by the balls and daring it to do something about it.

And I know my brother. He won’t just do something — he’ll burn the whole damn jungle down with him.

I can already see it on his face — that flicker in his eyes, the half-smirk that doesn’t belong in a hostage situation. He’s cooking something up, and the sick part is, I know I’m going to get dragged along for the ride.

That’s what it means to be tied to Jackson.

They haul us apart, shoving Jackson and me toward the stern. My shoulder smacks against cold steel, the tang of saltwater sharp in my nose, mingling with the stench of oil and damp rope.

And here’s where I find myself in a twist — half of me wishes the guy had picked anyone BUT Jackson ― the other half is glad he did.

Because with Jackson, there are only ever two outcomes — either we’re f****d … or they are.

Our companions get driven toward the bow in a rough cluster. Their faces are a mix of emotions so heavy that it hangs in the air. Despair, thick as fog, but it’s braided with something hotter — fury. The kind of fury that makes men stupid.

And stupid men make mistakes. Especially a pack of predators forced into cages. A whole bunch of fighters crammed into the open mouth of a trap. And that’s what scares me most. Because if Jackson doesn’t set this boat on fire … they might.

Then I see where we’re headed. A small steel crate suspended from a crane — the kind used for shipping cargo overseas. Inside, it’s nothing but darkness and the smell of oil and salt. The kind of place you get put in when no one intends for you to come back out.

The guards shove us in. Only one joins us. The door swings shut with a booming CLANG, plunging us into black. The air feels thick, heavy with the scent of rust and stale water. Light beams through small openings at the top brim of the container, just enough to break the black to gray.

And somewhere in that suffocating dark, my mind betrays me.

It drifts to Aria.

Not my family, not a plan to escape — HER.

Her laugh, the way her hair falls into her eyes, the smartass comments that drive me insane and make me want more at the same time.

I snort. Really? f**k.

Here I am, just about to take my final steps in life, and all I can think about is a damn chick.

But why does the thought of never seeing her again shrivel up my heart like a salted snail?

Jackson shifts beside me, the faint sound of a chuckle escaping him. I don’t even have to ask — he’s not worried. Which somehow pisses me off and calms me at the same time.

I turn my head toward him. He’s a shadow, but there’s just enough glow from the gaps in the crate for me to catch the lunacy building up in his eyes.

I let out a long, resigned breath, knowing what’s to come — the tiger just woke up, raring to rip someone’s head off.

The container jolts upward, swaying as it’s lifted. The chains creak overhead. Before I can brace, Jackson springs. Arms still tied, he drives his boot into the gut of the armed man, folding him in half. In the same motion, he slams a shoulder into the guy’s face, follows it with a brutal headbutt, and drops him flat.

A pistol clatters across the floor toward me. I kick it into the corner, my heart thudding — then frown.

It’s too light.

“What the f**k … ?” I mutter, the truth hitting me instantly. “It’s a toy gun.”

“I know.” Jackson sits down on the unconscious man’s torso, like it’s nothing, his shoulders lifting in a casual shrug.

My brain races. “So … this is a joke? Even the bouncers?”

“Probably.”

“So why did you beat that poor guy up?” I ask with a deep frown.

“In case,” he sneers casually.

“Of what?”

“That we’re about to end up in the ocean, another continent, maybe hell.” His feral eyes are not fully back to normal. But his tone is maddeningly calm, like we’re talking about the weather.

Somehow, that steadies me.

The crate lurches again before thunking down hard. I grab the metal sides to stay upright, then plant my feet, jaw set, fists ready. If anyone’s playing games, I’m ready to end them.

The latch clicks. The door swings wide.

Light floods in — and so do the voices.

SURPRISE!!!!

I squint, blinking against the glare. The blurry shapes sharpen into the last thing I expect: our friends, our family … everyone. Smiling. Laughing.

The container hasn’t landed in some dark port or enemy ship — it’s on the upper deck. Streamers flap in the wind. There’s music. Drinks.

It’s a damn party.

I just stand there, torn between relief and the urge to punch someone square in the face.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear twinsies, happy birthday to you!”

A wall of voices crashes over the deck and rolls over the bay, bright and booming against the ocean breeze.

Jackson hasn’t moved an inch from his human-throne position — perched on top of the unconscious guy like he’s guarding treasure — his face unreadable as the crowd cheers and blows party whistles.

Garcia strides toward us, his sharp gaze sweeping over the scene. “What the hell did you two psychos do to my man?” He nudges the guy with his boot, as if checking whether he’s dead. All while my brother is still comfortably seated on top of him.

“Don’t look at me,” I say, quick to shift the blame. “That was all Jackson.”

“Ugh, he’s fine,” Jackson says, finally standing up, cable ties still cutting into his wrists. And mine. “Uncle Alberto, be a dear and cut these blasted things off, will you?” His voice is so sweet it borders on criminal. Expression uncurbed.

Garcia mutters something about lunatics with no sense of humor as he pulls a pocket knife from his pants and slices us free.

A pair of small arms circles my legs, struggling to get a grip with the bright orange life jacket in the way. I glance down and meet Leyla’s beaming face — sunshine and pure chaos bottled in one small human. My chest squeezes in a way I can’t fight. Somewhere along the line, these sisters dug out my heart and forgot to give it back.

“Were you surprised, Ricky? Aria said you would be!” she babbles, then presses her tiny palm to her chest, like she’s reliving the drama.

All that torture … for a party. I shake my head. Only the women in our lives could cook up something like this.

She claps her hands, the sound waves out over the ocean, roaring with excitement. A reminder of how unnoticeably dull my life must have been before them. And I know now that I can never go back to that.

“Wait till you see the cake! My sister’s bringing it right now!”

My eyes immediately start scanning for her. Not the cake. Her.

And there she is — Aria.

Everything else blurs — the frosting, the candles, the noise. All I see is the shy smile pulling at the corner of her mouth, the swing of her pearly legs in frayed denim shorts, the way her white crop top hugs her t**s just right. My pulse kicks, and the heat in my blood has nothing to do with the sun.

My pressure rises.

So does my d**k.

She sets the cake on a table overflowing with food. Leyla grabs both me and Jackson, hauling us forward with force way beyond her strength.

“Look! Isn’t it amazing?” she shouts.

For the first time, I actually see it — a two-tier monster of a cake, crowned with 24 candles and two little sugar figures. One is posing, holding a clapperboard — scene 24, take 1. The other is mid-slapshot, puck aimed straight at the first figure’s head. I recognize my sister’s work — Mel’s twisted sense of humor in edible form.

“Blow out the candles!” Leyla insists. Jackson and I share a look, then blow them out together to a round of roaring applause.

I don’t wait another second before reaching for Aria, pulling her back into my arms, desperate for my daily fix. My face finds her hair, breathing in that fruity scent and heat. Eyes closed, I think — yeah, this is it. The best place on earth.

She cuts the cake with me still planted against her backside.

I mumble in her hair, “I think this surprise-abduction-s**t merits a punishment,” and I can feel her body stiffen up.

She scuffs, “You try doing something good and watch what happens.” But there’s a smile in her voice.

“Ricky, I got you a present. It’s the best present —”

Leyla doesn’t get to finish before Luke smashes a fistful of cake into her face and bolts, laughing like the devil himself. She freezes, tiny fists clenched, then drags the frosting from her eyes with a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

“See?” she shouts at Aria. “I told you he’s an asshole!” And she tears off after him.

“I’d better go save him before she kills him,” Aria says with a quick grin, darting after them.

I’m pulled into some conversation by a pair of guests, but my brain’s nowhere near their words. My eyes are glued to Aria’s retreating figure, my mind busy with the slow, deliberate task of undoing those cutoff denim shorts in my head.

I turn — and find myself face-to-face with Amanda. Heavy makeup, lips puckered for a kiss I have zero intention of giving. Irritation surges, and I shove her back without a second thought, not even pretending to be polite.

Then I see him.

Brian.

Standing right there beside her, looking far too comfortable for my liking.

“Happy birthday, Blackburn,” he says, grinning like he’s just scored big. “Fun party. But I wouldn’t have come if Aria hadn’t begged me.”

The words are a blade, sliding right between my ribs. Aria begged him? Knowing I can’t stand the guy?

I don’t let it show. I’ve worn fake smiles a thousand times, and I slip one on now like armor. But inside, the burn starts — a wildfire of betrayal and something far uglier I refuse to name.

Did she really … want him here? For her? Because the f**k’s not here for me.

My jaw locks. My fists itch. I want to knock his teeth in so badly I can taste it.

“Thanks. Have some cake,” I bite out through gritted teeth, before walking off.

I make it to the bow, gripping the railing so hard my knuckles ache, staring at the ocean as the sun drowns in it. The waves don’t answer the questions pounding in my skull.

“Hey, why aren’t you getting wasted like your twin? If I could, I’d down a few bottles of wine right now,” Mel says, breaking through my thoughts. She wedges herself under my arm like she owns the spot — her trademark move when she wants a hit of brotherly affection.

Which I’m always willing to give.

I hook my arm tighter around her shoulders and pull her in. “I’m contemplating,” I say, eyes drifting back to the darkening water.

She blinks at me like I’ve just confessed to seeing a mermaid doing a triple backflip out there while giving us a thumbs-up. “Eh … you? Contemplating? You? Are you kidding me?”

“Yeah,” I say quietly, almost to myself, “I think I’ve fallen for Aria. The … screwed-up, no-turning-back, forever kind.”

“You fell in love with Aria?” She repeats slowly, like she’s tasting the words. I wince at the word ‘love’ — but it’s the truth, isn’t it?

“Yes, that chick p***y-whipped me so bad, it’s pathetic.”

“Okay, besides the fact that you’re stating it a little harshly, what’s the problem? She’s your girlfriend. Isn’t that, you know … the point?”

I glance at her, realizing too late that I’ve said more than I should. My brain scrambles for a softer landing.

“What I mean is … I liked her before,” I admit, “but now … it’s more. Way more. I’m all in. Head over heels. And I’m pretty sure I’m gonna marry her.” My voice dips, almost lost in the wind. “If she’ll have me.”

“Ricky! RICKY!!! R.I.C.K.Y!!!”

Leyla’s voice tears through the noise of the party — shrill, panicked, raw. My gut twists before I even turn, because that’s not her normal scream. That’s her the-world-is-ending scream.

I whip around. She’s barreling up the port-side stairwell, hair wild, face white, lungs heaving like she’s been running for her life.

“Ricky!” she chokes out again, and I’m already sprinting toward her, meeting her halfway. I grab her shoulders, steadying her before she collapses.

“Ricky …” she gasps, “Luke and Aria … they fell in the water.”

The words hit like a sucker punch to the chest. Cold spreads through me instantly, seizing my skin, goosebumps stabbing up my arms. I don’t even think — I shove her toward Noah.

“Hold her.” Then I’m gone, pounding up the stairs two at a time toward the bridge.

“Captain! Stop the boat! Man overboard!” My voice is a raw bark.

“We heard. Already slowing,” he says, maddeningly calm.

Heard? How? Who told him? Doesn’t matter.

My brain is a live wire sparking in all directions, but the only current that matters is finding them. I bolt back down, practically shoving through bodies, until I’m in front of Leyla again.

“Pumpkin,” I crouch low, fighting the panic clawing up my throat. “Where exactly?”

She points aft. I run, the boys right on my heels.

“Stop!” Leyla’s voice cracks behind me. She wriggles out of Noah’s arms, marching toward the starboard railing.

“I was fighting with Luke right here,” she says, chest still rising hard. “Aria came over, and she picked his side.” Her lips twist into a pout, but her voice is shaking. “I got mad and walked away, but when I looked back to stick my tongue out … they were gone.” She gulps for breath. “And there was this lady, just … standing here, staring into the water.”

My pulse spikes. “Lady?” Lee echoes.

“What lady?” My voice is sharper, clipped.

“That one.” Leyla points. Amanda and Brian are leaning over the railing, peering down like they’ve lost their keys in the ocean.

Amanda? Oh, hell no.

I stalk forward. “What the hell is going on, Brian?” My voice is low, dangerous. I’m a match looking for a strike. If he says one wrong thing, I swear I’ll throw him in and let the sharks sort it out.

He straightens, hands up like I’m a cop about to cuff him. “Some boy pushed Aria in, but he fell too. Amanda tried to grab them, but —” He cuts himself off with a helpless gesture.

“She couldn’t.” His tone is quick, almost desperate, like he actually cares.

Amanda’s eyes are wide, her hands gripping the rail like it’s the only thing keeping her from falling apart. Could be real. Could be an act. They’re both damn good at pretending.

Brian swallows hard. “I told the captain to stop.”

Well, at least the jackass did one thing right.

The rest of the group crowds in, faces pale, movements jerky. My sister is buried in Damion’s chest, and his eyes — hell — I’ve seen that look before. The edge. He’s one word away from breaking.

Noah’s jaw is tight, but I can see the cracks. He’s holding Leyla like she’s his only anchor.

Haley looks like she’s going to pass out. And Deimos? He’s so white I half expect him to topple over.

The air feels heavier by the second, thick with fear and salt and the crushing sound of waves slapping the hull. Somewhere out there, Aria’s fighting the dark water … and I’m not there with her.

“Tell the captain to initiate a Williamson turn. And have him contact the Coast Guard. Now!” Alejandro snaps, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.

Garcia blinks, stunned for half a second, before jerking his head toward one of his men. The crewman sprints for the bridge, his footsteps pounding like gunshots against the deck.

“Does this ship have anything we can use to get to them?” D-boy demands, his tone urgent but steady — the voice of a man who’s been here before.

Two beats of silence, then Garcia answers, “Two RIBs at the stern.”

“That’ll do.” D-boy flashes Damion a quick, razor-sharp grin. “Let’s go get our brother … and Aria.”

We follow Garcia to the rear deck, where the two bright-red RIBs sit moored, covered in spray and salt. Crew members are already working in a frenzy, ripping off tarps, unhooking lines. In less than a minute, the boats are in the water, bobbing violently in the ship’s wake.

Alejandro wastes no time. “Split into two groups — three with me, three with Jackson. Everyone else, secure the women and keep order onboard.”

We nod. None of us is military, but RIBs are our playground. We know enough to move fast.

“Shoes off, jackets off, lose anything that’ll weigh you down. Grab a life vest. Move!” he barks. “One doctor in each boat.”

My fingers are clumsy, heart hammering like it’s trying to break out of my chest, but I strip down in record time. In seconds, I’m climbing into Alejandro’s boat with Ilkay and Garcia, while Damion, Axel, and Deimos pile into Jackson’s.

“The coordinates of the fall are locked on your phones!” Garcia shouts over the howl of the wind.

Damion twists around. “How the hell —?”

“Before calling Enrique, Leyla hit the MOB button on her GPS. Learned it at school,” Garcia yells back.

For one brief second, pride cuts through the terror. That kid. That brilliant little kid. I’m buying her and her teacher a yacht. Or a plane. Whatever they want.

Engines roar to life, and we tear away from the ship, both boats flying side-by-side over the chop. The screens on our phones show a single red pin in the endless blue, and we chase it like bloodhounds.

We hit the coordinates fast, but the sight that greets us is nothing. Just the rolling, heaving skin of the Bay, already darkening under a sinking sun. Somewhere in that water — somewhere — they’re fighting to stay alive. And we won’t let them down.

We spiral outward from the pin, the circles growing wider. The waves slap against the hull, each one sounding more impatient than the last.

Boats start converging on the area — fishermen, pleasure craft, the Coast Guard. The whole Bay seems to wake up at once, all eyes scanning the water. A helicopter circles above.

I glance at my watch. Twenty minutes since Leyla marked the spot. Twenty minutes in freezing, current-choked water without a life vest for Aria. Hypothermia doesn’t negotiate. Neither do the ships plowing these lanes.

The chance of finding them alive is rapidly decreasing.

The illusory knife lodged in my chest turns. My lungs burn. Every second without a sighting feels like the world is caving in. I want to scream. I want to break something. I want to see them.

Then the radio crackles.

It’s the Coast Guard. Their tone is clipped, professional — but the words are a hammer blow: “Two bodies recovered. Matches their description.”

Bodies.

The word is cold and heavy. It doesn’t fit in my ears. My stomach drops, my hands go numb, and the sound of the ocean fades into a low, hollow roar in my head.

The world tilts.

For a moment, everyone stills, staring at one another, devastation etched on each face.