Swift leans hard on the control panel, and the back door rattles up. She flips her hair out of her face and stretches her arms out over her head, a smirk teasing over her lips, and for one shining moment, she’s the leader that the captain sees her becoming. Then the moment passes; she slouches her shoulders and pads over to where Code and Lemon are tying down lines to the deck’s handholds.

I retreat to my counter while Varma helps Chuck into the straps that bind the wakeboard to her feet. Lemon tosses a buoyancy vest over her shoulders, then clips a bungee line to it. Clutching Varma for support, Chuck waddles over to the edge of the deck, where Code waits with a set of handlebars attached to a rope. The whole operation is smooth—they’ve obviously done this hundreds of times before.

“All set?” Chuck asks as she takes the handle from Code.

He replies with a tug on the lines and a curt nod.

Chuck screams and launches herself off the back of the boat. She turns over once in the air, her mane of wild black hair whipping behind her, and plunges into the waves three feet below the deck’s lip. The lines on the deck snap tight, and a moment later, her head bobs out of the froth. She cuts through the water as she heaves against the handlebars. A breathless second passes, and then the board is under her.

Varma’s fists are the first in the air. He whoops and howls like a wild dog, and the rest of the lackeys join in. The sun cuts through the spray the board kicks up, silhouetting the four of them against the bright afternoon. They’re wild, they’re dangerous, they’re reckless.

But they’re free, and that’s what matters. That’s what sends a little twinge of jealousy vibrating through my muscles as I press harder against the wall behind the counter, fingers crimped on the edge.

“Hey, pet project. You want a ride?” Code shouts back over his shoulder. He comes up and leans against the counter, peering out between his dark bangs. “It’ll be fun, I swear. On my honor as a pirate.”

I glance at Swift before answering, unsure if it’s even my place to be talking to him. She doesn’t seem to object—her attention is fixed on Chuck. “Ribs are still healing,” I tell Code, which is only half true. It’s been long enough that I only get the occasional twinge when I stretch myself a little bit too far. I’m less worried about what the strain of wakeboarding would do to the healing process and more worried about who’s offering. It would be so easy for something to conveniently break in the harness, for something to go horribly wrong in a way so innocent that anyone on this deck could be implicated.