The Oklahoma heatwave didn't just sit over Lake Eufaula; it pressed down like a wet, heavy wool blanket soaked in red clay. By mid-afternoon, the thermometer pinned to the rusted tin roof of Garrett’s Outpost read a blistering 104 degrees, and the air smelled faintly of baking moss and exposed lake bottom.
Cole Garrett wiped a line of stinging sweat from his forehead with the back of a calloused, grease-stained forearm. He adjusted his faded Garrett’s Outpost mesh-back cap, leaning against the old gas pump at the end of the fuel dock. Beneath his flip-flops, the wooden planks groaned softly as the wake from a distant pontoon rolled in, sending a lazy ripple through the murky, pea-green water.
"Water's down another two inches since yesterday mornin'," a voice grunted from the shaded alcove of the shop.
Mutt stepped out onto the dock, a rusted half-inch wrench balanced on his shoulder and a grease-smudged rag hanging out of the pocket of his cut-off t-shirt. At twenty-six, Mutt had the broad, blocky build of a guy who spent his winters pulling dead outboard motors out of frozen mud and his summers wrestling rusted trailers. He tossed the rag onto a plastic bait tank, squinting out toward the shimmering horizon where the Standing Rock bluffs cut a jagged line against the hazy blue sky.
"If it drops any lower," Mutt muttered, cracking his knuckles, "the weekenders are gonna start ripping the lower units clean off their fancy boats on the sandbars behind Longtown. Not that I'd mind the repair business."
"We can't afford to lose the fuel sales, Mutt," Cole said softly, his voice grounded but tired. He glanced down at his wrist, checking his dad’s old stainless-steel dive watch. The bezel was scratched and stiff from years of lake silt, but the second hand swept forward with stubborn precision. "The bank already called twice this week about the loan on the new Sea-Doos. We need every tourist who wants to burn a tank of gas."
"Yeah, well, speak of the devils," Mutt spat, nodding toward the open water. "Looks like King Dollar is arriving."
A low, resonant thrum vibrated through the wooden dock planks, a deep thump-thump-thump of high-end marine speakers that drowned out the buzzing cicadas in the nearby oak trees.
Cutting clean through the no-wake zone, a pristine, thirty-foot tritoon boat painted a blinding metallic flake silver sheared through the water. It was the kind of boat that cost more than Cole's entire rental fleet combined. It didn't slow down as it approached the marina line, throwing a heavy, rolling wake that violently tossed a local family's modest fishing boat waiting patiently near the shore.
"Look at this idiot," Mutt growled, stepping toward the edge of the dock.
The silver boat veered hard, its roaring engines kicking up a spray of murky green water as it slid effortlessly past the waiting line, slamming its heavy rubber bumpers right against Cole's dock with a dull thud.
At the helm stood a guy wearing a stark white designer polo, a heavy gold chain catching the sun, and polarized sunglasses that hid his eyes. He had a perfect, country-club tan and a cocky, tight-lipped smirk. Chad Montgomery.
Cole's jaw tightened, his fingers curling around the rubber handle of the fuel nozzle. He hated the arrogance, but he needed the money. He took a breath to step forward—and then he froze.
Sitting on the sun lounge at the bow of the silver boat was a girl.
She was looking away from the marina, staring out toward the shimmering heat waves rising over Standing Rock. Cole felt his breath hitch in his throat. Her hair was a long, cascading wave of vibrant, unmistakable red that seemed to glow in the harsh afternoon light, framing a striking face and piercing, brilliant green eyes. She wore a simple white sundress, but she carried herself with a quiet, natural elegance that made the flashy boat around her look cheap.
For a split second, she turned her head and caught Cole looking. Her green eyes locked onto his sun-bleached hair and faded work shirt. There was no arrogance in her expression—just a quiet, exhausted boredom.
"Hey! Bait boy!" Chad’s sharp, demanding bark broke the silence, shattering the moment. He didn't even look at Cole, instead tapping a manicured finger against his expensive marine watch. "Premium fuel, wrapper off, and move it. We’re burning daylight."
Cole swallowed the sudden spike of heat in his chest. He looked away from the red-headed girl, forcing his expression into a flat, professional mask as he stepped toward the silver boat.
"Sure thing," Cole said, his voice level. "Line starts behind the pontoon yonder."
Chad didn’t even look down as he tossed a heavy, braided dock line toward Mutt’s feet. "Yeah, well, the pontoon can wait. I’m paying premium, and I don't like standing around in the sun."
Mutt didn't bend down to pick up the line. He just stared at it, then up at Chad, his boots planted like two concrete pillars on the wooden planks. "Funny thing about lines, man. They work the same for everybody, whether your boat’s got thirty feet of silver flake or fifteen feet of rusted aluminum."
Chad scoffed, slipping his designer sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to eye Mutt with pure amusement. "Right. Name's Chad, by the way. And unless you want to call my dad at Montgomery Capital and explain why his primary investment boat is sitting at a bait shop losing money, I suggest you grab the rope and start pumping."
The red-headed girl on the bow let out a soft, audible sigh, turning her face back toward the open water. "Chad, just stop. It’s a hundred degrees out here. Let them do their job."
"I am letting them do their job, Avery," Chad said, his tone instantly switching to a smooth, patronizing purr as he looked over his shoulder at her. "I'm just reminding them how efficiency works." He turned his attention back to Cole, tapping the gas cap on the gunwale. "Fill it up. Premium only. And check the oil while you're down there."
Cole stepped between Mutt and the boat before his buddy could climb over the rail. He grabbed the fuel nozzle, his knuckles turning a stark white against the black rubber handle. "I've got it, Mutt. Go inside and check the minnow tanks."
Mutt spat into the lake, giving Chad one last, long look that promised trouble down the road, before turning on his heel and stomping back into the shaded relief of the bait shop.
Cole unscrewed Chad’s gas cap, the metal hot enough to sting his fingertips. He shoved the nozzle in and pulled the trigger, the low thrum of the premium pump kicking to life. He kept his eyes fixed on the rising numbers on the meter, refusing to look back at Avery, even though he could feel the weight of those green eyes watching him from the bow. To him, she was just part of the package—the beautiful accessory on the front of a rich kid's toy.
As the fuel rushed into the tank, a local game warden's truck rumbled down the gravel boat ramp a hundred yards away, its tires crunching heavily on the red clay. A couple of local fishermen in a battered bass boat were tying up at the far end of the dock, talking in hushed, worried tones.
"I'm tellin' you, Tom," one of the fishermen said, loud enough for his voice to carry across the water. "Two guys went out by the Standing Rock timbers on Tuesday and nobody's seen 'em since. Truck's still sitting at the No. 9 ramp. Wildlife department's got divers out there right now."
Cole’s hand tensed on the fuel nozzle. The mention of Standing Rock hit him like a physical blow, sending a familiar, cold ache deep into his chest.
The local fisherman looked over at Cole, nodding respectfully. "You heard anything from the game wardens, Cole? They saying it's currents, or what?"
Cole cleared his throat, keeping his voice steady but carrying a heavy weight. "They haven't said much. But the water's dropping fast with this heat, exposing a lot of old timber and underwater hazards that haven't seen the sun since sixty-four. If you're heading out past Longtown toward Standing Rock, just watch yourselves. Keep your eyes on the water. A couple of people have gone missing out there, and the lake isn't forgiving right now."
A sharp, mocking laugh cut through the heavy air.
Chad was leaning against the silver wrap of his helm station, shaking his head with a smirk that made Cole’s blood instantly run hot.
"Oh, come on, dude," Chad scoffed, looking at the local fishermen and then down at Cole. "Are you seriously trying to scare the tourists away with local ghost stories? Let me guess—the big bad lake monster is gonna get us?"
Cole didn't move. He kept his grip tight on the nozzle, his eyes locking onto Chad’s polarized lenses.
Chad chuckled, crossing his arms. "Seriously, stop trying to ruin the weekend just because your old man didn't know how to drive a boat. Some of us actually know how to handle the water without getting lost."
The entire dock went dead silent. The cicadas seemed to stop buzzing. Inside the shop, the screen door creaked as Mutt froze on the threshold.
The insult was cheap, cruel, and cut straight to the bone. It was a direct shot at Thomas Garrett's disappearance—the unrecovered drowning that had haunted Longtown for four years and broken Cole’s family.
Cole’s chest heaved. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to drop the fuel nozzle, step onto that silver deck, and drive his fist straight through Chad’s perfect, country-club teeth. He could see Mutt moving out of the corner of his eye, ready to unleash hell.
But then Cole looked at the digital readout on the pump. Garrett's Outpost—was drowning in bank debt. If he started a fight on this dock, Chad’s father would ensure the bank pulled their notes by Monday morning. He couldn't afford the pride. He couldn't lose the business.
"Chad!" Avery’s voice rang out, sharp and laced with pure disgust. She stood up on the bow, her green eyes flashing with an anger that took Chad completely by surprise. "Shut up. That was incredibly out of line."
Chad blinked, his smirk faltering for a fraction of a second as he held his hands up defensively. "Babe, I'm just joking around. The locals love the drama—"
"It’s not a joke," she snapped, stepping down from the sun pad. She looked directly at Cole, her expression softening into something heavy with genuine apology.
Cole didn't acknowledge her. He kept his face completely blank, clicking the fuel nozzle shut as the automatic sensor popped. He pulled it out, screwed the gas cap back on Chad's boat, and wiped a stray drop of fuel from the fiberglass with a clean rag.
"That'll be eighty-four dollars," Cole said, his voice terrifyingly calm, completely devoid of emotion. He looked straight past Chad, his eyes dead. "Premium."
Chad didn't seem to care that he had just sucked the oxygen right out of the dock. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a sleek leather money clip, and slid a crisp hundred-dollar bill out from under a silver band. He held it out toward Cole, snapping it twice between his fingers.
"Keep the change, buddy," Chad said, his smirk crawling right back onto his face. "Consider it a tip for the safety lecture."
Cole didn't blink. He took the hundred, his fingers brushing against Chad's clean, soft hand. He felt the raw urge to rip the guy off the deck flare up again, but he clamped down on it, folding the bill and shoving it straight into his pocket.
"Chad, give me the keys," Avery said. Her voice was cold, completely stripped of the warmth she’d shown a moment ago. She had stepped down into the main cockpit, her green eyes fixed on the ignition. "I'm driving."
"Oh, come on, Ave, don't be like that," Chad whined, though he didn't risk looking her in the eye. He quickly stepped up to the helm, shielding the ignition switch with his body. "I was just messing with the guy. You know how the heat gets to me. Sit back down, I'll smooth things over with your dad when we get to the site."
Avery didn't sit back down. She crossed her arms, her long red hair blowing across her face in the hot breeze as she stared at the back of Chad's head with pure disdain.