by Kade, Teagan
Jesus Almighty. Is he for real?
“Please,” I huff, “Mr. Silver.”
“Bobby,” he corrects.
“I’m prepared to offer ample compensation.”
His eyes drop, head angling to look under my skirt. “Is that so?”
“Of the financial kind.”
He shakes his head. “Too bad. I take all forms of payment.”
“So you’re willing to sell?”
He stands up. “No, sorry. Not a chance in hell.”
I stand in shock. “Sorry?”
He doesn’t seem to see a problem. “No, I’m not looking to sell, but, you know, thanks for stopping by, and if you change your mind,” he reaches down to grab at his crotch, “you know where to find me.”
He herds me towards the door, until I’m outside, smiling, “You have a fine day now.”
The door closes and I’m left open-mouthed, quite literally.
What. The. Fuck. Just. Happened?
CHAPTER FOUR
BOBBY
It’s a long time since I said ‘no’ to a woman—any woman, and this wasn’t just any woman.
I’d be lying if I said Ms. Gisele, as she introduced herself, isn’t my type, not with that perky ass and gravity-defying cleavage, the kind you want to bury your face between.
But Bart was right. There’s something that doesn’t add up here. She’s clearly not looking for a houseboat to buy, which begs the question, who is she here on behalf of?
The bell rings as I step into the Gas & Tackle. Bart’s behind the counter as always, unmoved. I’m pretty sure I’m going to walk in here one day and he’ll actually have passed.
“The usual?” he announces.
I step up to the counter. “You know it.”
He walks, and I mean moves like absolute molasses, over to the decades-old coffee machine in the corner. “How’d it go with your lady friend?”
“I booted her out,” I reply matter-of-fact.
Bart doesn’t turn out. “Oh? So she has a brain then, can actually make meaningful conversation.”
“Very funny,” I grin, “but no, I’m afraid a conversationalist like our friend is way out of her depth here.”
The coffee machine clanks and whirs, more boat motor than beverage dispenser. “So, you’re going to see her again then?”
I have to smile. Good ol’ Bart.
My mind wanders, of course, back to those plump lips and the way she rounded out her enunciation. She’s educated alright. And those legs… Good god a young Sharon Stone would kill for those pins.
Would I like to partake? Hell yeah, I would, but you don’t date a gator, no matter how much they tell you they ain’t gonna bite.
Fuck her? Well, there’s sense in that, but something tells me even her pussy has teeth.
“You going to stand there getting hard or you going to grab a cup?” says Bart.
I’m still smiling as I reach behind the counter and take a styrofoam cup, handing it over. “Nothing good’s going to come from sleeping with her.”
“And when has that ever stopped you?” he replies, handing me over my coffee-cum-swamp water. It’s scaldingingly hot—just the way I like it.
I blow across the top. “You think you can call around to your Intelligence buddies, see what her story is?”
“National emergency?”
I smile back, the coffee hot in my hand. “Well, it could be if I have to walk around with an erection for the next week.” I reach up to my head. “The blood loss alone…”
Bart rolls his eyes and doesn’t reply, which means that yeah, he’ll get it done.
I tap the counter. “That’s my man.”
I turn to go.
“Comp’s this afternoon. Fame and fortune up for grabs for anyone who reels in the Beast.”
But the Beast I’m thinking of doesn’t live in the river. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
I sit on the top deck of Roxanne watching the tide go out and sipping at my coffee.
I sip, I watch, sip, watch, but I can’t get her out of my head. She seemed so self-assured and confident, so absolutely certain of herself. It’s a rare trait around here where the skinny living tends to string the fairer sex out, teach them not to stand up for themselves. It’s a backward, backwater world, but at least it’s predictable.
My cock twitches. I look down between my legs. “What do you want, huh?”
It twitches again in response.
“You know what Pop said. ‘Never stick your dick in crazy.’” But even as I’m saying it I know Gisele is far from crazy. No, she’s the complete opposite alright.
And it’s scaring the shit out of me.
CHAPTER FIVE
GISELE
The guy at the front desk of the motel is a carbon copy of the guy from the Gas & Go, all flannel and somber expression. If he wasn’t so busy eye-fucking every inch of me, he might have heard my question.
“I said, my door’s not locking properly. Can you send someone down?”
His eyes slowly pull up to my face. He smiles, a toothpick hanging on his lip. “Of course. We aim to please.”
“Thank you,” I huff, turning and making my way back to my room.
I close the door as best I can and take a seat on the bed, pulling my laptop over.
The gauzy curtains can’t hold the morning sun back, which pours into the room.
I open the file my employer sent earlier on Mr. Silver for what seems like the hundredth time, poring over the details and looking for a way in, a weak point that’s anything but sexual. If there’s a hard line I have, it’s sleeping with the marks. I won’t do it. I have integrity.
I wiggle my nose—an annoying habit I’ve had since I was a kid, scanning the screen. There’s nothing I haven’t read before. An answer hasn’t magically appeared overnight.
It’s an all-American story, really. Silver was the high-school quarterback. He was going places, had even piqued the interest of some big city teams, but it all came undone when he slammed into a telegraph pole one night, turning his best friend into a quadriplegic and shattering his knee. That was the end of his hopes and dreams, it seems.
He enrolled in the Army shortly after, tour after tour in all manner of sandy shitholes. No family, no wife or girlfriend—he must have done well for himself, discharged honorably with no more detail in that file. No strings, so why move back to your hometown and set up on the river? Maybe the Army life screwed him up good and proper? Maybe it’s more. The file is infuriatingly scant.
I stare at his passport photo. There’s the barest hint of a smirk there, like he’s mocking me, the pixels forming to say, ‘You’re in over your head here.’
Bullshit. I’ve never failed a client before and I’m not about to start now. My client wants that house boat, and I’ll make it happen. Whatever it takes short of bedding the infamous ‘Bear’ and his supposedly giant, dinosaur dick.
A twinge of something—excitement? Lust?—blooms between my legs, but that’s only natural, I tell myself. Because yeah, he’s a handsome guy, charming even in a Depp-meets-Deliverance kind of way.
I pick up my cell and breathe out, composing myself. I dial.
“Do you have it?” the voice asks, measured as always.
“Not yet. So far the subject’s proving hard to persuade, but rest assured I have it under control.”
A pause. “I really cannot stress the importance of this, Ms. Cole. I sought you out specifically. You came highly recommended.”
“I understand. I won’t let you down.”
“Double the offering price.”
“Actually, I haven’t—”
“Double it, and get this done.”
The line goes dead.
I toss the phone down beside myself and shake my head. It’s not my place to ask why my clients want the things they want, and I’ve had some doozies, but a shitty houseboat? What could someone of my client’s obvious wealth and power want with that?
I’m mull
ing it over when there’s a knock on the door.
I push myself off the bed to answer it, thinking someone’s finally been sent down to look at the lock, but before I get there a sheet of paper sweeps under the door.
I reach down and pick it up. It’s a flyer.
I can’t help but smile.
Suddenly, I know exactly what to do.
CHAPTER SIX
BOBBY
I stand on the riverbank and breathe in deep. “It’s going to be a hell of a comp, Bart. Hell of a comp.”
Bart smiles as he busies himself with his gear, and that’s telling me all kinds of something is up.
“Spill it,” I demand.
He simply chuckles, opening his bait box. “Like you said, it’s going to be a hell of a comp.”
Fishing is competitive in these parts, and the fish know it. If you don’t have game out here, all you’re going to catch is sunburn and a heavy case of swamp fever.
The top three from today go through to the feeder comp upstate. Winning the Temperton Annual Fishing Competition is as prestigious around these parts as taking home the Vince Lombardi, the ‘Olympics of the Ozarks,’ as they call it, and today the Beast is mine.
I look down the bank taking in the competition. It’s mostly the usual assortment of hillbillies and river rats. I don’t think they’re going to pose a threat this year. As for Bart… You’d think owning a tackle shop would set you up for success.
You’d be wrong, of course.
I’m readying my line when I hear commotion down the line.
I look, squinting into the sun, to see what’s going on, but it’s crowded down there.
I can hear wolf-whistling and shouting, the telltale call of testosterone in flight.
Smiling, I return to what I was doing. “Which one of them decided to show up this year, Bart? Brenda from the diner? Or is it the blonde with the big Es, what was her name? Off the interstate?”
“Vanessa,” he deadpans.
“That’s the one.”
While the TAFC is typically a male-orientated event, you get the occasional woman showing up for novelty’s sake, to keep it politically correct and all.
I see Bart smiling again, looking past me. “Here she comes.”
I follow his line of sight and drop my rod. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
It’s her, Gisele, in a bright pink crop top and bike shorts, hair out and kicking up quite a stink as she makes her way down the riverbank.
She stops in front of me smirking. I take in the rod she’s holding. “You know how to use that thing?”
Her eyes drop to my crotch. “You know how to use that?”
I’m certain she’s talking about my cock until I look down and see I’m holding the reel in my hand. I stoop down and pick up my rod from the ground. “You’re going to embarrasses yourself here, honey. This is serious business.”
She looks over my shoulder at the Buxton brothers taking turns chugging beer. “Oh, I can tell.”
Bart snickers at that, damn him.
I straighten myself up. “Have you even been fishing before?”
In reply, she places her tackle box down, opening it and selecting a lure, looping it through the hook and setting it with a practiced ease like she’s been doing it her entire life. “Texas-rigged Zoom Magnum Trick Worm should do the trick,” she says. “The jig’s my own, tailored with a Reaction Innovations Sweet Beaver.”
I’m pretty sure the ‘sweet beaver’ ain’t on the end of her line there, but I let it go because, fuck me five ways, she seems to know what she’s on about.
I keep my composure. “My, my, aren’t you full of surprises? What do you say we make it interesting?”
“I’m not the gambling type,” she smiles back.
“So you’re no longer looking to buy the houseboat then?”
I spot the sudden glint in her turquoise eyes. “You’re prepared to put up your boat? This isn’t the Fast ’n’ Furious. We’re not competing for slips.”
“Dinner then,” I offer, “to better discuss your proposal, the finest restaurant in town, my treat.”
“The finest restaurant in town,” she repeats, nodding with lips downturned. “And if you win?”
My tongue presses against the side of my cheek. “I reckon you lose that crop top and do a little victory dance.”
The disgust is written all over her face, but she extends her hand regardless. “Alright, you’re on.”
I look to Bart, but his smile is gone.
I shake her hand just as the gun goes off. “Let’s fish.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
GISELE
It’s no secret the Lake of the Ozarks and its surrounds have some of the best fishing in the country. I should know. I grew up around here. Pop and I would putt around in his tiny tin boat on weekends.
School was hell. Coming from the city I didn’t identify with the locals and their curious customs at all, because if it’s one thing the Ozarks offers, it’s quirkiness in spades—quirkiness and secrecy.
I told myself as soon as I was out of high school I’d kiss goodbye to this watery shithole and never return, which makes my appearance here all the more amusing.
Bobby casts out again, cursing, sweating.
I can’t help but laugh internally. I’m pretty sure I was the last thing he was expecting out here this morning.
There’s a whoop of excitement down the line as a guy who looks like Kid Rock reels in a small walleye. It’s not going to win the comp, but it’s enough ramp up the energy levels.
I take my time and cast out again conscious of the many eyes on me… or my ass, rather.
Typically you’d stick to the brush piles around here during the day with a jig or deep diving crankbait. Once the temps level into the eighties most of the bigger fish hang out close to the thermocline where the water tends to be cooler, but here I have to make do.
It’s not long before Bobby’s pulled in a solid blue catfish, flapping around on the end of his line. It’s decent, a tiny tinge of panic coursing through me that, yeah, maybe I will have to get my tits out after all, but then I feel a tug on my line.
And it’s big.
Like Orlando Bloom and his pants kraken big.
The smile drains away from Bobby’s face as he realizes I’ve got something on the go. Even Bart’s craning for a look.
Bobby places the catfish into his cooler, looking over my shoulder. “What you got there?”
Considering the temperature out here, I’ve got to admit Bobby Silver smells pretty damn good—a woodsy, sudsy kind of clean I can’t really put my finger on, which is at odds with his floating bach pad.
The line pulls, the rod bending in an arc towards the water. I dig my feet in and grit my teeth. “Oh, I’ve got something alright,” I reply.
It soon turns into a battle of wills. I grunt and pull the rod, attempt to let whatever I’ve got on the line wear itself out even though it feels like a whale.
Bobby casts out again leisurely. “Don’t let her run off now,” Bobby laughs, but I can see his composure has cracked just a little at the thought of losing.
Once a quarterback, always a quarterback, I think.
A strong tug almost sends me into the water, but I hold my ground and pull.
“Easy now,” says Bobby. “I said I wanted you to parade those puppies around, not start a wet T-shirt competition.”
I concentrate on what I’m doing, ignoring his shit-talk for now.
Suddenly I spot a shadow near the surface, twisting and turning against my line.
I’m not the only one. Soon a crowd has gathered around, rods abandoned.
My arms are burning. I’ve been at this for ten minutes or more. I look left and spot the giant digital clock set up in the back of a truck. There’s less than a minute left.
Bobby whistles, holding onto his rod between his legs like it’s a second cock. “Better hurry up, girly. Anything caught after the clock don’t count.”
The fish surfaces, a giant spotted bass. There’s an audible gasp around me at the size of it. It tries to run, but I keep reeling it in. “No. You. Don’t,” I grunt.
People start to cheer me on, shouting words of encouragement, and boy is Bobby sweating up a storm.
The clock’s down to thirty seconds, the bass maybe ten feet away, but it’s going to be tight.
My entire upper body is alight, a river-born tug-of-war.
“Come on!” someone hollers. “Bring it in!”
Ten.
Nine.
I scream and reel, rod so bent it’s basically a hula hoop.
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
The noise is incredible, but Bobby remains silent.
Five.
Four.
Three.
The bass breaks the water and it’s done.
I can’t help but smile, swinging the fish onto the shore. It’s got to be eleven pounds or more. I doubt it’s the mystical Beast, but it’s definitely the catch of the day.
Bobby throws his trucker cap to the ground. “God damn it.”
Bart’s laughing, clapping.
I turn to Bobby. “Don’t be so glum now. You get to take me to dinner.”
He shakes his head. “I’m nothing if not a man of my word.”
“Seven?” I suggest. “I’m at the motel down the road, but I think you knew that already, right?”
He nods. “It’s a date,” he says, eyes rolling in his head like wayward marbles. “God help us all.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
BOBBY
I spot her before I pull into the motel. She’s a beacon of red, the same neon hue as the buzzing sign above.
I pull up beside her and take off my helmet, handing her one from the back.
The dress is short, a plunging neckline perfectly accentuating her God-given gifts. Her hair is out, washing in shiny waves over her shoulders as she tilts her head to the side. “A motorcycle? It’s a bit of a cliché, isn’t it?”
I look down at the bike with all the fake offense I can muster. “This isn’t just a motorcycle, baby. This is a Yamaha SRV350 Renaissa, a stripped down, bare bones beauty popular with the hipster café-racer crowd, not that you can slot me into any kind of box.”