“Lauren volunteered to help me re-wire my spare bedroom. I’ve been meaning to put another electrical outlet in there for my new computer.” She reached over and poured herself a glass of water. “She’s very handy to have around the house. She also offered to help repair the screen on my front door. I was going to ask Quinton but I want the job done sometime this century and Isabelle’s got him booked solid with the remodel job.”
Gage rubbed his aching temples while Frankie talked. “I’ll do it for you,” he blurted. “I’ve got all the tools you need.”
“Are you nuts?” Damon blurted.
Quinton turned to give Gage a curious stare and bit of advice. “This time, don’t forget to hook the wires together before you close up the wall, mate.”
Damon chuckled. They all knew what a marginal electrician Gage was.
“Are you sure you want to tackle it?” Frankie asked. “I know how much you hate that kind of stuff.”
“Yes,” Gage replied. “I’ll do it first thing Wednesday morning.”
“Okay, if you’re sure,” Frankie agreed. “Give me a list of what you need for the job and I’ll pick it up from the hardware store.”
Gage took a deep breath and eased back in his chair. Frankie was spouting off some blather about Lauren’s reported prowess in bed. Gage eyed her warily and wished for a couple of aspirin.
“Hey, boss,” Damon said. “Do you think Lauren would be game for comparing notes on oral technique?”
Gage clenched his fists until his knuckles blanched white. The thought of anybody, male or female, giving Frankie that kind of pleasure infuriated him.
By the time lunch was finished and the other two men wandered from the kitchen, the slow simmer of his anger had cranked up to full boil. He helped clear the table while Frankie loaded plates into the cramped dishwasher.
He crept up behind her, blocking any path of retreat. He could smell her lilac body lotion, hear the soft intake of her breath. The recessed fluorescent lights of the kitchen cast sparkles of gold in her curly red hair. He wanted to run his hands through every strand, hold them against his face while he pummeled her cervix with his cock.
“It would be a really stupid thing to do,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “She’s not right for you.”
Frankie stiffened but continued working.
“What are you talking about?”
“You and Lauren. Don’t do it.”
Silence.
“What’s really eating you?” she asked quietly.
Nothing.
Everything.
“Are you mad because I forgot to wear my watch? It was an accident, Gage. I was upset. I promise it will never happen again.”
“You’re right.” He dipped his head low. The need to protect her was so strong it almost dropped him to his knees. “That little stunt was a one-time deal and you won’t be swimming again at night unless I’m with you. Is that understood?”
Frankie whirled around and stared directly into his chest. She swallowed hard and put her hands up to shove him away. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He bent down and whispered in her ear. “Is that so? I’m not so sure.” His voice was pitched low and dangerous. “Not anymore.” Her breath hitched as his lips raked across her earlobe. He could hear her heart beating double-time. He stared at her lips for a moment longer then turned and walked away, leaving her trembling in the middle of the deserted kitchen.
Chapter 4
HE WHO DARES, WINS
“Wheel brakes?”
Gage began the verbal pre-flight procedure they had been through countless times. Every crewmember had an assigned task and was relied upon to perform it efficiently.
“Set,” Frankie answered.
“Aft cabin door?”
“Secured,” Quinton replied.
“Fuel flow control levers?”
Frankie panned the center of the roof. “Levers forward,” she answered.
“Low RPM lights off?”
“Check.”
Frankie flipped the engine control to the on position.
“Starting.”
Twenty seconds passed.
“Rotors at one hundred percent,” Gage announced.
“Ready for take-off.”
Zena was airborne.
Frankie pointed them into the wind and started a climb towards the airport to refuel. The vista took on a different perspective. Five minutes later, a red light on the forward console demanded their attention.
“We’ve got a chip light,” Gage stated coolly.
“Roger that.”
“ETA to airport, five minutes,” Gage responded.
“Roger that,” Frankie responded. “We’ll land and do a burn there.”
With hundreds of rescue missions under her belt, Frankie knew an “oh shit” moment when one came along. A piece of metal was trapped in the filter designed to catch it. Nevertheless, she kept a close eye on her instrument panel for any further signs of trouble. In the dual-control seat beside her, Gage scrutinized engine power percentages and confirmed her findings.
Plenty of time.
She carefully scanned the surroundings for obstacles. They flew past the airport in the downwind direction, turned and made a final approach. Gage barked out the landing check while Frankie made a shallow descent.
After they touched down on the tarmac they slowly taxied to an open hangar. With the rotors still spinning, she reached up to the overhead console and flipped the “chip burn” switch.
“No joy,” Gage called out moments later.
Frankie repeated the function twice. Gage shook his head.
It was up to Quinton now.
Their crew chief removed his helmet and went to work. Within minutes he had delivered the bad news.
“We don’t fly until I can get a visual inspection of the filter,” he informed them.
“Okay,” Frankie agreed. “How do we expedite that?”
“With the proper equipment and a second mechanic to assist, I can handle the job.”
“The nearest Avionics Technician and APU are in Portland,” Frankie advised. “It will take at least two hours to get them here.”
“Then we’ve got some time to kill.” A thin stream of sweat trickled down Quinton’s forehead. He swiped at it with a gloved hand. “I can’t do the right job without the right tools.”
“I’ll radio Station New Harbor and notify them of the situation,” Gage volunteered.
Quinton shut the compartment hatch and passed a distracted hand through his hair. “Sounds good, mate. I’ll make the call to Portland.”
The airport terminal was little more than an oversized shack with a receptionist who catered to private planes and the occasional Coast Guard helicopter. Frankie listened without a word while Quinton made swift work of the arrangements and Gage dropped the news on the commander of their cutter station.
“Why don’t we walk into town for lunch?” Damon suggested. “We’ve got a couple of hours. No use hanging around here.”
“Sounds good to me,” Frankie replied.
Quinton and Gage nodded in quick agreement. Frankie reached for a pen and paper from the receptionist and scribbled down their pager numbers.
“Would you let us know when our technician arrives?”
The woman smiled up from behind large blue eyes. “I’d be more than happy to.”
With Damon leading the way, the four of them struck out by foot across the warm pavement. The airport grounds quickly gave way to a residential district of vinyl sided homes. Frankie pulled her baseball cap down low on her forehead and pushed up the sunglasses that kept sliding down her nose. As the four of them walked single file down the narrow sidewalk, she had an unpleasant sense of déjà vu. She was propelled back to her first few months of assignment at Harmony Bay. Earning the respect of her crew meant she suffered through numerous petty cruelties. Their practical jokes had run the gamut from mean-spirited things like rimming the e
yepiece of her binoculars with black shoe polish, to more sophomoric tricks such as turning off the hot water in mid-shower and putting a whoopee cushion under her cockpit seat.
On a daily basis, without respect and the credibility accompanying it, superior rank was worthless official bullshit. Frankie swallowed hard.
Had she lost Gage’s trust?
Her mind clouded with possibilities. All the errors she’d ever made returned to haunt her. Frowning, she blew several long strands of hair from her face. Undoubtedly, the last twenty-four hours had been some of the strangest of her life. She’d managed to score a few solitary moments with Quinton the night before. Frankie replayed their conversation over in her mind, but it didn’t get her one bit closer to really understanding what was going on in her co-pilot’s gorgeous head.
“Quint, can I talk to you?”
“Anytime,” he had replied.
“There’s something weird going on with Gage.”
“I noticed.”
“You did?”
“Hard to miss.”
“What should I do about it?”
“Whatever feels right to you.”
A swing and a miss. Quinton gave her nothing solid to grasp. His ability to keep a confidence was a double-edged sword sometimes. Frankie bit her lip.
Time for Plan B.
She was going to have to go straight to the source for answers. Right now, that source walked in sync behind her; so close that if she stopped suddenly she’d be wearing him like a shawl.
Life had been that way all morning. Every time she turned around, Gage was there. She shut a door for privacy. He opened it. She wandered out to the gym for a workout on the treadmill. He followed. Gage had slipped back into his surly, brooding mode, with one distinction:
He had become a stalker.
Despite the warmth of the day, Frankie shivered. She picked up her pace. Gage increased his steps to match hers. Damon led them through one of New Harbor’s suburban areas. A middle-income neighborhood of identical brick houses mirrored one another on either side of the narrow street. Across the bay, Frankie could see the town’s landmark. The enormous concrete bridge, built in the early forties. They turned left at the corner and spilled out onto the busy main drag.
“You’re gonna love this deli,” Damon made a kissing sound and smacked his lips. “Primo.”
“Does that translate into ‘I’ve scored with the waitress’?” Frankie quipped.
Damon didn’t bother to respond. A van full of soccer kids coasted by them, driven by a perky blonde whose head was craned in their direction.
“MILTF alert,” Damon spoke excitedly.
Frankie gave him the evil eye.
“Do I even want to know what MILTF means?” she asked.
Quinton turned and spoke matter-of-factly, “It means a Mother I’d Love To Fuck.”
“Okay, okay, I got it.” Frankie waved her hand in the air and almost smacked Gage on the nose.
Halfway down a commercial block of gift shops and specialty kite stores, Damon ducked into a small restaurant. The others followed.
The deli was an eclectic hole-in-the-wall with a circa sixties hippie feel to it. Their waitress, a homely girl in her twenties, ushered them to the back patio and proceeded to stumble over chairs, tray tables and a few less fortunately positioned patrons in her rush to serve.
Frankie had learned it was always like this when the four of them were in public. She was surrounded by three of the most gorgeous guys in the Coast Guard, made irresistible by their uniforms. Frankie shook her head and grabbed a menu.
“What are you having?” Damon asked each person in turn.
“Prawns,” Quinton answered.
“Burger and fries,” Gage growled.
Frankie wrinkled her lip in contemplation. “I was thinking about having a Rueben. For some strange reason I’ve been craving one all day.”
The pin-dropping silence made her look up. Three toothy grins stared at her in a way that made the short hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up and scream conspiracy. A mischievous chuckle started. Frankie leaned forward and hissed in a voice pitched low, “You’ve got two seconds. Spill.”
* * * *
Gage broke eye contact and took a deep, shaky breath. He could feel himself breaking into a cold sweat. His cold, dead heart felt strange, tender things. She sat there, making empty threats with her chin thrust out and lip curled in a pseudo-snarl. Why hadn’t he ever noticed the blue highlights in her gray eyes, or the way her nose flared when she was riled? He choked on a strangled cough.
He was in trouble, all right. Big time.
A leak had sprung in his emotional dam. The tiny hole seemed to expand with every hour and threatened to let loose something that he wasn’t ready to face. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the beginnings of another stress headache.
“A Reuben,” Damon took the honor of explaining, “is the code name for the naked warm-up you don’t remember participating in the other night.”
Frankie’s expression remained neutral.
“Is that so?”
“Honest.” He held up his hands. “I’m still scabbed over from all those razor-stubble wounds you gave me.”
She glanced from Quinton to Gage and back. Both of them were doing a miserable job of keeping a straight face.
The waitress returned.
“What can I get for you?” the girl asked sweetly
Frankie was scowling now and Gage could tell she wasn’t going to let anyone get the best of her. Clearing her throat, she evenly announced, “I’ll have the tuna special.”
The group exploded into laughter.
* * * *
“Small craft advisory with winds north-northwest at twenty to twenty-five knots. Swells four to six feet, increasing to six to eight feet by late afternoon. Barometric pressure thirty point ten and falling.”
Frankie listened to the background noise of the weather forecast and glanced surreptitiously at her three poker-playing crewmen. How many small boats would ignore the warning? How many desperate fisherman or foolhardy boat owners would venture out to sea tomorrow?
Quinton and his apprentice had taken nearly three hours to get the helicopter up and running again. She and Gage helped the two aircraft mechanics as much as possible, never missing an opportunity to learn more about Zena’s inner workings, especially with Quinton’s recent reservations about Zena’s overall health. He couldn’t put his finger on anything specific yet something about the helicopter was creasing his brow more and more lately.
Damon used the downtime to shuttle a mewling Stewie back to the air station where the pathetic cat spent the rest of the afternoon curled up on his favorite pillow. With his duties as responsible pet owner appropriately dispatched, Damon returned the borrowed airport vehicle and walked down to the cutter station for some hobnobbing with his lecherous buddies.
Damon had been the one to suggest they squander their evening with a game of naked truth poker. Playing with matches instead of money and a few unconventional rules, a winning hand presented the victor with an opportunity to ask a singular question of anyone at the table. The loser was faced with a troubling choice—tell the truth or relinquish an article of clothing.
The fact that Gage jumped on the idea of a poker game like the call to reveille, should have set off all of Frankie’s internal alarms. She had never caught him cheating. Yet, as she sat on the edge of a dining table chair, clad only in her underwear and a thin cotton chemise, Frankie decided that there was a first time for everything. Gage was slaughtering her.
Frankie chewed on her lip and thought about how she’d gotten herself into such a pickle. Should have opted for a few rounds of pinochle. The first two questions posed to her had been easy, no-brainers.
“Do you have a vibrator?” Damon asked mischievously and leaned closer, intent on her words. Her unequivocal “no” clearly surprised him.
Gage asked the next question. “What is the significance
of your tattoo?”
Another no-brainer. Fully clothed, Frankie answered triumphantly, “Pretty boys are a mental health menace.”
Gage’s eyes narrowed at her revelation.
Damon and Quinton shook their heads and folded simultaneously with the next round. Gage upped the ante.
“I’ll see your match stick and raise you two.”
Frankie took the bet.
“I’ll call your two,” and showed her hand. A pair of nines. Gage calmly fanned out his cards face-up on the table.
Three sevens and question number three.
“Where is the wildest place you’ve ever had sex?”
That one set her back a little.
In the years they had been playing the game, it had never escalated to such a level of intimacy. Frankie removed her flight jacket rather than admit to the dismal fact that she hadn’t had wild sex anywhere with her previous partners.
The next hand belonged to her and she asked Gage the same question. Without hesitation he removed his shirt. When she won her second hand in a row, Frankie directed the exact question to Quinton. He made some vague reply about ‘bush in Tasmania’. The way he was snickering, Frankie didn’t dare ask for clarification.
They could all see that Damon was dying for his turn to answer, but nobody was willing to waste a winning hand on something he would gladly tell them anyway.
Damon won the next hand, his question directed back to her.
“What is your favorite sexual act?”
She kept her face blank while considering the question and her limited options. How many sexual acts were available to choose from? None of the few she’d tried could be considered favorite. She didn’t know how to answer and opted to remove her boots.
The favorite sexual act question was a keeper. For the next three rounds, everyone at the table was given the opportunity to answer it.
“I prefer to back my woman up against a wall and take her in public,” Quinton admitted. “Getting nicked makes it more exciting.”
Guarding the Coast Page 5