Sting

by Jennifer Ryder

  “Tell me something,” Ryan says, leaning on his elbows on the counter, and tilting his head.

  “Maybe.” I want to know what he wants before I promise anything.

  “Are you a lesbian?” he whispers.

  I scoff. Really? Surely I don’t give off that vibe.

  “Ah, no. Definitely not.” I try to hold back a smile. I end up smirking instead. I probably look like an idiot.

  He nods. “Good. Just checking.”

  “So you think that just because I’m not trying to jump your bones I must be gay?”

  He shrugs and slowly flashes me that perfect smile. A smile I’ve grown accustomed to seeing day in and day out in our little café. Something in this sleepy town that I look forward to.

  “You think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”

  “I’m alright.” He shrugs. “No, scratch that. I’m better than alright. Regardless of that, I made you smile and it’s made my day.”

  Why does he have to be so utterly adorable? And hot? And stupidly sexy? It’s totally not fair.

  “I’ll see you Sunday,” he says.

  Before I get the chance to rein in my disappointment, my mouth drops open. He comes in almost every day—today it’s been three times—and I won’t see him now for two days?

  “Um, you’re not coming in tomorrow?”

  “Nah, full day on the water. You close up early arvo on the weekends, right?”

  “Yeah, we do.”

  “So I’ll see you Sunday for breakfast.”

  I imagine waking up next to him, our bodies entwined beneath crisp white sheets with a tray of food between us. Breakfast in bed. With naked Ryan.

  The blush that rises up to my cheeks moves at lightning speed. A hiccup bursts from my mouth and I gasp. Face palm! I want to curl up in a ball on the floor and die.

  “Well, um, have a great day tomorrow. I’ll—” Hiccup.

  Sugar! Why do I get the hiccups at the worst times?

  “I’ve got a sure-fire way of getting rid of hiccups,” he says, as his dark eyes wander over my upper body. A scorching gaze meets mine, and I hiccup even louder.

  “How?”

  “Another time,” he says with a smirk. What does he mean by that?

  “I’ll see you on Sunday,” I say, my chest jerking involuntarily again.

  He taps his knuckles on the counter twice and leans in. “You bet.” I watch him turn, and with those strong, muscular legs, he carries his beautiful body out of the café once more.

  A shiver runs through me.

  I wish it were Sunday already.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  RYAN

  Mick and I settle in to camp out on the boat for the night, with a couple of canvas swags. We take it in shifts, two hours at a time. After midnight, once Mick has finished garbling on about how much he loves old cop movies, he sleeps while I keep watch. I don’t know how many times I have to elbow him in the ribs during the next two hours. Man, can this fucker snore. It’s not real stealth-like surveillance when he’s making a racket like that.

  Mick takes the next watch while I try and get in a catnap. I don’t sleep the best in these situations, and a catnap seems to work best for me anyway. We make another shift change.

  Not so much as a peep all night. Except for Mick.

  Before the sun rises we get prepped for business, both of us dressed in navy shorts and our white polo shirts. Keeping with the cover, today we have a boatload of guys who are on a charter for the start of their buck’s weekend.

  We load on board six cases of beer between eight of them. I wonder if they plan on catching any fish in between all the drinking. Ah, well. Who can blame them? You only get married once, right?

  We’ll be out for a half-day charter, about six hours, give or take. Six hours of hell, if you ask me. Lucky for the boys the swell isn’t too bad. At least this way they’ll have half a chance at holding all this grog in.

  The buck is wearing a short strapless floral dress, which brings extra attention to his hairy body. All I can do is laugh and shake my head.

  The boys have painted his eyes haphazardly with bright blue eye shadow and eyeliner, his cheeks are stained with a bucket-load of blush, and his lips are painted red. Clown-style. Knowing the heat of the sun, and the thin film of salt that covers you while out at sea, I can only imagine the state of him at the end of the day.

  After three hours the boys are out of beer and they’re a helluva lot rowdier than they were at five a.m. They’re calling it a buck’s week. I’d be surprised if they all make it out alive.

  The buck asks us to head back. Even though they’ve paid us for the six hours, he informs us they’ve had enough fishing, and they’re thirsty.

  When a man’s thirsty, I guess you’d better lead him to the nearest establishment.

  After almost getting into a fight with the best man, who was being a total cockhead, they agree to take their empty bottles and shit with them. I’ve got enough to do without cleaning up after these clowns. I’ve dealt with enough drunks in my day.

  We clean up the boat, hose down the rods and clear out the bait tank. The fuckers didn’t even use half the baitfish we caught last night while we were keeping watch. The stench of bait and the salt on my skin is getting old. I don’t mind it on the beach, but nearly every day is getting too much. I fucking reek.

  Lucky for Mick and I, we caught a lazy couple of fish today. Our customers didn’t want them so it’s a win for us. I’ll cook it up tonight for dinner with whatever shit I have in the fridge. I don’t know why they even bothered with us this morning, but I guess the pubs don’t open at dawn.

  “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, Palmer? There’s a storm on the way so you might as well make the most of what good weather is left.”

  “Yeah, think I will.”

  “I’ll stick around here for a while and keep an eye on things.”

  “Thanks, man. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I get home and dive into a hot shower. Fuck yeah. After a few minutes of simply soaking in the heat, I soap up. One hand pressed to the wall, with the other I lather my cock with body wash and push it through the stiff grip of my palm. I breathe out slowly until my lungs are empty.

  It’s been a long fucking time. I’m tired of having to take care of this shit myself.

  I miss the feel of a woman.

  Soft skin.

  Nails digging into the flesh of my back.

  A warm, sweet-smelling body arching beneath me as I fill her, over and over. The heat of our bodies, the groans of pleasure as we’re wrapped together in the peak of ecstasy.

  Watching her come. Feeling her fall apart in that moment. There’s almost no greater satisfaction than taking a woman, and giving her more pleasure than she knew her body was capable of. Once upon a time it would’ve been a game. A cocky, arrogant game. How many times could I please them in a night?

  I pull myself faster, stiffening my grip. My balls tighten as I get closer to release.

  I close my eyes. All I see is Willow.

  Fuck.

  Without even trying, she’s infected me with her shy, cute ways. Her vulnerability has me intrigued, but beneath that I sense an inner strength. I’d kill to have her sweet little body wrapped around my hips right now as the water streams over me.

  She’s trying to keep her distance.

  It only makes me want her more.

  I’m a stubborn, stubborn man. She doesn’t have a fucking clue how headstrong I can be.

  Steadying my legs, I come hard, imagining her doing the same. Willow cries out my name.

  What the hell am I doing?

  ****

  I get dressed and take out my laptop. I log into the secure network, file a status report, and read the latest intel from the state taskforce. Not much is going on.

  I tap my fingers on the table-top repeatedly as I go through my emails and some of the profiles. As a diversion, I pick up a pen, but I only end up clicking it on and off until I break
it. I bounce my leg up and down, like a junkie coming down from a high.

  “Fuck me!” I growl to myself.

  I need to do something with this energy. It’s fucking ridiculous. With the lack of sleep I’ve had lately I should crash, but my body has other ideas. Willow.

  I grab a banana from the bowl on the table and eat it so fast I might as well have inhaled it. Potassium hit. Yeah.

  I pack away the laptop and put my running gear on—a loose white tank, black running shorts and my sunnies. When I open the door to my apartment, the hot wind knocks me back. Fuck this, the shirt’s coming off. I’m gonna run myself to the point of exhaustion to take my mind off her.

  I glide my palm down the front of my shorts and adjust myself. How the fuck can I be hard? Didn’t I just take care of this shit?

  My feet pound the pavement until I reach the boardwalk half an hour later. Sweat beads run down the centre of my back, and it’s about now that I wish I had my shirt to mop it up.

  Thankfully the breeze picks up, gifting me with the cool change. Dark grey clouds roll in overhead, letting me know I’ve probably got an hour before the weather turns to shit.

  I lean my forearms against the railing and try to get my heart-rate back to a normal beat with long, slow breaths. I stretch out my triceps by curling my arms overhead and pushing my elbow down with my other hand. My hamstrings get attention next, and I straighten my leg and rest my ankle on the railing, leaning my upper body towards my knee.

  In the distance I hear a high-pitched squeal. In an instant, I’m ready to pounce. I rush to the other side of the boardwalk, following the sound. It’s followed by a female giggle, and more squeals.

  There she is, unmistakable in her trademark plain white tank and blue denim shorts. A cream straw cowboy hat is tilted back on her head and she’s wearing aviator sunglasses.

  The little girl—the squealer —is wearing a hot-pink rash vest and black bikini bottoms with frills. It’s the same girl that was in the café the other day. Willow had called her Princess. Princess jumps to avoid the waves, but trips and gets barrelled over. Willow picks her up, brushes her hair from her face, and kisses her on the cheek. She throws her up in the air and catches her. The girl giggles, and then Willow sets her down and chases her closer down the shore towards me.

  Willow has no idea I’m watching her. She hasn’t cottoned on to the stalker on the boardwalk. She really should be more aware of her surroundings. You never know who could be lurking around. Shit happens in broad daylight. More than most people think.

  I’ve seen the way Willow is around kids in the café. Her sweet laugh, the way she dotes on each and every one of them with a smile and a sparkle in her eye you could see from a mile away. She makes them little baby-chinos or whatever they call them, and stamps their hand or gives them a sticker. They love her. It’s a beautiful thing to bear witness to. Seeing her here now, with this girl, it’s as if I’m watching something truly special.

  She has that mothering instinct. It’s not something I see very often. For some reason, it has me wanting to throw her over my shoulder and drag her back to my bed. Of course, after we find someone to watch Princess.

  Can I play daddy to someone else’s kid?

  Where the fuck did that come from?

  I sure fucking love to torture myself. Should I even be getting involved here? Work has to be the priority. I should run back home, but then again, this is a prime opportunity to talk to her alone. Will she be different around me when we’re outside of the comfort of the café?

  I take the stairs down to the sand and walk in her direction. The hot sand squelches beneath my sneakers.

  Princess squeals as the waves crash at her feet, and then she’s barrelled over once more. Willow kneels down to set her right, and a wave comes up from behind them and drenches them both.

  “See, you should never turn your back on the sea, Princess. Then you won’t end up looking like you’ve been in a wet T-shirt contest, like me,” Willow says.

  “Need some help here?” I offer.

  Willow jumps. “Sugar,” she says under her breath when our eyes meet. I extend my arm towards her, my palm facing upward. Laughing, she shakes her head and then places her small hand in mine. I pull her to her feet, and watch as her nipples pebble beneath the white lace bra, which is now visible through her see-through top. Ooh, baby.

  “Guess you heard that, huh?” she asks.

  “Don’t you think she’s a little young to be teaching stuff like that?” I joke.

  She chuckles softly. “You’re probably right.”

  The girls take a few steps up the sand, clear of the crashing waves. Willow pulls the bottom of her tank top out and rings out some water. She holds the fabric away from her breasts, as if that’ll stop me from noticing those hardened nipples.

  Man, I’d love to take those perky prizes in my mouth right about now.

  If I had my jeans on, I’d be looping my thumbs through my belt and rocking on my heels. This sure is some sight. My timing is impeccable.

  “I’d offer you my shirt, but I didn’t bring one. Here, let me dry your glasses.” She hands them to me, and I wipe the lenses on the hem of my shorts.

  Willow takes a long look down to my happy trail and then back up to my face, which has a prize-winning grin plastered on it. She swallows, and then clears her throat. “I can see that.”

  “Big mussies,” Princess says, pointing to my chest.

  “What’d she say?” I ask.

  “Really?” Willow says and narrows her gaze at her.

  “What?” I ask, looking at Willow. Her cheeks are now a fine shade of pink.

  I lean down, and Princess jabs my bicep with her tiny pink-painted finger.

  “Big mussies,” she repeats. Oh, big muscles.

  I look up and grin at Willow. Let’s see if I can get away with this cheek.

  “You’re gonna have to translate for me, Willow, ’cause I have no idea what she means.” I stand, and inch my way closer to Willow. She takes in a sharp breath in response to my close proximity. I raise an eyebrow, prompting her.

  She smirks, and then pokes me in the bicep. “Big muscles, you doofus. Happy?”

  “Extremely,” I say, smug as anything.

  I extend my hand to Princess. Her tiny pruny fingers are almost lost in my grip. “I’m Ryan. What’s your name, gorgeous?” I shake her hand and get a good look at her deep blue eyes.

  “Sienna,” she says, and bats her dark lashes.

  “Well, that’s a beautiful name. It’s lovely to meet you. How old are you?”

  She loosens from my hold and fumbles with her hand, crossing her thumb and pinky finger over her palm. Her tongue sticks out as she holds up three crooked fingers.

  “Three, wow. A big girl then.”

  She tilts her head to the side, narrowing her gaze on me, and then looks up at Willow with a wide grin. “Do you wanna kiss Lolo?” she asks when her eyes land on me again. Ah! Willow is Lolo. Weird that she doesn’t call her mum.

  I chuckle as Willow shuts her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose.

  “Only if she’ll let me,” I say. Willow’s eyes open, and I can’t resist winking at her. She smirks, and I have no idea if we just got a little bit closer to doing just that. I guess having a kid, you don’t just rush into something with someone. I totally get that.

  “Why don’t you run up and get your bucket and spade, and we’ll see if Mr Muscles here can help make you a giant sandcastle.”

  “Yay, muscle man!” she cries out. Sienna runs off towards a striped pink-and-white towel, and picks up a few coloured plastic tools and puts them into her purple bucket.

  “Sorry,” Willow says once we are alone.

  “About what, exactly?”

  Her blush deepens in her cheeks. “The whole kissing thing.”

  I chuckle. “I’m not sorry. At least it’s out in the open. Must be pretty obvious if a three-year-old girl can pick up on it.”

  “She’s obsessed
with The Little Mermaid. Everything in her little world right now revolves around handsome princes kissing bejewelled princesses.”

  I’d love to wrap my arms around her and kiss the ever-loving crap out of her right now, but the walls she has up are making it tough to judge what to do here. Playing it cool seems to be the only option I’ve got.

  “She has her mother’s eyes. She’s beautiful.”

  Willow frowns, and then diverts her gaze to her bare foot, toeing at the sand. “From what I’ve been told she has her father’s.”

  What in the hell does that mean?

  “Huh?”

  “Her father died in a car accident when she was six months old. I never met him.”

  “Shit, I’m so sorry to hear that.” The twinge in my heart takes me by surprise. This little darling doesn’t have a father. Life fucking sucks sometimes. From what I’ve seen of this kid, though, she seems pretty well adjusted.

  Wait a second, that means …

  “She isn’t your daughter then.”

  “I’d be a lucky woman if she were, but no. She’s Gabs’ daughter.”

  “Oh,” I say, as realisation dawns. That poor woman. I had the task of breaking news like that to a loved one once, and it cut me to pieces. No amount of training can ever prepare you for that moment. It tore me up for weeks, and I still remember the look on the lady’s face. How Gabby is her bright and bubbly self, having lost her partner, is beyond me. It really is a small miracle that people can put together the pieces and carry on. I guess I misread the situation when Sienna came running into the café that day.

  “You’re really good with her.”

  “Thanks. Just don’t tell Gabs, but she’s like my little escape. Gabs works so hard, and this is my way of helping her out when she needs some time to herself, but truly, I kind of do it for selfish reasons. Oh, and of course when I get to make sandcastles, it’s an added bonus.”

  “You want kids?” I ask, then wonder where the question sprang from. Hanging around Mick is totally turning me soft. Christ, I’ll be talking about feelings and shit before too long. I just hope I didn’t just put my foot in it, because I have no idea about her past. All I know is that someone should have snatched this beauty up by now, and given her beautiful children.