by C A Devine
A couple of sun-kissed hours later I strolled back to the boat. Delicious smells of roast meat and garlic emanated from the eclectic mix of cafes and restaurants crowding the main dock. I was watching a riotous exchange between a pristine chef and a bearded fisherman, trying to hawk his morning catch when I ran headlong into someone. I jumped back and looked around, spluttering an apology.
It was her, the naked woman – clothed. She smiled and nodded ‘De nada,’ stepped past me and didn’t look back. By this time I was nearly at the boat, which was at the end of the dock, a dead end. Hmm.
Marcus’s boat is a beautiful new 50-foot Island Packet. All cream and chrome on the outside with plenty of old world style. The inside is pale wood with soft earth tone fabrics surrounded by light and space. The galley is high-spec stainless steel, suitable for feeding a dinner party of twenty. He had added cashmere bedspreads and cushions in case the standard luxury wasn’t obvious enough. Marcus isn’t subtle, the name of his boat is Two At A Time – I kid you not. All I can say is, thank God English is not this country’s first language.
The whole package was showy for this marina. The location wasn’t the Mediterranean glamour I would have expected of Marcus. The Two At A Time was tied up at the end of a red and white concrete dock that screamed the seventies as did a lot of the boats. Each slip had an electrical point and leaky water faucet. Functional was the word that sprung to mind. The place had an easygoing feel that was much more my taste than his. Maybe he liked the town.
I settled myself on deck, looking out at the marina. Just sitting, just gazing out across the tall masts. I must have fallen asleep, but I snapped awake, blood pumping hard through my veins, in time to see her striding along the dock towards me. I watched her long tanned legs, the swing of her hips, the perfect posture. Totally sexy. I lifted my phone and snapped a sneaky photo. I was convinced now, it was fate. I jumped ashore and strolled towards her, rubbing stiffness from my shoulder. I didn’t even know if she spoke English, but hey, fate.
I flashed my fabulous – my mother tells me it’s one of the best she’s ever seen – smile, and turned on the old Mac Ryan charm. ‘Hi, I’m Mac, I think we’re neighbours.’ She looked up at me and I almost took a step back as bright blue eyes pierced into me. My lips formed a wow, but I managed to stop it spurting out. She smiled at me, formally, politely. Not good. I decided to drop my prepared line of I feel that since I’ve seen you naked I should introduce myself and went for plan B, ‘I’m sorry about earlier.’
‘Non problemo.’ I stuck out my hand, but she kept hers by her side. The silence edged towards awkward. I needed to come up with a good line soon. Then suddenly her hand was in mine pumping up and down, ‘Max. Not to worry. No damage done,’ she said in perfect English.
‘So you’re staying on a boat here?’ I asked.
‘And you are on the Two At A Time,’ she replied, her voice deep and throaty.
I cringed, ‘It’s my friend’s. He named it.’
‘You must have interesting friends,’ she smiled, again polite and formal. ‘Well, it was nice to meet you, Mac, from New York. Is that your real name? I’m sure we’ll bump into one another again.’ She skipped over a bow rail and dropped elegantly onto a 32-foot Beneteau sailboat called Laila.
‘From New York?’ I hadn’t said.
‘I recognise the accent. And if you dare spout any of that Yankee “I don’t have an accent” nonsense, we shall never speak again.’
She was at the hatch before I came up with my retort, ‘Upper Class English.’ Gee, I’m quick and witty.
‘Touché, New York,’ then she was gone. And I was smiling.
*
The next morning things got weird.
I was lying on my blue lounger listening to the latest offering from Rainforest Parrots and willing the sun to dull the pain in my shoulder. I watched her swimming a long confident crawl out towards the horizon. When she faded from sight I turned to my book.
I was lost in engines when a voice said, ‘Would you mind awfully if I joined you?’
I turned towards the sound and was staring straight into the glistening, well, you know of Max. I coughed, looked up, tried to think of myself in a bath of ice and said, ‘Feel free.’ It wasn’t on purpose. It was the first thing that popped into my head.
She threw down a towel, dumped a big beach basket at the side and lowered herself onto the neighbouring lounger.
‘So, Two At A Time,’ she examined me through her sunglasses.
‘It’s my friend’s.’
‘So you said. What brings you to the Playa Nudista?’
‘The what?’
‘Playa, Beach. Nudista, Nudist,’
It was as patronising as it sounds.
‘Ah, I thought it was the local beach.’
‘It is, but most of you kids from the New World see a bare ass – she Americanised the ass – and keep walking. You’re a brave man, New York, what gives?’
‘Well English.’ She grimaced – score one Mac. ‘Maybe I’m in Europe for some new experiences.’
‘Really?’ she gave a small nod. ‘A noble pursuit, indeed. However, gawking at ladies on the playa nudista is not cool.’ And yes, she Americanised the cool.
‘I wasn’t.’
‘Maybe not today.’ Yesterday, she had me there. I felt heat rush up my face. ‘No need to worry, we’ll just chalk it up to inexperience.’ Then she leaned over and whispered, ‘And if you do decide to view, subtlety is the order of the day.’
I swallowed a gulp. She was making me feel like I was in the eighth grade when Mrs Karfoffel told me it wasn’t polite to stare at Lisa Jones’ incredible expanding chest, except Mrs Karfoffel wasn’t naked. I suddenly wanted her to go away.
No such luck. She opened her beach basket, pulled out a wide straw sunhat and placed it on her head. I kid you not, you couldn’t write this stuff into a cheap seventies porn flick without it being branded clichéd. She lay there in all her, well-shaven, glory wearing a straw hat and designer shades. And I was lying next to her.
She rummaged in her bag again and this time pulled out a red pen and a pile of printed copy-paper. She grasped the pen between her teeth and began reading. I lay back and tried to return to my book. But she was all too obviously there, sliding the back of the pen in and out of her mouth as she marked pages.
‘Teacher?’ I asked. Did Mrs Karfoffel do this on her summer break?
‘Writer,’ she said drawing the pen from her mouth.
‘Really? What are you writing?’
‘A thriller.’
‘About?’
She turned her head and studied me before smirking, ‘Maybe I’ll let you read it one day.’
‘What’s it called?’ I met the stare of her huge bright blue eyes.
‘The Lie.’
‘Interesting title.’
‘Indeed.’ She leaned over to me again – I can’t begin to explain the effect her breasts were having on me – pulling the front of my book towards her so she could read the title. ‘Excellent choice,’ she lay back again, ‘it was turned down by publishers 174 times before being picked up. It went on to sell millions.’
‘Strange, if interesting, fact. Is that encouraging or discouraging to a writer?’
‘Both.’ I was having a regular – okay, so for regular, try sarcastic, flirtatious, downright uncomfortable – conversation with a beautiful naked woman. I loved Europe. ‘So tell me about Mac, New York.’
NYPD homicide detective, on leave with post-traumatic stress disorder, it didn’t feel like something I wanted to get into with a thriller writer. I suddenly felt the need to lie, ‘In Europe, hanging out, soaking up the rays.’
‘New experiences,’ she smirked again, then gave her head a little shake.
‘Exactly,’ I nodded. ‘Do you have a problem with that, English?’
‘Certainly not, New York, and you have the added benefit of the sun and saltwater helping that scar on your shoulder heal quicker.’ Then again, not a
lot was getting past her.
‘So would dinner,’ I wanted to see her again. I had spent two years of my life pretending to be someone I wasn’t. One more evening would hardly be a problem.
‘I’d be delighted, New York. I’ll pick the place; you can pick me up at nine. You know where to find me.’
3
The Date
I was shuffling on the dock when she appeared from the hatch at the back of her sailboat. It was nine on the dot. I watched her navigate the side deck. A silver grey silk dress slithered on her olive body, except at her sumptuous ass where it clung to perfection. Long loose curls slid down her wide shoulders, framing her full red lips. Huge hoops hung from her ears, like some wild exotic gypsy woman. She swung her leg over the bow rail and jumped down beside me, her flip-flops landing with a little splat.
‘Wow.’
‘It’s your slick tongue I’m falling for, New York,’ she said, looking up at me.
‘It’s not my favourite outfit so far.’
She barked out a laugh.
‘I feel underdressed,’ I looked down at my combat shorts and shirt. I ran a hand through my long thick hair, wondering why I hadn’t visited the barber in town. It was a date after all.
‘You’ll do,’ she said, pulling on my sleeve.
We walked up narrow cobbled lanes into the town. The light was fading and we passed couples walking hand in hand, chatting; families out enjoying a stroll in the cool of the evening and tourists in flamboyant clothes snapping the old decorative buildings.
I followed Max through huge open doors and into a busy bodega. A crowd hugged the thick honey-wood bar, sipping beer and wine. Candles flickered in the breeze, bathing the bodies in soft light. We grabbed a free table and the waiter brought down menus, eyeing Max appreciatively.
‘Is Mac really your name?’ she asked as she read.
‘MacKenzie Ryan, that’s what my parents named me.’
‘MacKenzie, that is your,’ she paused for a moment lifting her head and smirking at me, ‘first name?’
‘What’s so funny?’
‘It’s a surname.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a surname, not a first name. It means son of Kenzie.’
‘And you have a boy’s name.’
She started laughing, the candlelight showing up the beginnings of fine lines, ‘I like you, New York.’
She ordered tapas: serrano ham, calamari, anguilas, morcilla and salad. I didn’t know what most of it was, but new experiences right? We drank cava rosada.
‘Is this your first time in Spain?’ she slid her elbows across the heavy dark wood table and leaned in towards me.
I nodded, ‘First time in Europe.’
‘Carpe Diem? Soaking up life?’ she asked. I nodded again. ‘Anything interesting so far?’
It was my turn to smirk, ‘Maybe, English, maybe.’
‘And do you soak up much in New York, New York?’
‘Maybe, English, maybe,’ I lifted my glass, saluted her and drank.
She extended an eyebrow, ‘Girls?’
Pain racked my chest as I inhaled a mouthful of fizzy wine. ‘What kind of question is that?’ I coughed.
‘You can never be too sure in this town.’
‘Yes, girls. Do I look?’
‘You’re very pretty, New York,’ she sniggered.
‘Aren’t you supposed to say handsome?’
‘Well, if you told me about yourself I wouldn’t need to draw my own conclusions.’
I picked up my glass and tipped it in her direction once again. The chatter of the crowd faded as her eyes studied me. My heart quickened. What should I say? ‘There’s not much to tell, English.’
‘I somehow doubt that, New York,’ she snorted and her eyes drifted over my shoulder to the street outside. Silence lingered. I sipped my wine and busied myself watching a beautiful couple bickering at the counter. The waiter arrived and I was grateful for the distraction. He organised the plates on the table between us: cured ham, squid, eels, blood pudding and salad, hmm, probably not the first dinner choices for a New York cop.
‘So you’re a nudist?’ I said when we were on our own again.
‘Naturist is the correct term,’ she locked eyes with me. Go Ryan, kill off the conversation when it’s already in free fall.
‘Really? I’ll note that for future reference. Were you always?’
‘From birth?’
‘Okay, stupid question. How does one become a naturist?’ I anglicised that one. She didn’t laugh.
‘Take your clothes off.’
‘Is it going to be like this all night?’
‘Maybe not all,’ she could stare like a pro and her endless bright eyes bore into me. Luckily I had the king of stares. She gave in, smiling, ‘Look New York, if you don’t want to tell me your life story, that’s okay. I’m not in the mood to drone on about myself either. So why don’t we agree here and now that there’s no past, no future, no baggage, just whatever, for the few short days we can enjoy it.’ She raised her glass.
I clinked it with mine, ‘Sounds good to me, English,’ and threw it back.
‘It’s a way of life I feel comfortable with,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Naturism.’
‘Nude and comfortable aren’t two words I’d normally use in the same sentence.’
‘People on naturist beaches aren’t obsessed with their bodies. They don’t worry about whether their bum is too big or their penis is too small. They’re comfortable with who they are. I like that. It’s refreshing these days, don’t you think?’
‘When you put it like that.’ It was still very weird.
‘And of course, you have the added benefit of no tan lines,’ she grinned. ‘So, New York, what’s wrong with it?’
‘Wrong isn’t the word I’d use. I’m a live and let live kinda guy, but the thought of it makes me feel, well, uncomfortable.’
‘Cops make me feel uncomfortable, but it doesn’t mean I go round trying to get rid of them all.’ Her eyes were on me again, intense, accusatory, not comforting. I was glad of the candlelight flickering between us.
I ran a hand through my hair and shrugged, ‘I guess I just don’t see myself doing it.’
‘Really?’ she smirked. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘I’m sure.’ I slid back on my wooden chair.
‘We’ll see.’
‘It wasn’t a challenge, Max.’ She nodded. I squirmed, ‘What if someone looks at my, thing?’ Did I just ask her that? Could I not have come up with something a bit more mature than thing?
She rolled her eyes, ‘Why, is there something wrong with your thing?’
‘No,’ I choked on a piece of calamari.
‘Well, get over yourself. No-one will look.’ I was thinking of Mrs Karfoffel again. ‘And if they do,’ she shrugged forking up a mouthful of salad, ‘well, we all have one.’
‘You don’t.’
‘Ah, of course, the great male-nudists’ fear.’ I nodded and gulped down some eels. ‘I know, it’s great,’ she picked up a piece of blood pudding and mashed it onto a slice of bread, ‘I can think about whatever I want and no-one would ever know.’ She raised her eyes and the pudding, biting, chewing, swallowing. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be so intimidated the first few times, you’ll be lucky if you can get it up hours later,’ she finished on a laugh.
‘You’re really selling it to me here.’
‘I might be able to help you with that,’ I felt her hand rest on my knee, under the table. It could have been a European thing and I might have been reading the signals all wrong, but this was going well.
‘I would have thought it would bring out every pervert in the local area.’ Okay, so in hindsight, I get that saying the word pervert when it was going well was probably not that smart.
‘I don’t know. Maybe it does, but they don’t approach you, or bother you, or stare at you.’ Like she was doing to me again.
I felt that now
-familiar Mrs Karfoffel feeling, ‘I owe you an apology for that,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I accept your apology, on one condition.’
‘What?’
She leant towards me and I could see the naked flesh of her breasts, ‘I get to take out Two At A Time.’
I brought my eyes up to her face, swallowing, ‘Do you like to sail?’
‘Live life, love sailing.’
A 50-foot yacht is not an easy thing to handle on your own and I had been itching to go out. I was looking at a sweet deal. Sailing, sex and no psychiatrist’s chair; that sounded like grade A therapy to me. I was starting to feel a heady buzz from the cava, ‘You do your own thing, English. I like that.’
She ran the tip of her tongue around her lips, biting down on the bottom plump of flesh. ‘I’ve never been one to follow the crowd,’ her hand wandered up further. I gulped down a breath.
‘Should we get the check?’ I asked.
‘I think so.’ I paid, we left. She grasped my hand, striding down the narrow cobbled street, pulling me behind her. She reached over and ran her burning fingers down my back. The air backed up in my lungs. I tested my fingers on the curve of her hip. We didn’t speak. We were charging down an empty endless lane when she pushed me up against a wall. She stood there an infinite moment, her palms firm on my chest. The blood raged in my veins. Her lips were an inch from mine and her endless eyes bore into my soul. I felt exposed, like she could see all of me. My body trembled. She leaned forward and crushed her mouth on mine, she felt liquid. Heat seared through me. She explored my mouth with her tongue, racing, biting, indulging her senses. I dived in, hungry for more. She tasted hot and rich and exotic, her mouth felt soft and malleable. I couldn’t breathe, my senses clouded. I ran my hands through her fabulous mass of hair; she ran her hand down my waistband. I pulled away gasping. She let out a wicked laugh and grabbed my hand again, dragging me on. We were almost running by the time we reached the dock. Her boat or mine? We reached hers first.
‘Goodnight, New York.’ What? She jumped the bow rail, stepped down the deck and was gone. I shook my head and thought again of that ice bath. What was that?