by April Hill
“You didn’t take a check from Herb, did you?” she asked sweetly.
He chuckled. “I’m dumb, but not that dumb. And the boat was insured, which doesn’t help much. The Sea Spirit was … Well, let’s just say I had a lot invested in her besides money. When I know for sure that Charlie and your two guys came down in a soft spot, I’ll feel a hell of a lot better about what happened, though. Charlie’s the best. A great crewmember, and an even better cook. Your boss is in good hands.”
“Tell me, Captain,” she said coyly. “On your own ship, was it your habit of flogging the members of your crew when they didn’t do things your way—the is it just me?”
Jack smiled. “I almost never flog anyone. It’s not legal.”
“Neither is beating strange women,” she suggested sweetly.
“Maybe that depends on how strange they are,” he observed. “And let’s call these so-called beatings of yours what they really were—well-deserved spankings. Well, that last one, maybe … Weren’t you ever spanked when you were a kid?”
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Well, Mr. Garrison, as a matter of fact, I wasn’t spanked. My parents didn’t believe in that sort of thing. They thought it was better to use reason and logic, not brute force and violence. Does that answer you question?”
“It sure does. Reason and logic don’t seem to work with you, so I’m guessing that your folks didn’t figure that out in time to go out and buy themselves a good hairbrush.”
“And do you believe in spanking children?”
“No, but I also figure it’s better not to make a lot of theoretical decisions until you know the kid in question. You know what they say about snowflakes … that no two are alike?”
“So, you think it’s fine with some children?”
He chuckled. “With some children, it’s probably that or the federal pen. I’ve got a younger sister who made my mother old and grey long before her time. Luckily for everyone, when Karen was eighteen, she found herself a husband who had some pretty unusual ideas of how to handle her tantrums.”
“Let me guess,” Robin said sullenly.
“It seems that you may be the lucky beneficiary of what I learned from my brother-in-law, Joe,” he explained cheerfully. “Just after their honeymoon, they came to the house for Thanksgiving. Karen said something really out of line to my Mom, and before any of us knew what was going on, Joe had taken his blushing bride out to the garage, bent her over my dad’s tool bench, and blistered her bare butt with a dried-up paintbrush. My younger brother and I rushed outside like a couple of half-baked knights in shining armor, ready to take the groom apart, limb from limb. But Karen just pulled her pants up, blew her nose, and explained how it was between she and Joe. It kind of put a dent in Thanksgiving that year, but when Mom didn’t seem all that upset, I started putting two and two together, and realized that she and Dad … Well, you get the picture.”
“A family tradition, is it, then, abusing the little woman?”
“Well, I don’t have a wife, so …”
“Gee, I wonder why that is,” she grumbled. “Could it be that word got around that you’re a family of drooling Neanderthals?”
“Nope, that can’t be it. I’m Welsh-English, and Joe? Well, he’s 100% Irish. Joseph Patrick O’Flaherty. Joe tells me that he comes from a tradition where a wooden hairbrush is a better cure for some things than a bottle of tranquilizers or ten years of psychiatry. Who am I to argue? It did wonders for my sister, and I notice that you’re sounding a little more reasonable, since then.”
Robin groaned.
“Could you please just shut up about this?” she pleaded. “Or will that request get me beaten, too?”
He grinned. “I’ll let it pass, this time. You did say please, after all.” He stood up and stretched. “Keep up the good work, and maybe we’ll get through this without any more spankings.”
“Or maybe I’ll decide to bring charges against you when we get back to civilization,” she suggested smugly.
“Or maybe we could quit fighting, call it even, and start fresh,” he suggested.
“Even!” Robin exclaimed, leaping to her feet. “What’s even about it? You’ve whaled the living daylights out of me since we got here. What the hell have I done to you?”
Jack sighed. “All right, I’ll tell you. You’ve acted like a goddamned brat since the first day we washed up on the beach. You’ve made everything worse than it had to be, out of some dumb, narcissistic need to show who’s the boss. This isn’t a competition, it’s just two people thrown together when they don’t want to be, but since none of what happened is my fault, I don’t see why it would kill you to just try to make the best of it.”
“I’ll think about it,” she mumbled.
“Glad to hear it. Anyway, I need to talk to you about something.”
“I’m breathless with anticipation,” she snapped.
“Tomorrow, I’m going to try circling the island and see what’s there.”
“Gee, Mr. Crusoe, where have I heard that before?”
“Yeah. I know, but I mean it, this time. We might find a better place to camp, if nothing else. Maybe find another colony of rats—less intelligent ones, maybe?
“Yeah, well don’t include me in your plans. Besides, it’s a really stupid idea. What if something happens? You could get caught in the surf, or fall off a rock and hit your head, or–You know what? I take it back. Enjoy your walk. I’ll keep a light in the window.”
“Could you try to be reasonable, just this once?” Jack asked, exasperated. “I’d feel a lot safer if you came with me.”
Robin shook here head. “I’m staying right here, and waiting for the damned U.S. Coast Guard or the Navy Seals or whatever.”
He hesitated, studying her carefully. “Will you be good?”
“Yes, Daddy Dearest,” she simpered. “I’ll be just as good as gold. I’ll eat my pond scum and drink my coconut milk every night, and I promise not to talk to strangers, like there’s any fucking chance of that being an issue.”
“All right, then,” he said with obvious reluctance. “But stay away from the lagoon while I’m gone, and try not to use too much of the fresh water.” He grinned. “Wash your hair with fresh water again and I’ll shave your damned head—after I finish the flogging.”
“Just go,” she yelled. “And please, take your time!”
The following morning, carrying a packet of coconut meat, smoked fish and two coconut shells of water, Jack a started off down the beach. Before he left, he checked the roof on the hut, and made sure the pile of coconuts was large enough to last until he returned.
“I’ll probably be gone for three days,” he said. “If I’m not back by dark three days from now, you’ll know something’s gone wrong, and you can start celebrating. There’s plenty of that dark-green seaweed in the tide pools, so you shouldn’t run out of food before I get back.”
“Yes, Master. I’ll try not to stuff myself on pond scum and get fat. Have a lovely trip and be careful in traffic, you hear?”
He sighed. “You’re not going to let up, are you?” he asked wearily.
“Well, whatever do you mean? “ she asked sweetly.
He started walking, and few minutes later, he had disappeared around the sandy spit at the far end of the island.
By evening, Robin had begun to wish that she’d gone with him. It seemed far too quiet, and even a little eerie, and when darkness fell, she began to feel oddly uneasy. Every unfamiliar sound made her jump. It took her close to an hour to start a fire the “Girl Scout way,” but the warmth and light was worth the blisters she got on her palms. It took her another two hours to realize what was actually bothering her. She missed Jack Garrison.
She sat as close to the fire as she could stand, her knees drawn up to her chest, and kept the fire alive with an occasional handful of wood, unwilling to go on to bed in the silent hut. Instead, she began to hear in her head the conversations she had had with Ga
rrison since they had first been thrown together—after the Sea Spirit sank. The conversations didn’t make for pleasant listening, and reminded her too much of another time, and another man.
* * *
Robin was six years old the first time she remembered being a called a brat. That was not to her face, of course It was fairly certain that a lot of people called her that behind her back—or behind her parents’ backs, to be more precise. Not that it would have bothered Robin. Being thought of a brat didn’t particularly bother a genuine brat, like Robin. To Robin’s way of thinking, being singled out as a brat was a mark of distinction, a sort of badge of honor, signifying that she could be more annoying and infuriating than the next kid when she really put her mind to it.
As she grew older, though, it sometimes troubled her that she could discover in herself no specific talent, and even Robin knew that everyone needed something at which they could excel. She wasn’t as beautiful as many of her friends, or good at sports, and while intelligent, she had little interest in her classes. She saw herself as popular—with a certain group—and had never seen the point of acquiring or displaying the sort of traits that might have endeared her to others, such as sweetness, modesty, or selflessness. No, Robin’s only real talent was being what she was—a spoiled pain in the ass, and a champion among brats.
Her brattiness wasn’t something Robin had actually set out to acquire. She had just sort of evolved, maybe in the same way Tyrannosaurus Rex had, due to favorable climatic conditions, plenty to eat, and an absence of predators bigger and nastier than she was. Had some larger, bad-tempered species appeared on the scene to set her down and explain her place in the world, possibly with a solid whap across her hindquarters with its own giant, scaly tail, Robin might have seen the light early in life, developed a more pleasant outlook, and not had to learn the hard way that being a adorable little brat is only adorable for a limited amount of time.
As it was, Robin had the terrible misfortune to become “cute.” One moment, she was a gawky but self-assured little hellion with a smart mouth and a continual whine, and the next, she was all those things, except gawky. She had become cute. Five foot two, 104 nicely arranged pounds, and perky. Her nose was perky. Her voice was perky. Her hair was long, shiny, bouncy, and perky. Her personality was perky. Even her whine was perky. And as any woman out there will grudgingly agree, being perky, with good breasts and long, shiny blonde hair will take an otherwise obnoxious brat a very long way in this world.
Had Robin grown up unattractive, and not quite so perky, maybe the law of the jungle would have dealt her a few harsh swipes of reality. Instead, she spent her adolescent and teen years as a cheerleader and pom-pom girl—popular with boys, and generally detested by other females. She graduated near the bottom of her class, and went to work after high school as a receptionist, and then a sales clerk at a bookstore, where she developed an unexpected passion for reading and began to suspect that being cute and perky might just not be enough. Eventually, she became bored as a salesclerk, and applied to college. Despite her abysmal high school record, Robin was admitted to college because, for all of her other annoying traits, she was bright and imaginative, and did well on tests. (When she didn’t do well, she cheated.) She enrolled in Geology, because it was the only science class available to satisfy her major, and because the instructor was, in her words, a hunk.
And that’s how she met Mike.
Mike was an assistant professor in the Earth Sciences department, and he had never approved of faculty/student relationships—until Robin arrived in his third-period Geology 1 section. Mike was instantly smitten, proving yet again that an educated man’s education rarely extends below his waist. Their first three weeks together were wonderful, with Mike enchanted and Robin accepting his adulation as her due. Robin was accustomed to being worshipped by men. The difference this time was that Robin genuinely liked Mike. She was nuts about Mike, and lusted for Mike as she had never lusted before, and Mike was more than happy to oblige that lust. For several weeks, their affair burned at fever pitch, blinding Mike to a certain side of Robin that generally took men a while to notice. And then, one night, Mike suggested they do something he wanted to do, instead of what Robin wanted to do, and she reacted as she always did to such a ludicrous suggestion.
Mike seemed a bit surprised, but he took it in stride, and that evening, they did what Robin had wanted to do in the first place. Afterward, however, Mike seemed troubled, and suggested a long talk.
He took her to a lovely seafood restaurant on the beach, where they ate on a deck overlooking the Pacific, with lobster and an excellent bottle of wine. Mike explained that he thought he was in love with Robin, and Robin said to herself, well, duh! What else is new? She looked for the little bulge in his shirt pocket that would mean a diamond ring of excellent clarity and color, and of 1 ½ carat or better. (A minimum requirement, in Robin’s estimation, even for a lowly assistant professor.)
Mike explained that he was a little concerned by her “self-centeredness”. Yes, that was the word he used. Marriage was a partnership, he continued, requiring mutual respect and giving, and– In the middle of his sentence, Robin snatched up Mike’s car keys, left him at the table, and drove away, leaving him stranded twenty-eight miles from his apartment.
On the drive back, she threw Mike’s prescription sunglasses out the car window to be squashed to death on the Hollywood Freeway, and dumped his classical CDs in a pile on the floor. She parked his car three blocks from his apartment in a No Parking At Any Time zone, and called her roommate to pick her up.
When Robin didn’t hear from Mike for two weeks, she called him.
Mike didn’t apologize for insulting her, and he didn’t say one single thing about a diamond ring. Robin suggested a movie.
“I don’t think so,” Mike said, matter-of-factly.
“Oh,” Robin responded, unsure of what to do next. This had never happened to her, before. Men simply did not turn her down. “You have something to do, tonight?” she asked a bit testily.
“Not really. I’m just watching TV.”
With reluctance, she conceded just a bit of ground. “Well, I suppose I could come over there.”
“No, thanks. I’m kind of busy.”
She waited two days for him to call and make up, and when he didn’t, Robin Farrell took the remarkable step of calling a man to make up, for the first time in her entire life. He declined her invitation to dinner, but said he’d come by her apartment later, just to “talk”.
That evening, Mike sat on the couch across from Robin, looked her straight in the eye, and said: “The problem is, you’re a brat.”
Robin giggled. She was very good at giggling, and each giggle was nuanced to deliver a very specific message. This one was meant to tell him how clever he’d been to have figured out her little foible.
“I know,” she giggled. “Isn’t it awful?” Then, she giggled again.
Mike looked at her with open curiosity, as if she were a different species.
“You think it’s cute?”
Robin giggled again, and batted her eyelashes—another of her tools.
“Don’t you?”
“No,” he said simply. “I think at twenty-three years old, you’re about twenty years too old to be getting away with it.”
Robin stopped batting her eyes. “That’s insulting!”
“Probably, and if you were somebody’s five-year-old kid, I would have kept my mouth shut and be glad that it was somebody else’s problem. My problem is, I seem to be stuck with it—because I’m in love with you.”
Robin sighed with relief. For a moment, it had looked like she might be losing her touch.
She hopped up and deposited her perky rear-end in Mike’s lap, and kissed him perkily on the neck.
“Well, then, we’re all better!” she cooed, slipping her arms around his neck.
“Not quite,” he said, removing her entwined arms. “It stops now.”
“What stops?”
<
br /> “The giggling, for starters. And the baby-talk. We both know how bright you are, and how well-read. You don’t need to pretend to be some mindless ball of fluff. We’ve been sleeping together for months, Robin. When you talk that way, I feel like a child molester.”
“How dare you!” she pouted.
“The pouting goes, too,” he said. “Really irritating.”
“Is there anything you like about me?” Robin sulked.
“Quit sulking,” he said. “I love just about everything about you, except the traits I just mentioned.”
Mike was simply not getting it. Mike didn’t understand that what he called her “traits” were her tools. Carefully selected, lovingly perfected, and finely honed over the last twenty years to achieve the desired results.
“And what if I just tell you to get lost?” she asked. Perkily, of course. Robin had found that being perky almost always took the sting out of what she said.
Mike sighed. “Too late. I’m in love with you now, and I can’t just walk away.”
“Well then,” Robin said sweetly, batting the eyelashes again, for effect. “I suppose you’ll just have to live with it.”
“Not on your life,” Mike said, standing up and setting her firmly on the floor. “As of today, you start growing up.”
Robin giggled. “Or what, masterful one?” Big mistake, that last giggle. Mike shook his head, and before she knew what was happening, he had sat back down on the bed and pulled her across his knee. She giggled again, this time with delight, and wriggled sensuously. Another mistake. What was about to happen was not delightful, or sensuous.
Robin Farrell was not naïve. Even before Mike, she had accumulated quite a lot of experience with men, and had enjoyed a fair number of mildly kinky activities. Three boy friends ago, there had been this guy named Larry, who had often pulled her over his knee, and slapped her on her adorable, Victoria’s Secret clad fanny a few times before proceeding to the main event. At those moments, Robin had usually pouted and pleaded with him not to spank her, and then giggled her way through the three of four frankly erotic little smacks, during which his fingers always seemed to slip a bit further south than necessary to chastise her properly. Mike had never before shown an interest in this sort of foreplay, but what the heck, Robin thought, she was up for anything.