Fresh Catch

by Kate Canterbary

"Which were?" I prompted.

  "The bitch has balls," he said, laughing.

  "No, she's…" My voice trailed off. "She's a good person. The trouble with living in the same small town your entire life is that everyone knows your story, and everyone forms opinions of their own. And they're not alone. I know everyone else's stories, too. I have opinions about many of them." I tipped my head toward the bar. "Lincoln, the guy with the Patriots hat? I've seen him at gay bars in Portland. Often enough to know he likes the leather and Levi's scene. He's married with two kids. Then there's Fitzy, the big guy blue t-shirt? His son is going through an opioid addiction treatment program. Third time. His wife doesn't want the son back in the house after treatment on account of him stealing everything out from underneath them and selling it to buy pills. Fitzy comes here most nights to keep from arguing with her about it, and I can't say I blame him. And you've got Brooke-Ashley over there. She went to college somewhere down south, somewhere fancy and prestigious. Graduated the top of her class, found herself a big job in New York City, the whole deal. But she moved back home two years ago, and hasn't said a word about it to anyone. Some people say something terrible happened to her. Others say her father has symptoms of early-onset dementia, and she gave it all up to care for him at home." I spread my hands out in front of me. "She decided to go by Brooke when she moved away, but everyone around here still calls her Brooke-Ashley. That's how it goes in small towns."

  Cole rested his elbows on the table and it required profound restraint to keep from tracing the muscular lines of his forearms. "Which opinion has Annette formed about you?"

  I stared down at the salt shaker because I couldn't manage another glimpse at Annette's crew. I didn't want to get thrown out of The Galley for fighting women. "It's her position that, because I went out with a girl or two in high school, I'm not thoroughly gay. You know, that there's a chance I could go straight for the right woman."

  JJ set two glasses on the table, making no effort to keep the liquid from sloshing over the sides. "Good luck with this," he said as he walked away.

  Cole shook his head as he mopped the spilled liquor with a paper napkin. "What's with all the gold star pedants these days? My God. They're worse than the evangelicals with their concern-trolling."

  "I don't know, man." With a shrug, I gulped my drink. Every ounce of that liquor was going to backhand me in the morning but I didn't care about that tonight. "But she's not the one for me."

  Cole considered his glass and took a quick sip. "Good to know."

  "Yeah? Why?" I asked as jealousy boiled up again. "Is she your type?"

  He tipped his head to the side, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "No. I'm not into the perky-bubbly-pushy cheerleader types," he said.

  "Why not?" I asked. The whiskey was already going to my head, and I could feel my words getting loose. "Everyone likes cheerleaders, with the skirts and everything."

  "Not me." Cole leaned across the table, his knuckles rubbing against the back of my hand as he shifted, and he tipped his head toward me with the same half-smile he used to reject pretty cheerleaders. Every nerve in my body was pulsing at his barely there touch. "I'm not interested in women, Bartlett."

  I blinked at him, frozen as he threw my exact words back at me. Every conversation, every memory of him stripping off his shirt on the boat, every sound he made last night filled my mind, and I realized this guy didn't know how to make things easy on me. He was secrets and mysteries, and one complicated mess after another. He was single-handedly ruining my quiet, comfortable existence with his questions and noise and obscene abs, and that was before I knew he was an option. Prior to this conversation, he was a short-term condition. A crush bound to end as quickly as it started.

  But now—now that he'd aimed that smile at me and stroked my hand and invited me into one of his quiet truths—he was an affliction.

  "Owen, say something," Cole said, his voice tinted with the same untethered panic I experienced last night. His gaze fell to the table, and he shifted his knuckles away from my hand.

  "You couldn't have mentioned this earlier?"

  Cole ran his hand over his jaw. "Didn't seem like the right time," he said, not meeting my eyes. "But I've wanted you since you took me home like a stray mutt."

  "Yeah, I really would've appreciated this information much earlier," I said. "Last night comes to mind."

  He had the decency to stare down at the tabletop while his cheeks reddened at the mention of our exchange. "You got me so hard last night," he whispered. "I needed your help."

  Stunned silence didn't begin to describe my current state of existence. I could still feel his fingers on my wrist, his touch seared into my skin like a tattoo. I dragged my tongue over my parched lips. Reached for my whiskey but then put it down. Grabbed my napkin but then tossed it aside. "Sounded like you were doing just fine on your own."

  "Only because I was imagining your hand on my cock," he replied. "And…elsewhere."

  I locked my fingers around his wrist and tugged him back. The only words I could pull together were, "I didn't tell you to let go."

  "Okay," he said, gulping. The sight of his throat bobbing turned my cock to stone. "I won't."

  "Good. That's good." Without looking away from him, I called, "JJ. Another round over here."

  12

  Harden Up

  v. To turn toward the wind; sail closer to the wind.

  Owen

  "Wait, wait a minute," Cole hissed, his arms outstretched at odd angles as he stumbled over his feet. "Look."

  I reached for the maple tree to my right, needing somewhere to lean. Leaning was easier than staying upright. "What am I looking for?"

  It was late and we were drunk, but the worst part was that we'd spent the evening flirting with each other like young lovers and now I was about to explode on him. Cole knew it, too. He wanted it. The sparkle in his devious grin, the way his gaze bathed me in heat, his inability to go more than a minute without brushing his hand against mine. He wanted this as much as I did or…or he was one hell of a cockteasey drunk. God, I hoped it was the former.

  "The fireflies," Cole whispered. "The louder we get, the longer they'll hide. They don't like a lot of noise or movement. Or light. But I know they're out here. Let's wait. They'll come back."

  "Yeah," I replied, transferring most of my body weight to the maple. "I've seen them plenty of times." I yawned. "Is this what does it for you? Finding fireflies? You should've told me that two weeks ago."

  Cole crouched down low, and he was quiet for a long moment. "I went to Tennessee once. There's a researcher there, an old woman who specializes in the Smoky Mountain Synchronous Firefly." He stood, turning in a small circle. "Photinus carolinus," he added, as if I required that detail. "The males, they flash in a synchronized rhythm. It's a mating call. But they only live in certain regions."

  "Like, the Smoky Mountains?" I asked around a laugh.

  "Well, yes," he replied. "And a few other regions in southern Appalachia."

  "Can't picture you in southern Appalachia," I murmured. Cole was too busy tracking fireflies to hear.

  "I brought a group of my—uh—businesspeople to the Appalachian Trail," he continued. "I had this big idea about sparking some childlike wonder and nostalgia for the ways things used to be. You know, summer camping trips. The great outdoors."

  "And fireflies," I offered.

  "And fireflies," he repeated. He gestured for me to follow him. I reluctantly pushed away from the tree, but the motion sent me colliding with his shoulder. His arms went around me, his palms settling on my belly and the small of my back to keep me steady. "Easy there, big guy."

  "I'm good, I'm good," I said, righting myself. But my body was aglow where he'd touched me. I patted his shoulder—a gesture of thanks—but lingered a couple of seconds too long. Not long enough.

  "Some species of firefly are dying out," Cole said. Apparently he didn't require full minutes to process my touch before forming words. Lucky Cole. "Skyglow,
the phenomenon of constant brightness from cities, highways, and screens, interferes with their ecosystems. And I took a bunch of businesspeople—the kind who built their careers on technological advancement—into the Smoky Mountains to catch a look at some fireflies."

  "Did that work out as intended?"

  "Not at all," Cole said, laughing. "The researcher, she wouldn't allow us to bring any phones or tablets—like I said, screens are part of the problem—or flashlights."

  His words hitched as he stumbled over an exposed tree root in the path. I dropped my hand onto his shoulder again, and kept it there this time.

  For safety. Of course.

  "There'd been a forest fire the previous season, and some of the trails were gone. We didn't get lost because this researcher knew the forest like the back of her hand, but the journey didn't go as planned. We didn't get to see any fireflies, not really. There was some twinkling in the distance, but the fire did a number on their population." He sighed, and I squeezed his shoulder in response. "They missed the point I was trying to make."

  "You're getting some fireflies now," I whispered.

  Cole didn't respond. He was staring into the woods, pointing and murmuring in delight as he spotted another zip of light.

  "It really is something when you think about it," he said. "Adult fireflies are only active for about two weeks. They live for almost two years but they spend most of that time eating bugs and hanging around, not doing much of anything. Just waiting and waiting for that snap of time when they have to find a mate, and then they only have two weeks to get the job done."

  "Seems like a lot of pressure," I said.

  "But isn't that the way? You spend forever waiting for the right time, but then the right time is over before you know it." Cole shrugged, and I gulped down a groan at the feel of his muscles rising and falling beneath my touch. "That's probably why they have extremely active sex lives."

  "Someone should have an extremely active sex life," I muttered.

  "Once they find a mate, it takes almost an hour to transfer the sperm," Cole said. It sounded like he was reading from a textbook. A sexy textbook about horny fireflies. Or something.

  "Sounds good to me."

  "Once it's done, the sperm transfer, the male stays around to ward off competitors. He doesn't want anyone else getting in there." He shrugged again, and if I was sober, I'd think he rubbed his cheek against my hand. Then again, if I was sober, I wouldn't be massaging his shoulder in the woods at night. I would've moved this conversation somewhere with beds. And lube. "They're territorial fuckers."

  "Me too," I said. Not sober, not sorry.

  Cole stopped, and pointed toward the woods. It was dark back here, completely hidden from the lighthouse's steady beacon, and that darkness awakened a whirl and flow of tiny stars. They blinked in the quiet beat of an ancient universe to which we were guests, voyeurs in a mating ritual that mirrored my own wants.

  "I get it," I said slowly. "The nostalgia. It feels pure. Or, as pure as any booty call can be."

  "That wasn't what I wanted my team to walk away with, but it's true," Cole replied. "I wanted them to think micro—the fireflies—and macro—us—but they weren't picking up on any of that."

  He sighed and this time he definitely rubbed his cheek on my hand. That scruff. Ah.

  "They're flashing us their happy little dick pics," Cole said. "This is just a whole lot of dick announcing I'm down to fuck."

  "We're basically watching a glow-worm orgy," I said.

  "I know," he whispered. "It's awesome until you really think about it."

  "You should've told that team of yours about the sex. That got my attention."

  "Should we give them some privacy?" Cole asked.

  I started to respond but instead of speaking, I pressed my lips to his neck. My hand moved from his shoulder to his chest, and I dragged him closer to me. I should've stopped. Should've pushed him away, put this on hold, and figured out what the fuck we were doing because the heat between us was increasing by the second and I was a breath away from losing my thoughts—every one of my damn thoughts—and letting need guide the way. But I didn't do that.

  For once in my life—twice, if we were counting last night's indiscretions—I did what I wanted rather than thinking about the implications and repercussions. I brought my hand to Cole's face, turned him away from the glow-worm orgy, and kissed him.

  In the back of mind, I knew…one wrong move and this could end with some awkward moments and hard feelings, and I didn't want either for us. He was an unexpected friend, and one I wasn't ready to lose.

  He twisted in my arms, his lips returning to mine, his hands shifting down to my waist, his knuckles stroking the small of my back in the most precious way, and I fell over the edge of reason. It was like those seconds between barreling over the bow and splashing down in the ocean, when all sense of balance and equilibrium went wild before recalibrating as the water took over.

  I cupped his face and pressed my lips to his in a kiss that was too tortured, too desperate to be the kind of kiss he deserved. We clawed at each other, pushing and pulling and grabbing in a battle for touch that would have no end.

  "Tell me we're doing this," he panted against my lips.

  "What is this?" I asked. I needed him to spell it out. Draw the map and show me the course. There could be no miscommunication here. "What do you want?"

  Cole pressed his face to the crook of my neck, his lips exploring my skin as his hand traveled down until it squeezed my cock. It was exactly as firm and confident as I'd imagined last night. Before I found him outside the bathroom, and after.

  "I want this," he said, releasing a hot breath on my neck.

  Grabbing his shoulders, I pushed him back far enough to catch his eyes. My touch was rough, nearly punishing, and I would have regretted that if it weren't for the blissed-out sigh on Cole's lips.

  Yesssss.

  "Say it," I ordered, my hold on him tightening.

  "I want you. So much that it hurts," he said, his words tumbling out in a gasp.

  There was only one way to ease this pain. Without a word, I backed him up against a tree and dropped to my knees. My hands were curled around his hips while I pressed my face to his heat. He was thick and hard behind his shorts, and I dragged my scruffy chin over the fabric to feel the length of him.

  "Do that one more time and I'm gonna come in my pants," Cole said, his words slurring around a hiccup.

  "Are you too drunk for this?" I asked. I was unbuttoning his shorts while I asked, but I still asked. "I don't want you to regret this tomorrow."

  Cole shook his head but it had the effect of shaking his entire body. I had to lash my arms around his waist to keep him from hitting the ground. "Nope," he drawled. "I'm a sloppy drinker. It's my worst trait. That, and my penchant for screaming at the people who work for me. But anyway. No, I'm completely lucid under this. I can't turn it off. I've tried. Once, in college, I tried to get drunk enough to find women attractive. Like, sexually. I mean, women are beautiful but—"

  "Is there a point?"

  I shoved his boxer briefs down and his cock swung free. It tapped my cheek, and though I wanted more than anything to get my hands on him, I waited. I didn't know where that Herculean strength sprang from, but I appreciated the hell out of it now.

  "Yes, there's a point, Owen," he replied, exaggerating every word like a sassy teenager. "It's that there's nothing I can do to turn off my mind. That's the trouble with having an extremely high IQ. It's one of the highest ever recorded."

  "Don't make me gag you," I said, then thought better of it. "Unless you'd like that."

  "No, I wouldn't," he said. "But if you don't suck my dick right now, I'm gonna think you don't know how to."

  I shook my head but took pity on him, wrapping my fingers around his shaft before brushing my lips over the crown. He was thick and warm, and he smelled like the most hedonistic heaven I could imagine. "Always something to say."

  Cole's hands la
nded on my shoulders, and he gripped me hard. "Do that again," he ordered.

  I thought about teasing him. If this was a random hookup, I would've. I usually answered demands with more torment. Same with pleading and begging. But rather than wanting to assert my control, I wanted to give Cole what he needed. Even if that meant ceding some of that control.

  "Please, again," he begged.

  "Anything," I whispered, laving my tongue over him. I learned the contours of him, licking up and down his length, around his crown. It didn't take long—maybe a minute or two—but for me it was an epic journey. I was Magellan here, and I was intent on mapping my new world.

  Cole's hands slipped up my neck and into my hair, his hips pumping as I worked him. The woods seemed to close in, the night joining forces with the noises of nature and the raw smell of earth to surround us. It was primal, as if the woods were calling on me to make this man mine.

  The cloak of darkness offered a voyeuristic sanctuary, a secret as long as we didn't mind the audience. The damp soil beneath my knees, the lightning bugs and beetles fluttering around us, the creatures lurking in the distance, the whisper of trees and the roar of the sea—it all rose up like an unblinking chorus.

  I swallowed him down, inch by inch, and sighed in delight when my nose brushed against his pelvis. His scent was different here, richer. In the back of my mind, I knew I'd never be able to venture into these woods without recalling his scent. I wasn't prepared to deal with that thought or the possibility that this man could mean something—maybe everything—to me, and shoved it far away while I worked on showing off the best of my blow job skills.

  And when it came to skills, I had them. No one racked up a decade's worth of meaningless sexual encounters without learning their way around a topflight blow job.

  Cole's fingers tightened around my hair. "I'm," he started, his voice pitching high while my fist moved him fast and my tongue rolled along the underside of cock. His back arched away from the tree. "I'm—mmm—yes."