by P D Singer
COULDN’T EVEN bear to use the shower, could he? Even if he could have spread both elbows at once in the larger stall. Bobby could have been warm and clean and then fallen asleep, even if he wouldn’t use the double mattress that had been his by right back then. But no, he’d conked out waiting for the general shower, still clad in two layers of smelly fleece.
Bobby wasn’t accepting one damned thing that came from Lee’s hand, was he? But three weeks of diving off the Bottom Hunter, doing the jobs that paid the bills and filled in between recreational charters, had softened him to the point of not dragging his gear off the boat and then back every night.
That first return to port had about killed Lee when Bobby threw everything into Tip’s old pickup. He’d killed a whole bowl of peanuts and came far too close to telling Alford to shove his damned soda pop and pour the booze ’cause a man needed some comfort.
And then Bobby hauled it all back the next morning for the next day’s dive.
Still too damned soon for trust, wasn’t it? Not even for a warm shower, let alone snuggling his naked body into what had been his side of the bed, close to the bulkhead. Lee draped the striped blanket over Bobby’s sleeping form and let him be.
BOBBY STAGGERED through the shower and into some clothes, his stomach rumbling. The cold water had taken more out of him than he’d liked. Waking up warm and cozy had almost convinced him to roll over and close his eyes again, secure with his lover’s aftershave scenting his covers. And that had pulled him upright fast enough to clonk his head on the upper bunk.
Nursing the knot, he ambled through the dining area to the galley to forage a sandwich. With thin sliced roast beef inside and a can of soda to lift in salute to Steve and Harley, Bobby climbed the steps to the wheel house to watch the shore grow nearer. The lights of port twinkled in the dimming sky.
Tip had the wheel. Not sure if he should be disappointed or relieved, Bobby leaned a hip against the chart box.
“Glad you’re back, Bobby.” Tip turned his weather-beaten face away from the glass for a moment. “Kinda like old times.”
What could he say to that? Tip had watched them fall apart. “Not that much like old times. Just diving.”
“It’s a start.”
“It’s all there is.” Tanks, or hoses and compressors. Tools, water, dive tables, and welding torches.
His heart.
“How’s he really doing, Tip?” No one else could possibly know as much as the captain’s mate. Damn but that didn’t sound right. Too sexual, too many meanings for the word, though Bobby knew quite well this old seaman had a much-loved wife and some grown kids on land.
“A whole lot less surly and a bit more jumpy since you came on board. Used t’be, mornings he was grumpy as an old bear with a sore head.” Tip made a note in the log as they passed one of the harbor buoys and slowed the engines. “Spends a fair amount of time at My Brother’s Place, but then, he always has.”
That part Bobby recalled only too well, but then he’d spent a fair amount of time there lately too, and if he wasn’t sitting at Lee’s table, he had to pay for his one beer. And if he was with Lee, the Coke was somehow free. Alford never put down a tab even if he took the tips.
Steps sounded, coming up. Lee appeared, doing a double take at the crowd. “I’ll take the helm, Tip.”
“Sure thing, Cap’n.” Tip handed over the wheel and disappeared.
Should he bolt? Stay in place? Anything but step up behind the captain’s chair to slide his hands beneath Lee’s arms and around his chest. That had been their favorite way to come into harbor once, but…. Bobby stayed put, sipping from his can.
“Plans for the weekend?” Lee asked, his voice utterly level as he swung the bow to starboard, heading to their dock.
“Not sure yet.” Bobby answered equally neutrally. “I’d be good to dive again by Saturday, but I don’t have anything lined up.” He’d been keeping his weekends open, in case Lee suggested going out to check on their mystery site, but the boat had recreational charters to well-known inshore wrecks Bobby had dived back when and wouldn’t bother getting wet for now.
“I have some guys coming out for a charter. Guys I trust for technical.” Lee rattled off some names.
“Some good guys,” Bobby agreed. No cowboys, no vandals.
Lee swung the Bottom Hunter to port and then to port again, slowing the engines and reversing. He brought the boat into dock with a touch of reverse, coming to touch the bumpers lightly as a kiss. “Want to come along?”
“Where you guys going?”
“Depends.” Lee cut the engines. “We’ll hit the Dodger, unless you’re coming.”
“And if I do?” Against his will, Bobby’s heart sped up. He’d seen Johnny Ray’s bottom finder, showing a hump at coordinates only Lee shared.
“Haven’t the slightest what it is, just where it is.” Lee turned around to look Bobby square in the face. “Think we oughta check it out.”
The last weeks had been enough to take the worst edge off his mistrust of Lee as a dive captain. “I’ll be there.”
Chapter 8
LEE HAD a chewed pencil and a napkin. “Here’s what I know from the charts, so worst case, we’d be at this depth….” He glanced at the tables of depths and required surface times that kept them from getting bent.
Bobby snatched the dive table away. “What’s this we?” He might be willing to go out to the dive site with Lee, but hell to the no about both of them underwater.
“Okay.” Lee bowed his head. “You’d be at this depth.”
“Right.” Bobby cast another glance at the tall glass with a lime and a straw, half-full of ice and clear liquid. Nothing but soft drink—Lee made him taste it to be certain. Again. Three evenings now. Enough to provoke a discussion of this unknown dive site, not nearly enough to think Lee was safe to dive.
But damn if this didn’t feel like old times, sitting down together with dive tables and calculators. So many minutes to down, so much bottom time at a particular depth, more time spent decompressing, how much helium in the mix to change those times at a rate they could afford to fill the tanks. How many tanks per person, and what did they have on board already?
Bobby couldn’t afford the nostalgia. Twice already tonight he’d nearly slid his feet all the way under the table, ready to catch Lee’s booted foot between his own. Not that he’d forgotten himself that far, but his toes knew the way, and they remembered how they used to tickle a trail up Lee’s leg. Back on board the Bottom Hunter, in the lounge, with no divers on board to watch how the captain and the lead diver forgot everything about their tasks to lean over a table for some interpersonal connection.
Which was why they sat in the danger zone with a wall full of temptation behind the bar in hues of gold, brown, and amber. Bobby didn’t know how Lee stood it. Maybe having his back to the bar helped. Maybe the way his eyes stayed too long on Bobby helped more.
Couldn’t kid himself about being enough to keep Lee sober. Bobby’s solemn promise to have sex every single night Lee came to bed without a drink on board couldn’t keep the booze in the bottle. Even sex the ways Bobby didn’t do so often, even if he liked it. Not that he’d trust anyone, even Lee, maybe especially Lee, to bind his hands if he had a snootful. Not even making the offer blatantly, with the necktie draped over the refrigerator handle, had led Lee to choosing differently.
Nope, Lee had to make the choices himself, but so far, he’d been making a choice Bobby could live with. If he kept it up…. Nope, couldn’t let himself dream too far ahead of himself, or Bobby would be making excuses for why he’d break his own rules.
“So, we have six guys, max of four dives each, double tanks. Figure a short recon dive on regular air, if it’s shallow?” Lee scribbled on the napkin.
“Nope, trimix all the way. We find anything good on the bottom sweeps, nobody’s gonna thank you for a short dive. Didn’t you soak these guys for the charter to a virgin site?” Bobby kept his voice down, but he knew the price of he
lium as well as Lee did.
“Might be a pipe barge or garbage scow nobody gives a rat’s ass about.” Lee doodled a figure on the napkin, circles going nowhere. “Collect the insurance and forget marking the charts.”
That, unfortunately, could be true. No glory in discovering the beast on the sea floor was filled with old phone books and Styrofoam trays the owners couldn’t find a landfill for. That sort of crap would create just as vibrant an ecosystem as any more exciting find. “Could be,” Bobby allowed. “Maybe top off a couple of the partial tanks with air, in case we pull a dud and want to bail on the site?”
“Yeah, we can do that. They won’t go stale even if we don’t use them this trip.” Lee brightened at that. “And either way, we’ll know what’s….”
Guess he recalled they were in a full bar where not everyone’d had enough booze or conversation or flirtation to keep their noses out of other people’s business. Bert Guldbrandsen’s ears might as well be flapping from his seat over at the bar.
“Yeah. We will.” Bobby grinned, because that grin could be for anything.
“Plus, I got an appointment tomorrow with a big client, maybe score us some long-term work.”
“Hey, that’s good news.” Anything that financed their curiosity—well, kept them fed and the boat running—was good news. If it wasn’t stupid, boring shit. And even then, it was stupid, boring, underwater shit. “I can take the tanks to the mixing station,” Bobby offered. “Put it on the boat account.”
The blinding smile from across the table felt like old times. And it wasn’t just like old times, no matter how good it felt to have brought that smile. It was a dive trip with his old captain, who was drinking soda pop lately. That was all.
If Bobby repeated that often enough, maybe he’d even believe it.
MAYBE LEE oughta chew the hell out of the lime in his glass to get the goofy grin off his face. But damn if Bobby wasn’t calculating decompression rates and top time between dives for this unknown site, just the way Lee’d planned. Well, hoped, but Bobby’s curiosity and endless gallons of sweet, fizzy swill had paid off enough to make Lee hand over a set of keys to the Bottom Hunter.
Bingo!
He nodded to Alford on his way out and didn’t interrupt Johnny Ray’s in-depth flirting with the sweet thang du jour. Even though Lee wanted to pound his back and whoop. One mystery on a plate had done its job so far. Lee would keep his celebration inside long enough to take it out of general view. Even with a triumph that called for confetti and champagne.
Not that he’d ever tasted champagne, but his walk back to the marina took him past a package liquor store. Easy enough to nip inside, pick up a bottle of bourbon for his solitary toast to Bobby’s return.
The man behind the counter gave him the nod due a regular. A guy had to get his fifths for the overnight trips somewhere, and the little emergency bottles ’cause you’d just never know. Probably some of those still rattling around somewhere on the Bottom Hunter.
Not much good for an emergency if he couldn’t find it, but he’d been trying not to find things like that lately. He kept his eyes away from the shelves and shelves of temptation. Because he’d drink it all if he had it.
Two airplane bottles of Jim Beam wouldn’t fuck with his sobriety. He was doing good. Two drinks wasn’t much compared to what he used to put away. One to toast Bobby’s pitching in on the dive prep, and one to raise to the ocean gods that the dive site had something worth looking at. Two little bottles—he’d be fine. Plus he got change back from the five he handed over, so prudent with the finances too. Perfect. Bobby’d be pleased.
The bottles bumped together, singing a little song of anticipation. He could open one for the journey, the whole seven blocks back to the marina, and still have another to drink from a glass with ice cubes. Two didn’t seem like enough for a proper celebration, but he didn’t want to go back in and face the counterman again. Lee kept walking and made his itchy fingers stay off the screw caps. He’d have both of them out of a glass and make two feel like enough. Only three blocks to go.
Lee boarded the Bottom Hunter and headed straight to the galley. Glass, ice, twist, pour.
“Tomorrow’s gonna be a great day.” Lee lifted the glass of amber joy to the heavens and tossed the entire drink down. Some went the wrong way—he hacked and choked, the liquor burning a trail to his lungs. Getting it out of his windpipe spread the fire through his nose. Doubling over, he tried setting the glass down, but another fit of coughing seized him. He knocked over the glass, and something else toppled.
Tears prickling from under his eyelids, Lee coughed until the bottoms of his lungs hurt. Only slowly did he stand up and survey the wreckage in his galley. Ice everywhere, a trail of fluid growing away from the fallen glass. The empty on the floor, the cap God only knew where. The second 50 ml bottle rolled away under one of the tables.
Fuck.
He deserved every erg of pain.
Bobby hadn’t even gotten the tanks filled yet, and here Lee was, making sure he’d never do it if he knew. Stupid fucking idiot. Jerk. Dumbass lush. Lee crawled across the floor, chasing the evidence of his fuckup. He trashed the empty and started to hurl the full bottle into the bin.
No. He couldn’t. He might need this. He could just…. He wouldn’t drink it, not tonight, but he might need one ounce of comfort sometime, like after Bobby got disgusted with him for being a weakassed excuse for a….
But no. Not tonight. He wouldn’t fuck up any more than he’d already fucked up.
Lee chucked the miniature bottle into the freezer behind a box of frozen waffles and a sleeve of hamburger patties.
Every breath seared his sinuses where the bourbon had doused him. Not even the little bit of warmth he’d actually gotten into his belly could soothe his shame. Bobby deserved better than this. Better than him.
Lee scrubbed the taste of hell out of his mouth and went to bed. Alone. Like usual. And if he ever wanted that to change, he’d have to ignore the siren song coming from the freezer.
After half an hour of trying to sleep with his pillow wrapped around his head, Lee gave up. Bobby’d better do something to make this shit worthwhile, and he could start by showing up stark naked with his cock pointing at Lee.
Vision-Bobby knelt over him and bent to kiss the mouth that Lee could only hope didn’t smell like his mistake.
RACKING THE last four tanks on the dolly, Bobby pondered last night. Lee and soda pop. Who’d have thunk it? But he’d done the math on the mixing ratios without an error, checked his work, and got the same answer, and it all matched with Bobby’s numbers. No hitting two numbers at the same time or a division sign instead of the multiplication. Damn. He didn’t want to read too much into this—he couldn’t afford to. But damn, he’d wanted to kiss a mouth flavored only with lime.
The metal building housing the mixing station hummed with compressors and reeked of salt water and machine oil. The wet concrete floor squeaked under the passage of two hundred pounds of tanks. He’d filled the oxygen first, the most important, would add the helium, and when the partial pressures met his specs, he’d finish with the nitrogen he’d like to do away with. With tanks hooked to hoses and gauges, Bobby waited for the hiss of gasses to announce that he’d breathe tomorrow. Oxygen, nitrogen, helium, all in proportions to let him stay down longer and think more clearly than if he went with straight air. That was fine for the sport divers, who emerged tuckered out from twenty minutes at 120 feet, but not for him or… Rafe.
“Don’t take all the fucking helium, dude.” Rafe punched Bobby playfully on the arm, jolting him out of his underwater musings. Bobby flashed a fist toward Rafe’s belly, followed by a left uppercut, not trying to connect. It was enough to see Rafe dance backward out of range and catch his heel on the dolly. He didn’t quite go ass over teakettle, but the rack of tanks marked Tech Tach rattled while he fought to catch his balance.
“Only as much as I need.” Bobby grinned with a joviality he didn’t really feel. He’d
docked the Bottom Hunter at the mixing station half an hour before opening time, hoping to avoid seeing any of his dive pals from a boat where he wasn’t welcome. This was his last set of tanks. He couldn’t have fired up the compressors any faster. Fuck.
“How much is that?” Rafe eyed the tanks. Bottom Hunter stenciled in bright orange on the cylinders left no doubt which boat Bobby planned to take them to.
“’Bout that much,” Bobby hedged.
“Didn’t think you were diving on that particular boat.”
“Dove with ’em before.” Bobby shrugged. Maybe word hadn’t gotten around quite as much as he’d thought. Which could be good, could be bad.
“So where’re you headed with all my helium?” Rafe prodded.
“No idea.” Well, no idea exactly, so still truthful, and even if it wasn’t, that was as much answer as he’d give. The grate blocking him out of the Andrea Doria still rankled.
“Come on, you can tell a pal. What are you diving?”
Bobby shrugged. Had to keep this casual. Rafe and the Tech Tach were just too damned good at getting in on the fun, and no way would Bobby give away a virgin site just because a pal asked. “Honest, no idea. I get the tanks, Lee drives the boat. Sooner or later I jump in the ocean and find out. There’s five thousand wrecks up and down this coast—I got a lot of choices.”
“Really.” Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t even know what you’re diving?”
“I get in the water, it’s all good.” Bobby unhitched the tanks, letting the gauges bounce on the ends of the curled hoses. “I’m not taking a welding torch with me, so just a dive.”
“You don’t do ‘just’ dives,” Rafe pointed out. “You do work dives, you do technical dives, you have a reason for going in. And this sounds good.”
“Like I said, no idea. Guess I’ll find out.” The tanks clanked when Bobby pulled the truck toward the nitrogen station. “Lookee, I left you some helium.”