Devil and the Deep (The Deep Six)

by Julie Ann Walker

  Holy fuck.

  “I like girls, guys, transgender, transsexual, or any type of person you can think of,” she said. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t stop his eyes from widening. “I just like people. They’re endlessly fascinating and… Oh my God! I just realized you’re asking if I’m a lesbian!”

  He didn’t say anything, choosing instead to sit and wait. There were two things he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt. One was that the sun would rise tomorrow in the east. The other was that there really wasn’t much need to talk when Alex was around. She was completely capable of carrying on whole conversations by herself.

  And I’m cracked because I enjoy it. The sound of her voice was soothing. And that lisp she developed when she got really worked up? Well, it was nothing short of adorable.

  “No,” she said emphatically. “I am not a lesbian. Not even close.” She made a face. “Wait. I didn’t mean for it to sound that way. I’d be proud to be a lesbian. If I were a lesbian. Which I’m not. I like boys…er…guys. I mean men. I like men. Well, not all men. But in a general sexual sense I prefer the male to… Oh, for Chrissakes, I feel like I’m digging myself in deeper with every word.”

  And he was totally content to watch her shovel. He took another bite of orange and watched her shift uncomfortably in her seat. She tilted her head and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. For some reason, that gesture always got to him. And now that she’d unequivocally declared she liked boys…guys…men—inside he was quaking with laughter—it was worse. His blood started speeding, spinning, rushing like his heart was a clock that was wound too tight.

  “Why did you think I was a lesbian?” she asked, peeling another slice of orange from her half, but not popping it in her mouth. “Is it because I don’t wear makeup? Because just so you know, I usually do wear makeup when I’m not living on an island that requires me to slather on sunscreen.

  “Or is it because I don’t run around in a bikini the way Olivia does? If it is, then I would like to state that the reason I wear a one-piece is the same reason I don’t wear makeup. My skin is really fair, and if I wear a one-piece that’s just that much more surface area I don’t have to rub sunscreen into.” She frowned. “Or maybe it’s the unpainted nails and the baggy shorts and… Wow. I really don’t put out a very girlie vibe, do I? That would explain some things.”

  When her face looked like it was ready to crumble, Mason figured it was time he opened his mouth. “I think you’re very girlie,” he reassured her.

  “You do?” She blinked at him. Fuck, yeah, I do. “Then why did you ask me if I was… Oh!” She had a laugh like a shotgun. It blasted out of her and echoed across the boat and over the water. “Because I said I like Sex and the City for all the boobs and the boinking. Yup.” She nodded. “I can see how that might give you the wrong impression.”

  He simply lifted a brow.

  “But just so we’re clear, I watch Sex and the City for two reasons. Firstly, I like the female camaraderie on the show since I never had sisters or even really close girlfriends.” She stopped to toss another orange slice in her mouth. “And secondly, I find it educational since recently I’ve decided it’s time to take a lover.”

  Mason wasn’t sure, but he thought perhaps the bottom had fallen out of the sailboat.

  Chapter 20

  10:16 p.m.…

  “And I figure I can use all the pointers I c-can…” Alex stuttered to a stop when she realized Mason looked like he was about two seconds from keeling over in a dead faint. If she wasn’t mistaken, that ruddy color riding high on his cheeks was there because he’d stopped breathing.

  Well, crap on a cracker. What’s with him?

  She barely had time to ask herself the question before she knew the answer. She slammed a hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she said through her fingers, feeling like someone had dumped a bucket of hot water over her head so that heat washed down the entire length of her. “That was a definitely a case of TMI, wasn’t it?” She winced.

  “And I know we don’t have the kind of relationship where we can talk about lovers, past, present, or future. But in my defense, I’m not a very secretive person. And that added to the fact that I tend to suffer from a severe case of verbal diarrhea means sometimes I just unload without thinking. Sorry,” she said again, seriously considering chucking herself overboard so the ocean could cool the embarrassment from her skin. “I can’t believe I… Maybe I’m having an aneurysm.”

  She screwed up her face and waited for him to say something to diminish the tension in the air, to put her at ease. But he remained stubbornly mute. Go figure. And since she and silence had never been on friendly terms, she found herself saying, “And I know it might have sounded like I was propositioning you when I said I was determined to take a lover. But I wasn’t. Not that I don’t think you’d make a good one.” He started blinking rapidly. “I mean, come on.” She waved a hand in his general direction. “You’re, like, the very definition of man. So it stands to reason you’d be good at doing that quintessentially man thing.”

  His eyes were bugging out of his head. Scared they might pop out and go rolling across the table, she hurriedly added, “But you don’t really like me. And the truth is, sometimes I’m not so sure I really like you. You’re rude and grouchy, and you never talk. I think you’ve said more words to me tonight than in the two and a half months I’ve known you. So even if I do look at you and think bow-chicka-wow-wow, I’m not sure—”

  He started choking. She assumed it was on a slice of orange. Startled, she scooted around the bench seat and whacked him on the back.

  “Fuckin’-A,” he wheezed. “You’re about to punch a hole through my spine.”

  “Well, excuse me for trying to help.” She frowned at him.

  “Stop talking.” He continued to wheeze. His eyes were watering.

  “Sure, sure.” She nodded. “My pleasure.” She ground her teeth and picked up the discarded orange peel. Then, unable to stop herself, she said, “Look.” When he glared at her, his face a study in frustration, she rolled her eyes. “Just let me say my piece and then I’ll stop talking. I swear.”

  There was a muscle twitching beneath his eye, and she was worried now that she might give him an aneurysm, but she just needed to get this last bit out.

  “When I said I was ready to take a lover, I was talking in the general sense. Not about anyone in particular.” She firmed her chin. “And the reason I’m approaching it so pragmatically is because I’ve tried doing it the usual way, but it hasn’t worked out.”

  She could have stopped there. But, as always, she figured, In for a penny, in for a pound. If she was going to open up her raincoat and show him the goods, she might as well stand there and let him take a good, long gander.

  “See, I was a super-late bloomer in high school,” she explained, thinking back on Johnny Gallagher, the hottest boy in school, and the way he’d always ruffled her hair like she was his kid sister instead of someone he’d consider taking to the prom. Mason reminded her a little bit of Johnny. Same black hair. Similar blue eyes. Apparently she had a type. Who knew? Of course, right now she’d settle for a brown-eyed blond. Anyone who could get the job done.

  “No boys were interested in flat-chested Alex Merriweather, I can assure you,” she said. “And then in college I was so focused on my studies that I really didn’t give much thought to guys or getting laid. And then there was grad school and research, and that’s when it started to occur to me that maybe I should really try to make this thing happen. But it was too late.”

  Mason’s face was almost purple now, but she was certain she saw his left eyebrow quirk with interest. It was all the encouragement she needed.

  “I mean, it’s fine to tell a guy you’re a virgin when you’re eighteen, right? They take it as a challenge, considering the average American loses their virginity at seventeen. Only twelve percent of twenty- to tw
enty-four-year-olds are still virgins.” Yes, she’d done the research. And like everything else she happened to read, the facts and figures had stuck in her head. “That stat drops to less than five percent for women between the ages of twenty-five and twenty-nine. Five percent!”

  She realized she was rambling and reined herself in. “Which means that if I try telling a man I’m still a virgin at twenty-seven, he assumes I’m some sort of religious fanatic, frigid freak, or a woman itching to get hitched. For the record”—she skewered him with a look when he seemed like he might have something to say to that—“I’m none of those.”

  There. Done. Now, say something!

  But he pulled a classic Mason and just continued to sit there, staring at her as if she were a six-headed alien.

  Before she knew it, her mouth was open and going again. “I’m watching Sex and the City so I’ll know what to do when I do finally take a lover.” She held up a hand. “And, yes, in case you were wondering, I’ve learned my lesson. No more virginal confessions. Are you sure you don’t want me to whack you on the back again?”

  I mean, that must be the most stubborn orange slice in the history of the world.

  “Y-you’re a virgin?” he managed in a strangled voice. He speaks! Thank goodness. Even she had a limit as to how long she could carry on a one-sided conversation.

  “And see.” She pointed a finger at him. “That right there is my whole point. Just look at you looking at me like I have some sort of disease. If I could take a picture of your face right now I’d frame it and whip it out as the precise explanation of why it’s imperative I get a man in bed tout de suite.”

  “N-not any of the Deep Six crew,” he said, still wheezing.

  “Nah,” she assured him. “They’re too much like my brothers for me to set my sights on them.” She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “Well, except for you. We’ve never really gotten all that friendly. Why is that, do you suppose?”

  “I need a drink,” he said by way of answer.

  She watched him push up from the bench and stagger into the galley. When he reappeared in the doorway, he was guzzling a bottle of water.

  Figuring he wasn’t going to answer her question, she decided she’d outline her strategy for him in the hope that he’d offer a second opinion on her plan. It was a small hope, given his propensity for aphasia, but she was a gambler by nature and had won on low odds before. “I’m thinking I should tag along with Romeo or Uncle John the next time they make a Key West run. How hard can it be to pick up a tourist in a bar? I mean”—she frowned down at her black T-shirt with the red lettering that read: History…don’t make me repeat myself—“I clean up pretty good when I try. What do you think?”

  After he’d drained the contents of the bottle, he took a deep breath that made his chest expand to ridiculous proportions. “Your virginity…” He shook his head, still looking slightly ragged. “It isn’t something you should give away to some random fucknuts you pick up at a bar.” Ya pick up atta bah was how his accent made the sentence sound. She did so love how hearing him talk brought to mind Ivy League schools, crisp fall leaves, and steaming clam chowder. Which was one more reason his usual mutism annoyed her.

  “Why not?” she demanded.

  Now he just looked exasperated…or constipated. She wasn’t sure which. “Because it’s special!” he bellowed, throwing his hands in the air. “You should save it for someone you at least like.”

  “Are you volunteering?” And it was beyond satisfying to watch his chin jerk back and listen to him sputter.

  “B-but you just admitted that you don’t like me.”

  “Not so.” She shook her head. “I said there are times when I’m not sure if I like you. That’s totally different.”

  He blinked. And while he was blinking, the silence on the boat stretched. It was broken only by the slap-slap of the waves between the twin hulls. Finally, he opened his mouth. She leaned across the table, eagerly awaiting his reply. Are my beaver teeth showing? But to her disappointment, he snapped it shut again and grumbled, “I need another drink.”

  When he turned back into the galley, she studied the wide V-shape of his torso, feeling a bit giddy that she’d managed to throw him for a loop. A man of Mason’s size didn’t get tossed around too often. And that meant she gave herself major kudos for accomplishing the feat.

  Then it occurred to her that maybe asking him to volunteer wasn’t so completely ludicrous after all.

  I mean, I’m a girl. He’s a guy. I’m not looking for love and neither is he. So it’ll be completely objective, scientific even.

  Hmm. The longer she thought about it, the more intrigued she became.

  “Do you find me attractive?” she asked when he reappeared in the doorway with a second bottle of water. She watched his reaction closely. Of course, she didn’t have to watch too closely since his jaw hanging open was hard to miss. He choked again.

  The man has some sort of throat problem apparently.

  “It’s a really simple question,” she told him conversationally. “And don’t worry about hurting my feelings. I’m a big girl. I can take anything you tell me.”

  And she convinced herself that was the truth, even though her insides were quivering around like pudding. She was nervous. Why am I nervous? Oh, right. Because she was putting herself out there and asking big, burly Mason McCarthy if he fancied her bod the same way she fancied his.

  “So?” she prompted when he just stood there blinking at her. Is he nearsighted or something? Did sand get in his eyes?

  “Sorry.” He shook his head. “What was the question again?”

  “Ugh.” She blew out an exasperated breath. “How many times am I going to be asked that tonight?”

  He must’ve thought it was a rhetorical question, because he didn’t answer her, simply continued to play the part of a blinking mute.

  “Do. You. Find. Me. Attractive?” She enunciated each word and punctuated the end of the question with a quick flutter of her lashes.

  A muscle ticked beneath his eye again. It was joined by another in his jaw. And for a while she thought he wasn’t going to answer her at all. But then he muttered, “Yes.”

  It was just the one word. No elaboration. But it was all she needed to hear. “Then it’s perfect!” she said, grinning and clapping her hands.

  “How do you figure?”

  “Well, because you think I’m attractive and I think you’re attractive.” She began ticking off the reasons on her fingers. “You’re not some stranger at a bar. I know you. And you know me. And considering we don’t really get along in our everyday lives, there’s no chance we’ll develop any of those pesky romantic feelings for one another, so it’ll just be a physical thing. What do you say? Do you want to be my first?”

  He choked again.

  Does he have a medical condition?

  She started to ask him if he’d seen a doctor recently when the radio on the table squawked to life. “Garden Key, Garden Key, this is Captain Andrew Webber with the United States Coast Guard transmitting on—”

  Alex stopped listening to the rest of the transmission. She was too busy trying to turn her eyeballs into laser beams so she could fry the radio.

  Could the timing be any worse?

  Mason marched over and grabbed the handset. “We copy you, Captain Webber,” he said. “This is Senior Chief…uh…” He stopped and shook his head. “I mean this is Mason McCarthy of Wayfarer Island and Deep Six Salvage Company. We’re happy as hell to hear your voice. You’re earlier than we expected. Over?”

  “Rrrrroger that, Senior Chief McCarthy,” the captain responded, doing Mason the service of addressing him by his Naval rank. One thing Alex had learned in the short time she’d been on Wayfarer Island was that military men, regardless of which branch of the armed services they worked for, always treated each other with due respect. “He
adquarters usually errs on the side of caution. When I got the call you all needed some help, I figured I better blow the cobwebs out of the engines. Over?”

  “Copy that,” Mason said. “We appreciate the effort.”

  “Rrrrroger that, Senior Chief. We’re ten minutes out and closing fast. Over and out.”

  Mason placed the handset back on the cradle and turned to her. “What?”

  “I hope you don’t think this means you don’t have to answer my question.”

  Mason pointed to the surrounding sea like the Coast Guard was pulling up beside them right now. “The authorities are almost here.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What came out of your mouth was The authorities are almost here. But I’m pretty sure that’s Saved by the bell I see written all over your face.”

  * * *

  10:21 p.m.…

  “I come here to chew bubble gum and kick ass,” Bran said. Maddy waited on the closing line and quietly mouthed it along with him. “And I’m all outta bubble gum.”

  “They Live,” she said, pumping a fist when Bran chuckled and told her, “Damn, you’re good.”

  They’d spread the sleeping bag out on the rough wood floor, undressed, and now lay side by side. Temporarily sated after the initial sexual frenzy, they’d started playing one of their old games, quoting the most badass movie lines they could think of and making the other person try to guess the title of the film. Only they’d added a new dimension to their play. For every title they guessed correctly, the other person had to kiss whichever body part the winner wanted.

  It went without saying that any satiation they may have enjoyed was quickly disappearing. Touch by touch, kiss by kiss, deep wet suck by deep wet suck, they were rebuilding their aching desire to new heights.

  Maddy’s thighs quivered, her skin was slick with sweat, and the tips of her breasts were so hard she didn’t know how much more she could stand. She just knew she wanted, wanted, wanted. Wanted sex. Wanted him. Wanted…everything.

  Everything he could give her and all the things he’d sworn to withhold.