The Darkest Joy

by Marata Eros

“Whoa . . . Brooke. That’s a great reaction!” he says, rubbing his hands together with a chuckle. “Can I get lucky and think it’s for me?” Tucker asks, blatant hope underlying a question posed as a joke.

  I shake my head softly. “No.”

  “Damn, baby! Someone’s already got to you and here you are only two weeks in.”

  I nod, the flush of heat flaring briefly.

  Maybe Chance doesn’t want anyone to know?

  But I know. And . . . I can’t change how I feel and I suck royally at games.

  I’ve never been a player.

  “Tell me it’s not Chance, Brooke.”

  My eyes jerk up to his, my heartbeat thudding against the inside of my ribs.

  “Ahh. . . . man,” he says and gives his face a careful scrub of frustration.

  “What?” I ask, but not like I want to know.

  It’s just a feeling, but judging from the look on his face, I never want to know something like what I think Tucker’s going to tell me.

  “He’s a player,” he says, then self-corrects. “Don’t get me wrong, Brooke. He’ll do anything for anyone. Give the shirt off his back . . .”

  Or save a drowning girl.

  Wrap her in the blanket of his body with a kiss I still feel tingling on my lips.

  My coffee’s grown colder and I let it die an icy death in front of me.

  “Shit, you look like someone just killed your puppy.”

  Yup. That’s not entirely accurate, but as metaphors go, it’ll work.

  I stand and so does he. “I’m sorry, Brooke.”

  I look up at him, not sure what to say.

  “He’s never been serious about a damn thing but the sea. That’s what matters to Chance Taylor. He’s been with a ton of girls, but—”

  “—never been serious,” I finish for him, taking a stab at guesswork, and he nods.

  “I’ve known Chance his entire life and it’s the sea and the catch.”

  Well, he’s sure caught me. Now . . . how do I escape the net? I don’t want to be one of his many fish.

  Chance

  I take off my oversize insulated glove at the wrist with my teeth, letting it drop onto the deck; the guts and bait in the bucket can sit there. I dig underneath my bright orange waterproof bibs, finding my cell in my pocket, and drag it out and search for messages.

  Nothing.

  Huh. I don’t take Brooke for a game player. I think I should’ve heard from her by now. I swipe a finger across my eye and try to rub it out of my head; feels like I’ve got a film of gritty sand and shit in it.

  It’s called not sleeping. At all.

  “Taylor,” Matt calls from behind me.

  “Yeah,” I say, grabbing my sandwich out of the cooler one-handed while I juggle the cell, avoiding my stinky fish bait by a millimeter.

  I turn, taking a huge bite of deli goodness, and packing it underneath my arm, I swig my water out of the bottle.

  Matt swings up the condom to head height. “Is this how much of this shit you want?”

  I take a critical look at the rubber, judging the gap between the bait mixture I put in there and how much room to knot the top.

  Mouth full, I nod. Matt sighs and knots the top. “I hate the stink of this garbage.”

  I give him a look as my charter fishing client raises his brows at the colorful language of my deckhand.

  My reluctant deckhand. Matt’s made for finer things, he’s mentioned on more that one occasion.

  What can be finer than riding the sea? I wonder, taking another gulp of water.

  Matt hadn’t been happy about the 3 a.m. wake-up call, but he owed me for being fucking hungover and leaving me to clean the boat up. I tear another bite from the sandwich and gulp down half my water. With the sandwich in my mouth I screw the lid on and dump the bottle into the small pocket that hangs next to the cleat.

  Bob, the client, comes over, the gentle sway of his line lifting with the swell.

  Calm today, I think. Because, God knows, it’s random as hell.

  Matt hits the switch on the electric reel and the driver kicks in, the whiz as it jerks the line up a soft whir in the background. I can see Matt in my periphery, tying off the condom and a partial salmon head on the hook.

  As I load my lunch trash in the cooler, Bob asks, “What’s in that stuff?” and jabs a thumb toward the rubber filled with what I like to call my “special sauce.”

  Clients ask a lot. It sucks telling them. Halibut are bottom feeders. That basically means garbage guts. Sometimes my clientele would rather not know that succulent fish they like to mow on eats unsavory shit. Like my special sauce that I put in rubbers.

  “Well . . .” I begin, “let’s say it’s a mix of squid, salmon entrails . . .”

  Bob’s face takes on a green tinge. Hell, I haven’t even gotten to the really interesting part.

  He wards me off with a hand.

  I grin. “The goal is to combine the most rancid crap I can come up with, then mix it all together,” I say, tapping the blender full of the blood, guts, and rotting bits I brought from home.

  I hear it before I can respond to Bob. The line zings. . . . singing as it takes a hit from a deep-sea monster.

  I know what it is because it bends my hundred-pound test to the water, bowing the rod to kissing distance of the surface.

  “Holy smokes!” Matt screams, lurching for the rod. Bob makes a mad scramble to his rod, the end seated in the integral stainless holder on the deck.

  “Hang on,” I say in a calm voice as I stride to the stern. Taking the rod out of its holder, I jam it against my hip and reel in just until the tension is on the loose side of tight, giving a little lag.

  Come on baby, I coax silently, a fine sheen of sweat beading on my upper lip.

  The slab of fish takes the line and I jerk back, setting the hook with the smoothness of a thousand before this one. It whines as it goes out and Matt says, “Taylor . . . that’s too much line . . .”

  “Peanut gallery, Matt,” I say, taking the reel up, pointing its bowed end at the sky.

  Matt shuts his mouth.

  I fight, getting closer, then turn to Bob. “She’s all yours,” I say.

  Bob staggers over to the pole, his land legs still attached. “It’s a female?” he asks as I smoothly hand off the pole, positioning his hands correctly.

  I grin. Clients—so random. “Yeah, the big ones almost always are.”

  “How do you know it’s big?” Bob asks, hopeful. His legs are spread wide for balance, sweat running down his forehead. He swings salt-and-pepper hair out of eyes that are a shade too wide, keeping the sweat at bay.

  Matt pipes in, “It’s gotta have a mouth big enough for the bait.”

  Bob’s eyes get impossibly larger. “Damn, that was almost an entire fish head.” I can see he’s doing the internal reckoning on scale and coming up . . . big.

  “I used a king,” Matt says casually, then gives an excited yelp. “Holy shit in a sack!” he yells, going for the solid hickory bat latched to the interior starboard clamps.

  I begin to move up as Matt shouts, “Barn door, two o’clock!”

  I jerk the gaff from its clamps next to the empty hold for the bat and move to the stern with it, a hook like a person envisions Death himself carrying. I watch the white belly of the fish float to the surface through the glacial clear surface, the water parting to reveal the purity of the meat.

  My heart races as I see my prize rise from the depths of the chilly sea. This is the critical moment for escape.

  I bark, “Back!” and with a practiced swipe of the gaff, I nail the sharp barbed end into the meatiest part of the fish and heave it against the side.

  It begins to thrash the boat.

  “Matt!” I bellow.

  “Here!” he yells from beside me and I trade the gaff for my gun.

  “Oh, Lord,” my client says softly as I cock the hammer and aim for the head.

  One bulbous eye rolls to meet mine, buggy and muddy b
rown.

  I pull the trigger and the bullet hits true, smacking into the white flesh of the head and the eye explodes, taking a chunk of what we can’t eat with it.

  I’m stoked the cheeks remain, the best part.

  I throw the safety on and slam the gun into its holster in the interior pocket of the stern. Matt collects the other gaff and we work the halibut into the boat. It flops onto the deck and like a chicken with its head cut off, the tail moves.

  “Stand back!” I say in a loud voice as my client, who is a handsome shade of baby-shit green, lurches to the starboard and heaves his lunch into the sea.

  No time to comfort the queasy, I think. The ’but’s trying to take out Matt’s leg with its tail.

  Nothing another bullet won’t cure, I think. However, can’t have a hole in the boat. I swipe the hickory bat from Matt and whale on the halibut, leaving the best of the filletable meat untouched.

  The tail stops thrashing—finally.

  I stand, the dead fish at my feet, my heart racing, my shoulders and every muscle in my body employed during the catch of one fish.

  I swivel my head to the client as blood turns my white deck red.

  Bob wipes a thick hand against his mouth, his skin a little gray. “Remind me never to piss you off, Chance Taylor.” He gives a shaky laugh, but his eyes are serious.

  “I’m not really violent,” I say, my large hand gripping the wood like an old friend.

  Matt smiles at my comment.

  “Could’ve fooled me,” Bob mutters as I bend to put the halibut in the hold.

  I wink at him. “I’m different on land.”

  “Right,” Matt says so low only I hear.

  I don’t say anything. The dead fish gives me an accusing glare from a sightless eye, a black hole where it had been. I let the hold door slam shut and move to the cab to return to Homer Bay.

  I have a set to play at the Dawg and a two-hundred-pound fish to fillet.

  And a girl who makes me forget the sea.

  A first.

  ELEVEN

  Brooke

  I say the appropriate things to Tucker, but I’m not fooling him. He knows he’s landed a bomb on my head with the info about Chance.

  I get into the bus and just stare at the black steering wheel, the only neutral color on the thing, and fight defeat—again. It’s not Tucker’s fault. He can’t know I’ve barely begun to live again. I turn on the air-cooled engine and it starts faithfully. It won’t begin to heat up until I begin moving. A sad little smile perks up the corners of my mouth as I shift to reverse and slowly back out.

  I think about the prior night and sigh. It’s just what I needed. I want to feel again, live . . . breathe. Chance brings that into my life.

  He also brings an income, a change of pace, and . . . clearly, not much else.

  It’s not like Chance is asking me to marry him. Tucker says he’s only committed to the sea, not women.

  And clearly he can fake tender like no one’s business. Is Chance that good an actor?

  Can I risk another emotional bludgeoning?

  No. I can’t take the risk. It’s my job to protect myself. As much as I want to keep letting him in, let his presence chase the nightmares away, I can’t open my heart up to even more hurt. Each new relationship I allow is on a case-by-case basis. I know better than anyone how fragile those ties are, how easily things beyond my control can tear them away.

  Like a horse that knows its way home, the bus moves down the spit at a plodding forty miles per hour, the seas are calm, the sun is a pale yellow ball in the sky as I make my way to Chance’s shanty office digs.

  I pull up, and the faded rustic sign with the colorful writing swings in the light wind like it’s greeting me.

  I get out, slapping the door closed, and walk up the wide weathered steps to the door. Putting my face against the window, I shield my eyes as I gaze inside. No one’s there. I move my cell out of my pocket and see that it’s three o’clock. I know by what Chance has told me that he should be back by now. I roll my lip into my mouth, giving it a light nibble.

  Where is he? I need to set things right . . . I need, I suck in a deep breath, to walk away. Let him go. The exhale leaves me like a deflated balloon.

  “Missy?”

  I whirl around, hand to my heart, and look into the eyes of a wizened old man. He puffs on a pipe and a fragrant spiral rises around him like devil’s horns, his hat hanging cockeyed like a strange beret on the tufts of the hair that remains on his head.

  “You scared me,” I say as a lame introduction, my heart hammering beneath my palm.

  “Did I now?” he asks with a soft cackle; one brow raises like a gray caterpillar on his forehead.

  “Yeah,” I say in a shaky exhale that escapes me in a low huff.

  “Who you lookin’ for, doll?”

  Doll?

  My face scrunches but I reply, “Chance Taylor.”

  His brows raise together in a comical arch. “He’s down at the dock, cleaning his catch, as always.”

  Right. I look around and he unclamps his dentures from the end of his pipe, swinging the chewed and beaten stem toward the boats at the pier. “Just follow that sign that says Homer Marina, missy.”

  “Ah . . . thank you,” I say, unable to hold back a smile. He’s like a little troll.

  A troll by the sea.

  I burst out laughing and he frowns, his eyes disappearing in the flaps of skin that hold his brows. That somehow makes it worse and I rudely begin to howl.

  Nervous energy.

  “Crazy girl!” he barks at me good-naturedly and I agree, nodding swiftly.

  “Yes . . .” I hiccup as I laugh. “Definitely crazy!” I hold my sides and stagger across the street.

  I turn and wave at the old man, “Thank you!” I call out when I can control myself.

  He nods, raising his pipe like a flag.

  I’m pretty sure I can hear his snort from here.

  I turn, a smile plastered on my face and a case of wicked hiccups.

  I see the sign and cross beneath it, my feet landing on an odd sort of woven metal grating with little barbs of metal.

  That’d hurt like hell if you slipped on it, I think, my eyes seeing through the grating to the churning tide below. It’s a long sloping walk on the carpet of metal that hangs over the water as I make my way down to the docks. Noise explodes all around me, a trick of the wind and my position as it’s carried to me while I make my way down to the docks. I reach the wide floating boards of weathered wood and people rush by, pushing wheeled carts full of large white-bellied fish. My eyes scan the pier, where boats are lined up like colorful sardines. Various modes of dress abound and I’m amazed I can already pick out the tourists.

  I’m becoming a Homer snob. And it’s official, my aunt’s homestead puts me in good standing. Even though it’s inherited, somehow I’ve become part of that core group. I’ve never been so close to a group of such isolationists. An oxymoron for sure.

  It’s pretty obvious as I begin to identify who the fisherman are. Then I catch sight of Chance and my formerly cool skin heats. I watch his automatic and supple movements as he guts fish.

  You can’t think for a moment that a job like that can be sexy, but it’s a testimony to Chance that he is . . . no matter what he’s doing.

  I gaze at him as he continues to work, unaware of my presence. People filter beside me like I’m a floating piece of driftwood and they are the sea. They part and I stand there.

  Watching.

  His forearms ripple with fine muscle and the ink of his tat undulates like the twisted snake it represents, the tongue of the serpent appears to move as he flips his fillet knife around, the metal winking in the sun, turning it to silver fire as he slices through the whiteness of the fish then deftly removes what he needs to, the colorful scales of the ink appear iridescent in the light that slants over him as he works. He steps back, his tanned neck bent as he picks up a hose and sprays off the white marred surface of th
e cleaning table. Large orange bibs billow around him like a clown suit, rubber and waterproof, but they can’t hide the deep valley between shoulder blades that house a broad back from honest work.

  I swallow, my throat tender and dry, and I realize I’ve been breathing through my mouth in a doglike pant.

  This isn’t going to be easy.

  Chance moves all the fish to one of those carts with four wheels and a bar, neatly stacking the meat inside coolers with layered ice. He swivels from the hips, giving the fish surface another final hose-down, then shuts it off with a flick of his wrist and hangs it on a large stainless hook attached to an electric pole.

  He looks up and our gazes meet.

  Chance Taylor steals my breath.

  His open smile melts me.

  I walk toward him.

  It feels like a death march.

  Chance

  There she is, I think, grinning like a fool. You’re playing it so cool, dumbshit, I tell myself.

  I can’t shake it and go for aloof. It doesn’t fit. Not after last night’s kiss. Not after waking up with her in my arms. I can’t go backward; it keeps getting deeper. With each new intimacy, the bucket fills up. It’s more than a kiss. I hate to admit shit like this, but sometimes everything isn’t physical, and that’s what I’m feeling now.

  I watch Brooke come and my smile fades. She doesn’t look happy. Immediately I get in my head, sifting through what’s happened.

  Did I let the moment get away from us?

  Yeah.

  I can feel my face frown. But, as I recall, Brooke was a happy camper after our impromptu make-out session.

  I rub my eyes again. I’m tired as hell. Maybe I’m reading shit where there isn’t any.

  “Hey,” I say, my eyes searching her face.

  God, she’s gorgeous. I can just stand here with only my catch between us and look at her for . . . about an hour. My lips curl thinking about it, those lavender eyes looking at me. They look like the wild lupine that will bloom around her cabin next month. I open my mouth to tell her that when she throws the wet blanket on my mental party.

  “Hey . . . we need to talk,” she says, eyes steady.

  Nope, not imagining shit, I decide. Effing wonderful—the dreaded “we need to talk.”