by Marata Eros
It’s like a combat zone.
Lucas and Sam look at each other warily.
Clearly, they’re not in Arizona anymore.
I sit down again on the cooler. Actually, it’s more like a graceless fall.
Chance slides the halibut into the hold, a fiberglass trapdoor in the middle of the deck, and the stainless ring pull rattles as it slams shut, the huge fish filling the hold. His eyes sweep the horizon and the turbulent waters, tightening imperceptibly.
He nods, almost to himself, and says, “Let’s make our way back.”
Sam just looks at Chance. “Yeah, man, this fishing trip was like a war.”
Chance grins suddenly, seawater clinging to the blackness of his hair, the orange bibs making his eyes bluer, the green retreating. The backdrop of the gray sky makes him look alive, on fire.
“It’s sure not high desert,” he comments.
Chance winks and I cover my mouth when a giggle threatens.
Chance
I ride the waves home, the route back from Flat Island as familiar as walking to the bathroom in my dark house as the two-hour journey stretches before me. The swells get worse as I move into the open water. Usually, they don’t bother me, but now there’s Brooke. I can’t stand the idea of anything happening to her.
And as a special bonus, I don’t like the way the clients treat her.
Look at her.
I sigh roughly and lift my hand from the wheel, plowing it through my sticky hair.
It’s different when Matt worked for me last season. He’s a guy and can trade insults, swear like the sailor he wants to be, and act generally borderline derelict and it’s all part of the colorful experience the clients expect from their paid Alaskan fishing adventure.
Brooke’s different. Her eyes haunt me, her inexperience moves me. Her existence is distracting as hell. Then there’s that comment Tuck made.
Googling Brooke would be hard-core. I still haven’t mentally committed to what is almost a stalker move. But I can’t leave it alone. The suggestion pings around in my head like an escaped pinball.
“Chance?” Brooke says, and I turn from the wheel, taking stock of my two clients, slightly green around the edges, and I smirk. Two full-ride scholarship seniors from Arizona University . . . wrestlers. Who can barely move their wrists after five hours of fishing. It’s amusing as hell.
“Yes?” I ask, taking in her bright cheeks, windswept by the day and the sea, her light eyes, somewhere between blue and true violet. Tendrils escape from her plaited black hair and curl around her jaw. Looks like her hair would be wavy in the right conditions.
I notice Lucas and Sam looking at Brooke, their eyes trying to dive beneath the unisex bibs that sport tiny droplets of fish blood mixed with seawater.
I tramp down on the jealousy that swells higher than the waves that hit my boat.
“I have everything stowed,” she says.
God, Chance, get a grip, I tell myself. “ ’Kay, take a load off, we’ll be in Homer in about ten minutes.”
“All right,” Brooke says, and I watch her face, her eyes sifting through the enclosed cabin. It’s called an Alaskan Bulkhead for a reason. A small kitchenette and a not very private bathroom are accommodating to clients, though I’d been raised without it and thought it was for sissies.
We cruise in semisilence, the guys talking between themselves, and Brooke is quiet, in her own head. I wonder what she’s thinking about. I’m irritated I don’t know.
I’m pissed I care.
My eyes take in the harbor as I round the bend, avoiding the state ferry easily. I hate ferry days, they’re always a pain in the ass. I put the boat in reverse as I go to park, sliding her in close to my slip.
“Hey . . . Brooke,” Sam says and I don’t turn but I’m listening pretty hard, keeping my focus on the park job.
Forward . . . tiny throttle. Reverse . . .
“Yeah?” she asks, but even I hear the reservation in her voice.
I know what’s going to happen before she does. After all, I’m a guy. Almost there . . . I see the dock buoys and maneuver the boat close.
“Why don’t you meet Lucas and me at that tavern on the spit?”
There’s a beat of silence. Except for the creaking of the wheel under the grip of my hand.
“Oh . . . the Salty Dawg?” I hear her ask slowly. I can almost feel her eyes on my back. I maneuver the boat into the slip and the sides bounce against the buoys.
“You know it?” Sam asks and I can’t stand how eager he sounds.
Bastard.
“I do . . . but,” she flounders and I step in. “Brooke’s gotta work at 4 a.m. Every day . . .” I let my sentence linger and then almost thrust the boat into reverse, plowing into the dock when Brooke says, her voice tight. “Chance is right . . . but I can meet you there early and leave early.”
“Awesome,” Sam says and I want to hit him.
How can Brooke say yes to having a beer with these yahoos when she said no to me?
How the fuck does that work?
Short answer: it doesn’t. But I know she’s just trying to shove me away. She already told me as much.
I grit my teeth as Brooke and I walk out to secure the cleats. I toss the rope to her and she catches it deftly. My gaze locks with hers and I want to kiss her . . . mark my territory, show these dipshits that she’s my girl. I want to shake her because she’s agreeing to meet with these guys to spite me.
But Brooke is not my girl. She’s her own person and I have to watch her from afar.
When I’ve wanted so much more. I almost wish we’d never kissed. Wish we’d never spent that night together. It’s like having the best thing ever then being denied after you’ve had a taste of it. Better to never know.
Almost.
This isn’t done—not by a long shot.
FOURTEEN
Chance
We clean up in awkward silence. I quietly show Brooke how to master each step. She’s clumsy with the fillet knife and it’s a challenge not to just land my hand over hers and guide her through the meat. Instead I show her and she painstakingly goes through each step. The water at the fish-cleaning table is colder than hell and I watch her bite her lip to keep her teeth from chattering.
I want to warm her.
I don’t.
My clients who want to bone Brooke hang at her elbow like the fish lice that still cling to my catch. Makes me want to do a less thorough job of cleaning.
I wash them all off anyway.
Like Bob the puker, I give them the same set of instructions as we push the fish cart up the gangplank, the wheels making music over the louvered and sharp metal grating.
“So . . .” Sam looks around and catches sight of Brooke beginning to rinse down the boat. “Where’d you get that nice little honey?”
Client, client, client my mind chants as my arms strain to make the last five feet of the sloping platform above the sea.
“First . . . Sam,” I begin sarcastically, which beats feeding him my knuckles, “she’s not a ‘little honey’ . . . she’s my deckhand.”
“Right,” Lucas says with clear disbelief. “Don’t tell me you haven’t tapped that?”
I step right into his space, our noses almost meeting. I don’t give a shit if he’s ranked first in the nation for wrestling. “Like you want to . . . Lucas?” I say with soft menace coating each syllable.
We stare at each other, taking the measure of the other. The age-old question is: if we go in with fists flying, who will come out the victor?
“Lotta heat for a deckhand,” Sam comments from behind us. Then he says, real quiet so only I hear, “You act like she’s doing more than your deck, pal. Just sayin’.”
“Yeah,” Lucas says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We can go”—his eyes lock with mine in a combative stare—“but don’t lay claim to some piece of tail if she’s not your girlfriend. If she’s just an employee, why do you care who bangs her?”
I se
e red and have his shirt in my fist before I know I move.
I can hear a running clank and don’t turn, my fist rising above my head.
“Chance!” Brooke screams and I turn to look at her, black braids streaming behind her, lavender eyes wide.
Then a fist smashes into my temple and the world spins.
I stumble and as I got down, I kick my leg out and take out the knee of the one who hit me. With a howling wail he goes down beside me.
I’ve never hit a client in my life.
Lucas moves in to take me on, my vision in trembling triplicate while his pal bellows and holds his knee.
“I’m here . . .” I hear Brooke say as the fish cart acts like a barrier of sorts and she moves behind me. Too close to not get hurt. “Step back,” I slur and meet Lucas with my fists as Brooke shouts, “Help!”
I watch Tuck come out of nowhere and take the wrestler by the scruff of the neck and toss him about five feet.
Hell, he’s Johnny-on-the-spot, I think.
“Little trouble, Taylor?” he asks, turning to meet the bull as he charges.
“Just a spot!” I say with a cackle, spitting out some blood. That bash to the head wasn’t dead center, but my teeth feel like they’re floating.
“Chance!” Brooke says at my elbow.
“I’m sorry . . .” she whispers.
I pull her against me as Sam staggers to his feet. “I’ll sue your ass . . . You fucking dislocated my knee!”
“Uh-huh,” I nod, tucking Brooke against me. “Just as soon as you explain that cheap sucker punch you threw.”
We look at each other for a drowning moment of slow-moving hell and he sighs, planting his hands on his hips. Stalemate.
We glance at Tuck and Lucas. Lucas is maybe five feet eight inches and 170; Tucker towers over him, but it’s not enough. He’s trying to take Tucker to the ground. He’ll lose, they’re just that good.
“Tuck!” I yell and he steps back, avoiding a flying fist.
“Yup!”
“Call it off,” I tell Sam in a low voice.
“Lucas!” Sam says, looking at me, his words for Lucas.
Lucas and Tucker look at Sam, glance warily at each other, and back away.
I watch their chests heave with exertion as I thank Tucker.
“Don’t mention it,” Tucker says, keeping his distance, his short beard catching the sweat from the fight.
“Take your fish and get the fuck out of here,” I say to Sam, my eyes sliding to Lucas to include him.
I’ve never cursed at a client before. Lots of firsts today, I note.
“Chance,” Brooke whispers.
“Shush,” I say. “You didn’t hear what they said about you.”
Sam turns accusing eyes on Brooke. “Should’ve told us you were doing Taylor. We wouldn’t have asked you out . . .” He says it like it’s obvious.
It’s not. Brooke pulls away, turning her own accusation on me, misunderstanding the universe. A female talent, that.
“You told them that? Your clients?” Her expression of shock and betrayal make my stomach drop.
“Fuck no!” I yell, coming toward her, and she shakes her head, clearly miserable.
She looks at Sam and Lucas, then at Tucker. Regret and outrage laced with hurt cross her face like a rainbow of emotion and I want to die. They’ve made a leap of logic and now Brooke assumes the worst. I can’t say anything to correct it without burying myself further.
I just unintentionally screwed myself six ways to Sunday.
“God!” Brooke says, turning wounded eyes to mine. “I trusted you.” Her voice sounds so raw with regret I flinch from the sound of it. “And it never mattered to you, did it?” Turning on her heel, she strides off, leaving me with two enraged clients, a dead fish, and a friendly acquaintance with handy-ass timing.
I watch her stalk off and exhale loudly.
“Nice, Taylor,” Tuck comments.
Shit yes. “Yeah,” I agree in misery.
“You could’ve just told us you were bagging her,” Lucas says.
Dick. Head. I turn to glare at him. I can totally go again. This I know.
Tucker glares at him and he throws up his hands, palms out. “Hey big guy, I don’t want to go again.”
“Fuck. Off,” I say. And I’m not one bit charitable. I mean it from the bottom of my boots.
“Right, yeah. Thanks for that great trip, Taylor,” Sam says, putting his hands on the cold bars of the fish cart. “Let’s roll, Lucas. Leave these fucktards in hicksville.”
I snort. They wouldn’t survive a minute here. They’ve got the wrong attitude. Clearly it’s all take, no survival, no teamwork where they’re from. It’s like they’ve taken a pass on learning how to work with others. Goal oriented without compassion. Hope their plane crashes on the way to Arizona.
Tucker chuckles, breaking my dark mental fantasy. Palming his beard as his cheek swells he says, “Well . . . that was fun.”
I make a sound inside my throat partway between a grunt and a snort. “Brooke hates my steaming guts, I beat up a client, and you call that fun?” I begin to walk away. “Fuck me,” I mutter.
“Hey, Taylor . . . hold up,” Tucker says, his checkered wool flannel button-up a solid blanket of material over his girth. He’s one of those guys who wants to be fat but that layer can’t negate the muscle underneath.
“Yeah?” I ask, shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun off the water.
“You’re welcome, dumbass.”
I pause and a reluctant grin breaks over my face. “Thanks.”
“Did you Google Brooke?” he asks suddenly.
I shake my head. “Just spit it out, for Christ’s sake.” I put my hands on my vinyl bibs and frown at him.
He shakes his head. “Make it a priority, pal.” Tucker walks off and I look after him as I had Brooke.
Brooke
I brush angry tears out of my eyes and tear open the bus’s door. Realizing my gear is fish gutty and reeking, I take the suspender straps off my shoulders and carefully roll it down my body. I give an angry kick as it reaches the end and it flies like a discarded orange carpet.
“Hey now, missy,” a voice from behind me says.
I gasp, hand to my chest as my heartbeat tries to burst out the open hole of my mouth.
“You again,” I say with a hoarse sort of shout. “You . . . scared the hell out of me.”
The old man gives a real smile, his cheeks cracking with it. “Nice that I didn’t scare it into ya,” he says, taking a puff of his pipe. His observant eyes quietly study me.
I blink.
“I didn’t take ya for a dull tool in the drawer, darlin’.”
Right. I wake up. “No . . . you’re just like a—” I roll my eyes skyward, thinking—“like a jack-in-the-box or something.”
He slaps his knee, laughing. At my expense, I’m sure. I sigh, picking up my fishing bibs and head around to the back of the bus to stow them inside the vinyl tote in the bus’s “trunk” above the engine. I close the hatchback and peek around the bus and he leans to look back at me from the front.
“What?” I ask, disconcerted.
“Looks like you could use a friend. Or a word or two of advice.”
Holy . . . no. Just no. I don’t even know his name and I raise my brows at him like, go away.
But he’s not a subtle guy, the old codger.
“It’s Kashirin, Jake.” He holds out his knobby hand, the pipe clamped between flattened lips.
He waits and I come forward. Slowly, against my express will, I give the old man my hand.
It’s dry and warm and I feel my throat seize up, the day boiling up inside me, threatening to overflow. His unexpected kindness threatens to break the carefully constructed dam that is holding back a torrent of outrage and grief.
I won’t cry. I won’t break down.
But then I do. In the middle of the Homer parking lot in the company of a 105-year-old man.
“There now, honey.”
He pats my head as he holds me awkwardly in his skinny old arms, somehow smoking that pipe as it juts out to the side of our embrace like a twig on a tree.
He pulls away, his eyes pale and wise.
“You got some talkin’ to do, don’tcha?”
I nod, the wetness on my face like the ocean I just came from.
He gives a chin jerk to another little shanty.
The sign reads: Jake’s Treasure and Other Trash.
He walks away from me like I’ll follow him.
And . . . I do.
Jake pushes open the door to his little shop with a hip and holds it open for me. I pass through the dim interior, a lone window letting in the light. But the view!
I walk to the middle of the shop, stacks of everything a person can imagine in every corner and piles six feet high in every direction. It smells like old books and tobacco with the faint hint of wood.
The most surprising feature on his small scarred desk is a sleek Mac laptop. What’s an old guy doing with a laptop?
I turn and watch Jake turn the little sign on the front door to Closed.
“Take your pack off, Brooke.”
My brows rise.
He nods as he studies my expression. “I know who ya are,” he says, nodding some more as he relights his pipe with a cupped hand and an expert pull and puff. The fragrant smoke fills the room and it makes my heart heavy again.
“No more waterworks,” he says in such a serious way it’s like scaring a hiccup into silence.
“Right,” I say softly, thinking I should go. What am I doing here in this musty shop with an old guy I don’t know?
“Talk first. Then go. But not before we make our acquaintance.”
I smile at his antiquated speech. He speaks so differently from anyone I’ve ever heard. It’s sorta charming.
I sit and he circles me, then runs a finger along his tiny desk, tapping a chapped and red finger on his silver laptop.
“Chance Taylor doesn’t know who he hired for his sidekick, does he?”
I stare at him, my eyes skipping to the laptop under his finger.
“Does he?” Jake repeats. “Brooke Elizabeth Starr.”
Oh my God.
I can see it in his eyes.