Clusterf*ck

by Ash Harlow

  Within five minutes, Stella’s rod bends and she hauls in a fish.

  “Brilliant, a snapper. Just what I wanted. One more this size and we’ve got dinner.”

  The words are no sooner out of her mouth and my rod bends, the reel whirring as something takes hold and heads offshore.

  “It’s yours, dude. Bring it in.”

  Stella shows me how to work the drag, and play the fish, and I get a new appreciation for her strength because it’s a workout landing a reluctant snapper.

  “We’ve got us a feed,” she says, eyes bright. Damn, I’d be content looking at that happy face for the rest of the day. I get the hook out of the poor fish’s mouth with a little instruction from Stella, then she makes me hold both fish up to see which is the biggest.

  “I think you win catch of the day,” she says, sizing them up. “Want a photo with your first catch, fisherman?”

  “Stella.” I fight a scowl, and she giggles.

  “Just kidding. Damn, for a big guy you sure are sensitive.”

  I want to show her just how sensitive I can be, and how rough. I’m long past hook-ups. At the start of my career I was all over them, completely overwhelmed by beautiful groupies who knew how to fuck and formed a line for my bed. But, without the thrill of the chase, no anticipation, no getting to know each other or emotional attachment, it suddenly wasn’t fun anymore. I thought free pussy without effort was what I wanted, but as a kid I thought being able to afford a lifetime of burgers and fries for every meal would be cool, too. Both quickly gave me an ache in my gut.

  Stella intrigues me, and I want to know everything about her. But I don’t have a lot of time. Just a couple of days and she’ll be gone. If I was sensible I’d wait it out. It’s only two or three days. Once she leaves, I’ll soon forget her. Except even thinking like that fires something inside me. I doubt forgetting her is even possible. She fired something in me, and to move this forward I have to be honest with her about who I am. Unfortunately, once she knows that, everything will be ruined.

  Fuck.

  “Reuben?”

  “Yeah.” Jesus. I’m standing here, lost in thought, clutching snapper.

  “You’re being a bit possessive about the fish. Put them in the sack. You can play with them again soon when we fillet them.”

  Everything she says makes me smile.

  We pack up the gear and return to the house. Stella tries to teach me to fillet the fish, which honestly isn’t my favourite thing. Her fillets look as lean and smooth as a cosmetic surgeon’s work. The one I tried looks as though a rat chewed it off the carcass. I blame the knife, but Stella just rolls her eyes.

  The fillets go into the fridge, and Stella pulls out the fritters she made the previous evening while I was being a sulky prick outside. We make doorstop sandwiches with the fritters, greenery and a wonderful hot dressing Stella whips up using mayo, wasabi and lemon zest. I swear everything she makes tastes better than anything I’ve had before.

  For her size, she can certainly pack the food away. She wolfs down the sandwich like a starved dog and jumps to her feet, brushing her hands together. She’s like a firecracker.

  “I have to check on the birds.”

  “You keep hens, too?”

  “No.” She’s packing up dirty dishes and wiping the bench at the same time. “Dotterels. They’re shorebirds, endangered. I have to see if they’re nesting down the coast, and fence them off. You can help if you like, but it’s your holiday, so you should probably read a book.”

  She’s out the door before I can swallow the food in my mouth and reply.

  I finish eating while watching Stella haul things out of the shed that seems to hold an extraordinary array of stuff. She’s got wire stakes, a huge roll of wide tape. Shit, there seem to be signs of some sort attached to wooden stakes. There’s no way she can manage all of that.

  When I arrive at the shed, she’s trying to jam everything into a backpack.

  “Have you got another pack?” I ask.

  She gives me that cute grin of hers. “I knew you couldn’t resist.”

  I’m resisting kissing that grin off her face, but only just. If she knew the battle I was fighting to stop myself from pushing her up against the shed door, jacking down those tiny shorts and eating her out, she wouldn’t be smiling so hard. Or maybe she would.

  We get the gear loaded into a couple of ancient backpacks that come complete with broken straps and spiders. I hold mine up and inspect it. “Are any of these spiders venomous?” I have to check because we’re a long way from help if one of those things turns nasty.

  “Why?” she asks. “Are you scared, big guy?” Stella spider-walks her fingers up my bare arm, and my cock fucking leaps, wanting some of that finger-touch, too.

  I snatch her hand away and pin it behind her back. Those blue eyes look up at me, and I want to kiss her. Calling me big guy, that was flirting, and flirting’s an invitation in my book. I lower my head until I’m inches from her mouth. “I’m not scared. How about you?” I watch the column of her throat, see the big swallow, feel the quickened flutter of the pulse in her wrist. “Not so brave now, are we, firecracker?”

  Stella wets her lips with her tongue, and her mouth inclines towards mine. “I forgot about the katipo,” she whispers, and jerks her arm free, making a sprint across the yard.

  She has the advantage of surprise, and she’s rabbit-quick, but I’ve got size on my side. I bolt after her, and I’m on her in seconds, tackling her and turning so that I cushion the fall as we tumble to the ground. She’s laughing so hard she can’t catch her breath. I roll her to her back and straddle her hips. She’s tiny beneath me, and I take her arms above her head, pinning them to the ground. Stella’s still giggling, her face beautifully flushed. It’s easy to hold her wrists together—they’re not even a handful for me.

  Running my finger down her cheek, I drag the piece of hair free that’s caught between her lips just as she lifts her legs and tries to buck me off her. As if.

  Suddenly she stops laughing, relaxes and goes loose. “I promise to be good,” she says.

  “That’s nice, but it’s too late. You woke the beast,” I tease. Having her like this has made me hard. My balls ache and my cock is jammed against my zipper.

  Stella glances down, noticing, giving me a wicked smile. “I wouldn’t call that a beast.”

  I lower myself, cradling her head between my forearms. “What would you call it then?”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t been formally introduced.”

  “That can be easily arranged. I know its handler,” I tell her.

  Stella snorts. “Well, have him bring the beast over some time. Right now, I’ve got birds to attend to.”

  She’s got to be kidding. The birds might be endangered, but my cock’s in danger of exploding. This is new. I’m not used to waiting, but maybe the anticipation will do me good. There’s still time to taste her, though. I place my mouth softly against hers.

  “Tonight I’m going to introduce my cock to your pussy,” I say against her lips. “I think they’re going to be very good friends.”

  She makes a sound, a whimper as I kiss her. Her hips lift, not to try and throw me off, but to rub against me. Her mouth is so soft and sweet, I don’t want to stop. When our tongues meet, she groans and pushes herself even harder against my cock. “You’re going to have to stop that, little cracker, or forget about the birds.”

  “Oh, god, we can’t. I have to check them, and we’re at the mercy of the tide.”

  I kiss her once more. Hard, fast, biting her lip as I break away. Then I stand and pull her to her feet.

  “Your beard feels nice. I didn’t think it would be so soft. I like it.”

  “You’ll like it more when I eat your sweet pussy.”

  “Damn birds,” she mutters.

  I help Stella with her pack, which all but dwarfs her, struggle into mine, and we set off along the coast.

  There’s a change between us now. When I grab
her knee to boost her up a rock, she melts against me while at the same time protesting that she’s totally capable of doing it herself. I don’t care. Inside me, a deep need to protect her has taken root, and I’m not going to have her hurting herself. But with the ease of our touch also comes tension. My hand on her causes a shiver, and I keep wanting to stop and kiss her.

  We’ve made it over the bluff that is impassable at high tide, and before us stretches a white sand beach that is as near perfect as all the other beaches on this island.

  “Look, dotterels,” Stella says, pointing at two remarkably nondescript sandy-coloured birds. “We’ve got a pair. Now we have to be careful. They don’t build a nest so much as scratch out a bit of sand and lay their eggs there. They’re prone to predation by hedgehogs, cats—which we don’t have on the island—even some of the large gulls will eat their eggs. Just as bad is the fact the nests are hard to spot, so people can easily step on them, or disturb the nests, and that’s it.”

  The fire in her eyes and her enthusiasm for taking care of the birds are evident. “But there’s only us here, and we can simply stay off the beach,” I say.

  “Wait until the weather improves a little. People will come in off boats and picnic here.”

  Seems I’m not as isolated as I’d hoped. “Hordes of people?”

  “You won’t even notice them.” She looks me up and down. “Can you wait there while I try to locate the nest? You have rather large feet.”

  “Yeah, well, you know what they say about large feet,” I tease.

  “Large feet, clumsy person?”

  “Not clumsy, firecracker. I can execute moves with all of my large parts with surprising finesse.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” Stella says, slinging off her backpack. I do the same and watch her walk carefully along the low dunes of the beach. The two birds are going ballistic at her intrusion, and one seems to have a broken wing, until I see that it’s faking, trying to draw attention away from their nest. Stella returns swiftly.

  “Found it. Three eggs. So we’ll mark off a large area around them with the stakes and tape, put the signs up, and hope all goes well for them.”

  Clearly she’s done this before because she’s quick and efficient, doing her best to get in and out with little disturbance to the angry birds.

  I follow her, passing the things she needs, helping thread the tape through the holes in the wire standards she’s jammed in the ground. Next are the signs which have pictures of the dotterels and explain they’re endangered, asking that people stay outside of the roped-off area.

  With the last sign in place, I give them all a final whack for good luck, and we’re done.

  The wind’s picked up, and as we head back over the bluff I have to grab Stella by the straps of her backpack as a particularly strong gust all but blows her off the rocks. I keep hold of her hand as much as possible the rest of the way. When I have to let go because the trail is narrow, I hang on to one of the shoulder straps of her pack.

  It makes Stella giggle. “I’m not a child,” she says.

  That doesn’t matter, because I insist on keeping her safe.

  6 ~ STELLA

  Reuben can’t keep his hands off me all the way to the house. I was pleased to have the birds to think about, because otherwise that smoking hot kiss would have dominated my afternoon. My first beard. I don’t think I’ll ever want a clean-shaven kiss again.

  It feels like there’s a storm brewing. The temperature has increased, and the wind is blasting in from the northeast. Clouds have been building all day. It’s too early in the season for any tropical cyclones, but there’s certainly something monumental about to occur.

  Reuben is making us drinks and I’m curled up on the sofa, watching him slice the limes. I could watch him read and feel utterly content. I want him too much, and this is a problem. I have a plan I must follow through, and it involves my camera and my total dedication to my photography. I need money, and I need the fulfilment of the job I love to do. Reuben is temporary, and it would be idiotic to be distracted by his beauty and get side-tracked from the more permanent things in my life.

  Debt.

  Keeping Ahunui for as long as Granddad is alive.

  Building a successful career from my photography. That’s who I am. A photographer.

  I cannot lose sight of these things. Even though we’ve progressed from Reuben being uncomfortable with my chosen profession, that doesn’t suddenly make us compatible.

  Plus, I don’t even know who he is. I’m sure even axe murderers look hot and kiss like they want to devour you. I should not take this any further. The kiss was fun, but we are not going to have sex.

  No sex with the tenant.

  This train of thought disappoints me immensely. I can almost feel my pussy begging me to reconsider. You cannot deny me that magnificent cock, it’s saying. Now I’ve gone and thought about his cock, which is dangerous territory. That thing looks so good it deserves a fanfare when it enters the room. Or womb, I think, and the idea makes me snort. I’m classy like that.

  Reuben hands me my drink. “Want to tell me what’s so funny?”

  I close my eyes, count to ten, open them, and he’s still standing there waiting for my answer. “It was girl stuff,” I explain.

  He shrugs a little. “I can laugh at girl stuff. I grew up with three foster sisters. Tell me.”

  I take my drink up to my mouth and speak mostly over the rim into the slice of lime that’s bobbing about with the ice in my gin. “Can’t. Too embarrassing.” I’m stretched out along the window seat that runs in an L shape down two sides of the open-plan room. It’s one of my favourite places in the house. Reuben takes the opposite end along the other wall. Beyond him I can watch the sea and the storm clouds, which continue to gather. There’s a small shaft of light breaking through, and it illuminates him in a triangle shape. Again, I want my camera.

  “Too embarrassing, huh?” He fixes me with his dark eyes, and I all but go limp, hoping he’ll pounce on me and sweep away all of my indecision. “Which suggests,” he continues, “you were thinking about my cock.”

  Did I just whimper? Tell me, universe, I didn’t just make a low sound of lust.

  “You’ve turned pink, firecracker. Maybe now is time for a full confession. I believe it’s good for the soul.”

  “I’ve got much more important things to think about than your body parts.”

  “My cock.”

  “Yes, well, whatever,” I say, fanning my hand at him. I pick up my phone and find the weather app.

  “There you go. I knew you’d be on the internet as soon as the Wi-Fi was hooked up.”

  “We’ve got a deep low developing northeast of us. Right now, we’re in line for a direct hit. It’s a severe weather system, so no tanning or swimming for a couple of days, I’m afraid.”

  “When’s it likely to hit?”

  “It’ll start cutting up bad over the next twenty-four hours. Then it’ll be on us.”

  Reuben frowns at me. “You’re staying here. No arguments. I’m not having you up in that flimsy cottage alone. Does that tin roof even keep the rain out?”

  “Of course it does. I’ll be fine.”

  “No way. Finish your drink and we’ll go up and get your gear.”

  I think of my camera equipment. Maybe Reuben’s right. Depending on the ferocity of the storm, the roof on the old cottage could lift. I’d be heartbroken if my cameras were damaged. Heartbroken and completely broke. I haven’t been able to afford to insure them. That’s what I had planned for my next commission payment.

  “Okay, but I’m only doing it to keep my equipment safe.” I drain the last of my drink, and Reuben’s already standing in front of me, taking my glass, which he sets on the bench. It’s those little, thoughtful things he does that make me pause. They’re tiny gestures, but they fill me with happy appreciation, because I’ve never had a man take care of me, notice the small things. Grandma warned me if I insisted on being so independent, I
would push people away.

  “Let someone help you,” she’d say, so I relied on my mother one last time, and, as usual, she failed me.

  “Don’t be so clingy, Stella. Be free, float with the world. Fill your soul with its energy, and glide with it.” Hippy mothers can be so irresponsible, and to be honest, I don’t think my mother was cut out for the responsibility of bringing up a child. Thank goodness for my wonderful grandparents. They raised me while my mother ‘floated around the world’ absorbing every new-age fad she could find. One year she’d be with the travellers in the UK, next she’d be in India at the feet of some fake guru, then it would be South America, connecting with the reincarnation of an Inca god. Right now, I believe she’s in Budapest with a poet. She rebirths when she becomes bored. I love her, but I don’t rely on her.

  My father, apparently, is one of four men from the now-disbanded commune where I was born. When I asked for a name, when I begged my mother, and said I really needed to know, she would hug me and tell me not to get hung up on details like that. I was a ‘child of love’ and that’s all that should matter to me. That was about the time Mum told me my kundalini was a granny knot of anxiety at the base of my spine. Until I released it, I’d always be unhappy. I was nine years old.

  Reuben takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. His energy is something I definitely feel, and it makes me smile. Mum would be proud.

  The wind has eased as we walk up the track. “Maybe this storm will pass us by,” I suggest when we reach the cottage, because I’m flipping all over the place in my head, too high on greedy lust for Reuben to be able to trust myself to make a sensible decision.

  “You’re not staying here in this weather,” Reuben growls. “Fuck me, will you look at the shape of this place? I thought it was abandoned when I came across it last week.”