There Galapagos My Heart

by Philip William Stover

  “It’s absolutely beautiful,” I say.

  “Oh, stop,” Rita says. “It isn’t very professional at all. But I’m thinking of hot gluing some beads to it to jazz it up.”

  “It’s charming,” I tell her. The lines are a bit crooked, and the colors blend in unusual ways, but these are the distinctive elements that make the painting hers and make her unique.

  “Thank you, Mike. I’m going to take this home, frame it, and put it up in the dining room next to the Matisse.”

  I know they are from Houston, and there was a huge Matisse show at the Houston Museum of Fine Arts a few years ago.

  “I loved those posters from the show at the Fine Arts. It will look very nice next to any one of those.”

  Fred lets out one of his big-bellied laughs. “Well, yes, I suppose it would.” Then he stage-whispers to me, “Next time you look at those posters, you’ll see most of the paintings came from our little ol’ collection. Rita’s painting is going right next to the real thing.”

  “You make it sound like we have a whole gallery of Matisse paintings.” She pats him gently on the arm. “We only have four, maybe six…” She pauses for a moment. “Well, maybe eight…tops.”

  “Thank you, Mike. Beautiful, absolutely beautiful,” Fred says, looking at his wife and her painting as he puts his arm around her and they walk off.

  I start to take the tape off of the tables and pour the used water into a large pitcher to dispose of it. I know the staff would do this for me, but I like cleaning up paints. I like seeing all of the spent materials and thinking about how they were used and how they might be used next time.

  “Fred’s absolutely right. Beautiful.”

  I turn, and Benton is right behind me.

  Chapter 26

  Benton is so close I can smell the fresh shampoo on his hair. I’m bending over the table, and he is almost in the exact position he would need to be in to…. I wipe the dirty thought from my brain.

  “You saw Rita’s masterpiece. It is quite beautiful. She really let the colors—”

  “I don’t mean Rita’s masterpiece.”

  “Oh?” I say, pouring a cloudy-gray tumbler of water into the darker-gray pitcher.

  “It’s you,” he says.

  “What’s me?” I ask. “Do I have paint on my nose?” I’m holding two full pitchers of gray murky water and don’t have a place to rest them. “Would you just wipe it off so I don’t look like I’ve been working on the ship’s motor?”

  I close my eyes so Benton can rub my face as hard as he needs to without poking my eye out. I hear him sigh audibly and wait for his thumb against my cheek.

  He whispers in my ear, “You’re beautiful.” Then I feel his full, soft lips on mine.

  He kisses me gently. I don’t think. I just kiss him back. First it’s just his lips on mine, and then we both seem to open our mouths at the same time as our tongues search for comfort inside the other. The gentleness turns to passion as we connect through our lips and mouths.

  The weight of the pitchers begins to pull on me, and Benton is so tuned in to me at the moment that he can sense my muscles giving out. He breaks away, takes the pitchers from me, and walks over to the bar to put them down.

  “That was a surprise,” I say. I can’t tell if the ship is rocking or if my mind is spinning. Maybe both.

  “I couldn’t control myself,” he says. “Turns out that telegram earlier was from the head researcher of this project I’ve been killing myself on, and the journal we submitted to accepted our piece. The first message must have gotten lost,” Benton says.

  “Must have,” I say, but I’m too enraptured by the kiss to feel anything but lust and excitement in this moment.

  “Michael, I’m happy to get the good news, but that’s not why I’m so turned on right now.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No. Watching you paint and teaching everyone the thing you love to do. It’s incredibly sexy. You have to know that.”

  He stares at me from across the deck and sends his dominant alpha energy right to the core of my body. I shiver. He narrows his dark eyes in a way that says he wants to tear off my clothes and have me right there on the table on the Darwin Deck. We are the only ones here. Still, I’m not sure Penny would appreciate full-on anal in public during the cruise.

  Benton walks toward me. Each step seems to pound against the deck. He comes a few inches from where I am standing and holds my waist tightly. He pulls me toward him. His mouth is less than an inch away from mine. He looks me in the eyes and orders: “Kiss me.” His voice is firm and direct. Benton knows how much I get off on submitting to him in bed.

  “No,” I say gently, not breaking his gaze. I also know how much he gets off on a little resistance.

  “Yes,” he says and pushes his mouth toward mine.

  This time it goes from zero to one hundred immediately. This kiss is all passion—tongues dueling and mouths yearning. Benton puts his hand in the opening between the buttons of my shirt. He traces the smooth skin of my abdomen with his fingers. Our physical contrast was always a turn-on for us. He pushes his hand farther but the narrow opening between the buttons stops his hand from doing what they want to do. A small obstacle for Benton, I know. He reaches for more skin, and the button bursts off my shirt. My dick hardens immediately. I don’t care about the shirt. I want Benton. I want him in charge of me in this way.

  “Attention, passengers. The panga will be leaving the wet deck in five minutes. Please join wildlife expert Benton Aldridge as he explains the many mysterious species found on Santa Cruz.”

  “No,” I mutter, but Benton keeps kissing me and feeling my chest like he has no intention of stopping. “Benton, you’ll miss the boat,” I whisper in his ear and give a quick nibble. “Literally you will miss the boat.”

  “I don’t care,” he says and begins grinding his groin into mine. “The only mystery I care about right now is here,” he says and shoves his hand between my thighs.

  If I wasn’t a hundred percent sure Penny would have us both chopped up for shark bait if Benton missed his outing, I would let him do as he wants. I slowly pull away from him. At first Benton does not give up. He pulls me close again. I softly take his hands and put them at his sides. Once Benton wants something, it’s hard for his mind to change tracks.

  “Penny,” I say.

  The word sends blood from his dick to his brain. He takes a heavy breath in and out. “Right, Pen,” he says and releases me.

  I go to button up my shirt while Benton tucks his shirt back in and adjusts himself mentally and physically. He shakes his head like a horse shaking off a fly and puts his hand down his pants to arrange himself. “Not sure how I’m going to hide this.” Even when Benton is completely soft, his meaty dick makes itself known in his pants. When he has an erection, it borders on obscene.

  “Do you want to grab your things and meet me at the boat? This island has a very rare species of finch.”

  “As much as I love finches, I think maybe I should sit this one out. I should finish cleaning this up, and I’m not sure the passengers will be able to understand why the spotted finch makes you so…uhh…excited.”

  Benton looks down at his cock. “Indeed. I’m hoping this will go down eventually, but with you on the walk, I’m afraid it might be in a permanent state of attention.”

  “Ship to shore. Last call. Ship to shore. Last call,” comes through the loudspeaker.

  “I’d better head out,” Benton says. “This isn’t finished.” He walks behind me, takes a second to inspect my round ass. I stick it out a bit to make it that much more appetizing. He puts his hand on it and then gives it a good hard slap.

  The shock travels right up my spine and immediately to my dick. The sting lingers, and I steady myself with both hands on the table in front of me.

  “We will be back in about three hours,” he says, and then he put his mouth right next to my ear and whispers in his sternest voice, “Keep your hands off your dick, Michael.
I know what a greedy little pig you can be, and I don’t want you coming until I tell you to come. Do you understand?”

  I’m under his spell. There isn’t a way to break it, and I don’t want to. I want to get lost in him again, even if just during this trip. Even if it is just one more time. “Yes, Benton, I understand.”

  “You don’t come until I give you permission. Do you understand?” he asks again. His words go right in my ear like bullets to my dick. He’s making it harder to obey him, and that’s his game. He knows how much this turns me on.

  “Yes,” I say, staring into his eyes.

  “Perfect. Now we have an understanding,” he says and kisses me sweetly and gently on the lips. “I have a few hours between today’s walk and tonight’s lecture. I know exactly how I want to spend them.” His voice is less intense and more mellow, but no less passionate. “Can you be back on the ship by three? That should give me enough time to do all the naughty things I want to do to you.”

  “Of course,” I say. “Princess Suite. Three p.m. You and me.”

  Chapter 27

  I watch the panga as it heads to the opposite side of the island for a hiking expedition to see the lava heron. I can see Benton at the front of the small boat, already lecturing about the animal’s natural habitat or strange diet. Even from this distance I can feel his passion for wildlife. Maybe it is the same passion he has rekindled for me? The panga makes its way around the island and quickly disappears beyond the coast.

  I don’t know how I’ll be able to focus on anything else but our rendezvous at three, but for the first time since our cruise began, we are docked at an actual town with people and shops and, if I am lucky, the internet. Most of the islands in the Galapagos are not inhabited, which makes them wonderful places for animals—not so wonderful for people who define themselves through an all-consuming job. I’m sure there are some loose ends to tie up on the project Mr. Biddle needed before we set sail.

  Santa Cruz is the second-largest island on the archipelago, and it is where most of the humans live. Puerto Aroya is the main port, and our ship is docked here for the next twenty-four hours. Most of the passengers have taken the panga to the other side of the island to the Lonesome George wildlife sanctuary.

  I put my phone, laptop, and a huge folder of paperwork I’ve been hiding in my luggage into my bag and head out for my day on dry land. Puerto Aroya is located on Tortuga Bay, a sparkling cove with a rocky beach that looks like it could be an old set from Fantasy Island. All of the shops and restaurants are located on the street around the bay. There has got to be an internet connection somewhere out there.

  The streets are lively and full of tourists grabbing an empanada or enjoying a pisco sour. The San Isabella III could not be a more luxurious ship, but being on a single vessel for so long can feel claustrophobic even under the best circumstances. I walk around and admire the acid-colored handicrafts and local candies, made with seeds and nuts, that are sold on every corner.

  I wander for a bit, and I see a street named Calle Cucuve, and I know I’ve heard that name before. Cucuve is the street I read about that has all of the galleries and artist studies. It’s too early for anything to be open, but I don’t have that much work to do, so I should be able to spend some time in the galleries before 3:00 p.m. without any problem.

  I find an empty bench facing the bay and look back at the ship in the dock. I let the sun wash over my face. I tilt my hat so it covers my eyes and start my own mini siesta. Within a few seconds, I feel a buzzing in my pants. At first I think it’s just a leftover urge from my intense prelude session with Benton, but then I realize my cell phone has found a signal, and all of the emails from the past few days are creating alert after alert after alert.

  I shove my hand in my pocket and silence the damn thing. Who could be sending me so many messages? I put my hat back over my eyes since all of the messages have downloaded. I’ll look at them later. It only takes a few seconds until I feel another buzz. Then less than a minute later, another buzz.

  I take my phone out of my pocket and look at the screen. Biddle, Biddle, Biddle. I have a bucket of emails from Biddle. Some are from him directly, but most are from colleagues or people related to the current project. I see the same tag in the subject line repeat in a few different threads. URGENT. URGENT. URGENT. It’s not a hospital. What could be so urgent?

  There is no way I will be able to enjoy any type of siesta, so I surrender, put my hat back on my head, and start searching for an internet café.

  There are plenty to choose from, but I select a small, unassuming place that still has a fantastic view of the bay. “¡Hola!” a young woman with her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail says as I enter.

  “Hola. ¿Qué tal?”

  “Bien, gracias. ¿Qué te quieres?”

  “Quisiera un café, por favor.”

  “Claro,” she says, moving to the back of the counter.

  “¿Hay un password?” I ask.

  “No, the Wi-Fi is open, just use TortugaGuest,” she says in perfect English. So much for my practice Spanish lesson.

  It takes a little time to start up my computer and find the network. I use the slight delay to keep dreaming for a few more seconds. I stare out at the water as my laptop hums and whirls. This place is so beautiful—the water, the sand, the quality of the air. In fact, it reminds me of San Diego, but something is different here. Or maybe I’m different?

  I brace myself for the barrage of emails I am about to receive.

  No, no, no, no.

  The email I thought went through before we left the port of origin clearly did not. Email after email fills the screen. At first the requests are simple, but there is an increasing tone of anger and frustration. It’s not just Mr. Biddle. Everyone on my team is wondering where I am and demanding I get back to them immediately.

  What the serious bull? I’m on vacation. Everyone in that office knows it. I can’t leave that place for one week without the whole thing falling apart. This vacation has been amazing. Being an artist again and being with Benton feels perfect and real. But in this moment I am reminded it has only been a vacation. I’m experiencing a fantasy; my laptop is the real world.

  I start responding to emails, and with each stroke of the keyboard, I grow more furious. How did I let this happen? How did I become such a cog in a machine that I don’t want to be a part of?

  The chat feature of my email pings, and it is a direct message from Annie, Mr. Biddle’s assistant. She must see that I’m online. She’s sweet, but touch the half-and-half she keeps in the staff fridge, and she’ll cut you. Hard.

  Hi, Mike. Mr. Biddle never got that spreadsheet. Ah, yeah. I guess that explains the five thousand emails.

  I type: The connection has been weak. We are in a port for the next two days. I should be able to go through everything by tomorrow.

  There are actually three different projects I need to work on, but if I spend my time efficiently, I can get it all done. A little bit today and a lot more tomorrow.

  Annie writes: He needs the Kleine and Pearson account materials today. The other one can wait until tomorrow.

  Today? Is he serious? It will take me hours to get that done. I quickly thumb through some of the papers I have brought with me that need to be worked through, and I realize I will need to work quickly.

  I order a second cup of coffee and hunker down for a few hours of spreadsheets and project management software.

  Once I get in the zone of work, a part of my brain shuts down so another part can take over.

  After working hard for what feels like a good stretch, I am finally able to finish both accounts. I can do the final one tomorrow. I just have a few more details to double-check when the woman who runs the café comes over.

  “Would you like to order dinner?” she asks. I look up, and I see the entire café has changed from a tourist spot to a place where locals are eating. Even though her English is perfect, I assume she has confused the words for lunch and dinner.


  “Do you mean lunch?” I ask as politely as possible. I don’t want her to think I’m correcting her English, even though I am.

  “No, señor. We eat dinner around 5:00 p.m. here,” she says kindly.

  Five? How can it possibly be five? I move the windows on my laptop around to reveal the clock. It is 5:12. How did this happen? I was so focused on work that I missed my sex date with Benton. It wasn’t even just a sex date; this was my chance to be with him. To really be with him. I was so lost in the drudgery of it all that I completely forgot about anything else.

  What’s wrong with me? I want this. I know I do. I want it more than anything else in the world. How could I screw it up so bad? Am I so desperate to please Mr. Biddle that I’m unable to see my own desires, or am I just that good at self-sabotaging?

  I start shoving all the spreadsheets and contracts and other ridiculous paperwork I have into my bag with my laptop and head out. I run all the way back to the ship. I know the exact way to get back there, yet I still feel completely lost.

  Chapter 28

  I run past the shops, restaurants, and galleries, through the park by the side of the cove, and all the way to the port where the San Isabella III is docked.

  I’m completely out of breath when I get to the suite. I’ve been carrying my laptop and papers in front of my chest like a schoolgirl so I can run faster. I don’t look for my keycard. I just bang on the door and shout, “Benton!”

  The door opens immediately. “Oh my God. Michael. You’re all right. I’ve been out of my mind with worry. Are you okay? What happened to you?”

  I can tell he is a little pissed, and he has more than every right to be. There is an edge to his voice, so I need to think of a good excuse.

  I’m still panting, and I use that to stall. I was so anxious to get back that I didn’t think about what I would tell Benton once I arrived. I can’t tell him I was knee-deep in Biddle because he thinks I no longer work there. I think of other possibilities. Temporary amnesia? Kidnapped by an evil witch? A rip in the space-time continuum?