“Well,” she says, “I guess we're sleeping together tonight—I mean...” Ivy laughs nervously, eyes wide as I watch her. “Sorry. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.” I force out a thoroughly unconvincing laugh. Sleeping together? Was that a Freudian slip? “Uh, I'm not really used to this. I haven't had a roommate since college,” I tell her, in a weak attempt to normalize the tension.
“Me, either.”
“Oh, you went to college?” I ask, surprised.
Ivy arches a golden brow. “Even pirates need an education,” she says, putting on a fake pirate accent. “Gotta learn some—arg!—history and—arg!—economics—so you know which ships are worth pillaging.”
I flush. “I didn't mean to imply—” I begin.
“No, it's okay,” says Ivy, her voice softening. “I'm only kidding. But, yeah, I majored in English, actually,” she mutters with a small grimace.
“English?”
“Creative Writing—for all the good it's done me. Fancied myself a novelist.” Ivy's mouth slants into a self-deprecating smile. “But, you know, writing takes commitment, dedication, self-control... Not exactly my strong points.”
Wow. An English major and a would-be novelist...
I find myself astonished by this revelation...and very, very intrigued.
“What do you write?” I ask her.
Ivy's surprised at my sudden enthusiasm and smiles at me disarmingly. “Well, fiction. And poetry, if you'd believe it,” she mutters.
I stare at her, and then this deep, primal want radiates through me. “I'd love to read something you've written,” I murmur.
Ivy catches my eye, surprise making her own eyes wide, round. “Would you?” she asks me, her mouth slanted into a teasing smile.
“Yeah.” I draw my knees up and wrap my arms around them, suddenly self-conscious. “I really would. Well...” I sigh, waving my hand, “if we make it off of this island, maybe I'll, um, email you?”
She's chuckling a little. “Email,” she says with a rueful shake of her head. “Hard to believe that still exists when we're here, in this time out of time.”
“It does feel like that,” I agree, glancing down to the shore. Impossible to tell what time period we're in on this island, with no people, no roads, no industrialization or signs of modern life.
But Ivy's changed the subject, and I was serious about reading her poetry. Stubborn, I pull a soggy business card out of my pocket. It's more like a flimsy sheet of wet paper, but my email address is still visible. I chew on my bottom lip as I hold the card out to her.
“My email address is right here,” I say. “[email protected],” I tell her quickly, smiling. “Can you remember that?”
Ivy taps her forehead and winks as she pockets the business card. “Photographic memory.” She watches my face for a long moment, her eyelids lowering a little. She glances up at me through her long, lovely lashes. “I never forget,” she murmurs then, and her voice is deep; there's something seductive about the way she said forget...
My blood pulses—in my veins, my temples, my hidden places—and she leans toward me a little, wetting her lips with her tongue.
She's about to say something to me, but then she pauses, straightens, because Rusty's head appears in the gap between the branches of our shelter. He glances at me, looking apologetic, and his eyes are wide as he asks, “Wanna help me rustle up some grub, sis?”
After a moment, Ivy nods, meeting his gaze. But then she gapes, rising up in the confined space of the tepee to reach out and grab her brother's head, tilting it to the side and peering closely at the side of his neck.
“Brother of mine,” she says scathingly, “is that a hickey?”
Rusty turns beet red and casts me a sheepish look.
Ivy laughs. “I guess Sleeping Beauty's all rested up, hmm?” she teases him gently.
Rusty shakes his head, and the blush spreads across his cheeks and over his neck, highlighting the telltale hickey mark. “C'mon,” Rusty says, rolling his eyes. “I'm starved.”
---
Near the top of the hypothetical list of things I never expected to do in my life: forage in the woods like a woodland animal in search of breakfast.
I have an armful of bananas, and my pockets are stuffed with blackberries—which are probably now salty blackberries because I wasn't able to wash all of the saltwater out of my clothes. But who knows? Salty blackberries might be delicious...
And I'm hungry enough not to care either way.
It's morning, and all appearances suggest that it's going to be a beautiful day: the sun is out, hardly a cloud in the sky. A cool breeze moves off of the water, over the beach. This is perfect tropical weather. Later, though, it's probably going to be a scorcher, and when the temperature reaches a hundred and ten degrees, I'd prefer to hide in the tepee and do nothing at all... So I've gathered food for later, too. Hence the extra helpings of bananas in my arms.
In the distance I can hear Brendan and Brian splashing in the small lake. It's a very small lake, more like a pond, really. Ivy and Rusty discovered it about an hour ago, which means more fresh drinking water for us...but we didn't even get a chance to try a sip before Brendan and Brian promptly jumped into the water, stark naked.
How they removed their clothes so quickly kind of boggles my mind.
Of course, everything about those two boggles my mind.
I wouldn't mind a bath myself in the shallow end of the lake, shaded luxuriously by a big, stately palm tree, but there's no way I'm going in the water, clothed or otherwise, with those neanderthals.
So, instead, I'm on food-gathering duty with Ivy, Rusty, and Charity. And we've found quite a lot of fruit, only gathering what we intend to eat today, leaving the rest on the bushes and trees for tomorrow...and the next day...and the day after that...
Ivy, Rusty and I have stockpiled the bananas and the blackberries and the few lone coconuts (I'm not sure if they're in season. Or, for that matter, how we're going to break them open...). And Charity? Charity isn't gathering food so much as eating it. I glance back at my best friend and chuckle a little; she has blackberry stains around her mouth, like a little girl who just ravaged her parents' fruit bushes, and she looks utterly content. Relief floods my heart. She had a rough night; I'm so glad that she's feeling better.
One less thing for me to worry about.
Charity is a few paces behind me right now, finishing off a peach. The juice from the overly ripe fruit cascades over her chin, dripping onto her decolletage, and she's making very satisfied noises as she devours the last bites. Finally, she tosses the pit over her shoulder, licking her fingers one by one, her eyes rolled back into her head.
“Oh, my God, that was the most delicious peach I've ever had. I guess there's something to be said for organic fruit, after all,” she tells me with a wide smile. She takes a wide leaf off of some sort of tropical plant and proceeds to use it as a napkin. The leaf is already damp from the torrential downpour last night, and the air is too humid here to allow anything to ever really dry.
I reach up into a small peach tree and pluck one of the velvet-soft fruits for myself. I lift it to my nose, inhaling the heady scent. And then I take a bite: there's an explosion of sweet, succulent flavor in my mouth, and I moan a little, amazed. “That's incredible... It's the sweetest thing—”
“What's the sweetest thing?” asks a low, amused voice. Ivy appears around the side of the tree, stepping out of the brush beyond, and she smiles at me curiously.
Maybe it's because my mouth is full of sweetness, or because Ivy looks so sexy standing beneath that tree, leaning against its branches, a smile making her mouth turn up at the corners just for me...but my heart skips inside of my chest, fluttering like a butterfly trying to break free.
After a few moments of silence, I realize that Ivy is awaiting an answer to her question. I swallow the bite of peach quickly, smiling with embarrassment. “Oh, just this peach,” I tell her, holding up the bitten fruit. “Here. Taste,”
I say.
I hold the peach out to Ivy, and I expect her to take the fruit from my hand, but she doesn't. Instead, green eyes flashing with mischief, she bends down slightly and bites into the peach while I'm still holding it. Juice streams over my skin.
“Um, I'll just...” After clearing her throat, Charity turns her eyes elsewhere and makes a big show of inspecting the hem of her shirt, gradually walking away from us. I narrow my brows. Does Charity really think something is going on between Ivy and me?
But then I stop wondering about Charity, distracted by the pale juice running over my palm and by Ivy's eyes, closed now, rolled back with pleasure. I watch, aware that my mouth is open just a little, and I shiver, watching this open, vulnerable display. A trail of peach juice stains Ivy's chin, and, unthinkingly, I reach up with the pad of my thumb and—gently, only grazing her skin—wipe it away.
Ivy's eyes glide open, and then she's watching me with a sly smile. “Ambrosia,” she whispers, retracing the path my thumb just took over her skin with her own hand. She wipes away another rivulet of juice that runs down her chin, all the while holding my gaze with her intense green eyes. I stare back, looking deeply into Ivy's eyes for a long, deliciously tense moment in which we say absolutely nothing at all, our bodies angled towards one another, our lips parted.
And then I feel Charity yank me gently by the elbow.
“What—”
She's tugging me in another direction, back the way we came. I hold tightly onto the bunches of bananas as she pulls me along.
“I think I saw some coconuts over here,” she mutters, pulling me harder.
“Charity, what on earth—” I begin, but she only tugs me again, holding her silence until we're out of a sight of a bemused-looking Ivy.
Then Charity turns to face me, her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed. “This ain't the Isle of Lesbos, Gilly, but you've totally got the hots for that sailor girl.”
I blink at her, instantly blushing. “No, I—”
“Oh, my God, Gilly, I know you,” she says, throwing her hands up into the air and pinning me with her eyes. Her perfectly coiffed hair (how she managed to get it to look so neat on a mirrorless, combless deserted island is beyond me), curled at her chin, bounces as she shakes her head. “Don't even try to deny it!” she tells me, jabbing a finger in my direction as her expression smooths; she grins wickedly. “Come on,” she says, her tone wheedling. “After all, I've got the brother. Now you go after the sister. There's a kind of poetry to it—”
I finally find my voice and splutter, “Charity, I'm not going to go after Ivy.”
“Well, why not?” she asks me, rolling her eyes at me. “Looked like you were about to go after her with that whole bite-my-peach routine, but then you didn't go in for the kiss, so I had to intervene—”
“It wasn't a routine!” I shrug helplessly, biting my lip. “And that's just... That's not how I do things,” I mumble, offering Charity a miserable smile.
And Charity sees right through it.
“Oh, right,” she smirks at me, rolling her eyes again. “I know how you do things, Gilly. You pine and you mope and you hope-hope-hope that your crush will notice you—”
“Charity—”
“Gillian,” Charity cuts me off. She holds up her finger, and she barrels over my protests. “You never make a move yourself,” she says, but her voice no longer sounds excited, triumphant. Now she's staring at me with sympathy.
Sympathy! My first reaction is to bristle. I'm not that pathetic.
But the more I stare into Charity's eyes, huffing in annoyance, the more I realize...
She has a point.
And the annoyance drains out of me instantly; I slump against a banana tree.
Charity reaches out, and she pats me gently on the shoulder, flashing me an encouraging smile. “But, honey, look around you.”
I do, and all I see is tree after tree.
Charity's voice drops to a dramatic stage whisper. “We're in another world here. We're outside of civilization. Like, totally outside of civilization. Actually far, far away from our normal lives.” She curls her fingers around my shoulder and searches my hooded gaze. “You can be whoever you want to be here.” Her voice lowers further as she holds my eyes. “You can go after the girl. You don't have to wait around, tapping your foot and daydreaming. You don't have to do anything—except survive.” She sniffs and smirks at me. “And, for God's sake, have lots of sex with that super-hot boat captain.”
I burst out laughing, my cheeks warm as I glance over my shoulder, hoping that Ivy is beyond earshot. I can't see her, doubt that she's listening... Partially relieved, I sigh heavily, and then I turn back to Charity, who has her hands poised on her hips, her nose upturned, waiting for my reaction.
I shake my head. “Okay!” I tell her, plunking down on the forest floor and dropping my armful of bananas into my lap. I must look ridiculous, but I don't even care. I stop struggling against my feelings, and I tell Charity the truth: “Yes, I'm crushing on Ivy. Hard.” I put my head in my hands and groan in frustration. “But we are shipwrecked, and I don't think that now is the time for romance—”
Charity laughs, seating herself next to me. She reaches into my lap and grabs a banana, peeling it before tossing the peel over her shoulder. “Are you kidding me? Who's talking about romance?” She begins to eat the banana, taking enormous bites that I worry might make her choke, but she swallows them easily.
I sigh, casting her a reproachful glance. “Come on, you know what I mean. We're stranded. We're lost. We're kind of in danger... I shouldn't be thinking about kissing—”
“But you are.” Charity's done with her banana and reaches for another, peeling it as she narrows her eyes. “Aren't you?”
Damn Charity and her eerie powers of perception. I cross my arms over my chest, feeling childish and petulant. I sigh again, shaking my head as I lower my voice. “Yeah. A...lot.”
“You know what I always say.” Charity is already done with her second banana, and she's rising to her feet. She stands up as tall as she can, on her tiptoes, and she leans along the trunk of another palm tree, reaching up for a coconut that dangles above our heads. “Listen to your heart, Gilly,” she tells me confidently. She shimmies up the tree a little, because the coconut is outside of her reach. “Or, you know, your nether regions,” she concedes. “Whichever one is shouting the loudest.”
“Charity, that's not how—” I begin, but my sentence is clipped short because, at that moment, Charity screams. It's a bloodcurdling sort of scream, a sound unlike any I have ever heard Charity make before...
I didn't know she was capable of a sound like that.
I'm on my feet before I even realize it, and then I'm racing for her.
Oh, my God.
I stare at Charity's hand, and—more specifically—at the massive snake coiling around it.
So I'm from Florida. When I tell you that we have a lot of snakes in my home state, you have to believe me: we have a lot of snakes, including poisonous ones. When I was a kid, some of the locals used to joke that all of the snakes rolled down the states until they ended up in Florida. I was warned never to go near any snake, and to notice all the warning signs in the grass, and to avoid piles of rocks and anyplace a snake might hide. Kids die from snake bites in Florida, and many others get sick.
In my decades of experience, I've never seen the type of snake that's currently wending around Charity's arm—but it doesn't look especially friendly. Or ordinary. Its scales are a bright, poisonous green.
I'm terrified for my friend.
I glance around frantically for a rock or a stick, but there's nothing, nothing but sand and leaves and bananas. I pick up a rotting coconut, too soft to cause much damage. I hold it up, anyway, aiming for the snake. I've never been a good shot, so when I throw it, the coconut sails over the snake's body by about a foot, shushing into the brush behind the trees.
“The head, Gilly! The head!” Charity whispers at me, whimpering, an
d I swallow, my insides turning to liquid as I look around again, frantic to find something to dislodge that snake. I scrabble around in the dirt for a stick, and that's when an object flies right past my face. Whatever it is smacks the snake squarely between the eyes, and the snake flings itself backward, off of Charity, and immediately turns, slithering through the underbrush, away from us.
Charity falls to the earth on her hands and knees, drawing in a series of deep, shaky breaths. She's as pale as a ghost.
I straighten and peer over my shoulder, but I don't have to look hard for Charity's savior: Ivy is standing between two palm trees with a makeshift slingshot gripped in her hands. I don't know what it's made out of—a leather belt, maybe? She catches my eye and smiles brightly at me. Then she turns her attentions to Charity.
“You all right?” she asks, and Charity nods weakly, wiping beads of sweat off of her forehead.
“Never felt better,” Charity mutters, glancing up at Ivy with a pained smile. “Oh, my God, thank you. How the hell did you do that?”
Ivy shrugs, tucking the slingshot into her pocket. “I used to make these all of the time when I was a kid. Figured one might come in handy here. I collected pebbles from the beach earlier. So when I saw you and the snake, I just aimed and shot.”
“Well, thanks, Xena,” Charity croaks, leaning back against the bottom of a tree trunk. “Now I need a very long, very hot bath. With bubbles. And wine. Oh, so much wine.”
“Would you settle for a cold, slimy lake? And coconut water?” Ivy asks helpfully.
For a moment, I think Charity is going to burst into tears, but she doesn't. Instead, she surges upward and says resolutely, “Sure, why not?” A little stunned by her bout as a snake jungle gym, Charity turns and stumbles in the direction of the lake behind us, where I can hear the occasional, distant exclamation of “dude!” and “bro!” from Brendan and Brian.
“Watch out for Dumb and Dumber,” I call after her, but Charity waves over her shoulder and smiles at me.
“I can handle the two stooges,” she assures me, and I know that's true. She just survived that snake encounter pretty gracefully, all things considered. Makes sense, though. Charity is the only female member of the Coyne Hotels Board of Directors; she has the loudest voice and the most sway. No one ever talks over—or pulls anything over—Charity McCall.
Gillian's Island Page 7
