I reached my first buoy, which was painted white with a black stripe around the middle. I hadn’t been very creative there, I had to admit. I set about the nasty job of throwing bait into bags to re-bait the trap, and then the business of hauling the trap up from the ocean floor. If I wasn’t such a small operation (only fifty traps), I might have had help in the form of a sternman, but then I would have had to talk to someone, and that would have been the worst. I’d rather curse and struggle and take longer doing things on my own than hire someone else. Plus, I’d have to pay them and I was barely making it work as it was. At least I didn’t have to pay a mortgage.
I lost myself in the rhythm of my work: bait, haul trap, pull out lobsters, measure, rubber band, re-bait, toss back in ocean.
By the time most people were getting up for work, I was almost halfway through my traps for the day. I had two rotations and alternated them every other day. My body had grown used to the physical work, but I would never get used to the smell of bait and diesel. No amount of showers seemed to remove the smell. Guess that was another bonus of having a sternman: someone else got to do the stinky jobs.
I had a decent haul and headed back to the lobster pound, where they’d buy the lobsters right from the boat, boil them in the restaurant upstairs, and serve them all in the same day. I also threw a few in a cooler on the back of the bike for myself, since it was cheaper than buying organic chicken at the grocery store.
I hosed myself off near the dock and decided to head home instead of hanging out to shoot the shit with the other lobstermen. Sometimes I lurked and they let me hang on the edges of their conversations, listening but not contributing. They didn’t seem to mind, since we were all in the trenches together. I could have joined if I wanted to, but I’d never tried and the longer I didn’t try, the harder it became.
I stopped quickly to fuel up the bike and grab a fresh-baked croissant and another huge black coffee at the only gas station in town. It was also a variety store, stocking everything from guns to gummies to wedding gowns. Seriously. I didn’t know who was buying said gowns, but they had them anyway.
The lobsters went into the fridge out back before I stripped completely and ran for the shower. I honestly didn’t care if the neighbors saw me dashing through the house after I abandoned my clothes in the doorway. I didn’t used to, anyway. Maybe now I should care a little bit about a certain neighbor seeing me completely naked. No, I wasn’t going to think about that. I wasn’t going to think anything. I was just going to close my eyes and try and wash off the smell of dead fish guts and also not think about anything at all. Nothing. I wanted to think nothing.
I wanted to be nothing.
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Copyright © 2020 by Chelsea M. Cameron
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ISBN: 9781488076275
The Hideaway Inn
Copyright © 2020 by Iron Bridge Creative
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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The Hideaway Inn Page 21
