by K. Z. Snow
Just to strengthen my immunity, I reminded myself that those strained, heated voices I’d heard earlier didn’t bode well. Conflict, I didn’t need.
Chapter Three
Down to my ghetto beach I went, after having spent my first full night in the cottage. It was a night of restless sleep punctuated by chirping crickets, gulping bullfrogs, and eerily creaking trees. I’d dreamt sporadically, and the dreams were vaguely unsettling.
This new environment would take some getting used to.
After three trips to and from the sandy shore, I thought I had what was necessary to get the day rolling—a lawn chair and some implements from a rickety shed on my property, sunglasses and sunblock, a large trash bag, and a thermal mug full of light coffee. I figured I’d sit for a while and charge my batteries with caffeine, then start cleaning the beach. There was already a fire pit, not too cluttered with debris, so I’d just throw all burnable stuff in there and torch it.
As I settled unsteadily into the chair, I felt like the city boy I was. Not landed gentry, not a work-hardened serf, but some laboratory mutant raised beneath fluorescent lights. My legs were so white they gleamed like amphibian bellies.
All that was about to change. Two rakes, a shovel, a swing-blade, and a grappling hook attached to a length of rope lay in a pile to my right. No gym muscles or tanning booth today. I’d be working my way to he-man the old-fashioned way.
“Excuse me.”
I jumped like a jack-in-the-box, the lawn chair creaking and teetering beneath me.
“I’m sorry,” said the same voice—a mild, low voice with a sprinkling of gravel.
Hand on chest, I looked up and to the left. A man stood over me. At least, I assumed it was a man. Or a female wrestler. All I could see was a nimbus of sunlight around a broad-shouldered silhouette.
“Uh … hi.” Squinting, I made a brim over my forehead with my hand and got up. Awkwardly. Aluminum lawn chairs sat none too evenly on sand.
My heart jigged. Definitely a man. And I was almost certain he was my neighbor. A blush heated my face as I remembered yesterday’s round of lovemaking with Kenneth, how this stranger had unwittingly been a part of it. A decidedly bizarre part. And I couldn’t help remembering, too, how I’d stared at him last evening.
Hope he isn’t psychic.
The man seemed to want to smile but seemed not to know how. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I must’ve been lost in thought. It really is quiet around here.”
“Yeah, that’s why I like no-wake lakes. The people who get rowdy and stupid go where they can play with their toys.” He gestured over his shoulder. “I’m in the place next door.”
“Oh.” I could’ve sworn my face looked like a piece of Atomic Fireball candy. “Were you the guy who was swimming yesterday?”
“Yeah, must’ve been.”
I felt a drizzle of relief. He was on the scruffy side and, if he hadn’t been my neighbor, could’ve been a deranged vagrant. As I regarded him, my relief became short-lived. He might be on the scruffy side but was definitely in the handsome neighborhood.
I extended a hand. “I’m Charlie Larkin. I just bought—”
“I know.” He gave my hand a firm, brief clasp. His expression didn’t change; that incipient smile still seemed locked within his face. “I’m Booker.” He glanced at the top of my head. “Why don’t you put on your shades? You look like you’re in pain.”
I felt above my forehead. “I forgot they were there,” I said with a nervous laugh.
Once the glasses were in place, I got my first prolonged look at the man. Dark stubble, not too heavy, ran along his jaw and circled his mouth. It matched the clean, tousled black hair that made half-curls on his neck and around his ears. He wore a clingy yellow tank-top that highlighted some of his assets—satiny, sun-browned skin; hard-muscled arms; a well-defined chest topped by nipples that poked the cloth into golden beads.
His unshaded eyes were startling. I didn’t even notice their color, just a faceted brightness and clarity overhung by black lashes. I wondered fleetingly if he was one of those Goth types who wore mascara. Only he didn’t look all that Gothy. He looked like … I wasn’t sure what. An itinerant mesmerist, maybe. The thought was so absurd it almost made me smile. Then I noticed he smelled good. Could’ve been his shampoo…
Oh boy.
I hoped he was leaving today. Booker was way more of a distraction than I’d counted on. In fact, I hadn’t counted on any.
He did a half-twist at the waist and pointed at the ground behind him. “May I have that?” he asked.
I tilted to look past him. He was a little taller than I, maybe six-one or six-two. “Have what?” I didn’t see anything worth having.
Turning, he took a few steps and snatched up the knot of tape and fishing line I’d earlier kicked aside. “This,” he said, holding it up.
A marble also gleamed from the mass. I blinked at it. Maybe that’s what he was after. Maybe he collected marbles. A lot of people did.
“I’ve been meaning to grab it,” he said.
“Is that your … stuff?” I’d almost said junk.
“No. That’s why I’m asking.”
Embarrassment overcame me. The shabbiness of my frontage must’ve been bugging him. “Hey, I’m sorry about how this looks. I was just going to start clea—”
“No, man, that’s not what I meant.” The smile finally broke through. An amused, disarming smile. “I don’t care what your beach looks like. Hell, this used to be nothing but tall grass and weeds and lily pads. Besides, it’s your place, not mine.” Booker briefly studied the bundle of flotsam as if it might be the missing piece of a puzzle. “I’m asking because I want it, that’s all.”
I shrugged and lifted a hand. “Then be my guest. Save me some work.”
“Thanks. Sorry I bothered you.” Another quick smile, a modest one. “You can sink back into your thoughts now.”
Booker turned and headed toward his cottage—a white clapboard structure. I recalled that in front, by the road, hollyhocks bowed and nodded over a white picket fence, their blossoms like the buttons on a clown costume. The wood of both cottage and fence looked like weathered bone.
I realized I didn’t know if Booker was the guy’s first name or last, and still didn’t know if he was alone at the cottage or not. I realized no wedding band glinted from his left hand and, immediately thereafter, that the lack of one didn’t mean anything. I realized his looks strongly appealed to me, and I was again ogling that luscious, rounded ass as if I’d never seen a man’s ass before.
Damned if he didn’t throw me off-balance more than my tippy lawn chair.
*
Raking, raking, and more raking. I hadn’t even attempted to fling the grappling hook into the water and start pulling out weeds. Truth was, I had a touch of hydrophobia, something I kept secret. I liked looking at water, listening to it, being near it. But ever since I’d fallen through pond ice when I was six, I wasn’t comfortable being on or in water.
That was another reason I’d bought a lake cottage. I hated being the victim of a baseless fear, and I intended to conquer that fear without other people around. I didn’t want anybody either babying me or ridiculing me. And I sure as hell didn’t want to piss away money on some therapist. I’d done enough of that after my separation from Carolyn.
Most of the crap I got off the sand was burnable, so I swept it into the fire pit. The rest went into trash bags, which I’d keep in the shed until I made a dump run.
Three hours later, I was sweaty and gritty and slightly sunburned, but my beach was groomed. The marks left by the rake reminded me of my grandfather’s hair, of its sandy color and the parallel, Vitalis-scented ridges carved by the teeth of his comb.
It made me feel better, I decided, to work than to work out. Gym sessions resulted in nothing except bigger muscles and a senselessly inflated ego. Labor was productive.
I leaned on my shovel like a f
armhand, wondering which aspect of this chore to tackle next. Two mallards landed on the end of my pier and preened, their feathers gleaming like abalone shell. I wished I had pieces of bread crust to toss their way.
Then Booker appeared. Just strolled over from his place, toting a twelve-pack of Leinenkugel’s Red and two can sleeves. He hadn’t yet gone for a swim today, so I’d been able to keep his image out of my mind.
Until now.
“Here, take a break.” Booker jammed the twelver into the loosened sand then sank down beside it, bare heels dug in, bare legs drawn up and parted. “I wanted to thank you.” He lifted the sleeves. “So I’m thanking you.”
I still had plenty of clean-up ahead of me, both outdoors and in. Moreover, being around Booker made me uneasy. I hesitated.
“Something wrong?” he asked, looking up at me. He wore sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes. I really wanted to see them. His face had beautiful bone structure.
“A twelve-pack isn’t a break,” I said. “A twelve-pack is an escape.”
“So? Escape.” Booker smiled.
I liked the way he looked. I liked it more each time I saw him. I liked his high cheekbones and stark, whisker-peppered jaw, a shallow divot marking the center of his chin. I liked his long nose, bent a little out of alignment, and handsome mouth. His lips, delineated by clean, soft lines, were just full enough to be alluring. I wondered how skillfully he used them … and silently chided myself for wondering.
“I shouldn’t,” I said in deference to my work ethic, and my common sense, and my conscience.
Booker kept looking at me. Finally, he sighed. “Have you ever walked through the pine plantation?”
“Which one?”
“The one right across the road.”
“No,” I said uncertainly, as if no could be the wrong answer.
“Do it sometime. It’s relaxing.” Booker flattened a hand on the twelve-pack. “Well? Do I open it or take it home?”
I stopped analyzing the situation and dived in. “Yeah, what the hell. Give me one.” I sat on the other side of the beer. I was thirsty, and Leinenkugel’s put out a good product.
“Hallelujah,” Booker said. “Type A just took a breath.”
Smartass, I thought, but I smiled. Again uncertainly.
Booker opened a neat hole in the cardboard, extracted a can, popped it into a sleeve, and handed it to me. He did the same for himself. “What happened to your company? Looked like you had a small crowd here yesterday.”
I slipped a finger under the key. The can opened with a crack and hiss. Before answering, I poured some beer down my throat. “They left. My ex-wife had a boyfriend and job to get back to. My … buddy Ken had to take his son to a ballgame today and then back to his ex-wife.”
“Lot of exes floating around,” Booker murmured. He tilted the can to his mouth and drank.
I watched how he placed his lips over the opening. A soft press, perfectly centered. I watched the bob of his Adam’s apple on his corded, clean-shaven neck.
“Do you have any?” I asked.
Booker lowered his head. Arms resting on knees, he swung the beer can in a short arc between his legs. “Nope.”
“You’re, what, twenty—”
“Six.”
That made him three years my junior. “Still footloose, huh?”
Too deliberately, Booker nodded. Took another drink. Touched the side of his hand to his mouth to daub the moisture.
My throat started feeling tight. “So … I suppose you’re heading out today.” I sucked more beer. Gradually, the tightness eased.
“No, I’ll be staying for a while.”
I nearly cursed out loud. I’d planned on spending at least two of my three weeks off at the cottage, and I’d just found out Sir Steamy would be right next door for much or all of that time.
My ultimate salvation, if not my comfort, now lay in other probabilities. First, that Booker was indeed a straight guy, and he wouldn’t be alone for long. Second, that I’d get so used to seeing him around, I’d just stop noticing him. Familiarity dulled the novelty of any experience. After a few days, I hoped, I’d start taking his presence for granted.
“Then you must be on vacation, too, huh?”
“Something like that.” Another tilt of the can followed by a long swallow. Booker regarded the tools and implements that leaned against trees or lay on the ground. He must’ve spied the grappling hook, because he said, “You going to try yanking the weeds out of the lake?”
“Yeah, I was planning to. I’d like some kind of swimming area.” Because, if I have any hope of enjoying this body of water from the inside, I sure as hell don’t want slimy tendrils wrapping around my legs. I didn’t tell Booker that, of course. I didn’t tell too many people, period. Everybody seemed scornful of everybody else’s phobias, obsessions, compulsions, and addictions. It was only our own we accepted as legitimate.
“Going to be a helluva job,” Booker said, standing up. “The lily pads are the biggest bitch. They’re pretty well established, so they’re really anchored.” In one smooth and entirely unexpected motion, Booker pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it near the beer. “My dad used to have an aquatic mower he secured to the side of his boat. Couldn’t clear a swimming area, though. Only an herbicide can do that, but I wouldn’t mess with those if I were you. DNR isn’t crazy about ‘em, either.”
I barely heard what Booker was saying. His body was every bit as gorgeous as I’d feared.
Chapter Four
Without any prompting, Booker simply grabbed the sturdiest rake and waded into the lake. I tried to stop him, but he said he needed the exercise and I needed to know what I was doing. No arguing the latter. So he laid into the weeds, scraping up the ones that were shallowly rooted and manually tugging at others, occasionally explaining this and suggesting that.
I worked the shore side. Of course. After Booker rounded up the displaced plants and guided them to the water’s edge, or tossed the larger ones onto the beach, I gathered them into a pile. I had to keep moving just so I wouldn’t freeze in place and stare at him.
I wasn’t paralyzed by lust—okay, maybe a little impaired—but the scenery with Booker in it was just so damned pleasing, I couldn’t help absorbing it into my fantasies. The tough flex and twitch of his chest muscles beneath a fine spray of black hair. His hard, straining arms with their rise of cable-like tendons and ropy veins. The shift and glide of his back muscles, more delicate but no less arresting than a sudden bulge of biceps.
The short stubble on Booker’s face glistened faintly in the sunlight as tiny drops of sweat and water became lodged there. Some of his soft curls stuck to his forehead and temples and nape. He worked hard. He was ruggedly handsome and strong and tenacious … and I, for the time being, had a walloping crush on him.
Then all fell to dust.
“Come out here, Charlie,” Booker called. “I could use your help for a minute.”
My stomach seemed to drop into my shoes.
Letting the fan rake fall from my hand, I walked to the edge of the lake. “I … can’t.”
Brows knit, Booker stared at me. “What?”
“I’m … I’m sorry.” The water licked at my shoes. Panicked for a second, I scrambled backward. “I can’t do that.” I felt short of breath.
Booker’s expression modulated from confused to curious. He came toward me, stepping high through the water and trailing the rake behind him.
I turned aside and walked over to our stash of beer, now reduced to an eight-pack. Bending over, I plucked out two cans, opened them, and offered him one.
“Why not?” he asked as he took the can from my hand. He held it to his forehead for a moment, obviously cooling his skin.
“We should stop now.” I indulged in a long swallow of beer. “I have to go in. I’m expecting a call.”
I knew Booker was studying my face from behind the screen of his sunglasses.
“Don’t you have a cell phone?”
/> “Yeah, but I forgot to bring it out here.” I tried to lighten things up with a smile. “Hey, you’ve busted ass enough. I really appreciate it, but this isn’t what you should be doing on your vacation.”
Keeping my gaze from sliding below Booker’s face required honed concentration. He stood no more than a couple of feet away from me, probably less, and I could feel the sultry heat of his body, could smell the mingled odors of sun-warmed weeds and lake water and clean sweat.
“I feel guilty about it,” I added. It was one whale of a Freudian slip.
“Why do you feel guilty?” Booker asked quietly. The question crawled with an undercurrent I couldn’t define, but it snaked through my gut. Then a shift took place, and the current was gone. “I don’t mind at all,” he said with casual good-nature.
“Thanks.” I lifted the can I still held. “For the beer and the help.”
“No problem.” Booker handed me the rake and snatched his shirt from the sand. He gave it a vigorous shake and slipped it on. “Keep the brew cold.”
This time, I didn’t watch him walk away. I felt relieved and regretful and ashamed all at once. Worse yet, I felt nibbled by a longing I couldn’t seem to dislodge.
I lifted the remaining beer and grabbed the bag of trash, eager to seek refuge in my cozy cottage. Booker called out my name. I turned in his direction.
He looked indecisive for a moment, then dismissively waved a hand. “Never mind. See ya.”
I deposited the bagged garbage in my little shed and hustled into the cottage. After housing the Leinie’s Red in my fridge and slamming down some yogurt, I showered and shaved. As good as it felt to be clean again, I was still restless. Maybe a stroll through the pine plantation would relax me. I wondered why Booker thought I needed to relax. Just how transparent was I?
Logic dictated that the rear of my cottage should’ve been the front of my cottage, since it was the side visible from the road. But lake dwellings were often constructed ass backwards, so their faces were turned to the water. I stepped out my back front door and across the trampled yard. My minivan, smears of bug-spatter on the windshield, was parked at an angle to the two-rut driveway. There was no actual parking area, so I and any visitors had to pull into the scrubby, sandy yard. I glanced to my right, where Booker’s property lay, but I couldn’t see much from here. Old crabapple trees and a hodgepodge of bushes pretty much blocked my view.
