by Nell Stark
“I’ll make you an omelet in the morning.” Corrie was liking this idea more and more. It would fool Quinn into thinking that she wasn’t just a sex fiend. “And Frog will sleep at the foot of your bed, if you let him.”
Quinn’s face lit up. “All right,” she said. “I’ll stay. Thank you.”
“Not a problem. Let me show you your room.”
Once she was certain that Quinn had everything she needed, Corrie left the guest room and returned to the kitchen to clean up. She found herself humming as she loaded the dishwasher, and grinned sheepishly at herself in the hall mirror as she finally returned to the second floor. It felt nice, somehow, to have another person in the house, just being—even if the fact that they weren’t fucking was simultaneously threatening to drive her through the roof. What the hell is going on with me?
She paused outside the guest room and heard the slight jingle of Frog’s collar. Lucky dog. “Good night, Quinn,” she called. What are you wearing to bed? Nothing? Doubtful. Just your T-shirt, or...
Her cheerful mood evaporated as she suddenly considered pushing the door open. It would be so easy to step inside the room, pin Quinn to the bed, and kiss her until she stopped protesting. I could make her want me enough. I could make her give in. It’d be so easy. With an effort, Corrie shook her head and backed away. These mood swings were getting way out of control.
“Good night, Corrie,” said Quinn, her voice muffled by the door. “Thanks again.”
Corrie felt a hot trickle of shame run up her neck and into her cheeks. Thanks. She said thanks. And you were seriously contemplating going in there and making it so she wouldn’t want to say no. Turning away before her mind could change again, she went to her bedroom, closed the door, and threw herself down on the bed. Damn you, Denise, she cursed silently. If I’d never met you, I wouldn’t be like this.
In the past, these bouts of self-chastisement had often lasted for hours. Mercifully, the fatigue of the past few days claimed her almost immediately.
*
Just a few minutes after nine o’clock, Quinn let herself into the apartment as quietly as she was able, only to find Drew sitting in the kitchen and drinking a cup of coffee. His injured leg, still in a brace, stretched out perpendicular to the table. At her entrance, he quickly turned toward the door.
“Out all night, Quinnie Quinn Quinn?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Where have you been, huh?”
“Hush, you,” she said, shutting the door further behind her. “I just spent the night at Corrie’s, that’s all.”
Drew bolted up from the table so quickly that his coffee sloshed over the top of the mug. “You did what? Oh no, I should have known she’d try something like—”
“Drew!” Quinn said sharply. When he stopped his tirade, she pointed at his vacated chair. “Sit down.”
He did as she told him, though his fingers twitched spasmodically against the armrests of his chair. “Now listen to me. I spent the night in Corrie’s guest room, because I was too tired to drive home. I didn’t…I really don’t appreciate you leaping to conclusions like that.”
Drew looked embarrassed and opened his mouth, but Quinn forestalled him with one raised hand. “And I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, so will you stop worrying?”
“You don’t understand,” he said. “She’ll want you one minute, and the next minute you’ll just be her friend. She’s more than a little bit predatory, Quinn, and I don’t want her to hurt you.”
Quinn stood still for several seconds, considering Corrie’s demeanor over the past several weeks. Predatory? Sometimes. But mean? Never. Quinn felt certain that Drew was only seeing the surface image willingly projected by Corrie to the rest of the world. Arrogant, sexy, and casual—fun, but slightly dangerous—yes, Corrie was all of those things. But, she was also vulnerable and gentle and hurting and compassionate. Quinn felt the ghostly echo of Corrie’s fingers against the back of her neck, and in that moment she felt very strongly that she was privileged to see further beneath the surface than perhaps anyone had before. Maybe I’m just naïve. But you know what? I don’t care.
She squeezed his shoulder lightly. “You don’t know everything about her,” she said. “So don’t you go judging, okay?”
Drew sighed. “Okay, okay. Sorry. I just overreacted.”
“Besides,” said Quinn, hoping she wouldn’t blush, “it’s not like that at all. We’re just friends.” Quickly, she turned toward her bedroom. Drew knew her too well. If he saw her face, he’d realize she was lying.
Because we’re not just friends, Quinn finally dared to think. She wants more...and so do I.
Light and Variable
Corrie shoved her keys in her pocket with one hand and slid open the bottom drawer of her desk with the other. She bent closer to inspect the row of videotapes before finally selecting two from near the front. When she straightened up, Jen was lounging in the doorway.
“Did you finally manage to kick that motorboat off the pier?” She shook her head in disgust. “Those idiots looked like they were giving you a hard time.”
Corrie grimaced. “Apparently, Will told his frat boy friends that they could park at the dock for as long as they wanted. Or so they said, anyway.” She moved out from behind the desk, then leaned against it. “They were sloshed. I made them leave and then called the sheriff.”
Jen grinned. “Excellent.” She gestured toward the tapes in Corrie’s hand. “What’re those for?”
“Footage from old regattas. I want Quinn to see what some real races look like so we can start simulating them.”
Jen looked at Corrie skeptically. “Isn’t it a little soon for that? You guys have only been practicing for what, two weeks?”
“We’ve got to pack in a lot if we want to do well.” If we want to beat them.
Jen cocked her head. “And that’s the point, here? Doing well?”
Corrie huffed a sigh. “Don’t give me that. Quinn is into this. She wants to learn, so I’m going to teach her.”
Jen cocked one eyebrow. “And is sailing the only thing you’re ‘teaching’ her?”
“Very funny, ha ha.” Corrie rolled her eyes at the innuendo.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s none of your business!”
“Ooh,” said Jen. “This is serious.”
Corrie shrugged, knowing that Jen would read into her nonchalance. “I like her.”
“You like her?”
“Yeah. She’s nice. She’s fun. I enjoy spending time with her.” Corrie very nearly had to bite her lower lip to stave off laughter. Jen’s face was priceless. Her eyes were practically bugging out of her head. This will be all over the boathouse by tomorrow morning, she thought smugly. The more real she and Quinn looked, the better. But, then the guilt stirred in her gut, hot and sharp. It’s not like I’m lying, either. I do like her, and—
“Are you telling me,” said Jen, “that the notoriously untamable Corrie Marsten is finally thinking of settling down with someone for more than one night?”
Corrie shrugged again, hoping her conscience would get the message. “Maybe. We’ll see.” She deliberately glanced down at her watch. “I’ve got to get going. I don’t want to be late.”
“Corrie’s got a da-ate. This is unbelievable!”
“Yeah, yeah.” She gestured for Jen to proceed out the door before her. “No need to sing about it.”
“Are you kidding me? I think I may write an entire musical about this!”
Corrie looked at her sternly. She had to at least make it look like she didn’t want the rumor afloat after all. “Vetoed. Period.”
Jen smiled sweetly, fluttered her eyelashes, and began buffing her nails against the shoulder of her T-shirt. She didn’t move. “What incentive will you give me to keep quiet?”
Corrie folded her arms under her breasts. Two could play at this game. “I won’t tell Drew that you’re crushing on him.”
Jen’s eyes widened in surprise. “What?”
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately.” Even as Corrie smirked, she watched Jen closely, hoping to discover whether what she suspected was true.
“He just feels left out, you know, since everybody is sailing except him.” Jen was clearly backpedaling. “And me.”
Corrie winked. “Of course.” She felt another stab of guilt, though, at the memory of going home with him a few weeks ago. You’ve gotta tell me these things, kiddo, she thought uneasily. She gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”
Jen cleared her throat and promptly changed the subject. “So hey,” she said as they walked down the hallway, “you should bring Quinn along to Block Island.”
Corrie raised her eyebrows, realizing that in the chaos of organizing the regatta, she’d forgotten all about the instructors’ annual weekend trip across the Sound to Block Island. Next weekend, already. “You know, maybe I will.”
“Brad says he’s going to beat you there this year, FYI. He’s been talking a lot of smack whenever you haven’t been around.”
Corrie shook her head. “What a crock of shit! I guarantee he’ll be riding my wake into New Harbor.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him you said so,” said Jen, laughing. She stopped just inside the front door. “You have a good night, now. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Corrie just rolled her eyes once more in Jen’s direction before shouldering her way through the door and into the warm, moist air of the early evening.
*
Quinn surveyed the shirts hanging in her closet, nibbling absently at her bottom lip as she tried to figure out what to wear. The short-sleeved pink Oxford was too baggy, and the white tank all by itself felt far too revealing. She took a step back and ran her fingers through her hair, pausing briefly to work through a tangle.
“This is ridiculous. We’re having Chinese food and watching old sailing videos. It does not matter what shirt I wear.”
Except that it did matter, for some reason that Quinn truly did not wish to examine very closely, and Corrie would be ringing the doorbell any minute, and if she didn’t have any shirt on at all—. Quinn couldn’t suppress a hysteria-tinged giggle as she considered the consequences of greeting Corrie in her bra.
Focus, focus, focus, she told herself, returning her attention to the closet. Not that one...no, and not that one either...and definitely not that one! Her hand abruptly fell on a black, three-quarters-sleeved top that her mother had bought her during a spring visit last year. Quinn had never worn it anywhere but in the dressing room. She’d proclaimed it far too tight, but her mother had insisted that the shirt would act as incentive for Quinn to drop a few pounds.
Quinn started to put it back but found herself pulling it off the hanger instead. The shirt was surprisingly comfortable, despite its snug fit. And yes, it accentuated the fullness of her torso, but...Corrie likes my curves, she reminded herself shyly. And it sure looks a lot nicer than the grubby T-shirts I’ve been wearing to practice in for the past two weeks.
The doorbell rang. Quinn’s reflection stared back at her with wide eyes. “Choice made,” she said, before moving quickly toward the door.
Corrie stood on the other side, holding two videotapes in one hand and a bag from China Express in the other. Quinn sniffed appreciatively. “That smells really good.”
Corrie swallowed hard, her eyes roving up and down Quinn’s torso. Oh man. I’m gonna have trouble tonight! She very nearly made a flirtatious repartee out of habit but quickly suppressed the impulse and followed Quinn inside. “One order of orange chicken and one General Tso’s. Did I do okay?”
“That sounds great.” Quinn stood on her tiptoes to grab plates from a cupboard. “I bought some beer for you,” she said. “It’s in the fridge. I hope it’s a kind you like.”
Corrie set down the food and opened the refrigerator. A six-pack of Miller Lite lay on its side on the second shelf, and she grinned at Quinn’s thoughtfulness. “Aw, thanks,” she said. “That’s really sweet.”
A few minutes later, they were settled in front of the television, their plates heaped with food. Corrie watched Quinn as she fumbled with the remote. That clinging black shirt was only reawakening her memory of just how heavy and full Quinn’s breasts had felt in her hands. Cut it out, she told her simmering body.
“I...um, I like your shirt,” she said lamely. “Is it new?”
“Sort of.” Quinn twisted around to face her, and Corrie was pretty sure she was blushing. “So, these videos, they’re tapes of past regattas?”
Corrie, who had already begun to shovel food into her mouth, nodded and rapidly swallowed. “The one we’ve got in right now is last year’s Invitational, over in Newport. Same kind of course as we’ll sail in a few weeks.” She wiped her mouth, took a swig of beer, and gestured to where over a hundred boats were milling together near the starting line. “The first challenge of any race is actually the start. With so many boats, it’s tough to get in good position for the upwind leg toward the windward buoy.”
“I can see that,” said Quinn, her eyes wide.
“It’s important for both of us to watch for holes—gaps that open up between boats. Often, you can take advantage of a hole to gain a better angle of approach.”
“Okay.” Quinn nodded. “I think I understand. It’s the same principle as in horse racing; I read all of the Black Stallion books as a kid. Except that horses don’t need to tack.” When Corrie laughed, Quinn grinned back.
“A good start is important,” Corrie said as the gun was fired and the boats began to head upwind, “but it isn’t everything. No matter where we are in the pack, as soon as we cross that line, the goal is to keep the boat as tight and as steady as possible.” She glanced over at Quinn. “You’re already good at the upwind leg, so I wouldn’t worry too much. Just do what you’ve been doing.”
“It’s the spinnaker that still has me worried.” If I do something wrong and we broach in a race, we’ll lose for sure!
“Watch the raise,” said Corrie, pointing at the leaders as they rounded the windward mark. One after another, their spinnakers popped open for the first reach to the jibe buoy. “You know exactly what they’re doing,” she continued, her voice low and almost hypnotic. “You’ve done it all week. It’s the best feeling, isn’t it? When the chute pops and the boat just goes, like it’s actually alive.”
Quinn was smiling again. How could she not in the presence of that much joy, that much passion? She could see it on Corrie’s face, hear it in her voice. Intensity, obsession, focus. And above all, love. “Yeah,” she said. “Yes, it is.”
“And now the tough part,” Corrie narrated. “Jibing the pole. Remember, whenever we round one of the jibe marks, don’t you worry about the chute at all. I’ll have it in my hand, and I swear I’ll keep it full. Just get that pole switched as smoothly as you can. Okay?”
Quinn swallowed and nodded, her eyes still intent on the television where the sailors in the video were struggling to do what Corrie had just described. One boat’s spinnaker nearly landed in the water as the skipper and crew lurched around the buoy. That will not be us. We’re not even going to break stride. No way. When she realized that her palms were sweating, Quinn rubbed them against her shorts.
“Make sure you eat, too,” said Corrie, jabbing her fork toward Quinn’s untouched plate. “You’ll bonk at practice tomorrow for sure if you don’t eat.”
“Bonk, huh?”
Corrie looked affronted. “Hey now, that’s accepted sports lingo.”
“Yes, Skipper,” Quinn said demurely.
Corrie sat back against the couch, a smug grin curving her lips. “I could get used to hearing that more often.”
This time, Quinn noticed the way that Corrie’s gaze lingered over her breasts. She turned her face toward the television in an effort to hide the color she could feel creeping across the bridge of her nose. God, it feels so good when she looks at me like that. Too good. “Don’t count on it.”
*
<
br /> They went systematically through the tapes that Corrie had brought. Sometimes they simply watched the races. Other times, Corrie pointed out and explained certain strategies or mistakes. By the time the last race had given way to the empty blue screen, the sky outside was completely dark, and the crickets were enthusiastically putting on a symphony.
Corrie leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. Do we really have a chance? A might-have-been and a novice against two former Olympians?
“You know what’s weird?” Quinn’s voice cut through her nervous introspection, and Corrie returned her gaze from the ceiling to find Quinn sitting Indian-style with her back to the television. Her left knee was almost touching Corrie’s right thigh.
“What?”
“I’ve been sailing with you every day for two weeks now. We’ve been working hard, and I’ve been sore sometimes, and tired, but...” She shrugged as her voice trailed off. Corrie had no idea what she was trying to say, but since it was clearly something difficult, she nodded encouragingly.
“But I still weigh the same as I did before we started training,” Quinn finished all in a rush. She risked a quick glance at Corrie before looking down at her knees. “Why is that, do you think?”
Corrie took a deep breath, all thoughts of the race disappearing. Careful, now, she told herself. Quinn’s weight was a sore subject, and it would be easy to say the wrong thing. Or to say the right thing the wrong way. “Well,” she began cautiously, “for one thing, muscle weighs more than fat. You’ve been building a good bit of muscle. Hell, just look at your arms now, and that muscle is heavy.”
Corrie paused to gauge Quinn’s reaction. So vulnerable. The thought suddenly made her want to feel Quinn’s deliciously soft body yielding beneath hers, and she grabbed hold of the couch to keep herself from reaching out.
“For another thing,” she said after she had cleared her throat, “I’m a firm believer that each body has a weight—or really, a weight range—that it wants to be at. Some people naturally gravitate toward a skinnier physique.”
