Lovers Catch

by Dani Stowe

  “How about this?” starts Pike. “How about you go with me to the Pirate Fest tonight?”

  “You mean the Booty festival?” I snark. “Where everyone shakes their booty?”

  Pike laughs, but it’s true. The annual Pirate Fest falls on the Friday following the summer solstice. It reportedly started two or three hundred years ago as a celebration to honor the founder of our town, Averill Leahman, who was a captain in the British Navy a few hundred years ago. It wasn’t until recent years that historians discovered some naughty truths about the Captain, and the festival has turned just as naughty. Sure, there’s a parade and a bunch of kids’ stuff for families like balloons and a petting zoo, but once the sun goes down, Main Street turns into a Booty festival. Students from the nearby university show up just after dark and boobs and beer litter the street as asses stuffed in short shorts jiggle to the pumping sounds of raunchy pop songs. The whole town is into it. It’s the one night where it seems acceptable for everyone, young and old, to misbehave.

  “You don’t have to show your booty,” jokes Pike.

  “Won’t you be working?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but you can keep me company. Main Street will be packed, but believe it or not, it can get boring for the first few hours until the sun goes down. Then it gets crazy. I can have someone take you home at nightfall or you can hang out and shake your booty. It’s up to you.”

  “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I ask as Pike pulls up to Aunt Cora’s house along the shore.

  “I would, actually. Yeah,” he replies smiling as he throws the cop car into park in front of the beach house that looks more like a pool shack.

  I can’t help but smile as well while I check out his ass as he gets out of the car. I’m so fucking horny for some reason. I felt like this at the hospital, too. It’s an unshakable yearning, as if I want to be with someone. I finally feel like I want to connect with someone, almost the way Yanka and Blue seemed to instantly connect.

  Pike opens my door and helps me out. Of course, I could be feeling like this because of the whole hero thing. Pike looks good in his uniform. What girl doesn’t like a man in blues? Pike saved my life and I don’t think it’s unreasonable to want to fuck him...

  But I do feel a little irritated. I wonder if Yanka is fucking Blue right now.

  Chapter 6

  Blue

  THESE DAMNED FUR BAGS won’t stop yapping!

  “I don’t know why they’re behaving so poorly,” Yanka states as she snips at another lock of my hair. “They usually settle down by now after they’ve met someone new.”

  She walks away, leaving me in the bathroom to quiet her pets, but they yap louder with more anger like they are trying to warn her about the unnatural creature she invited in to share their space. I’m getting tired of all this noise. It hurts my ears and I’m not used it. I’m used to the voices of whales as they sing their love songs to their lifelong mates.

  The lights flicker as a flash of bright light pierces through the windows, which is followed by a boom that vibrates heavily through the skeleton of Yanka’s wooden house.

  “Oh no!” cries Yanka. “I hope it doesn’t rain,” she says and pauses to study her fur bags. The animals are quiet. “Well, that shut you all up, didn’t it?”

  I hear a few more whines from two of the four dogs and thunder cracks through the sky once more. The sound is so close it almost sounds as though it's ripping from one end of the ceiling to the other across Yanka’s pink and white house. Its enough to keep her nasty critters from making any another peep.

  Yanka continues to cut my hair, pulling out a fat wand of some type that makes a lot of noise and I push her hand away. “I’m not going to hurt you with it,” she insists. “I’m just going to use the clippers to trim the sides.”

  Taking a big breath, I watch her in the mirror. She puts the clippers to my head and, surprisingly, it feels good, but I’m not so sure about the loss of hair. I’ve never had hair this short, not even when we had an infestation of head lice aboard the Annabelle, my most favorite and last ship I sailed on. I wouldn’t let the portly captain allow the butcher to cut my hair. I took a lashing for it, but the good captain grew fond of me after that—I stood my ground. Of course, we are brothers now and I’ve grown fond of him, too, but I’m glad I haven’t seen him in a decade. I certainly don’t want him to know I have legs just yet—he’d be jealous.

  When Yanka appears to be finished, she looks in the mirror and drops the clippers. “Heaven help me,” she says, grabbing her chest. “I cannot wait to take you to the festival tonight. I have never seen anyone as handsome as the likes of you.”

  My face flushes with embarrassment and I look at myself. Truthfully, I think I look like an officer of our Majesty’s Royal Navy, like my brother, the Captain. His uniform always looked freshly pressed and his wig perfectly curled with fresh white powder, which made his gray eyes sparkle like diamonds. Spoiled rich brats in command are the only ones who could afford to look so...clean. That’s how I look—clean.

  I wish I could say the same for Yanka’s home. It’s ironic she works in the hospital where she was so sterile about everything—always washing her hands, sometimes wearing a mask, and folding tape and sheet corners so they were at perfect sharp angles.

  But her home? There are way too many frilly things hanging from every corner of the house—on the doors, on the handles, over the magic box that provides entertainment. Humans seem to like their magic boxes, but it’s hard to watch when Yanka’s large kettledrum holders are blocking the view as she stands between me and the mirror finishing my cut. Plus, there are mountains of makeup spilled and sprawled over every countertop from the bathroom to her bedroom and I wonder if I should mention my suspicion of rouge as making women go mad from back in my day when I was a sailor.

  I also can’t get over the hair. There’s hair everywhere—dog hair, cat hair, Yanka’s hair.

  Yanka rubs her hands through my new, shorter mane and her fingers feel good on my scalp, making my eyes close. As I feel the heat of her breath close to my face, I open my eyes and she tries to kiss me, but I put my head down to look at my legs, a reminder of why I’m here, so her lips smack against my forehead. I can tell Yanka is disappointed as she lets out a small, impassioned huff that warms my face.

  “You have someone, don’t you?” she asks.

  I close my eyes. I don’t want to say anything and I’m glad I can’t.

  “That’s okay,” she says coming behind me as she brushes the cut hair off my bare shoulders; although it’s not the hands of the girl I came for, I enjoy Yanka’s touch. She hugs me from behind and speaks in my ear. “I’m going to be so good to you,” Yanka says, “that I’m going to make you forget all about where you came from and whoever it is that seems to have forgotten all about you.” Yanka bends down to nibble on my ear, sending a blissful tingle through my chest, hips, and down to my legs until I am covered in goosebumps.

  I’ve missed this—being with humans and being human. More than anything, I’ve missed the touch of a woman, especially from a sexy, beautiful woman, which Yanka is surely. And there is a small piece of me that wishes she could, indeed, make me forget the last nearly three hundred years.

  Chapter 7

  Shelley

  I HEAR A SIREN; IT’S Pike coming to pick me up. I check my face one more time in the mirror, gazing at the gash on my head held together by two small stitches. It hurts, along with the rest of my body. I have scratches on my knees, bruises on my bottom, and I can still see tiny bits of dirt embedded deep in the scrapes on my palms.

  I turn my palms away. I’m tempted to read them to see if they can give me any clue as to what happened to me since I have no idea what happened.

  I also wish I could call Kumiko. She knows a little bit about what led up to my amnesia. Plus, I owe her for saving my life by calling the sheriff, from halfway across the planet, to come look for me.

  As I’m looking at my stitches again in the mirror, I
see one of Aunt Cora’s paintings in the reflection. She loved to paint. She painted the whole house, both inside and out, the same teal color of the sea when it’s reaching over the sand on a bright sunny day. The painting, hanging by a fish hook with fishing line, is of me as a chubby child with rose-colored cheeks wearing a tiny red tube top and a tiny red skirt with a big cheesy smile as I hold a fish in my palms; Catch of the Earth, she entitled it. I don’t know why she’d paint me playing with a blue-green fish, which has almond-shaped rather than round blue eyes that look almost human.

  It makes me laugh. I never touched fish as a kid; I thought they were too slimy and she knew this. “Don’t be cruel to creatures of the sea,” she used to say, “even though they will be jealous of you. The sea will forever be jealous of the earth because it’s the earth that holds the sea.” Aunt Cora liked to speak in riddles. Sometimes, their meanings were clear as day, while at other times, I had no clue as to what she meant.

  Pike sounds his siren again and I hustle out of Aunt Cora’s beach house in my cross-back, short, coral halter dress that scoops low in the front. Pike comes out of his car to greet me and hands me a bouquet of long-stemmed, white, tiny, but tightly packed flowers.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “I thought you might like them. Your Aunt liked them. I used to catch her picking them on the side of the road.”

  “You know they’re weeds. Right, Pike?”

  Pike tosses them down to the ground with the rest of the weeds growing in the dry, sandy soil of Aunt Cora’s front lawn. “Shit! If I had known that, I swear I would’ve stopped at the florist. I just thought maybe you were the type who preferred au natural.”

  I laugh as Pike opens the door for me. “So, what the hell would your aunt pick them for?” he asks.

  “Her potions and lotions and stuff,” I say as I get in the car. “People paid her a lot of money for that junk.”

  Pike peeks down at me. “If she put it in her love potions then maybe I should pick it back up and give it to you.”

  I laugh again. It’s cute; I never saw Sheriff Pike so charming and I can’t help but allow my eyes to wander over the small hints of skin allowed to show beyond his long-sleeved sheriff’s uniform as we head to the Pirate Fest.

  I know he’s taking his time to get there because other officers keep calling him on the radio to ask him what’s taking so long. I like the attention, but if he tries any harder in pursuing me, I’m going to have to tell him I have no plans to stay in this town and I’m sure it’ll ruin the night for both of us.

  When we get to the festival, it’s just as I remember. Main Street is flooded with kids in pirate costumes carrying plastic swords as parents chase, scream, and wonder why they allowed their youngsters to arm themselves with pointed weapons. Dads wear fake beards with fake parrots on their shoulders while moms are dressed like sluts. It’s the one night of the year where it’s okay for every mother to be sexy and let her bosom and bottom hang out.

  It smells like a carnival and Pike buys me a pretzel and a beer. It’s sad he can’t drink with me, but I feel comfortable knowing I have a designated driver instead of being the driver for a change.

  After Pike buys me a second beer, I question whether he’s trying to get me drunk so he can put some moves on me later, but I can tell he’s starting to regret asking me to come as his date. As we walk through the street, his eyes and mind are so busy trying to keep up with everything going on he can hardly finish a sentence through our conversations.

  After a couple of hours, and my fourth beer, Pike leads me to a tattoo stand and asks me to wait so he can check on some kids reported as missing. I don’t mind he has to go; I like watching tattoos being made. I watched Kumiko get a dragon tattoo over her shoulder and down her arm like a sleeve. I didn’t have the heart to tell Kumiko Aunt Cora thought it was a bad thing to do because she believed Kumiko cursed herself by putting a dragon on her arm. Of course, I don’t believe any of that and I enjoy watching the level of detail that goes into a tattoo and the artist’s commitment to the art of also inflicting pain on another human being. I enjoy watching patrons flinch, especially those that cry.

  This is the tattoo artist’s busiest night of the year. Half the town will wake up in the morning with a permanent symbol of regret and the later it gets into the night, the bigger the tattoo and regret will be.

  I watch a woman tighten her face and squeeze her eyes shut as ink is stabbed a hundred times a minute into her soft flesh atop the upper portion of her breast. Her tattoo looks like the face of the man standing next to her. When I see him, I can’t help but feel remorse for her. He’s not bad looking, but he does have a Mohawk and the artist has decided to include the enormous fake clip-on hoop ring I assume is supposed to make the guy look like a pirate. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t look anything like a pirate and neither does the handsome guy sitting nearby.

  My heart skips a beat as the guy sitting down looks familiar, but I don’t know anyone that looks that good. He smiles with amusement as he watches the woman laying on her back, having her breasts tortured, squeals. His smile is as wide as the ocean and the idea floods my mind—the two of us. Together. On the beach. In the sand.

  The thought is peculiar and I finish my fifth beer then toss it into a trashcan as I try to maneuver myself between the crowd to get a better look at the guy.

  He’s sitting in a wheelchair and I see a hand come up from behind him to tap him on the shoulder. As the woman is bending over to speak in his ear, his smile gets even bigger and he looks up to her, so she bends further to give him a quick peck on the cheek. She hands the handsome man a beer before she turns to watch the torture and she brushes her blonde hair away from her face. It’s Yanka.

  I feel sick. Blue is fucking hot with the short haircut Yanka gave him and the clothes she dressed him in—snug jeans and a trendy fitted light blue cotton shirt. I look down at the coin dangling around my neck and feel like a dumb ass. I’m such a horrible person! I don’t know why—maybe because I’m drunk, but I want him. I want Blue.

  I look back at them and this time he’s looking at me. My body shivers as a breeze blows through the street and the crackling of thunder resounds above. My head tilts up towards the sky as flashes of light ripple through the clouds and the entire crowd of festival attendees gasp as thunder rolls through our skulls, hands, and to the center of our bones.

  I look back at Blue, but unlike everyone else, he’s not looking up—he’s still watching me. I see him nudge the wheels of his chair as the crowd begins to thin.

  Suddenly, a hand wraps around my elbow and Pike starts to pull me. “Let’s go this way,” he says as rain pours like a heavy shower out of nowhere.

  I hesitate, but then Yanka pushes on Blue’s chair handles so I follow Pike. People are screaming, holding their hands over their heads as they make their way towards any dry place they can find, which is nowhere.

  Pike continues to yank on my arm and leads me to the old library at the center of Main Street; we walk into the century-old, thick, wooden doors. The book repository is well-lit and smells like mold. It’s also chilly inside so I smooth my forearms with my hands to wipe the rain away and I feel myself sway. I think I’m tipsy.

  “Hi, Sheriff,” a redhead with ruby red glasses wearing a long black and white floral skirt and conservative yellow top, says to Pike. She seems to be in her early thirties, too young to be dressed in ol’ lady clothing. I wonder how I’ve never seen her before. “Hello, Shelley,” she says to me and I’m annoyed.

  “How do you know who I am? I don’t know who you are?” I say, pointing in her face. I wouldn’t normally do something like that, but I’m feeling brave. Must be the booze.

  “Someone may have had too many beers,” replies Pike as he puts my hand down for me.

  “I’m Athena, the librarian and the City Council recently gave me the title of town historian. Sheriff Pike also employs me as well,” she says too proudly for someone who I know wasn’t born here a
nd probably shouldn’t have been entrusted with so much. Not to mention, her chin goes up too high when she speaks, like she’s some kind of goddess among her pillars of books, but I know what she really is—a nerd.

  I roll my eyes and Pike rubs the back of his head. I’m horny but he’s not gettin’ any tonight.

  “Listen,” he says to Athena, “can I leave Shelley with you? I know you’re only supposed to be open as a designated shelter area for emergencies, but I need to get back out there to ensure some order.

  Athena’s lips open and quiver, “Uh....” is all she says as her tongue stumbles back and forth between her teeth. She’s not remotely interested in being my babysitter until she catches a glimpse of my chest. “Where did you get that?”

  “I’m guessing my mother,” I say as I look down at my tits, which look awesome in this dress. It’s funny to me she’d even ask, but Pike isn’t laughing when he corrects me.

  “She’s talking about the coin, Shelley, so why don’t you stay here and you two can talk about it and I’ll be back in a little while.”

  Athena nods, so Pike leaves and I feel awkward. Athena reaches to my chest and grabs the coin. She flips it around between her fingers as she removes her glasses to get a closer look. This woman does not understand boundaries! I tilt my head back when, suddenly, I’m on my ass.

  It hurts, but the feeling of falling felt good for some odd reason and an image of the bay floods my mind. It reminds me of my childhood as well as something peculiarly unfinished. It felt good to fall until I landed on the ground.

  “Are you okay?” Athena asks as she helps me get to my feet. “Let’s sit down.”

  She leads me to a big table between several bookshelves; I stumble a few times thanks to the buzz I have from one too many drinks. Athena helps me and it’s plausible I may have been too hasty judging her, as she seems very sweet in helping me to sit down—until her voice sours.