by B. C. Sirrom
The Wager
By Lisa Goldman
Wretched fishermen.
The Wharf bustled with customers, beginning to drink themselves into intoxication. Most were men reeking with the same stench as the four who just entered the establishment. But whereas the bar had hummed with chatter, it now erupted with echoes of the fours good fortune. The rippling effect caused my listless approach of watching and listening to be nearly impossible.
Apparently, the men made a bet with the crew from The Wager to determine who could catch the most tuna. To the fours delight, the men from The Wager lost.
Gloating and cheering, they order a round of beers and butted fists or slapped the other patrons on the back.
Their merriment was nauseating.
I gulped down my scotch and ordered another from the barmaid. I came to Seaside, to the Wharf, to wallow in my depression alone. Allison, my BFF since childhood, accused me of running away from my problems. Maybe I was, but I had every right to be angry, sad, and every other emotion that comes with the death of a loved one. Five years ago today my husband Jonathon and my daughter Lizzie died. At seven months pregnant, I hadn’t even had the chance to hold her tiny fingers in my palm or feel her warm breath on my cheek.
Tears burned my eyes; blinking them back, I placed my hand on my stomach.
That bastard truck driver.
Minutes before midnight, we were driving back from celebrating Jonathon’s mother’s birthday. The swishing of the wipers and the rain droplets lulled me to sleep. I hadn’t awoken until I heard the tires screeching and Jonathon’s shrieks. My eyelids popped open in time to see the headlights from the big rig a moment before it plowed into our car head-on. Jonathon and Lizzy died on the scene. I never had the chance to say goodbye or I love you to either of them. That part stabbed at my heart daily and I’ll always regret how they were taken from me.
After internal surgery, I spent weeks in intensive physical therapy. I used to wonder why I survived when Jonathon and Lizzie hadn’t. Often when I thought of them, the air became thick and suffocating and I spent a lot of time alone. As the days turned to years, it got a little easier but on Jonathon’s birthday, on holidays, and especially on the anniversary of their deaths, my family and friends seemed to come out in droves with good intentions of comforting me. It only made things worse so I left my hometown by jumping in my car and just drove. After three hours in the car I called Allison because I wanted at least one person to know why I left and make sure an APB wasn’t issued for my disappearance. She didn’t think I should be alone and offered to drop off her kids at her mom’s and meet me. I adamantly declined.
With no real plans, I didn’t know where I would end up but by my fifth hour of driving it was dark. I checked into a quaint, dilapidated motel in Seaside. When I woke up in the early afternoon hours the next day I ran down to the beach, inhaling the salty air and letting the sand squish between my toes. Eventually I sat and listened to the waves swish in and out as it lapped against the shoreline and docks farther down. I watched the seagulls circle above, a family fishing from their boat, and the larger commercial vessels dock. How long I stayed I couldn’t say but it felt relaxing—therapeutic. I knew I’d made the right decision in coming here.
That was before night fell again when the dreaded midnight hour and anniversary of Jonathon’s and Lizzy’s death neared.
I opened my eyes, jerked back my head, and chugged my shot. I slammed down the glass and said to the barmaid, a tough looking broad with leathery skin and straggly bleached blond hair, “Cheryl, give me another.”
“Maybe you should pace yourself,” she said pouring my shot. She had tattoos running up each arm that disappeared under a scanty tank top.
I narrowed my eyes. I’d had four maybe five shots in the past two hours and was feeling good but nowhere near the inebriation that would allow me to forget. I didn’t need her worrying or her crap and said diplomatically, “I’m not driving. I’m staying at the motel next door so really… I’m pacing myself just fine.” Feeling my irritation grow, I grabbed the bottle of scotch out of her hand. “In fact, I’ll take this.”
Her mouth dropped like she wasn’t expecting my reaction but she recovered quickly. “I’m only watching your back.” Her eyes scanned the crowd where high testosterone cheers rang out before they fell back on me. “Look you’re a pretty girl and some of these guys haven’t seen or been with a girl in weeks.”
I shrugged making my expression indifferent.
“Fine but the scotch is expensive and I don’t want any trouble. Perhaps you should pay your tab.” She laughed uneasily. “You know, while you’re still lucid.”
I mustered my most enduring smile and pulled out my wallet. “Perhaps I should.”
Before I could pluck my credit card out a wad of cash was slammed down beside me. “I’ll pay for it.” The male’s voice was deep with a hint of an accent like he hadn’t been back to his home country for many years.
My eyes traveled from the money to a large hand and all the way up to a burly six foot tall man with sun-kissed skin and muscles that flexed with his slight movement under a tight fitted tee. He had deep-set dark eyes, jet-black, curly hair, and a short scruffy beard like he hadn’t shaven in weeks. He reeked of fish and salt water. He wasn’t any of the fishermen I’d observed moments ago but he was definitely a fisherman. My eyes traveled over him again, one who could pass as an underwear model.
I looked him directly in the eyes so he’d clearly understand my assertion. “It’s your choice but I’m warning you now, I’m not some cheap bimbo you’re going to hook up with because you bought me some scotch. If that’s what you think you can take your money and go.” Cheryl patted my hand, gave me a tight approving smile and moved onto another customer. I focused back on burly, hot dude. “I’m not interested in hooking up and I’m definitely not interested in a conversation.”
For half a second he looked hurt. Glancing at his muscular chest that was at my eye level and back up to his bad-boy face, I doubted he’d had many rejections. Precarious sexual positions with him flashed across my mind. God knows I hadn’t done it in what felt like forever but how could I when Jonathon and Lizzy’s deaths were the reason I ended up here?
His lip curled into a sideways mischievous smile, making him look even sexier.
I felt my lips curl into a flirtatious smile. Stop looking at him that way, I scolded myself and forced a frown.
“How about we have a little wager? I’ll pay for the scotch either way.”
Curious, I raised my eyebrows. Since the accident, I’d had jobs on and off but I battled depression and constantly called off work. The inconsistency left me drained on funds and this side trip wasn’t helping the situation.
“We share the bottle and drink at the same time. We can go as fast or as slow as you want but whoever gets the last full shot wins.”
I stared at the bottle. The fine line of liquor through the dark glass indicated it was a little over half full. “We’ll know when it’s close to the bottom and either of us could pour ours first.”
“True, but we’ll drink the same amount and since I’m a gentleman, the lady’s always comes first.” He gestured to my glass.
After a moment of consideration, I doubted he knew how many shots were left. The game was based on luck and seemed fair. “Okay,” I said still reluctant. “You said you’d pay either way so what do you get out of it?”
“Simple. If you win, I pay and then I walk away.”
“But if you win?”
“If I win, you kiss me.”
I laughed. “I’m not having sex with you and I’m not looking for a conversation.”
He smiled mischievously, his lips disappearing under his whiskers. “I understand. It will be your choice but I’m a gambling man. You’ll change your mind.” His voice flirted between confident and predatory.
I chuckled. Gorgeous and conceited. Maybe the night wouldn’t be so awful after all.
I leaned over the ed
ge of the bar, grabbed another shot glass and handed it to him. “Pay up.” I took my full glass and the bottle and headed for an empty table in the corner.
He didn’t drill me with questions or make small talk as I expected. Instead he stared at me with such intensity I thought he was undressing me with his eyes, and part of me wanted him to. I felt my cheeks burning in a blush, which made him smirk triumphantly. We’d finished our third drink and I couldn’t stand it any longer. I broke our silence. “Are you a fisherman from the winning boat?”
“No. I’m from The Wager but I’m also a lover of the sea…among other things.”
I continued asking questions and he answered only when prompted. Nearing closing I found myself feeling the numbing effects from the spirits and I told him about Jonathon and Lizzy. He sympathized and grabbed my hand over the table. Despite his original cockiness and now nurturing side, I sensed he was holding back like an untamed roughness about him was ready to burst out. What I couldn’t figure out was if it was part of his game to get me talking—or more likely into bed—or if it was his personality.
Again, an awkward silence fell between us and I felt a blush rising on my cheeks once more. I glanced at a framed painting behind his head. The picture featured a large, winged sea-serpent with golden eyes. The creature swam in the ocean with a town in the background. A small, engraved brass plaque was attached to the bottom of the frame. I squinted to read it.
“It says ‘Beaucaire, France’,” he said without turning. “It’s from my hometown. I gave the picture to Cheryl a few years back.”
“Oh? It sounds like there’s a story behind it.” I lifted my glass and drank it.
Following my lead, he drank his and refilled both of our glasses. “The artwork depicts the myth of Drac. He is the monster you see, born at the bottom of the Rhone River.”
With my elbows resting on the table, I leaned forward placing my chin on my fisted hands eager to hear more.
“According to the legend, he seeks a woman who can see past his imperfections to love him in his true form.”
“And what is that?”
“He doesn’t like being a sea serpent but he is what he is: a monster. And I’m not just talking about his serpent form. He’s impulsive and demanding. If things don’t go his way he sets forth a catastrophic rage that can be felt hundreds of miles away. So you see, he doesn’t just believe he is a monster, he knows it.”
I glanced at the picture again, at the fiery rage in his eyes but I thought they held a sadness too. “Did he ever find his true love?”
“Once he thought he did. In 1250, he courted a lavender seller. She went willing with him to his castle at the bottom of the sea, although others say she was abducted. She gave birth to his child and spent seven years with them. His kingdom was attacked. Their child died and she wanted nothing to do with him. He brought her back to the village but he couldn’t stay away from her despite her verbal refusals. One day, she had had enough and was telling everyone at the market of the monster that lived in the river. He ripped out her eyes but his rage didn’t stop there. He killed over three thousand villagers and knights before he calmed back down.”
I was torn between empathizing with Drac or the townsfolk. “What happened to him?”
He shrugged. “Armies tried and failed to kill him but eventually he just disappeared. Some believe he died of old age. Others believe he is still living at the bottom of the Rhone River.”
“What do you think?”
He put on that mischievous grin that made me want to reach out, draw him close and kiss him. “He’s searching the world one port at a time for his true love.”
I sighed. Despite the devastation, it was romantic.
For the first time since we started our game, he took a swig of his scotch first. I followed, swallowing the smooth liquor too.
Cheryl came over. “Closing time.”
I picked up the bottle, swishing the liquor around. “Not much left.”
He took it out of my hands and held it up to eye level. His mouth pressed into a straight line. He filled my glass and when he poured his, it only went half way up. He tilted his head back, poured in the liquor and slammed the glass down. “You win.”
“I win,” I repeated as my slow intoxicated mind caught up. Then my voice turned excited. “I win, I win!” I pounded a fist in the air, stood up and danced unsteadily in a circle.
He chuckled and in my last twirling circle, I stumbled and fell face-first into his chest. I froze. A part of me wanted to be in his arms but another part of me was scared.
His large fingers reached up and tilted my chin up. “I would’ve liked that kiss but no hard feelings, Miss…”
He let his words trail off. I debated giving him a fictitious name but I decided against it. “Treasa…Mrs. Treasa Bronson.”
“Ah…a woman with a strong heart and soul.” His accent sounded more pronounced.
“Huh?”
“Treasa. It’s Irish for strong. Is it not?”
“I suppose. I don’t know.”
He dropped his hand. “Perhaps we shall meet again Treasa.”
I liked how my name rolled off his tongue.
He walked backward, his dark eyes piercing mine as if he was drinking in my features for one last time. My heart throbbed. I yearned for his lips to reach mine as his muscular arms cradled me.
As he turned and went out the door I sucked in a breath. The air was suffocating. I hadn’t felt this way over a man in years. It was probably the alcohol, I told myself even as my staggered walk turned into a jog.
Panic rumbled up from my stomach as I stepped into the empty parking lot. My head whipped from side to side. He couldn’t have gotten far. I moved closer to the docks, thinking he was probably heading for his boat.
I searched for fifteen minutes, finding only other drunken sailors who whistled in passing and gave me the feeling of stalkers. Finally I gave up and headed next door to my motel. I was almost at my door when I spotted him meandering on the beach. He was looking out to the rolling waves, the full moon lighting his profile like a backdrop.
“Wait!” I shrieked, the adrenaline of finding him temporarily sobering me up as I ran toward him.
He turned and ran toward me meeting me halfway. “What is…”
I grabbed his shirt in my fist, yanked him toward me and kissed him. He gasped under my lips and after the shock disappeared, he kissed me back. Hard and heavy. His arms wrapped around me as he lifted me off the ground. My legs willingly wrapped around his waist. My thighs tingled with anticipated yearning. I nibbled at his lower lip. He tasted like sweat and salty ocean water. I arched my back and pressed my breast against his chest. God, I couldn’t get enough of him. I wanted to rip his shirt and pants off and lie naked on the sand. He moved his mouth along my jaw line inching back to the tender area under my ear. He inhaled my scent as I ran my fingers through his luscious thick hair.
“Make love to me,” I whispered.
His muscles tensed and then relaxed. A throaty growl rumbled from his mouth. He took long, quick strides toward the motel with me still enveloped around him.
Jerking my head back from sucking on his earlobe, I asked, “Where are we going?”
“I need a shower.”
What? My hormones took a jump back. I nudged my nose into his neck. “I don’t mind.”
“Which room?”
One-handedly, I dug my key of out my purse and handed it to him. He jammed it in, unlocking the door and carried me over the threshold. I slammed it shut as he lowered my feet to the ground. The floor swayed slightly and before I caught my bearings, warm wet lips found mine again. The kiss turned hungry as he pushed me against the wall. I squealed. His lips moved down my neck and to the crevice between my breasts. I fumbled to unbutton my shirt. The cotton fabric finally slid off my arms and over my fingertips. Moaning as his lips moistened the lacey bra above my nibble, I weaved my fingers through his thick hair.
He pulled back and gave m
e a quick peck on my lips. “God, I want you. You have to know how beautiful you are but I won’t take advantage of you. No regrets, okay?”
I opened my mouth to tell him that I had none but he held up one finger to my lips. I nibbled at the tip then closed my mouth over it, pulling back and sucking it to the end.
He growled, nuzzled his face in my neck and let go. “I’m taking a shower and if you still want this when I’m done, I’ll be the luckiest man alive.” He waggled his eyebrows teasingly and went into the shower.
My mind and body didn’t stop simmering because he left the door cracked. Steam billowed out. His profile was half-hidden behind a flowery curtain but I still watched, letting my imagination fill in the gaps that my sight lacked. Water ran over his tilted head, down his back and over his tight, muscular buttocks. He turned, facing the faucet and a traitorous squeal escaped my mouth. I jumped away from the door but not before he flashed me a playful grin.
With my choice made, I undressed, crawled under the sheets and waited for him.
