Montana Rhapsody

by Susanna Solomon

  She set the blade of the paddle down. He took her hand and she winced.

  “What’s the matter, never met a working man before?”

  His palm was thick and calloused, and his grip was too tight.

  “Soft hands,” he sighed, holding hers a little too long.

  She noticed the smell of kerosene, and something else. Anchovies? He was studying her.

  “Sorry. Bait.” He slid his palms on his jeans. “Never seems to come off, no matter how hard I scrub.” He stared at her, mouth open. “What’s your name, honey?”

  She wanted to wipe her palm on the back of Beth Ann’s shorty-shorts, but there was too much attention in that area already.

  “Moll, Moll Flanders.”

  “Well, Moll, pleased to meet ya. I’m Tucker, Tucker Claymore.”

  “Where’d you put in?” She was about to tell him he was the first person she’d seen all day, but what was it that Stella always said? “Lesson One: Don’t tell them anything.”

  “I put in at Wood Bottom,” he said.

  “Wood what?” she asked. “Are you pulling my leg?”

  “It’s a landing, sweetheart.”

  Laura was never going to get used to this place.

  “It’s around the corner. It’s just a little ways off.”

  “They have a road there?”

  “Of sorts.” He spat a black stream into the sand. “You alone?”

  “Can you take me there?”

  “Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, and maybe never. I just got here.” He hummed as he dug into his tackle box. “We can have more fun right here, right now.”

  She wished she was wearing her stilettos.

  “You look a little tense. Relax. I’m just messing with you. I can take you over there when I’m, uh, finished here, my little angel.” He laughed, then turned his attention to the rod in his hands and starting reeling.

  He pulled up a three-foot-long, skinny fish covered with jagged ridges and held it out to her. “Whaddya think?” The fish hung from a bloody hook deep in its gills.

  “Horrible-looking thing,” she said. Where the hell was E.B.?

  “You got that right, sister. This is one piece of shit fish. Good eating and all, but the granddads in this river, the ones I’m looking for, they’re six feet long and a hundred years old. I’ve been searching for one for three years. What kind of friend brings you way out here and leaves you? That’s not what I’d do with a girl. What’s his name?”

  “World Wide Wrestling champion, Fearless Frank.” She laughed. “Silly names, I know, but he’s a lot of fun. How ’bout you? Ever work out?”

  Tucker laughed. “Sure, Monday, Wednesday, and God’s day, Sunday. I can do two hundred pounds easy in a clean and jerk. How ’bout him?”

  “What kind of fish is this?” Laura had only seen fillets on ice, or sautéed on her plates, hidden by browned panko. “The teeth on that fish look like something out of River Monsters.” Lesson Number Two: Humor him.

  “It’s a shovelnose sturgeon. Been around on earth since the dinosaurs. Older than dirt, like me.” He placed the fish on the shore, well away from the water, and as he worked the hook loose with a pair of pliers, he paused, looking her up and down.

  “On second thought, I don’t think your little friend will like it much if you just take off. Or, are you, you know, parting ways? Surprising the old man and running off with a younger guy? That’s cool.” He squinted. “Or maybe there’s another problem. Your little friend, he could be an asshole. Does he treat you right?”

  Leaving me alone on the river, yes, Laura thought. “Pretty much.” Lesson Three: Let them think they’re heroes. “You been fishing all your life?”

  Tucker stabbed his hook into three or four pink bait balls. He ran it over his thick, fat fingers. “He’s been gone a while? There’s nothing out here but the river and snakes. You like snakes, sweetheart?”

  Laura studied that hook. An inch long with a helluva barb. One way in, no way out. Sharper than the hatpin she carried as she walked out to her car at 2:00 a.m. “He should be back in a sec,” she lied. Lesson Four: Be smarter than they are. “Snakes—they’re not so bad.”

  “Not unless you see them hanging off your ankle or your arm. Then it’s goodbye, sister.” He cast his line. “How long have you been waiting?”

  She could feel his x-ray gaze boring into every part of her body, easily checking out Beth Ann’s too-tight top and shorty-shorts. Lesson Five: Tease them. “About an hour, I guess. It’s kind of hot and lonely out here.”

  The odor of stale tobacco and sweaty socks emanated off his clothes. He reached his hands out in front of him, and, stretching, cracked his knuckles. A tattoo—a black widow spider—ran up his forearm, the bright red hourglass inflating and deflating with the pulse of his veins.

  “Where’d you get your tats?”

  “Want a cold one?” He bent down, dug through a cooler, and tossed her a Bud. “Place in Vegas, honey, Pete’s Wicked Ways.”

  She caught the beer, cocking her hip the way the guys liked it at the club.

  He tipped his beer back.

  She studied his canoe. Full and floating. Better than the piece of shit she had. She could head down the river and find Campbell if she had to. And E.B.? He was on his own. Even if he caught up with them later, he’d paddle the rest of the way with Francine, or one of the airheads. Threesomes had never worked for her.

  “Ever seen muscles like these?” he asked. The skin around his tiny deep-set eyes crinkled.

  “I like a guy with a sense of humor.”

  Laura watched him, trying to decide when and how to make her move as Tucker dipped his fingers into a white and red tin and popped something in his mouth. He spat, took a sip, and spat again, a long stream of black into the tawny sand. He got up, spat a wad into the sand behind him, grabbed two more beers, and downed them in quick succession. “It’s not a bad combo, but you got to do it one at a time. Enough lessons, for now. Come here, sweetheart.”

  “Maybe later.” Lesson Six: Stay in control. His boat was full of junk—empty beer cans, tins, bags of clothes. Some short piece of twine. Nothing but crap. A plastic paddle rested against the seat. Drunk or sober, he could probably outrun her. But swim as fast as she could paddle? No. “Got anything stronger?” she asked.

  “Thought you’d never ask, darlin’. Out here every Boy Scout carries what we call ‘medicine.’” He bent down, dug through the gear in his boat, and handed her a flask.

  She took a big sip—almost fell over. Goddamn, that shit was strong.

  “White lightning,” he said. “Make it myself.”

  “My boyfriend keeps talking about the J-stroke, but I don’t know how to do it,” she said, gathering herself up as best she could. “Can you teach me?”

  “Baby, I bet I can teach you whatever you like. But it’s sure as hell not going to be about canoeing.”

  The plastic paddle wouldn’t make a dent in his thick head unless she hit him with the edge of the blade.

  She watched him run his hand all over his thin, sparse hair.

  He looked sideways at her, pointing at the flask. “Knock it back, and you’ll stop worrying about that boyfriend of yours. Love the one you’re with, that’s my motto.”

  “To your big fish.” Laura toasted him, then pretended to take a big sip. “Thanks.”

  “Smooth, isn’t it?”

  She sat down beside him and patted him on the shoulder. “Once a stranger, now a friend, Tucker.” She handed him back the flask and grinned.

  He drank, resting the bottle against his mouth. A dribble ran down his chin. “Enough of this baby. Give us some sugar.” He reached over and grabbed her leg.

  “You’re such a tease,” she murmured and pulled away.

  A strong breeze shot down the canyon. Laura hoped the dust and grit would blind him. She rubbed the edge of the blade with her thumb. Puny little thing.

  He grabbed her around the waist, pulled her toward him, and pressed his mouth
on hers.

  She pulled back, jumped to her feet, and slammed him with the paddle, the edge of the blade right in the middle of his head.

  He opened his eyes in surprise, blood running down his forehead. “Baby, baby, if you wanted foreplay, all you had to do was ask.” He grabbed her legs.

  She twisted out of his grasp and pushed him. He fell back in the dirt, moaned, got up on his hands and knees, and spat.

  She pulled back on the paddle. Before she could hit him again, he lunged, wrestling her to the ground, then reaching for her arms.

  Squirming away and up until she was over him, she slammed the paddle down on his head and shoulders, hitting him again and again until he was still.

  Keeping her eye on him, she grabbed the bit of twine, rolled him over onto his face, and tied up his wrists and ankles. Neat and tidy, like she’d been taught at the club. Nearby a family of crows settled into the branches of a downed tree.

  She ran for his canoe, threw in her paddle, and pushed it toward the water. Damn thing was heavy with all the gear. No time to empty it now. Watching his breathing, she slid, pushed, and shoved the canoe into the water with a soft slide, stepped into the water, got in, grabbed her paddle, and, pulling as hard as she could, moved away from shore.

  Barely. Damn. Five feet from the beach the canoe ground out. She stepped out and pushed. Climbing back in, she pulled harder on the blade, making progress at last. At ten feet out the water was only a foot deep. She took another bunch of strokes, trying not to hit the bottom with the blade. Each time sliding the paddle in and pulling as hard as she could, pushing water, trying to get the goddamn canoe to move a little faster.

  On shore, the crows extended their wings.

  To her right, a floating log, and beyond it, thirty feet away, the current flowed. A bunch more strokes to get around the log would do it. She dug in hard to turn and felt the canoe slow down. “What the fuck?”

  Squawk! Squawk! The crows flew up in a cloud, breaking over her head.

  “Shut up, you dicks!” Laura dug in with her blade, but the canoe was hung up on the tree. She stood up on her knees and pushed branches away and took another stroke, twigs crackling underneath her as the canoe slid past. She was almost around the log—five more strokes would do it. “Now!” she shouted, feeling free at last, and pulled her paddle through the water too hard. The canoe headed inland. “No!” She shoved the paddle into the water on the other side, pushed water away, and felt the canoe turn. “Yes! Yes!” she shouted, and aimed toward the middle of the river.

  “Going somewhere, sweetheart?” Tucker, standing waist deep in the river, flung out one outstretched hand and grabbed the boat.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sunday, late afternoon land

  LAURA

  “My little bird, you don’t want a kiss?” Tucker tightened his fingers on the rail, pushed down, and let water pour into Laura’s canoe.

  She put her paddle over her shoulder. “Goddamn bastard!”

  “You little vixen. Fall for that once and think I’ll fall for it again? Some of the world loves smart people, some of them love idiots, and I love you.”

  Laura swung.

  He caught the shaft of the paddle with his free hand and pulled her toward him. “Drunk, bleeding, or confused, honey, I still recognize love when I see it.”

  “Piece of shit, get away from me!”

  “Easy as picking chickens out of a henhouse,” he crowed. And tipping the canoe farther, he grabbed her leg, and with one strong move, yanked her into the water.

  She dropped into a warm fog, blind, panicked, and felt herself bob up, her life-jacket up around her ears. She gulped air and went down under again, this time not closing her mouth fast enough. Tasting dirt, she kicked hard and popped up again, the level of water even with her chin. She spat out water, gasped for air, and took her bearings.

  “Hey!” she yelled. “Hey, asshole!” He couldn’t hear her; he was on shore now.

  The current pulled her downriver like a train. She moved her arms and legs but kept hurtling down the middle of the river faster and faster. Had E.B. said anything about rapids? Rocks? More hidden logs? She couldn’t fend herself off of anything; she was going too fast.

  The shore was sliding along, too far for her to reach. Marsh grass, sand. If only she could reach land. Two hundred feet downriver, rock cliffs came straight down to the water. She was heading straight for them. She lay down on her stomach, put her face in the water, and kicked and stroked as fast as she could right toward the bank, ahead of the cliff. She took a try to go sideways. Found something good. She was still moving downstream faster than she wanted but the shore grew closer. Ever slowly, closer.

  Barely able to move inside the bulky life jacket, she kept stroking with her arms and kicking. She kept her eye on that cliff and kicked harder. It seemed to grow over her head, looming there, waiting for her.

  A hundred feet from the cliff she felt herself drift. Arms and legs expended, she could feel the fight had gone out of her. She couldn’t move this hard much longer.

  She wasn’t going to go down without one last fight. She kicked hard, harder, felt something different. A fish? A turtle, something squishy? She fought on, found more of it. Something under her toes. Her toes felt a gooey, sticky, slimy softness. The mud sucked at her flip-flops, threatening to take them off. She kept swimming, until both her elbows and knees touched mud.

  As wavelets broke over her face, Laura inched her way forward, spitting water. The cliff was fifty feet away, but here marsh grass sucked at her toes. She’d never felt so happy. Twenty feet, fifteen feet to good, hard land. Crawling on her hands and knees, she stood up, a bit unsteady and breathing hard. Under her feet, blessed sand.

  “You look like a pissed-off mud guppy.”

  “What the hell?” Laura turned her head and screamed. That asshole Tucker had followed her the whole way.

  “And you used to be so pretty.”

  If she was going to die, at least it would be on shore. She’d have a better chance of getting in one lick against the asshole before going down.

  She eyed him.

  “I would’ve let you use my boat if you’d asked nice,” he said, crossing thick arms over a beefy chest. He paused, perusing her body. “Have a few beers, Tucker, huh? A little whisky? Hit me with a paddle? Thought that would feel good? What do you think I am, an idiot?”

  Trembling all over, she caught her breath. “Not one of my best ideas, I guess.” He towered over her.

  “Did you enjoy your swim?”

  She tightened her toes over the rubber nub in her flipflops and grabbed the straps on her life jacket. Two inches of foam provided scant protection. So this is how it ends, she thought, on a godforsaken piece of shit river out in the middle of fucking nowhere.

  “You didn’t find my bottle of Everclear. That one’s yours,” he smirked. “Now it’s my turn to get you loaded.”

  “I have an idea,” she said, hoping she would think of something and fast.

  Tucker looked at her, a mixture of pleasure and pain crossing his face.

  Nothing new about that look. She felt like meat every night at the club. Big fucking deal. She knew men. Think, girl, think. She picked up some pebbles and rolled them in the palm of her hand. Her shorts rode up on her tush. Sand and mud streaked the backs of her thighs.

  “An idea, eh?” He touched her hair, making her cringe. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a crust of mud on her lip.

  He pulled her arm and kissed her, his fish-tasting mouth filling hers. Letting him claw and clutch at her, she looked over his shoulder, and spotted two canoes in the distance.

  Never ignore the obvious, Mr. Lee always said.

  “Yeah, and it’s a good one too,” Laura said, hoping her voice held the conviction that would fool him. “Let’s talk a walk and see what kinky stuff I have in my boat.”

  Once E.B.’s canoe was within reach, she turned toward Tucker, gave him a soft, shallow kiss, and
, holding her breath, helped him gently onto his back, pressing him down so that the top of his head rested against the canoe. He eyed her, keeping one hand on her arm.

  “No more dirty tricks, my little vixen. My turn now.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she giggled, “but we play this way in LA. Makes life a bit more exciting, yes?” She smashed her mouth onto his, keeping her tongue well inside her own mouth and her teeth tightly closed. He probed her teeth with his tongue, looking for a way in.

  With one hand, she caressed his stubby face and oversized nose. She smiled, letting her breath warm his face as she eyed the four straps in the canoe E.B. had left on the braces, two just above Tucker’s shoulders. Tucker’s hands roamed her back, her buns, while she eased one end of the strap loose and slipped it into her hand. She had to move slowly. His hands moved faster.

  “I’ve been looking all my life for someone like you,” she whispered. “Caught me off guard, I guess, coming up on me like that.”

  “I like my girls wet,” he mumbled.

  She smothered him with kisses and tried not to gag. His rough cheeks rasped her chin.

  “Tucker,” she mumbled into his ear. “I’ve always been an S and M type of gal.” She ran one hand down his side and slipped it just below and inside the top of his jeans.

  He groaned his assent.

  “I’ll make you a bet. This’ll be the best sex you’ve ever had.”

  His eyes grew wider.

  She burned her lips onto his mouth. His hands took on a desperate air.

  “Slow down. Easy, easy,” she crooned. Taking one hand, she traced his fingertips, rubbed his left arm, and brought her boobs down to his nose.

  He muffled approval.

  She eyed the straps, lifted up his arm, all the while crooning and moaning and wiggling, so that his wrist was over one of the braces in the canoe. Moaning false pleasure, she eased his hand back and tied it to the brace, giving the strap ends a good, tight knot. Then doubled it.

  “Hey!” Tucker said, trying to tug his hand free.

  “Don’t you like S and M? I’m a top,” she exclaimed, this time letting his tongue touch the tip of her tongue. Any more and she thought she might barf. “And you’re a bottom, I surmise?”