"I'll grab this one," he called. He leaned over the edge of the boat, his taut body stretching as he yanked the buoy closer. It was a thing of beauty, and it would have been a glorious moment if Cole wasn't seconds away from taking another dip in the ocean. He still didn't understand how to keep himself balanced against the weight of water.
I raced to his side but it was already too late. He lost his leverage and pitched overboard trying to regain it.
"Fuck me," I muttered under my breath.
Cole swam to the surface and shook the water from his hair. "I don't know what happened there," he said.
He looked up at me with bright eyes as if he was unaware that he'd upended my life in the short days since his arrival. As if he could take a header into the water—twice—without me wanting to spank and then swaddle him. As if he didn't know I'd spent the past two nights squeezing my eyes shut and forcing my brain to focus on anyone but him while bringing myself to silent, unsatisfying orgasms. As if I could survive this newfound companionship without coming apart at the seams.
"I don't know how any of this happened," I said through a sigh.
6
Arc of Visibility
n. The portion of the horizon over which a lighted aid to navigation is visible from seaward.
Cole
This town—if you could call the tiny collection of homes, boats, and roads that—was charming. Small and storybook quaint, and humble. The people here were decent, honest, salt of the earth. All the things snotty dickheads like me said about people who lived simply and worked the land and sea.
And no one gave a shit about me. At least that was how I was interpreting the reception I'd received in the past few days. The folks in town were curious about Owen's houseguest, sure, but they were more interested in my boat than my origins or identity. The sailors and fishermen in the area wanted the lowdown on my vessel, and they accepted me without qualification.
I couldn't decide whether I'd overestimated my celebrity or underestimated the allure of a beautifully crafted sailboat. It had to be some combination of both.
That, and the realization that Silicon Valley was a weird little jungle gym composed of ambition and backstabbing, gossip, and crazy wild money. We in the Valley—and sometimes, California as a whole—liked to believe we had it right. We knew the way, and everyone else just had to hurry the hell up. But living in Talbott's Cove and working the decks forced me to reconsider all that. I was beginning to believe that this was right, and the Valley was missing out on something essential.
It was a learning experience, this past week with Owen. We were both particular, but Owen erred on the side of anal retentive perfectionism, and I didn't understand that shit. I was a night owl, and I figured a lifetime on the water had formed Owen into an early bird. He was a Red Sox fan, and—apparently—I was wrong.
But it was a good week. Great week. I learned things I'd never considered—separating lobsters based on size and sales channel, tying knots for every conceivable purpose, maintaining a lighthouse—and basked in the warmth of Owen's approval every time I got it right. He was an antisocial grump to be sure, but that didn't make him any less of a good man. And he was good.
When finished hauling in his lobsters for the day, Owen turned his attention to fishing tuna, haddock, cod. He sold some directly to restaurants along the coast, but he delivered most of it to a farm-to-table co-op program that distributed fresh fish to nursing homes, veterans' hospitals, and public schools. He was a member of the Talbott's Cove town council because—according to Owen—he wasn't going to let some yahoos take over.
The guy practiced what he preached, and there was something about that—about being a man who I could respect and admire—I found devastatingly sexy. I had to drag my gaze away from his thick, powerful arms every time he pulled a trap up from under the sea. Or when he planted his feet wide on the deck, his shoulders tight and his long stare traveling over the water like he was a ruler appraising his kingdom.
Owen was strong and sure, and I wanted him. In every possible way.
If I was even half as strong or sure as Owen, I would've told him I was attracted to him. I would've told him I wanted to kneel at his feet and rub my cheek on his thighs, and beg for the privilege of serving him.
But I wasn't, and I didn't.
I rationalized it all away as fear of wrecking the good things I had going here, but that wasn't it. I was afraid of rejection. His rejection. I preferred to be the one who did the rejecting—as fucked up and shallow as that was—and I didn't know how to make the first move.
Oh, I thought about those first moves. Thought about them all the fucking time.
The old stretch-an-arm-around-the-shoulder bit while watching television. Some flirty dinnertime chatter about how he liked his meat. Another fall overboard—intentional this time—and another excuse to peel off my shirt.
I mentally choreographed every one of those moves, but never executed any of them. The rejection would kill me, and kill this idyllic break from my reality. Instead, I followed Owen everywhere he went. Less lost dog, more cat in quiet heat. It was painful, all this self-denial, but Owen declining my advances would hurt more.
The worst part was the ticking clock. The knowledge that my time in Talbott's Cove was limited. Work on my boat was slow and spendy, but it would end right along with the summer. Not that I brought up my departure, and Owen didn't ask.
Neera: Any update on your expected return date?
Cole: Not that I have planned, no. I believe I was instructed to take the summer. My understanding of meteorological summer is that it ends on September 1. If we're talking astronomical summer, it ends on September 22.
Cole: Thusly I won't consider a return until sometime between or after those dates.
Neera: Are you still on the Atlantic?
Cole: Is my name still on the masthead as founder?
Neera: I sincerely hope that isn't a serious question.
Cole: Wasn't sure how quickly things would change.
Neera: You're exceptionally argumentative.
Cole: If that's what you want to call it, fine, but I'm just doing what you recommended. I'm out of the picture, not making noise or starting problems, and I'm not interfering with my replacement.
Cole: I can't see how that's problematic.
Neera: It's not. I only wanted to get a sense of your timing so I could best support your return.
Cole: I'm working on something new. I don't want to talk about it yet but I'll keep you looped in when I have something to share.
Cole: Does that work?
Neera: I'll make it work.
7
Slack Tide
n. A short period when the water is completely unstressed and there is no movement in the tidal stream, before the direction of the tide reverses.
Cole
"May I join you?" I asked, leaning through the doorway to the porch.
Owen was kicked back in his chair, a book in his lap and a tumbler of whiskey by his side. If there wasn't an interesting ball game to watch after dinner, Owen often settled on the porch and I holed up in my room. I'd made good progress with a handful of new ideas I was testing out, but I was climbing the walls tonight.
I didn't mind the routine we had going here—awake before dawn, on the water all morning, fish markets followed by work fixing up my boat in the afternoon, dinner around sunset, bed shortly after—but I needed something more tonight. Back in California, most of my days were spent talking. Taking calls, sitting in meetings, hearing from my coders, arguing with my board. There was always someone or something that required my attention, and being here with Owen was still strangely quiet for my tastes.
Gesturing to the open seat beside him, Owen said, "Yes, but I have some conditions."
I stepped onto the porch, thankful for the slight drop in temperature from the heart of the house. The air was still heavy and thick, the day's heat and humidity continuing long after sunset. Only the slightest breezes blew in
off the water, and they were laced with the pungence of seaweed and marsh.
"Anything," I said, dropping into the open rocking chair. Before coming to Talbott's Cove, I would've ascribed rocking chairs to grandmothers and nurseries, and nothing much else. But these were just right.
"No questions," Owen said. I bit back a groan at that. "You've asked all the questions necessary, and I need a break." I opened my mouth to reply, but he held up his hand. "No. No, this isn't an opportunity to ask why. Just live with it."
"I'll try," I said, rocking back in the chair. I could see why Owen enjoyed this. It was just like being on the water. "It would be really terrible if I died of curiosity though."
Owen snarled and set his book on the table beside him. "How would that even happen, McClish?"
I held out my hands, shrugging. "I can think of a number of ways," I started, "but I'll keep them to myself. I don't want to bother you."
He hissed out a breath and I was convinced he grumbled, "Oh, for fuck's sake."
I had to suck my lips between my teeth and bite down to keep from laughing. "We don't need to talk," I said. "We've got the ocean and the stars, and there's no need to talk. This is great. You do you, Bartlett."
I glanced over at him. He was sighing and grumbling as if I was causing him physical discomfort. At least he couldn't turn himself on with those sounds. I did not possess the same immunity. With my hands folded over my crotch as casually as I could manage, I gazed out over the water and focused on identifying all the constellations I could find. It was good, distracting work, and it would've kept me distracted if not for Owen's huffing and snarling.
Such a moody one, this Owen Bartlett.
"All right," he said, finally breaking free of his sigh-a-thon. "How would one die of curiosity?"
"Marie Curie comes to mind," I mused. I leaned forward, my arms braced on my thighs, and studied the Japanese beetles congregating on the screens. The yellow glow of the porch's overhead light attracted them, but the screens held them off. They were small, pea-sized, but their low hiss called to mind the sound of old-fashioned dial-up. I imagined they were sweltering, too.
"How do you figure?" Owen snapped. "She discovered radium."
"Oh, yes, and polonium," I agreed. "It killed her."
He reached for his whiskey and took a hearty gulp. "Right. You're not discovering new elements tonight."
"And the cat." I sat back, nodded toward him.
The lighthouse blinked on the far end of the cove, the brightness illuminating his features. My fingers ached to trace the scruffy line of his jaw, stroke my thumb over his cheeks, scratch my nails along his scalp. My skin was flushed from the unrelenting heat but now I was hot. Hungry, too.
Owen waved his glass in front of him. "What cat?"
He was getting riled up, and I loved that shit. A few days ago, I pretended I didn't know the difference between flat head and Phillips head screwdrivers for the simple pleasure of his exaggerated reaction.
"The one killed by curiosity," I replied. "That cat. Poor bastard."
Owen sighed as he shook his head, but it morphed into a chuckle. Soon, his shoulders were shaking as he laughed. I laughed too. I couldn't help it. The deep, full-bodied sound was contagious.
"I don't know about you, McClish," he said as he patted his belly. "I just don't know."
"What do you want to know?" I asked.
We hadn't ventured into the realm of discussing more than the basics of my life, and that was good enough for me. Owen knew I owned a technology firm—didn't think it was necessary to mention that it was the biggest one in the world—and I lived in California. The rest of it was just details, and I couldn't find a reason to share them with Owen. It wasn't that he wouldn't care or wasn't interested, but that I didn't want to spend all of our time talking about me. He and this quaint town were the most interesting things I'd ever encountered, and I wanted to soak up all of it.
He considered his whiskey for a moment before saying, "You're from California? That's where you grew up?" He sipped, and then shot me a sharp glance. "It would explain a lot."
He didn't look at me long, and that was fair. I wasn't much to look at. Bruised, swollen, blood dried black around the laceration. I rarely indulged in vanity but I wasn't accustomed to being hideous.
"I am," I said carefully. I longed for a drink to occupy my mouth and hands. I hadn't thought that far ahead before venturing out here. "But—I mean—not the California most people associate with California."
Owen regarded me over his glass, an eyebrow bent. "There are multiple Californias?"
I murmured in agreement. "Northern and Southern," I said. "But there's more to it than that. It's a collection of ecosystems more complex than anything contained within conventional notions of statehood." Both of Owen's eyebrows were arching up into his hairline now. "When people think of California, they think of Los Angeles and San Diego. Surfing, beaches, girls roller-skating in bikinis. But that's not the whole story. You have the South Coast but also the North and Central Coasts. There's the Sacramento Valley, the San Joaquin Valley, and The Valley. There's the Cascades, the Sierras, and the Inland Empire. And then there are the big cities. Bay Area, Los Angeles, and San Diego."
"That was an extremely long way of telling me that California is a big place," he said. "This is why you're not allowed to talk."
I leaned toward him and rapped my knuckles on the arm of his chair. "I forgot about Orange County. Add that to the list."
"Is that where you live?" Owen asked. "Or where you're from?"
He grabbed the front of his t-shirt and fanned himself with the fabric. I thought about inviting him to take it off. Strip down. If that didn't offer enough relief, we could wade into the water and hold each other under the ripe moonlight and…ahhhh. I went from zero to pervert in three seconds flat.
I bobbled my head, trying to shake that idea loose. "No and no," I said, laughing to stifle a growl of desire. "Like I said, people associate California with beaches and bikinis, but that's not how it is for everyone. I grew up about three hours east of San Diego, right along the Colorado River and the Arizona border. It's hot and dry and mostly flat, and the only kind of trouble you can get into out there is stupid trouble."
"You speak from experience," Owen said. "Nearly running your boat aground isn't your first brush with being a damn fool, I take it."
Why did I enjoy this man's insults so much? I couldn't explain it, but I wanted him to keep going. Pick apart my privilege-soaked preferences and deride my expensive polo shirts. Tear down my quirky-for-the-sake-of-wonky mannerisms. Strip it all away.
"If you're asking whether I hacked into Agua Fria High's student information system and deleted all of my unexcused absences from skipping ninety percent of my calculus classes—" I held up my hands and then let them fall. "Then, yes, I might've found myself in a bit of trouble."
"Of course," Owen muttered.
"But I'll have you know," I added, "I only got caught because I took the final exam. The teacher didn't recognize me. I should've skipped that too, and then hacked back into the SIS to give myself a grade. Should've. Didn't. Me and my goddamn morals."
Owen stared at me for a long moment, his eyes narrowed and his brow crinkled. "Are there any consequences in your world, McClish?"
"There are," I said, breaking away from his gaze. "There are definitely consequences." I cleared my throat as I sneaked a glance at him. His attention was on the stars now. "Anyway, I live in Palo Alto."
"Which is in the Bay Area," Owen supplied. "Near San Francisco."
"Right," I said. "My sisters are all over the place. One in Denver, the other outside Baltimore. My mom lives in Palm Springs now. I tried convincing her to check out Balboa Island or Marina del Rey, but she prefers the inescapable heat. I only visit her in the winter. I can't deal with summer in the desert. I feel like I'm trapped in a dehydrator and turning into beef jerky."
"You'd make for some fine jerky," Owen said, laughing.
&nbs
p; "As would you, Bartlett," I replied. There was no humor in my tone, but I couldn't hold back the smile.
"I'd gnaw on you," he continued, eyeing my torso.
My heart was in my throat, thumping fast as I tried to breathe, swallow, think.
What the actual fuck was happening here? Was he…hitting on me?
No. Of course not. This was an awkward bit of humor gone astray, not a revelatory moment where we simultaneously flashed our queer cards.
Or maybe it was exactly that moment.
"I'm not a piece of jagged, dried-out meat," I said indignantly. "I'm tender, juicy meat."
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
"Yeah, you are. You're some fine cut of meat." Owen barked out a startled laugh and pushed to his feet. "Whoa. Okay. Now I know I'm drunk," he said. "Get some sleep, McClish. Another early day is coming our way."
I nodded and babbled something in response, but I couldn't stop hearing his words in my head. I'd gnaw on you. It wasn't clear what I'd gained there, but I was satisfied with the venture.
8
Between Water and Wind
n. The part of the ship's hull that is sometimes submerged and sometimes above water by the rolling of the vessel.
Owen
I can't keep this up for much longer. Something has to give.
That was what I was telling myself as I stomped around the deck and growled at the sunny sky. The sky hadn't offended me in any notable way but I was in a mood. The kind of mood that could turn milk sour and burn holes in the rug without much effort. The kind of mood born from telling Cole I wanted a taste of him and then going to bed needy and alone.
Fresh Catch Page 4
