by Amie Denman
People called him Captain Sherman, because of his boating skill and possibly because he looked like a pirate. Of course all his tattoos were visible because Captain Sherman exposed his man-boobs to the sun all summer long. There was a half-naked posing broad in at least one of the tattoos. Probably Marlena when she was younger, but I didn’t think that was polite to ask either.
“Marlena says she’s gonna ship you out here to catch a boater this summer, but I figure we can use the extra set of hands on the docks if you’re not too busy in the office. She’s run that office by herself for years. I think she hired you just to have someone to talk to, or maybe…”
I could see him searching for the word.
“…eye candy, that’s what the kids are calling it.”
Considering that a reddened, shriveled, tattooed, one-eyed sailor calling me eye candy got me kind of excited and flattered, I knew I had hit rock bottom and had better keep my eye on the horizon for a man. Preferably two-eyed and farther from the grave.
“Get in.” Sherman gestured to the only other seat of his aluminum boat. “I’ll give you a tour of the marina from a boat’s perspective. It’ll be your first lesson.”
Going around the docks and looking at them from the tiny boat was informative at first, but after a while I had exhausted the learning curve. Sweat trickled down my back and I was itching to take off the denim jacket I’d thrown over my white tank sweater. The same sweater I’d worn the day Grace’s grandma passed out in church. Three trips through the washer finally got out the chocolate syrup, so it was spotless now but still too tight to wear alone. I’d thought I’d be in the air-conditioned office all day.
Now, the cute denim jacket was too damn hot and I would have to reveal the shirt or pass out from heat exhaustion. Afraid the pirate might throw me overboard at any sign of weakness, I peeled off the coat with as much subtlety as possible. I shouldn’t have bothered. Sherman watched me the whole time as if it was some kind of strip show.
“Time for tying up lessons,” he pronounced.
It scared the crap out of me at first, but Sherman was on his way out of the boat and heading toward a few small pleasure boats already tied up and slowly bumping against the dock. I climbed out of the boat too, but it was not particularly graceful. My legs are too short for that sort of thing, so I had to hook my boobs over the dock and use the leverage to pull myself up. Glad my ass is mercifully proportional, or I wouldn’t have made it. I realized too late that I’d left my denim jacket in the boat, but decided to get it later. The captain probably didn’t want to be kept waiting.
I followed Sherman to the row of medium-sized boats gleaming in the sun. A few boat owners were hosing and scrubbing imaginary dirt off the shiny white vessels. It seemed the boater’s uniform was bare chest, tiny shorts and either bare feet or tan deck shoes. Some of the guys were pretty hot, and some just looked like working in the sun was making them too hot. A couple waved to me.
Sherman pointed out rubber bumpers alongside the boats, cleats on the dock and boats, and informed me in the fine art of tying up. I can get twenty-three kindergarteners to do the same thing at the same time—or, better yet, to do different things and remain quiet and focused—I thought, I sure as hell can grab a rope and hook up a boat. And I had two good eyes. How hard could it be?
“Showtime, Jazz. Got a nice forty-six-footer coming in you can help me dock. Follow me.”
It was a short walk around the curved wall to where the larger boats docked on the outside of the marina. I saw the one he was talking about. It had a green hull and looked about three stories tall. A man operated the boat from one of the upper decks, but he was too high up to get a good look at him.
“When he comes in, he’ll snug it right up against the dock,” Sherman explained. “He’s a good one, not like some of these weekend boaters who come flying in and knock up against docks and boats and whatever else is in the way. He’s usually alone, though, so we throw the ropes from the dock.”
“Hard to imagine a guy with a boat like that is lonely,” I said.
“Wouldn’t say he’s lonely. He gets some visitors here, but they’re usually after dark,” Sherman said. “Something funny about a guy who owns his own marina across the lake coming here to dock.”
“Maybe he’s jealous of your awesome marina and plans to steal all your good ideas,” I suggested.
“Maybe he’s got something else going on. I’ve seen some of those visitors.”
In another time and place, I wouldn’t have let that go. I wanted to ask Sherman what he meant, but the boat was rapidly approaching.
“When he comes alongside, throw a rope over the cleat. You take aft, I’ll do fore.” Sherman eyed me curiously. “You know you’ve got the back of the boat, right?”
“Uh-huh.” I had picked up on the fore and aft thing. I was generally pretty smart despite being a little top-heavy.
It was only a moment until the green hull was right in front of us, and I had to admire how skillfully the captain swung the boat into the dock and didn’t even touch it. I don’t know much about boating and even less about docking, but it sure looked smooth to me. I wanted to be smooth and cool too, so I picked up the rope at my feet and glanced over to see how Sherman was handling it. He held it in one hand and casually swung it with the other. I could do that. I wanted to look initiated and confident in the art of boating.
I picked up the rope intended to tie up the aft end of the green-hulled beauty and gave it a swirl. It went okay at first, but then I got distracted watching the boat as it finished backing neatly into the slip and whacked myself in the side of the head with the looped end. I clapped a hand to my stinging ear and lost my balance. It might all have turned out better had I not been standing on the very edge of the dock.
The five-foot fall felt like an eternity, as if I was jumping into a deep cavern with no bottom in sight. There was no doubt in my mind that I would be sucked into the motor of the boat and killed as I floundered in the water. At least I hoped I would be killed immediately. The embarrassment would be a merciless and slow death.
A set of hands firmly planted right on my wet-shirted tits fished me out of the water. Realizing I had escaped death by motor, I swiped long strands of hair out of my eyes and tried to catch my breath. Again, I hoped for a quick death, but knew now that I would probably live to face my foolishness.
The hands were trying to pull me onto the boat’s swim platform, and I decided to take charge of my own body and help haul my dripping self up. I hooked one knee over the ladder, ingloriously rolled onto the gleaming white surface and flopped onto my back. Soaking, panting, wallowing in my own stupidity.
My mortification was complete when I finally dragged my eyes open to make contact with my rescuer. Please don’t let it be Sherman who had his hands all over my tits. It wasn’t. I slowly glanced up suntanned legs covered in just the right amount of blond hair that ended in khaki shorts. A muscled bare chest, a chin that could use a shave but looked great anyway and then those eyes. Dark brown and penetrating, but impassive. And staring right at me. All of me.
He didn’t appear angry or sympathetic or even very surprised. As if an unexpected fish caught on his line and he’d flipped it into the bucket for later. He might be merciful and let it go, or it might be his dinner. I didn’t think I’d take a chance.
“Are you okay?” the man asked. “That was a hell of a fall.”
A chill settled over my wet flesh. Something about his voice was familiar. Maybe it was the water in my ears. I attempted to scramble up and jump ship in order to save even a tiny scrap of dignity.
Unfortunately, I got up too quickly and didn’t factor in the fact that I’d gotten the shiny swim platform soaking wet. I fought it all the way down, but it was no use. I fell on my ass like a ton of bricks.
The second time I picked my embarrassed self up and tried to escape, I took it a lot slower. No room for speed. No hope for flying under the radar. I should have just made my solitary, miserab
le way off the boat and left town under cover of nightfall. I wondered for a moment if my aging Civic could get me as far as Zanzibar.
My only sense of solace, as I dripped on the dock and walked back to the marina office where Marlena would somehow console me—either by telling me it would all be all right or being more realistic and holding me down as she poured liquor down my throat—was that it couldn’t get any worse. My cotton shorts could not have been any farther up my ass as the fabric vacuum-sealed onto me.
I had shown the whole world an impromptu wet T-shirt contest in which I was the sole contestant and obvious winner. I’d completely blown any chance of respect from my one-eyed pirate of a boss and shredded my dignity in front of one of the rich, sexy boaters Marlena had hoped to fix me up with. My knee was bleeding and I had lost one of my shoes. It was going to be a lopsided walk of shame.
“Holy shit,” Sherman said, “what the hell happened?”
It was hard to hear over the schlurping of my one shoe and the wet sandpaper-like chaffing of my shorts, but the boat captain spoke next. “You think she’s okay?”
A light went off. I did know that voice. He was the man who argued with Ballard in the parking lot. No wonder he’d headed into the marina after the mayor left. The pieces all fit. He had returned to his boat that night. I shivered and hurried toward the sanctity of Marlena.
The dock was permanent, but still technically floating and shifting as you walked down it. I didn’t usually have a problem with this, but in my one-shoed state of misery with water in my ear making ocean sounds, I staggered just a little.
One of the boats moored along the outside row closest to the marina office was the fire boat, strategically placed for quick access to the lake and also easy drive-up convenience for firefighters coming in hot on a distress call. The sun was brighter than heck and my sunglasses were at the bottom of the marina with my shoe, so it took me a moment to realize there was somebody on it.
Considering my luck so far, there was no doubt in my mind which firefighter was cleaning and inspecting the gleaming yellow boat. I tried to schlurp silently, but all the laws of physics were against me.
“Been swimmin’, Jazz?” Kurt asked as he leaned one elbow on the captain’s seat of the boat. He looked cool and smooth standing there. The fire boat didn’t have a lot of comfortable frills—mostly equipment lockers, radios and hose nozzles that looked like little cannons—but it did have a roof, and Kurt had the advantage of standing in the shade and being able to see me a lot better than I could see him. Life sucks that way.
He had on his usual uniform with a radio attached to his perfect hip. Slim, but not too skinny. Just the right amount to…well, it didn’t matter how good he looked. He’d probably be cuddling the mayor’s grandchild by this time next year and I’d be lined up for a malaria shot somewhere in Zanzibar if I was really lucky.
“Just a little accident,” I murmured.
“Yeah, I saw. I was halfway over there, but you were already out of the water. Figured you must be okay. You sure look fine.” While it was pretty nice being called fine, it would have been nicer if I didn’t look like hell. I couldn’t tell if his expression was amused pity or simply total amusement over the spectacle that was Jazz Shepherd. At least it was better than the “unexpected catch” look I got from the mysterious boat captain.
“Thanks anyway.”
“I thought you worked in the office. Didn’t know you docked boats too.”
“I’m just the live entertainment,” I said, then swiveled and tried to make the great escape into the marina store. Marlena watched me through the open office door. If I could only get into her sanctuary, she’d soak me in alcohol until nothing hurt anymore. Despite the impediments from my vacuum-sealed shorts and my one shoe, I was almost there when I heard Kurt calling me.
“Hey, Jazz,” he said, and I turned involuntarily toward him. He looked pointedly at my wet white shirt and the show it provided. “Glad to see you got that stain out.”
He gave me a smile that was half nice and half damn-near-bursting-into-laughter. I stood there frozen until Marlena dragged me inside. The bells on the door tinkled as she pulled me through it and I thought maybe Marlena was my guardian angel. Until she opened her mouth.
“Holy flying fuck, you’re putting on one hell of a T&A show out there. I saw you gave sexy fireboy his own private performance.”
I couldn’t say anything, and Marlena started to look alarmed as she peered into my face. “I’m getting out the booze. You need a margarita. A big ass margarita with lots of fire in it. Sit your skinny ass down.” She snapped the sign on the door from Open to Closed and disappeared into the small kitchen on the other side of the office.
When she returned a few minutes later, she held a huge frosty glass triumphantly in her hand like some sort of a trophy.
“Once a bar wench,” she said cheerfully, “always a bar wench.”
I wondered if she’d matched her hair to her fingernails in her younger barfly days, but figured that was a good question for later, after I put away the margarita.
No time for polite sipping, I poured the whole contents of the glass down my throat under the watchful scrutiny of its creator. I kicked off my remaining shoe and sat barefoot and shivering in an old vinyl chair Marlena rolled over for me. I even got the hearing back in both ears.
“Sherman, you old bastard,” she said unceremoniously into the marine band radio, “bring Jazz’s jacket up to the office.”
I heard a grunt on the other end and a minute later Sherman poked his one eye around the door and handed my denim jacket to his wife.
“Now if it’s any consolation, there weren’t too many witnesses today. Sherman’s a horny old goat but he doesn’t gossip. Sexy fireboy keeps things to himself too. Got to, in his line of work. Hell, last year my neighbor had a big coronary real early in the morning and his wife was flapping around in a nightdress, tits flying out the armholes and no teeth in her head. Kurt never even cracked a smile and treated her real professional. I’m sure he doesn’t think a thing of your little exhibition.”
While it was somewhat comforting to be reminded of his professional silence, I didn’t think my situation exactly qualified and wasn’t too flattered being compared to Marlena’s dentureless, tit-flapping old neighbor. And there was still the matter of the boat captain. He was attractive, no doubt. But there was something else about him. He seemed…cool. Too cool.
“Um…so who’s the guy with the boat I nearly killed myself docking?”
“Damien Cerberus. Richer than rich. He owns a boat dealership and casino across the lake. Got his own marina over there that puts us to shame.”
“Single?”
“Think so. Hard to tell since we only see him here.”
“How come he docks here if he has his own marina?” Marlena might know something Sherman didn’t. She tended to ask more questions. And was far more willing to share.
“Don’t know. Just to get away maybe. He probably can’t hang out on his boat in his own marina without people bugging him.”
“Maybe he’s got a girlfriend here in Bluegill.”
“Probably more than one. Most of his visitors are after dark.”
“Maybe he docks here for business reasons.”
“I guess you could call it that. You interested?”
“Curious.”
“Pretty girl like you might get recruited to work in one of his fancy-pants boat shows.”
“Maybe I’m not his type.” And maybe I didn’t want to be. There was something creepy about the guy. Maybe it was the bitter laugh I’d heard in the parking lot argument. Or the cool expression I’d just seen.
Marlena laughed.
“Honey, believe me. Not too many men gonna turn down a body like yours. Especially when they’ve seen the whole package like he just did. He’s probably below deck jackin’ off right now.”
I took a long, numbing drink of margarita. That was an image I could live without.
�
��Anyway, he pays good for being what he calls a boat hostess in his marina across the lake. Got a show coming in a couple weeks,” she said. “I could suggest your name if you want to pick up some extra money this summer. Unless you think you’re gonna strike it rich teachin’ Catholic school.”
Marlena had a point. My net worth would fit in my empty margarita glass.
I took another long drink. “Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
Chapter Six
Lucky for me, I had a couple of hours off work in the late afternoon to go home and lick my wounds. This involved a hot shower, painkillers and a desperate search through my closet for something to wear.
In addition to docks and a busy little store, the marina also had an outdoor pavilion for community events. Stadium seating carved into a hillside, a small stage with a striped awning for a roof and canvas walls on three sides, and a surprisingly kick-ass sound system made for some fun Saturday nights in the summer. Tonight, the pavilion was hosting a charity event. A charity I would love to support. If I had any money.
The local safety forces, including the Bluegill police and fire departments, were holding a fundraiser to buy new equipment. They needed it after all those yard sales. To raise the money, they were auctioning off the services of their finest for a day. You could buy yourself a cop to take to the mall or a firefighter to mow your lawn with his shirt off. Whatever you wanted for however much you were willing to wager…this could be a hell of a lot of fun.
Of course, nice kindergarten teachers don’t bid on hot men in front of the whole community. Especially Catholic schoolteachers who don’t have fifty bucks to spare. But it sure would be fun to watch. Working the event, I’d have a front row seat. My glamorous duties included ushering people to seats, making sure no one parked in the fire lanes and emptying the trash when they all went home. A little eye candy would be a major bonus.
I picked out a semiprofessional outfit and headed for work. I got there early to make sure the microphones were plugged in and the fire lanes were clearly marked. Marlena and Sherman didn’t usually come to the evening events, so it fell to me to be the adult in charge this summer. As if I had other plans on a Saturday night in Bluegill. Watching people purchase attractive men was the closest I’d come to a date in a long, long time.
