by C. S. Poe
“How long was I sleeping?”
“Almost ten minutes.”
“Jesus.”
“Must have needed it,” Glen said thoughtfully, although it was obvious he knew little about narcolepsy beyond: I get tired.
“I guess,” I politely agreed. I pointed at the necklace. “Is that a coin?”
Glen paused his motions and held the chain up from his neck. “Sure is. One of the pieces of eight from the Atocha.”
“It’s pretty.”
“Yup. I had one made for my wife too.” Glen smiled at the pendent. “I always liked the coins of this time period. No two are quite the same, and the stampings on the back, I always thought it looked more like an ‘X marks the spot’ than a religious cross—”
I meant to put my hand on Glen’s shoulder to stop him midthought, but in my… er… enthusiasm, I more like smacked him in the chest.
“Ow! Hey, Aubrey, what gives?”
“Say that again?”
“Ow?”
“No, the X thing.”
Glen pushed his retro glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “The back stamp looks like an X.” He held his pendent out, the chain still on him. “See?”
I took it and leaned closer. Of course I’d pointed the cross out to Jun already in the exhibit room, but I’d been caught up in the subtle style differences that hinted toward Mexican or South American in origin. But now that I was really looking… yeah.
X marks the spot.
Which made me think of the closet.
An X on my heart.
What if Cassidy’s research wasn’t a total pipe dream?
Captain Thomas J. Smith, aka One-Eyed Jack? Scourge of the Keys, Pirate King, and briefly, one of the richest men in the tropics?
It was crazy.
And not even normal crazy, but, like, total batshit crazy.
“I’ve gotta go,” I said quickly, scrambling to my feet. I paused briefly as Glen huffed and puffed while standing up. “Can I take a few pictures of Lou’s displays? Not to steal his work or anything, but I want—”
Glen waved his hand. “Go right ahead. What am I going to do with it all?”
“JUN. JUN!” I whispered loudly, hurrying back into the exhibit room a short time later.
He turned from watching a documentary on loop near a number of miniature replicas of Spanish ships. “There you are. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, sorry. I fell asleep,” I answered quickly. “I just learned a few things that—maybe you’re right about Cassidy being onto something.”
“Are you serious?”
“As much as I hate to admit it, there does seem to be some historical evidence involved.”
“Like what?” Jun asked, lowering his voice and backing me toward a wall.
“Get this. There might have been another galleon ship that was originally part of the Atocha and Margarita convoy. It was carrying at least a million dollars’ worth of silver coins back to Spain—also lost at sea.”
“What’s the connection to Smith?”
I leaned closer, speaking more at my feet and forcing Jun to lower his head to hear. “Cassidy straight-up believed Smith was One-Eyed Jack, and whatever if he was or wasn’t, but Glen had mentioned the backs of coins always reminding him of an X instead of a cross. Like on a treasure map.” I grabbed both of Jun’s biceps elatedly. “Kind of like the closet! What if that message was some sort of clue? What if that skeleton was Smith and it was a hint about his double life?”
“Now you’re the one jumping to conclusions,” Jun said.
“I know I am. I’m ashamed. But I’ve done more research on Smith than anyone, and he was a wrecker. So, instead of letting that knowledge cloud my judgment… I should start fresh and research Jack from the beginning. Treat him like a separate individual and see if their paths cross.”
“You think you would be able to conclude whether the two men were one and the same?”
I nodded, looking back up at him. “Exactly. Cassidy was an amateur. I’m a professional.”
“You’re very excited,” he pointed out.
“I know! I’m trying to contain it, but treasure hunting, Jun! What little kid didn’t have this dream? And as a historian, the potential for new discoveries that could change everything we know is… it’s very exciting, I gotta admit.” My grin was making my face hurt.
Jun smiled that cute little quirk of his. “You make a good point.”
I was about to speak again but saw Glen walk by us and I went after him. “Glen! Hey, can I bother you about one last thing?”
Glen stopped and turned around. “Sure, Aubrey.” He looked up at Jun, smiled, and nodded politely.
“If I wanted to talk to other pirate treasure hunter sort of enthusiasts in Key West, where would I go?”
“Barnacles.”
I blinked. “Uh… bless you?”
Glen started laughing, gut shaking. “You’re funny. No, Barnacles—the bar. Over on Southard.”
“You mean the den of ill repute?” I leaned close to Jun. “Used to be a brothel, way back in the day.”
“Got it,” he murmured.
“That’s the one,” Glen said. “It’s a group of them. Lou used to hang out there. They meet for lunch and drinks every Tuesday and Thursday.”
Chapter Eight
“WE SHOULD talk to these treasure hunters,” Jun said as he walked to the meter to buy another ticket for his car before an enthusiastic traffic cop came by to smack him with a fine. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re a mind reader,” I answered, following behind him.
Jun dug into his pockets and fished out a few coins. “If they were friends of Cassidy’s, perhaps one has insight as to why he broke into the Smith Home.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “It directly correlates with the closet fiasco. Somehow. I know it does. The timing is too much of a coincidence.”
Jun took the ticket the machine spit out and went to replace the old one on the dash in the car. “If that’s the case, then we both need to be careful when talking to them.”
“What do you mean?”
Jun shut and locked the door, looking at me from across the roof. “Aubrey. A man was murdered. We don’t know by who. For all anyone knows, it was one of his treasure-hunting buddies—in fact, that makes the most sense.”
“I wish you could strong-arm the cops into sharing info,” I said. “At least see if the marlinespike had fingerprints or anything.”
“Life would always be easier if—right?” Jun smiled and came around the car to join me again. “If anyone asks, you’re simply offering your condolences.”
“This is exciting, right? Say it is so I don’t feel weird about it.”
Jun put his arm around my shoulders, and we started walking back to Whitehead. “It beats the hell out of a hotel kitchen shootout.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say some yakuza dude fired a gun at you.”
“It was a Chinese gang,” he corrected.
I put my fingers in my ears. “La, la, la, I can’t hear you!”
“I was okay,” Jun insisted. “Just a scratch.”
“Where?”
He stopped walking and raised the sleeve of his T-shirt to show a whitened patch of skin, almost like a ripple.
I touched it, frowning. “When was this?”
“Before we met.” He put the sleeve back down.
“Now that I’m in the picture, no more getting shot at, okay? It’ll make my hair fall out.”
“We can’t have that.” Jun smiled and gave my hair a gentle tug. “I promise I’m careful.”
We crossed the street and passed by an ice cream parlor with no less than eight hundred people inside, Key Lime & Forever, which was also surpassing fire safety capacity, and then a few lame tourist shops selling Key West trinkets and T-shirts you could find anywhere else in the country.
Jun came to an abrupt stop and smiled at something inside that I didn’t see. “Stay right h
ere.”
“Huh?”
He walked into the tourist trap.
“Jun! Wait, you can find these shirts at JCPenney! Oh, I’ve lost him….”
I sighed and stepped to the end of the block, staring at the faint outline of the Smith Home hidden among all the tropical foliage. There was something in there I needed to know about. Something that would cause everything to make sense. Cassidy broke in, likely to… what, steal something, right? But in the captain’s study? I tapped my chin thoughtfully. There was an old ship’s compass worth a pretty penny. The desk and chair were original to the home, which was pretty amazing. There was an antique inkwell and pen, a pencil—which, believe you me, those were hard to find—the marlinespike….
Why steal any of those? If this had to do with treasure, how are any of those artifacts significant?
What about a map? I had some on display. One was Smith’s. The others were authentic to the period, but only something I’d purchased to help fill the exhibit space. But it sort of made sense—what more could you possibly need to find treasure than a map, right?
“Here you go,” Jun said, and before I could turn around, a hat was plopped onto my head.
“Why’d you buy me a hat?” I took it off to inspect it. A brown fedora. “Oh Christ, a fedora? You know this is a fashion no-no, right?”
“It’s Indiana Jones’s hat.”
“Is it?” I looked back down at it.
“Sure, Indy.”
“Okay, I’m biting. What’s with the nickname?”
Jun took the hat from me and put it back on my head. “Indiana Jones said X never marks the spot, and he turned out to be wrong.”
I grinned. “So I’m Indiana? That’s pretty cool. Do I get a whip too?”
“Don’t push it.”
“Rawr.”
Jun shook his head and pushed the brim down over my eyes.
“You’re such a cutie,” I said, following him once more. We kept walking along Whitehead. “Except that I’m mortified you’re quoting The Last Crusade, when the obviously better movie is Temple of Doom.”
“Temple of Doom doesn’t hold a candle to Crusade.”
“Take that back!”
“No.”
“What?” I asked, flabbergasted. “This is like with Rihanna! Who are you?”
Jun took my hand and kissed it lightly. “Someone with better taste.” He smiled widely, eyes crinkling before he let go, and I missed an opportunity to whack him.
BARNACLES WAS a dive bar. It was old as sin, and considering it used to be a brothel in the nineteenth century, that sordid history was practically fused into the support beams. The upstairs area was closed off these days and used for storage and offices, but way back when, the entertaining happened down here before the party was brought to one of the private, closet-sized rooms above.
There was nothing quite like the stench of low tide, yellow fever outbreaks, and gonorrhea to remind you of your time in the Florida Keys.
The building had been abandoned by the turn of the century and eventually restored and converted into a grocery store prior to World War I. Then, around the time I was in diapers, it was bought again and became the little gem it was today, where you could get shitfaced at nine in the morning on piss-warm beer and the inside smelled like thirty years of cigarette smoke and sweat.
It was too early for lunch when we reached Barnacles, but I didn’t want to miss the chance to see who this group of treasure fanatics consisted of, so Jun and I sat at the back side of the square bar. We had a view of both sides, as well as the front, so we could watch those coming and going.
“I suppose a smart thing to have done would have been to ask Glen if he knew any of these dudes by name,” I said, taking my new hat off and setting it on the seat beside me. “But I guess just look for a group ordering food.”
Jun nodded, eyes flicking to the overhead television a few times. He cursed under his breath.
“What?” I asked, glancing at him and then looking around the bar.
He shook his head and pointed briefly at the television. “Rangers are down.”
“I didn’t know you watched hockey.”
Jun glanced at me. “Is that bad?”
“No. I kind of like hockey. I mean, I’m so not a sports guy, but if I had to watch something, hockey is definitely the most entertaining. Plus hockey players are hot, have you noticed that?”
“Yeah,” Jun said bluntly. “I have.”
I scoffed. “Hey, eyes on me.”
He chuckled and leaned over to give me a light kiss. It was pretty awesome.
“Get you gentlemen a drink?” a bartender asked, effectively ruining the mood as he slid up in front of us.
I pulled back from Jun and turned to look at the guy. Muscles, cropped hair—nice, but he had nothing on my boyfriend. “I suppose this is the wrong venue for a mimosa?” I asked, smiling widely.
“Corona. He’ll have a water,” Jun said, pointing at me.
The bartender gave me a critical look before nodding and walking away.
“Don’t antagonize,” Jun said to me.
I shrugged. “He shouldn’t have ruined our moment.”
“We’ll have plenty more moments.”
I flashed Jun a cocky grin and slid my hand under the bar top to rest on his thigh. “Is that so?”
Jun swallowed, his eyes locked with mine. “Yes.”
“And what sort of moments will they be?” I crept my hand in between his legs.
Jun let out air, and I caught a shake in his breath. “Whatever you wish,” he said.
I moved my hand a bit farther still, fingertips rubbing against his balls through his jeans. Jun gasped, and his thigh shook as he fought to remain still. I moved my hand upward, amazed to find that he was getting hard so soon. I’d barely done anything yet. We really were hopeless for each other if we were always seconds away from coming in our pants.
“Already?” I murmured.
Jun let out the smallest pant as I thumbed the head of his dick. “I want to make you feel good,” he whispered.
I grinned, looked down at his crotch, and let go, putting my hands back on the bar. “I don’t think you’ll have any problem there. But what is it you want, Mr. Tanaka?” I leaned close. “To fuck my fine ass?”
Jun licked his lips.
That was a yes.
“Or maybe you want me to bend you over and do as I please?”
Jun didn’t reply, but I saw the flutter in his throat. Getting him twisted up like this was making me horny as hell. I could honestly say I’d never expected to like this as much as I did—but teasing him, getting Jun antsy and desperate, squirming in anticipation for a guy his total opposite? Oh yeah, it was hot. And to think that people in the bar had no idea I’d been the one ordering him to choke on my cock this morning, not the other way around.
Jun shifted on his barstool. “You’re in trouble,” he said, clearing his throat.
I laughed loudly. “I bet I am.”
Jun gave me some serious side-eye, but managed to compose himself by the time the bartender returned with one bottled beer and a glass of water with no ice. Jun slid a few dollar bills over, and the bartender left.
“Scrimping on the niceties,” I muttered, then took a drink.
Jun silently sipped his beer.
No one looking to form a lunch date seemed to stop in for at least an hour. It was just me, Jun, muscley bartender—annoyed that I wasn’t buying a drink so he never offered to refill my glass—some locals practically asleep on their tables off to the sides, and a group of obnoxious college kids screaming at the tail end of the hockey game from the right side of the bar. One drunk girl in the gaggle ended up fixated on Jun, even going so far as to send the bartender over with another bottle of Corona.
“I didn’t order this,” Jun said.
“She did,” the bartender replied, pointing across the bar before walking away.
“Oh boy,” Jun said, sighing.
“S
he’s, like, half your age,” I protested quietly, leaning closer to talk to Jun as we both stared at the girl. “What do you want me to do? Maul you?”
“That’s mean.” He slid the bottle away politely.
I winced. “No, that’s mean.” I glanced at the girl, who offered Jun a drunk pout. “I can grope you again. Because she’s not backing down.”
“Behave.”
“Say the word and I’ll be on your lap.”
“Aubrey.”
“No?” I looked at Jun. “I thought you might like that. Lying back as I do all the work.” I lowered my voice but never broke eye contact now that I had him laser-focused on me once more. “Watching me ride you—watching the way I fuck myself on your cock, totally desperate to come all over your chest. Wouldn’t you enj—”
Jun grabbed my face with both hands and planted a big kiss on my mouth, effectively shutting me up. His tongue caressed my lips, and I opened, letting him inside. Heat and Jun and a tang of beer…. Christ, now I really was ready to throw him down and climb up on that dick. He pulled away first, gently letting go.
I whistled. “Holy crap.”
“Sorry.”
“Did I really do that, or were you just telling the nice lady, ‘no, thank you’?”
Jun thumbed the corner of his mouth absently. “You’re in so much trouble, Mr. Grant.”
“Oh, at this point, I can’t wait, Mr. Tanaka.”
When I thought to look back toward the college kids, Hopeful Drunk Girl was trying her luck with someone her age and orientation.
“Here comes a group,” Jun murmured, nudging my arm.
I leaned toward him, looking around the bartender and shelves of liquor to the front door. Two guys and a woman came in, talking and laughing with the vibe of Conchs, not tourists who came to Barnacles to look like Conchs.
“Do you recognize any of them?” Jun asked.
“Yeah, all of them. Tourists can pay to be brought out for deep-sea fishing. The woman is one of the local captains. Has her own boat. Peg Hart is her name. And that guy on the left, I don’t know his name, but he works for one of the Ghosts of Key West tours. The bald guy—Josh something—he’s one of my contract painters for the Smith Home.”
