“So, hey… I’ve been meaning to ask. This… this. What we have, what we’re doing. I know you just lost someone. And… okay I’m just going to say it: are you really interested in me? Or is this a rebound? I want to know where I stand.”
Brandon’s eyes locked with hers. Those beautiful eyes, looking even more golden in the soft ambient sunlight. He grabbed her by the shoulders and leaned in intently.
“There are two things I want you to know: first, I said goodbye to Celine last night. I scattered her ashes just like she wanted me to. I said what I wanted to say and I gave myself permission to move on. Second, I didn’t come here looking for someone to replace Celine. I had no intentions of getting to know anyone else… and I didn’t think there would be another woman I’d want to be with… until I saw you.”
Ginny’s chin scrunched up and her lower lip jutted out. Her eyebrows drew in and up, and her eyes watered. “Oh man, look at me. I’m getting teary-eyed. What a basket case.”
Brandon reached up and wiped at the corner of her eye.
“So… we’re good?”
Ginny nodded.
“Good. Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”
***
Alexander walked the deck, notebook in hand, observing, watching for men who might fit the profile, single or not. He glanced up, and farther along in the crowd he spotted a man, tall, muscular, with dark hair and a thin covering of facial hair. He was with a woman, blonde hair, unkempt, a bit on the podgy side. He wore a thick plaid shirt; she, a turtleneck sweater. Both wore blue jeans.
The couple began walking toward the bow. Alexander followed briskly, angling around a group of dispersing passengers.
“There you are!”
It was Marie. The cow. She stepped directly into his path, her eyes alight, jowls jiggling.
“I do believe you promised me another drink! Now’s as good a time as—”
He shouldered past her, craning to see where the couple went, but they were gone. With long strides he threaded his way through the host of passengers to the nearest stairwell. Looking down, he saw it was empty.
How incredibly disappointing. He was preparing to leave when the heifer’s voice drove through his skull like a railroad spike.
“What are you in such a hurry for? Jeez, you just about bowled me over!”
Alexander turned and favored the sow with a smile. If he was right, she might soon prove more useful than ever. “Terribly rude of me, but I thought I recognized someone. Perhaps by way of apology, I might buy you that drink. Why don’t you join me at the piano bar?”
***
Brandon was worried. It was happening again.
They had placed their order for pizza and were waiting. He could hear conversations throughout the buffet and restaurant seating area. The same had occurred out on the deck, just after the glacier calved. They were brief episodes, fifteen seconds or so, but during that time he was bombarded. While on the deck, his olfactory senses were nearly overwhelmed by the perfume a lady was wearing several yards away.
For the last few months Brandon experienced symptoms off and on, even several days before the full moon. The pills were supposed to be suppressing such sensations. Brandon had spoken to “Ghost,” the man who supplied the pills, one month ago and had been told it was a side effect, probably from Brandon building up a bit of resistance. Ghost said he would increase the dosage.
Typically Brandon didn’t need to take more than two pills for one lunar cycle, but he could always take more if need be. Besides, the moon wouldn’t be full until two days after the ship was due to return to Washington, so it wasn’t like there was any danger of him turning. Brandon rubbed at his temple again.
“What’s wrong?” Ginny asked.
“I just need to get away from the crowd for a minute.”
They walked back out onto the deck, but this time to the starboard side. Brandon explained that he sometimes got headaches and noisy people in enclosed spaces just made it that much worse.
“You stay here. I’ll grab our pizzas.”
Ginny departed. The sensation seemed to be diminishing.
Just then someone several feet away blurted, “Look,” and pointed out to sea. The Rapture was heading back out to Stephens Passage, and there, in the open water, emerged the fluke of a humpback whale. It swung up and over, then plunged back into the foam.
Ginny returned and handed Brandon a tray with a plate and small pepperoni pizza. He nodded his head outward. “A whale just breached.” Ginny pressed against the railing for a better look.
“Ooh, I was hoping to see one!”
Suddenly, as if tuning briefly into a weak radio station, Brandon heard a kind of chorus. It was a string of different melodies, soft and harmonious and inviting—a back and forth communication. It was the song of the humpback whale, and Brandon knew that in this particular moment in time, the sound waves were barely escaping the water, and that on a ship of about four thousand people, he was the only person capable of hearing them. Then, as quickly as it came, the sounds passed beneath the vessel and receded. In a moment the serenade was gone, and Brandon found himself wishing, more than anything, that Ginny could have heard the song too.
She rubbed her hand against his arm. “I’ve got just the thing for a headache: Jack and Coke. Come on, let’s wet our whistles. Wanna go to the piano bar?”
***
Alexander and Marie sat, listening to a mediocre rendition of Billy Joel’s “Italian Restaurant.” He had chosen the piano bar because it would afford him an optimal point from which to observe the various comings and goings of passengers, including those on the glass elevators. There was a small group gathered at the bar, but no one of interest.
As they drank, he regaled the cow with tales of diving the Great Barrier Reef in Australia, dining on Carru ox in Modena Italy, swimming with sharks in South Africa, watching the sun rise over the Sea of Japan from the Trans-Siberian Railway, and attending piano recitals at the Sydney Opera House.
She stared at him wide-eyed, pupils dilated. “You’re fascinating. You’ve seen so many things and been to so many incredible places. This is only my second trip outside of Oregon.” She stopped to take a long draught from her glass of merlot. Alexander struggled not to cringe as he watched the elephant seal chug the vintage wine as if it were a plastic cupful of Boone’s Strawberry Hill.
“How have you done all this? I mean, were you born rich, or what?”
In one graceful motion, Alexander swept up the woman’s sweaty paw and clasped it. “I would happily divulge all of this and more, if you would join me for lunch tomorrow. I hear there’s a magnificent Victorian-style eatery in Skagway.”
Marie’s cheeks bulged, the result of what she probably believed was a coquettish smile. “Oh, I don’t know…”
“I would be delighted to have your company.”
The slug tossed her head from side to side in mock consideration, eyebrows arched, eyes searching the ceiling. “Ah, um…” She seemed to reach a decision. “Oh, what the hey? Maybe after that we can take that Yukon train. Ain’t no Siberian Railroad, but it might be fun.”
A sudden feeling of being observed settled over the hunter. He craned his head to peer at a railing several decks above, but there was no one there. He sighed, then smiled and nodded at the pig.
“I’m giddy with anticipation.”
He ordered her another drink. Let the daft woman continue making plans…
Alexander had already made plans of his own.
***
After leaving the starboard side, Ginny and Brandon had walked through the buffet seating area to the railing beside the glass elevator banks, looking down onto the atrium and the piano bar. There was such a large group there that the two opted for the Casablanca bar on deck 5.
There they found relative peace. They sat and drank, joked with the bartender, and passed a very enjoyable hour. The bar started filling up, however, and they both decided the only way they might enjoy some real quiet time would b
e in one of their rooms. Ginny suggested hers simply because it was bigger.
Once inside they listened to music and drank a bit more. The afternoon hours seemed to melt away and before they knew it, dinnertime was fast approaching. Ginny sat with her legs draped over Brandon’s lap. She gave a pointed look and said, “We could always just stay in, get room service…”
She had never really been any good at seduction. It always just felt awkward. Alcohol had given her courage, however, and based on Brandon’s lingering gaze, he had taken her meaning. However, he looked down at his glass, and Ginny knew something was up.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you…”
Ah shit, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Here we go.
Ginny removed her legs from atop his and sat up, looking at him intently as he clearly struggled to say something difficult.
“Before things go any further I think it’s only fair for you to know…” Those disarming, bright brown eyes of his locked with hers. “It’s my intention to get off the ship at Juneau… and stay off.”
Ginny sat her glass on the small table beside the couch. “But why?”
“It’s what I meant when I said I was moving on. I need to get away, from everything. Everyone. Someplace where I can be free. Coming onboard this ship, it was never my intention to come back.”
She simply stared at him for a long moment. “Oh.”
Too good to be true. It always was.
There was a palpable, awkward silence between them.
“Do you want me to go?” he asked.
When she didn’t answer, Brandon rose to leave. He was halfway to the door when Ginny shot up, spun him around by his shoulder, pulled him to her and kissed him long and hard.
What are you doing? Are you doing this just because you don’t want him to leave?
With her left hand she reached down, grabbed his ass and pulled his hips to hers.
Shut up! Can’t you just shut up for once and let me have something, for fuck’s sake?
She reached up and ripped his shirt open, then grasped her own sweater and whipped it over her head, barely stopping kissing him long enough to get it past. Brandon grabbed her under the arms, lifted her like she was no more than a child, turned and threw her onto the bed.
Oh hell yes.
Ginny leaned over, fumbled for the drawer of the nightstand, and in the same bag she kept B.O.B., rummaged for a package of condoms. True, Brandon had said he was sterile, but the truth was she didn’t know him that well yet, and it was better to be safe than sorry. When she found one, she turned back. Brandon was standing there naked, lit only by one small lamp and the television.
Dear God, look at those abs.
He was ripped. Beyond ripped, he was shredded. His definition was only slightly masked by the fine coat of hair that traveled from his wide chest, down to where it formed a thick nest below his waist and then... her eyes landed on his dick. Not too small, not too big. Perfect, and apparently about to burst: a thin strand of pre-cum dribbled from the tip and as she watched, his penis bobbed upward—once, twice.
She pulled her bra up over her boobs, then over her head and tossed it aside. She undid her belt and pulled down the zipper, only slightly self-conscious of her belly (God bless alcohol), then sat up, crawled to the edge of the bed, and as she looked him in the eye, she grasped his dick by the shaft and took him into her mouth. There was a salty taste from the pre-cum, which was still seeping. Except for the spongy tip, his piece was like a steel rod. She had only given blow jobs to two men in her entire life, and she didn’t necessarily know what she was doing, but it seemed to be working. He grasped her head, guided her, and when she felt that she had lingered long enough, she pulled her head up and rolled the condom down over the length of him.
Next she lay back and arched out of her jeans and panties. When’s the last time I shaved my legs? I think it’s okay. Jesus, stop worrying… He practically leaped on top of her, his manhood hovering between her legs, the rubber reservoir barely brushing against her clit. Electricity shot through her entire body as he took first one breast and then the other into his mouth. Then he pushed down and forward, literally filling the void within her. She lifted her legs up and out, then lay back, turned her head to one side and bit her finger as he began thrusting. Slowly at first, then harder, and harder and harder until the pleasure mingled with pain and she was forced to ask him to slow down. There was a look in his eyes then for just an instant, a… detachment that reminded Ginny of looking into the windows of an abandoned home. Then, it passed. Brandon was back. He apologized, and his rhythm and her rhythm became one.
***
Alexander sat in the dinner lounge, suffering through an overcooked chateaubriand. He had already performed one full sweep of both floors, adding the male half of couples to his notebook. His efforts resulted in a handful of candidates, but none as promising as the man he had seen during Tracy Arm. He flipped to the two-page map he had drawn of the dining lounge. While the Malaysian family chattered on, oblivious to his presence, he stood and walked to the railing overlooking the first floor.
He scanned the various tables, making comparisons to the crude drawings on his map, which indicated how many diners were seated at each table. Then his eyes fell on an older couple… and two empty seats. His map showed there should be two more at that table, a man and a woman.
Well then, he would just have to initiate a conversation with that older couple. Alexander smiled. Standing here, looking down upon the others, he felt like a king lording over the common folk. A king? Actually, no… more like a god.
Of course, it hadn’t always been so. There was a time when he was just a pathetic, weak, scared little boy, a loo roll for his sister to wipe her ass with.
His earliest memories were of fighting for breath. Always straining, battling for the most base component of existence. It seemed he was always suffocating. Only later when he was able to understand such things did he realize that the cause of his ongoing struggle was Elspeth, his older sister.
Early memories had tormented him, of Elspeth holding her hand over his nose and mouth, of her freckled, ginger-haired face looming above him like a freakish baby carousel, eyes wide with fascination as Alexander fought to take in air.
Throughout his toddler years Elspeth had engaged in a delightful little game wherein she would force him onto the floor and sit on his face. As Alexander would kick and thrash, muffled screams dying in his throat, Elspeth would repeat over and over: “I am the boss. You are my slave. I am your master.” She never asked him to confirm it in exchange for his release. She simply reiterated that same phrase, squeezing her legs together tightly, waiting for Alexander to pass out.
Elspeth’s favorite lark had been to hide when Alexander passed out, so he would awaken and believe himself safe, only so she could leap from hiding and repeat the process. She had been supremely adept at hiding away from the servants in the luxuriously appointed Kroft home, selecting just the right spaces of the house at just the right times to allow for uninterrupted quality time.
On many of the rare occasions Father was home, he had unwittingly facilitated Elspeth’s activities. Oftentimes the final sounds young Alexander would hear before darkness claimed him would be long moans drifting from behind closed doors. Only in later years did Alexander become aware that Father had been copulating with the female staff.
Alexander had withdrawn during his early formative years, taking up a kind of residence inside himself. He spoke when spoken to, and avoided human contact at every turn. Shortly after Elspeth had turned fifteen, during the times of year that Mum was away in Sri Lanka, Alexander would awaken to more loud vocalizations, these issuing from his sister’s room. These were not exactly the same sounds that the servants would make; these bore the tenor of protestation. He would sneak to his door and open it just a jot, and listen. When all fell silent, Alexander would witness Elspeth’s door open, and his father slip out.
It ha
d been shortly after those first visits that Elspeth had grown more violent, taking her enmity out on Alexander, who at the age of eight had clearly begun evidencing his father’s features. She had poured hot tea on him; had kicked him and punched him repeatedly between his legs, and before sitting on his face, she would soften him up with repeated blows to the face, which would later be blamed on schoolyard bullies. No doubt when dear sister administered her punishments, she had seen not Alexander’s face, but Father’s. And there had been a great deal more venom in the mantra she recited: “I am the boss. You are my slave. I am your master!”
In the early months of 1982, before Margaret Thatcher came to China, the kids had been sent to live with Mum in Sri Lanka. The move would provide a unique opportunity for ten-year-old Alexander, and prove disastrous for Elspeth. The family had gone hiking in the mountainous region of Haputale; Elspeth had chased Alexander ahead, out of mum's sight, shoving him in the bushes and continuing on. It was there, while Elspeth had stood looking out over a sharp precipice that fate had offered up its unique gift; a singular moment. And in that moment a switch had gone off inside Alexander's head; clarity of thought and purpose had settled upon him instantaneously. One push had been all it took to send his sister plummeting over the rocky hillside.
The fall had not killed her outright; rather it had put her in a coma, and for a time Alexander's younger self had wondered if she might awaken and reveal his secret. Late one night, after Father had flown in from Hong Kong and he and Mum slept in the hospital waiting area, Alexander had snuck down the hall and into the room where his sister lay in repose, accompanied only by the steady beep, beep of the life support machine.
He had stood quietly at the side of her bed, reached out and squeezed the endotracheal tube, his every thought bent on the oxygen, the precious air being denied her. As he had leaned close and whispered the words “I am the boss. You are my slave. I am your master,” it was then that he had experienced his first erection. The beeps of the machine had grown farther apart and Alexander had watched, fascinated. He had been forced to let go upon hearing the doctors' and nurses' rushing footsteps.
The Turning (Book 1) Page 6
