The Darkest Joy

by Marata Eros

  “He beats the fish?” I ask, my mouth popping open.

  Evan nods. “Hell yeah. Those big boys will break a leg.” His eyes droop into a classic half-eye position. “Or big girls. Usually the fat fish are girls.”

  I pop him in the arm, using my knuckles. “Ow!” he howls.

  “I meant curvy. Curvy fish.”

  “Stop. Don’t even try to save yourself, you ass.”

  Evan grins. “Guilty . . . but you should’ve seen your face.”

  The music stops and Chance gives me a full look, his eyes shifting to Evan’s, and I feel him stiffen beside me as he stands.

  “What?” I ask, my hand plucking his brightly colored tie-dyed T-shirt.

  Evan looks down at me, those sparkling eyes hooded by shadows. “Ya don’t know?” he asks, then plants his thumb in his chest. “I’ve been warned off you.”

  My face turns to Chance, who is tuning his guitar. I turn back to Evan.

  I do a slow blink. I didn’t realize Evan was interested. “Why?”

  Evan shrugs. “You. He wants you all to himself.”

  “I thought he’s kind of a player,” I say a little uncertainly.

  Evan nods, unwrapping a piece of candy and popping it into his mouth. “Totally.” His jaw moves over the morsel as I think about his comment.

  More confirmation . . . that’s good. Kind of. Not really. Shit. “Okay . . . so why does he care?”

  “Beats the shit out of me.” Then Evan looks at me and some trick of the light darkens his face and I suppress a small shiver. “But I wasn’t going to test it.” He’s quiet for a moment then says, “Hickory isn’t always just used on fish, y’know.”

  We look at each other and I look back at Chance, who’s stood and begun to collect his things.

  I watch him, thinking about how tender he was with me. Is there more to him than I’m hearing, or is what I’m hearing all there is?

  “Ready?” Chance asks, his gaze pegging Evan with a cold stare.

  And this after I’ve called things off.

  “Yeah,” I say then add, “I have to work tomorrow, right?”

  He keeps his eyes on Evan a heartbeat longer, then turns that laser stare to me.

  We look at each other, the chemistry between us making the air thick.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll walk you to the bus.”

  What can I say? “Sure.”

  I move away from people I haven’t met and give a little wave to Tucker, who waves back, his eyes on the two of us. He’s probably thinking how dumb I am for not listening to him.

  He’s right.

  So dumb.

  Chance

  Watching Evan make moves on Brooke made me want to punch a guy I went to kindergarten with, and friends for the last decade. What’s happening to me?

  I know there’s something deeper than not wanting to commit. I’ve been with a lot of girls and gotten pretty good at reading their signals.

  I thought I had Brooke’s down. Last night . . . fuck, it was amazing. I remember the fit of her body against mine with a recall so vivid I have to leave the image or embarrass myself on the spot. Like some kind of lovesick chump. Yeah.

  I didn’t like the look on Brooke’s face when she spoke to her friend and I don’t much like the open trust she’s showering on Evan. Like he deserves it.

  Shit no.

  I shove my shit around in the guitar case and grab the rest of my gear, breathing through my anger as I walk over to Brooke. She’s like a flighty colt ready to bolt. I’ll play it cool. Something I’ve been expert at.

  Pre-Brooke.

  I fucking love how I look at things as Before Brooke and After Brooke.

  I cast a glance at Evan that clearly says back off. He smirks, enjoying my off-balance existence now that Brooke’s a part of it. I’m no longer cool but one of Those Guys. That’s me, pussy-whipped central.

  I look down at her upturned face. The perpetual twilight of Alaska lingers until true night, about three hours away, and washes those startling lavender eyes with a pink cast. I realize I’m staring. Shit, I’m so buried.

  I ask Brooke if I can walk her to her car and she nods.

  I grab what little bit of stuff she has and haul everything to her colorful bus. I give a laugh when I see it. It’s like an auto response.

  Jesus, it’s ugly.

  “What?” Brooke says, folding her arms underneath her breasts, which draw my eyes automatically. Swell.

  She frowns, dropping her arms to her sides. “The bus . . . it always makes me laugh.”

  “Humph,” Brooke huffs, tearing the door open with a shrieking squeak and I grab it before it can make any more noise.

  I lean in real close and Brooke gives a soft little gasp.

  Without taking my eyes off her I say, “I’ve got oil to fix that.”

  “My door?” she asks softly, her forehead wrinkling with a puzzled expression as she gives the offending hinges a dirty look.

  I stare into her eyes. “Yeah,” I say. Our noses are inches from each other. I move even closer, the line of our bodies so close it would’ve been easier to touch. Still I keep us apart. My forehead dips to touch hers and she sighs.

  “I better go, Chance,” Brooke says, retreating from me. I feel the loss of her limbs as they untwine themselves from around me, the soft feel of her mouth beneath mine as my lips moved over hers. The scent of her, so new yet so familiar.

  Gone.

  Just gone.

  I’m through lying to myself. I can’t go on pretending that my life is meaningful just as it is, the sea and fishing the only sustenance I need. The realization of being with Brooke completes something inside me I don’t know I’ve been missing. Seeing her with Evan is like a slap in the face of my denial. I can lie to him, and make her out to be a novel distraction. But in this moment, with Brooke standing there looking at me . . . self-deceit won’t work. I can’t fight the inexplicable chemistry that’s been there from the beginning. I don’t want to and make a promise right then. She’ll be mine. Somehow, sometime . . . I don’t know when, but soon.

  “Okay,” I say, backing away when it’s the last thing I want to do.

  Brooke softly clicks the door shut and gives me the ghost of a smile as she puts the noisy bus in gear and lights out of the parking lot.

  I watch her taillights until they disappear.

  Tucker comes up to me, both of us watching where Brooke had been.

  “Listen . . . Taylor,” he says.

  “Yeah?” I keep looking at the hole where Brooke disappeared. Wondering if I can make it the four hours until I see her again.

  Don’t know.

  “I like Brooke.”

  I turn and look at him. “Yeah . . . Your point is?” Tucker’s a big dude, a couple of inches taller than me, which is saying something. I look slightly up at him.

  “She don’t need your brand of lovin’, pal.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, spoiling for a fight. “What the fuck brand is that, Tuck?”

  He regards me silently, taking note of my tense body, my hands in fists. “The player kind.”

  My shoulders drop. “That’s not the plan, Tucker.”

  He nods, his face solemn.

  “What?” I ask, my eyes scan his face. There’s more; I can feel it like that itch I get when a monster is moments away from hitting my line.

  “Why don’t you do a little Googling, Chance?” Tucker gives me serious eyes, then claps me on the back. “Knowledge changes shit, right my man?” His eyebrows are arched in question. He ambles off without an answer from me.

  I nod at his retreating back. Yes it does. My head spins with what Tucker implies.

  He gives me a nod and walks to his Bronco, the orange and white stripes burned by a sunset that never comes.

  What past is Brooke hiding?

  A better question: what is she escaping?

  THIRTEEN

  Brooke

  Okay . . . I’ll admit it, it’s kinda narcissistic, checking
myself out like this. The hell with it. I do another slow turn in front of the only mirror in my aunt Milli’s cabin.

  It’s silvered and dotted with age, and my reflection is peppered and distorted.

  Not that it matters, because my reflection is as ugly as it can get. I’m wearing Levi’s 501 button-up jeans I snagged at a thrift store on the way down through Anchorage, a microfiber long-johns-type shirt layered underneath a long nubby wool sweater in olive green. Topping off the horrible look is bright orange bibs, the waterproof scrubs of fisherman. I look like Ronald McDonald without the face paint.

  I groan. So shoot me, I want to look good for Chance. I might deny the intensity of our attraction, but he’s on my radar whether I want it or not.

  I sigh, stalking out to the front porch where the ugly brown boots wait. I open the door and there they sit, mocking me. I plunk my butt down on the solid log bench to the left of the wide plank door and tug them on. I look up at the sky as I shove my wool-encased feet inside the solid vinyl of the boot.

  It looks like it did at midnight . . . still twilight. Maybe I miss the dark, I think, seeing stars fading as dawn approaches. I stand, jog down the broad steps, and open the noisy driver’s-side door on the bus, the oil I gave it dried up. I frown at that, hop in, and turn the engine over. It starts with a galloping stutter.

  I back out of the driveway, one of the tails of my loose braids whipping over my shoulder as I glance back. For the first time I look at the cabin with a caress of care instead of an eye that signals a place to hide from the memories that had followed me here.

  Because now I’m done hiding.

  If I’m going to push Chance away, then I’m going to have to find another method of chasing off the nightmares. And that means doing something. Something I love. Which, today, is my job. I don’t have to grasp at straws anymore. I can embrace my new life here, now. Automatically, I begin to tick off what my tasks for the day will be on the boat and find myself smiling, looking forward to my life. My life. Then my thoughts shift to playing the piano. I haven’t played for two days.

  But I will. And I feel my smile become a grin.

  As I jostle over the ruts and potholes of East End Road, I think about Clearwater and Lacey. Independently of each other, they suspect a Juilliard competitor. Mentally, I tick off the small number of candidates. It seems too easy, predictable.

  A female and one male.

  My mind circles to the guy, Kenneth. Could anyone be talented enough to play at that level and stupid enough to cripple the competition through murder? Something about it doesn’t make sense. I wonder how Marianne is coping? Kenneth Thomas? Probably as great as myself.

  Shitty.

  A huge pothole throws me into the door and I correct the wheel just as the Kenai Fjords rise to south above the ocean, the spit dividing the water like a bony finger of sand.

  I remember the therapist Lacey had scheduled for me to visit. I didn’t go. Instead, I came to Alaska. I wasn’t ready to talk to someone about my family. I’m not so sure I’m ready now.

  I take a cleansing breath through my nose and out through my mouth. I crank open the little V-shaped window and wipe first one sweaty palm on the granny square afghan that covers the old cracked vinyl seats and then the other.

  I can do this.

  I drive onto the spit, people jogging and riding bikes atop the ribbon of pedestrian blacktop that runs parallel to one side of the road.

  I’ll talk to someone. Maybe if I share what happened, I won’t have to relearn how to breathe anymore.

  Maybe I’ll be able to give Chance a break. He’s the closest thing I have to a real friend here. And if nothing else, the murders have given me a perverse sense of strength. What more can hurt me, right?

  I pull in front of the marina, already full of people, and get out my small backpack with my lunch and the gear that Chance had listed in his email.

  I slowly walk down the strange grated plank above the sea and make my way to his boat. I stare at the name on his boat.

  Life Is Chance.

  Yes . . . yes it is.

  “Hey,” Chance says, casually wiping his hands off on a brightly colored green towel.

  “Hi,” I say, my heart thumping inside me like a caged bird. I feel the wings brushing the inside of me and it makes me tingle.

  Or maybe it’s just Chance that makes me tingle.

  I cast my eyes down, look at my toes inside the boots and look back up.

  Awkward doesn’t cover it.

  “Ready?” he asks, a brow cocked neutrally.

  Uh-huh. No. “Sure,” I say, jumping as a flock of seagulls trumpets overhead.

  Chance smiles at my startle and extends his hand. I scramble on top of an upturned crate and sling an orange vinyl leg over the back of the boat, my bibs crinkling like cellophane. A couple of slick types look at me and then at each other. They’re maybe mid- to late twenties. I know I look younger than my almost twenty-one years and one of them folds his arms across his chest, giving me a skeptical look.

  “This little girl is going to be what?” he asks, his eyes roaming my hidden figure.

  I’m suddenly thankful for the bulbous clown bibs.

  “Deckhand,” Chance answers dismissively and I feel my face heat up as he concentrates on easing out of the slip, making his way out of the crowded harbor.

  The client makes a humphing sound in the back of his throat and I scoot a little closer to Chance, who is treating me like the employee I am.

  Like I want.

  Fishing is unfamiliar to me, but as Chance patiently shows me how to bait the hooks, where all the supplies are located a second time, and how to run the electric reels, I begin to feel more confident.

  Until the swells begin.

  The water rises, lapping the sides, begging for entrance into Chance’s boat. The square deep back deck holds integral chairs with pole holders, and the two clients, Sam and Lucas, are holding their poles so hard, their knuckles blanch.

  Chance gives a small smile, checking the lines, his legs spread, feet planted as the wind moves his short ebony hair around his head, his knees dipping slightly as the swell of the waves increases.

  “Can’t stay at anchor much longer, guys,” Chance says, his serious eyes, a match for the churning waves around us, peg first on the water, then move to the sky, a deep, roiling pewter.

  “Why? Damn, man! We’re from Arizona, we shelled out the moolah for this deep-sea shit.”

  Chance frowns as Sam gives him a look. “I appreciate your perspective, believe me, I do . . . but better safe than dead. Just sayin’,” Chance explains as the guy glowers at him.

  Asshole, I think as a hit from a bottom feeder smacks the line and I yell, “ ’But on the line!”

  Chance guffaws at my quip and we race to the line together. So much for going back and safety first.

  Fish on.

  I try to be careful, but the seawater slicks the deck and even the grippy soles of my Xtratufs can’t stabilize my uncertain land legs. I go to my knees, sliding across the deck in an ungainly rolling tumble that brings me into the client’s chair. It spins his fishing perch, putting him facing the interior of the boat instead of the sea.

  “Holy fuck!” Lucas shouts, making a mad scramble for the rod.

  But Chance is suddenly there, jerking me up by my elbow and dropping me on top of the large cooler on deck at the same time he grabs the reel and slaps Lucas’s hand away.

  “Hey!” Lucas shouts, pissed.

  I’m a slack jaw with scraped knees, an interior rug burn by denim stinging . . . along with my pride.

  “Don’t want to queer the bite, Lucas.”

  “Fuck,” Sam says in awe.

  I watch Chance battle the fish, the swell rising like a small tidal wave across the bow.

  We’re taking water.

  I’m scared, the boat’s rocking side to side as sweat beads on Chance’s upper lip, his audience of two clutching the sides of the boat.

  Chance�
��s face changes and I know from his expression the fish has arrived. He flicks the sweat from his eyes as he whips to face me. “Gaff!” he barks at me and I stumble to get it. It looks like a barbed grim reaper’s hook.

  Chance gives me the reel and says, “Hip.”

  I put the ass end of the reel against my hip bone and pray.

  His muscles bunch in readiness as a great mottled fish of many shades of brown and gray rises toward the surface of the water. One second the water is a vast nothingness of blue shot through with green, then the fish rises like a speckled pancake with a creepy bulging eye.

  Chance’s bicep balls up as he swings the gaff upward. “Heads!”

  Lucas and Sam back up. The gaff strikes the fish with a meaty thwack and he jerks it against the boat.

  “Not real big,” Chance comments casually as my heart races.

  Big enough, I think, my hands shaking from exertion.

  Sam smirks at my obvious fatigue and doesn’t offer to take the reel. Dick.

  “Lucas, take the reel from Brooke,” Chance says. And he’s not asking.

  Lucas gingerly takes the reel and my tired limbs fall to my sides in a grateful slump.

  Chance’s arm wings around like crazy, the fish at the other end treating it like a living noodle. “Brooke,” he says softly. “You trust me?”

  Yeah . . . I realize I do and for some reason, the realization makes me want to cry. I don’t know why.

  I step forward.

  “Get the small gaff.” Girl gaff, I translate.

  I pick it out of the interior stern pocket of the boat. “Hit the other end and on three let’s bring this ’but in together.”

  “One . . . two,” his low voice vibrates through my body like an instrument. “Three!”

  He flashes a grin as I hit the fish, setting the barbed end, and Lucas grunts in the background. I ignore him.

  We bring the fish in. Actually, Chance brings the fish in and I balance his effort, hefting it in using my body weight.

  “Brooke! Step back,” Chance says, his face tight, as a baseball bat covered in brown stains rises, and with the fierce grace of long practice, Chance swings it in an arc and lands on the head of the halibut.

  The tail flops, then slows . . . finally it stops.