Chapter 5

 

 

 

 

As the days passed, Donovan had taken to marking the passage of time by placing a seashell in a hollowed-out coconut shell. Six days had gone by and still no airplane appeared in the sky. No ship appeared on the horizon.

They kept themselves busy, building a makeshift lean-to with the tarp and stakes fashioned from bamboo stalks. Their primary focus was day-to-day survival. A typical day involved fishing, collecting wood, shoring up their shelter, washing their few items of clothing in the pool, scouting the island for fruits and edible vegetation and scouring the skies and horizon for any sign of a plane or ship as they swept the air with the signal mirror. By evening, they would collapse on the shore beneath the shade of a tree, staring out at the endless turquoise perfection of the ocean that imprisoned them. Sometimes they talked, other times they sat quietly, lost in their own thoughts.

Though they were surrounded by food, actually getting at it was laborious and time consuming. It wasn’t hard to find clams, who left telltale holes in the sand as they burrowed a few inches down. A couple of hours of digging usually yielded enough for a small meal of steamed, chewy clams. Shucking them wasn’t quite as easy as finding them, but they managed with one of the utility knives, wedging the tip between the shells to pry them open. The small pinkish orange morsels weren’t especially tasty, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

It had been relatively easy to knock the coconuts from the tree and peel the thick green husk that protected the coconut beneath it. But getting the hard shell open had been more difficult. Several minutes of hard whacking with a piece of stone had only cracked the surface of the newly peeled shell. Discouraged, they’d left the coconut to dry in the sun. Happily, once the shell had dried sufficiently, they were able to crack it in half with a sharp rock.

The watery milk was sweet and thirst quenching, and coconut meat was satisfying to chew, once they managed to carve it from the shell. They’d found other fruit as well, hidden in the leaves of a copse of trees on the far side of the island. Little smooth gray balls were nestled in among the leaves, resembling ping pong balls. Reaching up, Donovan had pulled one of the fruits from its perch and smelled it. The fuzzy skin was yielding to his fingernail, like a kiwi. Beneath the skin lay dark orange fruit. It smelled wonderful—something like an orange and lime combined, with a hint of banana.

“Think it’s edible?” he’d asked Sam, who took the exposed fruit and sniffed it.

“How could something that smells so good be poison?” Sam said, grinning. Pointing to the ground around the trees, he observed the empty skins of the fruit scattered about. “Looks like someone besides us decided to try eating this fruit and has lived to tell the tale.” He popped one into his mouth. The fruit was delicious.

They used snails near the inland pool as bait for the freshwater fish, a nice addition to the clams and the occasional mussel they found on the beach. The first time out, they managed to catch two decent-sized fish, their scales glimmering pink and green in the slanting sun. Though neither of them had cleaned a fish before, they did the best they could, cutting off the heads and tails, slitting the pale translucent flesh and scooping out the dark goo inside. They’d had some trouble getting the fish to stay whole on the sticks they’d skewered them on for cooking. They’d ended up losing a part of one fish into the fire, but they’d managed to cook what remained, its smell promising survival as their mouths watered in anticipation.

Ostensibly focused solely on survival, they’d both tiptoed around whatever had sparked between them in the pool. It was clear that Donovan was supremely uncomfortable about it. For the time being, Sam let it go at that. 

But the lingering tension remained between them like a white elephant in the room. No matter how Donovan seemed determined to avoid or deny it, Sam had been a witness to his initial, unfiltered reactions. He could still remember Donovan’s erection—his cock pressed hard as iron against Sam for that one delicious moment.

Though Donovan never brought up what had happened—or nearly happened—between them that day, Sam had caught Donovan several times staring surreptitiously at him. Was it only wishful thinking, or had Sam seen longing in his gaze? Was it possible Donovan felt more than he was willing to admit?

Though he tried to keep a tight lid on it, Sam found himself daydreaming of coming up behind Donovan, spinning him around and pulling him down for a kiss—a long, lingering kiss that would remove all doubt as to his intentions. He would drag those faded, filthy jeans from Donovan’s hard body and sink to his knees, taking Donovan’s erect shaft deep into his throat until he cried for mercy, begged for release…

On the seventh evening as they sat near the fire after dinner, Donovan said, “That’s a cool ring. Is there some significance?”

Sam looked down at the braided gold ring he wore on his right ring finger. “I made it in a jewelry class right after I moved to the city. The first time I wore it was at a small juried show I’d somehow managed to get a painting into. I won first place, and I decided the ring was my good luck charm.” He grinned at Donovan. “So I just keep wearing it.”

 “I know we’ve been pretty lucky, surviving the wreck and landing on an island that can sustain us,” Donovan said slowly. “But waiting here day in and day out, I’m feeling less and less lucky. I wonder if they’ve given us up for dead.”

“We can’t think that way. We just have to keep trying with the signal mirror.”

Sam hated to think about his parents up in Maine, sick with worry and fear, no doubt assuming the worst. His mom had her hands full with Harry, Sam’s nineteen-year-old brother, who had Down Syndrome. While he was a terrific kid with great energy and enthusiasm, he was physically frail, and had the mental abilities of a child, albeit a bright and curious child. Sam’s dad had worked as a UPS delivery man for thirty years. Lately, they’d been cutting back his hours and darkly hinting about layoffs. It sickened Sam to think of them worrying about him, on top of everything else.

With supreme effort, Sam was able to put those thoughts from his mind for hours at a time. It was much easier to focus on their day-to-day survival.

Surely it was only a matter of time—a few more days, a week at most, before rescuers found them. How many islands could there be? They wouldn’t have stopped looking so soon—he had to believe that. Once they were rescued, they could go their separate ways and return to their separate lives. Meanwhile, it was better they kept things on a platonic level. Yes, Sam assured himself, that was the sensible, sane thing to do.

~*~

Each day and each night they faithfully waved the signal mirror in the air, to no avail. There were fourteen shells now in Donovan’s hollowed-out coconut. Though it was clear they could survive in reasonable comfort for the foreseeable future, the prospect of rescue had dimmed.

They’d learned to bank the fire each night so it wouldn’t go completely out, and thus still had most of their precious matches. The thought that they might one day run out of matches, run out of hope, run out of time, was an unspoken but constant fear lingering just below the surface of their daily struggle. They barely spoke of it, each aware that to do so would unleash a dam of emotion neither was able or willing to deal with.

Donovan barely allowed himself to dwell on it, even in his thoughts. The prospect of spending the rest of his life marooned on this bit of land was too horrible to contemplate. Instead, he found himself becoming obsessed with Sam. He watched him all the time, and often found ways to touch him, to brush his arm, to move closer on their makeshift pallet when Sam was asleep.

He even began to imagine how he might respond if Sam actually made a move on him. He wouldn’t pull away this time. He would keep an open mind and explore whatever it was Sam had to offer.

But Sam hadn’t made any move at all. If anything, he seemed overly careful to avoid any situation that might make Donovan uncomfortable. It was true—at first, he’d appreciated Sam’s consideration. But lately he found himself almost irritated by it. He realized he’d just sort of assumed every gay guy would of course want to hit on every man he saw. That was stupid, he knew, as stupid as assuming every straight man wanted to fuck every woman he saw.

Ruefully, Donovan was forced to acknowledge he probably wasn’t Sam’s type. Shit—he had made a mess of things with the women in his life. He’d probably do the same with the one person—the one man—left in his life now. Better they remained friends.

Then, one afternoon as they sat on the water’s edge letting tiny waves ripple over their feet, Sam turned to Donovan. “You’re growing a beard.” Lightly he touched Donovan’s jaw, darkened by two weeks of growth. As Sam’s fingers grazed Donovan’s skin, his eyes met Donovan’s.

In spite of himself, a spark of raw electricity jolted through Donovan at the touch. Sam was watching him, his eyes dark, the pupils dilated, a hunger behind them that at once thrilled and terrified Donovan. Donovan forced himself to look away from Sam’s mesmerizing, sensual stare, but the heat of desire remained.

His body remembered the hard press of Sam’s cock against his thigh. When had he last felt the press of warm lips, the comfort of another’s body against his own? Donovan swallowed, not sure what was happening to him. It was as if his carefully constructed defenses had washed away like sand with the outgoing tide. He longed to touch Sam’s cheek in kind—to make contact, to convey with his fingers what he didn’t yet have words for. God, what was happening to him?

He glanced sidelong at Sam. Sam was quietly regarding him in that way he had, his expression calm but intent, as if he were listening in on Donovan’s thoughts.

Trying to get his emotions under control, Donovan responded, “Maybe I can figure out a way to shave.”

“How? You have a razor hidden somewhere you aren’t telling me about?”

Donovan laughed, relieved the intensity of the moment had been dispelled. “No, seriously, I could use the small utility knife. It’s got replaceable tips in the handle. Maybe I could use coconut milk as a lubricant.”

Donovan got to his feet, suddenly eager to try his experiment. “We still have some coconut milk left, don’t we?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Sam, too, got up from the sand. “You could use the signal mirror to see what you’re doing.”

Supplies arranged, Donovan leaned back against a palm tree trunk. He applied a coating of coconut milk to his whiskers and then drew the edge of the blade down one cheek, watching in the small mirror Sam held out for him.

“Ow!” Donovan dropped the blade as blood beaded red against the foamy white of the coconut milk.

“Careful,” Sam advised, too late. Using the hem of his much-stained T-shirt, Sam leaned forward, dabbing the cut with it. The gesture brought them very close together, their chests touching.

“It’s okay, thanks,” Donovan said, turning away before the intimacy of the moment overwhelmed him. He felt dizzy. He tried to tell himself it was only because of the sight of his own blood, but he knew better. “I don’t think I’m so good at this island shaving thing.”

“How about I’ll do it for you?” Sam suggested, holding out his hand for the knife. “That might be easier than you trying to squint into that tiny mirror.”

With a nod, Donovan handed over the knife and closed his eyes. As Sam drew the blade gently over his flesh, Donovan realized he trusted Sam implicitly. Sam worked slowly, scraping along Donovan’s whiskers with slow, even strokes. As he worked, he ran the fingers of his other hand lightly over the skin. “I want to make sure I don’t miss a spot.”

Donovan kept his eyes closed, barely admitting to himself how good Sam’s touch felt as he moved his strong, sure fingers over Donovan’s flesh, leaving trails of warm desire in their wake.

Finally, Sam took a step back. “There you are,” he pronounced. “Smooth as a baby, if a little sticky.”

Donovan opened his eyes, actually disappointed the shave was over. Sam pulled his bandana from his back pocket and poured fresh water over it from the jug. He handed the wet rag to Donovan, who wiped his face clean.

Sam held out the mirror. “Check it out.”

Donovan took the offered mirror and looked at himself. He was startled by his dark tan, paler where he’d just been shaved but still ruddy compared to his old city face. Before the cruise, he’d rarely seen the sun, except through office and courtroom windows. He examined his face a moment longer, noting the shadows beneath his eyes, the cheeks gaunt from their enforced diet.

“I think I’ve aged ten years these past two weeks,” he said, his voice subdued.

Sam touched his shoulder, his voice husky with suppressed emotion. “We’ve been through a hell of a lot, you and I. I’m just glad you’ve been here to help me get through it.”

Donovan almost leaned forward at that moment. He almost took Sam’s face in his hands. He almost kissed his supple, sensual mouth.

Instead he did what he always seemed to be doing these days. He turned away.