Attraction

Martin frowned at me; I took it as a good sign because it meant he was actually considering the question. But then his frown started to worry me because his eyes grew cagey and guarded.

After a few minutes he asked, “Is this a test?”

I lifted an eyebrow at him and his tone. He sounded a little angry.

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said, is this a test? If I answer incorrectly are you still going to give us a chance?”

Yep. Definitely angry.

It was my turn to frown. “Martin, it’s a conversation. We’re just having a conversation. This isn’t a test. You said, and I agree, that I don’t know you very well. This is my attempt to get to know you better.”

“But if I answer in a way you don’t like, what happens?”

I stared at him, my features likely showing my disorientation at his odd question. “Um,” my eyes flickered to the side, because I was trying not to look at him like he was a crackhead, “nothing? I mean, we talk about it, each reviewing our own opinions and providing support for what we believe. But then, we can always agree to disagree at some point.”

“Then after that?”

“I guess we could end it with a high five to show that there are no hard feelings...?”

His eyes narrowed at me, and he was looking at me like I was the puzzle; when he spoke next it was with an air of distraction. “That sounds nice.”

I frowned, considering him, considering his reaction to a simple question. It made me wonder whether or not Martin Sandeke had ever had a conversation before, one where he was allowed to disagree without being made fun of or punished for his thoughts, where it wasn’t a test.

I was about to ask him something along these lines when the pilot’s voice came over the intercom. He announced we were approaching the airport, and should buckle in for our final descent. Meanwhile, I blinked at Martin and a dawning and disturbing realization took root.

Martin Sandeke wasn’t used to freely voicing his thoughts and feelings…nor was he used to kindness.

CHAPTER 7

Molecular Geometry and Bonding Theories

Much of Sam’s surly mood dissipated after her fifteen-minute plane tour courtesy of the handsome Eric. I was both pleased and distressed by this turn of events. Since Sam’s attention was redirected—or best case scenario, it was split between me and Eric—this meant she wasn’t quite as focused on her role as my spring break chastity belt.

A very luxurious stretch limo picked us up. Inside the car, I sat next to one of the seven other guys; his name was Ray, and his parents had immigrated from Mumbi, India, when he was two. He was a biochemistry major, and he was five seat.

“Five seat?” I asked, my head titling to the side. “What do you mean five seat?”

Two more of the boys entered the limo, sitting on the bench across from Sam and Eric.

“Five seat in the crew boat. I’m a starboard,” Ray explained, flashing me a big smile when he saw I didn’t quite understand what he meant. “We’re all on the crew team together, in the same boat. I’m five seat, Martin is eight seat. He’s the stroke at the stern, the back of the boat.” Ray lifted his chin toward one of the other guys. “That’s our coxswain, Lee.”

I gave Lee a friendly smile. “What’s a cocks-twin?”

Lee chuckled and shook his head. “It’s pronounced cox-wain, not cocks-twin. Basically, I steer the boat and keep these guys from being lazy assholes.”

“Lee also gets to stare into Stroke’s dreamy blue eyes all day,” Ray added with a grin. “You should probably be jealous.”

I shrugged my shoulders convulsively, feeling acutely weird and self-conscious. “What…I…we…it’s…I mean…what are you talking about?” I sputtered as my hands did weird things, jerky movements in the air in front of me. “I’m not jealous. Why would I be jealous? I don’t even know the guy.”

Ray, Lee, Eric, and another of the guys whose name was Herc—who had obscenely large leg muscles—all lifted their eyebrows at me in unison.

“You’re his girl, right?” Lee glanced at his teammates as though to confirm this statement.

“That’s right,” Herc confirmed, his tone sure and steady.

I felt Sam tug at my shirt but I ignored her. At that moment three of the other guys entered the car; I’d recognized two of them as the pair of brown-eyed frat boys who’d been with Eric at the party the night before. The taller of the two, Griffin, had been handsy with me at the frat house. The other one, Will, had hit Griffin on the back of the head as they’d walked away.

The other guy’s name was Tambor. He had blond hair, darker than Ben’s, longish with pale highlights likely caused by the sun. He had deep brown eyes and an exceedingly stoic face. He and Herc were the shortest and the stockiest of the boys at an approximate and measly six foot one.

“So…where does everyone else sit? In the boat, I mean,” I asked weakly, wanting to change the subject.

“As you know, Martin is stroke, which is eight seat.” Ray then pointed to Eric. “Eric is a starboard, seven seat. Ben,” he paused and looked around the inside of the vehicle. Ben and Martin were the only two not in the car yet. “Well, Ben who isn’t here is port, seat six. We’ve already established that I’m starboard five seat. Griffin is behind me, port four seat. Then Will, starboard three seat. Tambor, port second seat. Last but not least is Herc. He’s the bow, first seat, in the front of the boat.”

“All the even seats are port seats, and the odds are starboard?”

Ray nodded. “That’s right. Port and starboard have to do with the sides of the boat. My oar is rigged on the starboard side; whereas Martin’s, Ben’s, Griffin’s, and Tambor’s are rigged on the port side.”

I nodded, picturing a crew boat I’d seen on TV during the summer Olympics. Now, considering how Martin had originally introduced everyone on the plane—referring to each of them as a number first before their names—this made a lot more sense. Their nicknames were their seat assignments, with Martin called Stroke and Herc called Bow.

Martin entered the limo just as Ray finished explaining port and starboard. I noted that a hush fell over the occupants; everyone seemed to sit a little straighter, the guys looking to him as though called to attention.

His did a sweep of the interior as Ben entered through the other door and shut it. Martin’s gaze paused on me, which sent heat to my cheeks and set off a buzzing in my stomach. Eventually he glared at Ray and his eyes narrowed by an infinitesimal margin.

Ray’s answering smile looked cautious. “I’ll just move over this way...” Ray schootched away from me, leaving plenty of room for someone to fill the void.

Martin followed Ray’s movements with his eyes, stared at him for a beat, then ducked and crossed to the now vacant seat next to mine. Martin then cast a dark glare around the limo, almost like he was warning them off his Chinese takeout leftovers.

Meanwhile I pressed my lips into an unhappy line. I was unimpressed with the dynamic of unspoken, but clearly understood, possessiveness.

Even if I were Martin’s girl—which I wasn’t—there was nothing amiss with me sitting next to Martin’s friend. I felt abruptly as though I’d just been peed on.

I didn’t want to be peed on.

***

The rest of the journey was eventfully uneventful. The limo’s journey to the marina was fifteen minutes. At the marina, men appeared—as though from nowhere—and loaded our belongings onto a boat. Then the men disappeared. The boat journeyed forty-five minutes to another, much smaller marina situated on a spec of an island.

At least it looked like a spec at first. Upon closer inspection, I estimated it was about four miles long and at least a mile wide. The lush tropical forests were dotted with obscenely massive luxury homes—some directly on the beach, some higher up on hilly cliffs. I counted seven as we circled to the dock.

We then loaded into five all-terrain golf cart-like vehicles, two per vehicle. I traveled with Martin, Sam traveled with Eric. We traversed a well-maintained dirt road to where I surmised we’d be staying for the next week.

I didn’t bring up Martin’s inappropriate behavior; this was for several reasons. First, drama repelled me. I didn’t want to start a conversation on the topic when others could overhear. Therefore I just put up with his hovering and the way he would stare down the other guys when they’d enter my radius.

Second, I didn’t know how to start the dialogue. What if I was imagining things? What if I was being overly sensitive? What if this was what normal relationships were like? If we’d actually been dating, I think I might have been able to navigate through the conversation, but we weren’t.

“Why are you so quiet?”

I’d been wrapped up in my thoughts and started a little at his bluntly spoken question.

“Uh.” I glanced at him. He was splitting his attention between me and the road. “Because I’m thinking about something.”

“What are you thinking about?” he asked. As usual it sounded like a demand.

I tried not to read too much into the tone of his voice; maybe Martin didn’t know how to ask nicely, another thing I didn’t like very much about him.