Chapter Six

Cat

I pull the rope tighter, securing the boat on the dock.

“Cat, how was it today?” Austin asks from behind me, leaning in to give a forceful tug to the rope.

“It was good. We had to cut it short with the storm heading in.”

Austin's blue eyes peer up at the looming dark clouds.

“A few of us are hanging out tonight at Old Miller's Pub. Want to come?”

This isn't the first time he’s asked me to join them. Austin is fairly new to my dad’s business, six months or so, and he seems like an alright guy. Once or twice, I went to dinner with him when he first started.

He’s the type of guy I could see having a relationship with and maybe even marrying. But, I don’t see the excitement of a grand love affair. He’s just normal, I guess. Safe.

I don’t see the magic and mystery of him sweeping me off my feet or the words madly in love playing a part in our relationship.

But, maybe that stuff isn’t real. Maybe it’s just something made up. Something the movies and fairy tales of the world want us to believe in. Since that, the few times a month I run a tour, I've mostly seen him in passing, ten-minute conversations here and there. So far, he hasn't sank a boat, so dad seems happy with him.

Usually, I politely decline, but maybe I do need some fun. Cooper is spending the night at dad’s, so hanging out with everyone from work sounds much better than sitting home and trying to pretend I'm not nervous about heading out to Booker's place tomorrow. It's Friday night, and I'm young and child free for the night. Why not?

“Sure,” I agree.

For a moment, he appears stunned, and then, a smile spreads. “Cool. Meet up at eight?”

“Perfect.”

He gives me a larger than necessary grin, and I feel the need to either amp up my smile or escape. “I'm just going to lock up,” I tell him, opting for escape. “See ya later.”

He appears thunderstruck and gives me a chin nod, still grinning. I cross the street to the Wells ORCAstrated Tours building, complete the days paperwork and head home to shower and change.

Two hours later, dressed in skinny jeans and an off the shoulder white blouse, I pull up to the marina ready to have a few drinks and take the edge off.

I spot my best friend, Tristan, and an old friend from school, Eli, hanging out near the front door of the tavern.

“Hey, guys,” I call out, smiling as I approach them.

Eli holds the door open, and we slip inside. I like this place. It's all wood decks and sits right on the beach with a rustic nautical theme. Anchors weigh down the tables and masts flutter in the breeze. All that's missing is Jack Sparrow.

Tristan grabs my arm, pulling me closer to whisper in my ear, “Do not let me throw myself at Eli. Alcohol makes me do crazy things.”

I glimpse over at Eli and smile at Tristan. She's sweet with long brown hair and large hazel doe eyes, and trying to hide a crush so epic it makes me feel bad for her. “I’ll do my best.”

We head off in the direction of the bar and spot Mikey, the bartender, pushing drinks and smiling to the guests sitting on wood stools. He looks up and waves.

“Beers or girly drinks?” Eli asks.

“Beer,” we both answer.

He winks. “Good choice.”

Tristan and I grab a seat at a nearby table.

“Panty alert,” I warn, after she flashes me.

“Damn it,” she tugs down the short, red dress that looks stunning on her, “I knew I shouldn't have worn this.”

“Maybe you should've worn a longer dress,” Eli says, sliding our beers on the table. He chews the silver ring in his bottom lip. “What color are they?”

“What color is what?” Austin asks, taking a seat.

“My new... chairs,” Tristan answers, quickly. “They're red.”

Eli takes a long pull of his beer, eyeing her. It's been so long since I've been out, it's like I'm watching a documentary on mating rituals.

An easy conversation settles over the table about everyone's work week, and while I'm not necessarily bored, maybe just a little too preoccupied about tomorrow, I don't feel like joining in. Maybe I don't know how to interact with adults anymore. No one is dropping a crayon under the table or needs their mouth wiped, so I'm unsure of what to do with myself. My eyes shift to the ocean, the waves barely cresting along the shore. The full moon hangs low in the sky, its shadow skating across the water.

“Cat, what about you?” Austin asks, holding his beer an inch away from his lips.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry. What was the question?”

Tristan rolls her eyes. “They want to know your favorite sexual position.”

My expression blanks. “Why?”

“Oh, come on, we’ve all shared ours,” Austin says.

I clear my throat. “I guess the standard position.”

Honestly, I wouldn’t have a clue as to what position I like best. My sexual experience isn't outlandish; I've only ever been with two guys. Neither was that great or often, and one of them resulted in Cooper. Gavin was a tourist passing through Ferndale, taking a whale tour, and I was a twenty-one-year-old girl who got lost in the moment, never expecting to end up pregnant by a guy who signed all his rights away because it would ruin his future. Still, I can't say it was a mistake, like Gavin did, because then Cooper would be a mistake. I muster up a fake smile and take another sip of beer.

Austin beams. “The standard position? What kind of answer is that?” he presses.

I shrug. “It’s a good answer.”

“I agree,” Tristan says, raising her beer to clink it with mine in a cheers.

I smile, glad she’s taking my side. Girl solidarity. And besides, even if I fucked hanging from the ceiling, what's it to him?

I’m formulating my excuse to leave when something down by the shore catches my eye.

A man, strolling down by the sea, stumbling around. I stand and move closer to the edge of the deck, holding on to the light-wood pillar.

He turns, facing me, and... it’s Booker.

The moonlight illuminates his features. A thick curiosity washes over me, so heavy as it cascades around me, spinning my mind out of control.

What’s he doing?

I glimpse back at the table with my friends, happily chatting away.

A snap decision is made, probably a rash one, if anyone is keeping score, and I rush back to the table, grab my purse and smile. “Guys, I’m gonna take off.”

“Are you sure?” Austin asks, rising from his seat.

“Yes. Early day tomorrow.” After quick good nights, I make my way to the stairs leading down to the beach.

I slip my shoes off and plod through the cool sand. “Booker?” I call out, approaching from behind as he stares out at the frothy waves.

He turns to me, stumbling a bit. “Cat? Is that you?” He grabs my shoulders, and leans down to glare directly into my eyes. The stout smell of bourbon envelopes me.

“Are you drunk?”

“Are you?”

“Uh, no. Maybe I should get you home.”

He teeters closer. “Maybe I should get you home.”

“Oh, you’re like my little echo.” I laugh.

He wraps an arm around me wearing a big goofy grin. But, in the light of the moon his eyes don’t match the smile; they're lifeless. The quote from Jaws sounds in my head: “ ‘And you know the thing about a shark… he's got lifeless eyes. Black eyes. Like a doll’s eyes.’ ”

A shiver courses through me.

“Do you know it only takes a second? Like a grain of sand.” He grabs a handful of sand, nearly crashing us to the ground. “Look at this sand, it was only a second.” He drops the sand, wiping the remnants off on his jeans.

I have no clue as to what he’s hammering on about, but I have creeped myself the fuck out. I just nod, leading him up the coast toward his house. He staggers back a little, his eyes blink slow and heavy as if it's all he can do to keep them open.

“Listen, don't face plant on me in the sand,” I tell him.

He stops. I fear he might fall by the way he sways toward me. I put a hand on his solid chest to steady him, and his eyes drop down to stare at it.

“You’re touching me,” he whispers.

“I’m just trying to keep you from falling flat on your face.”

He chuckles at that. “You’re funny.”

“Thanks, big guy, let’s go.”

I drape his arm around me, sliding my arm around his waist. We plod along the sand in the silence of the night. No sounds except his breathing. Even the waves lap quietly on the shore as if they are watching and waiting to see if I succeed in getting him home.

It’s odd being this close to him. I don’t even know him. And what I do know, I don’t particularly like. At all. Except maybe his looks. Ok, it's superficial, I know, but the man is like a movie star. Like his looks should come with their own zip code.

“Can I ask you something?”

I stop walking. “Sure.”

“Will you help me?” His earnest tone tugs at my heartstrings, and without questioning, I nod in agreement.

We walk back to the house in silence. Every once in awhile Booker laughs.

He trips over nothing.

Laugh.

He stumbles up his front walkway.

Laugh.

He can’t figure out where his keys are.

Laugh.

Once I finally get him inside, it’s as though I’ve walked a hundred miles.

“Which room’s yours?”

“Guess,” he slurs. “If you guess the right door, you win the prize, Hell Cat.”

I roll my eyes and drag him down the hall. There’s no way I can even think about getting him up the stairs, so I don’t try. Hopefully one of these doors is a bedroom.

I open the first door—bathroom—and then shut it. “Bzzzz,” he says, “wrong door.”

“It would be much more helpful if you actually helped.”

“Caaat,” he drawls out.

“Yes?”

His shoulder hits the wall in a drunken stumble. “Please, help me.” The pleading tone is back, and I gaze into his eyes. So mysterious. So melancholy. So lost.

A niggle of intuition that something isn't quite right here, that he wasn't drinking himself into this stupor to just have a good time, sets anxious butterflies alight in the pit of my stomach. “I am helping you,” I whisper back.

“No.”

I stare blankly at him. “Ok.” I open a few more doors. Linen closet. Laundry room. Another freaking closet.

Finally, I open a door to a bedroom. Hallelujah. I’ve struck gold. This room actually appears lived in. The bed isn’t much, and as I help him into it, he seems so childlike.

Innocent.

A boy lost in the world. A ludicrous urge to protect him emerges.

But, then, I remember how he is when he’s sober—crass, cold, and cranky. He doesn't need me to protect him.

I flip on the bedside table lamp and pull the slate gray comforter up higher against his body.

Unable to resist, I brush back an errant strand of dark hair from his forehead.

“You should sleep this off,” I tell him in a soft, comforting voice.

He grabs my arm. “Cat, I need you.” His eyes seem cognizant for the first time tonight.

I’ve never had a man say those words to me before, and an unfamiliar ache ignites in my center.

“I’ll be here in the morning to start working.”

“No, I need you now.”

The ache gets stronger. Even though I like the way he says he needs me, the fact of the matter is: he’s drunk. And he probably doesn’t even mean it in a sexual way. Probably.

Besides, I'm not interested in sex with him. I can tell my mind that all day long, but my body has other reactions to his neediness—it turns me on. I haven't been turned on in a very long time.

I’m almost falling for it, almost have the urge to strip down bare. I shake my head. No.

I lean closer, intoxicated by his desperation. “What do you need?”

He strokes my cheek, and I hold my breath. “Make me come,” he says and then passes out.

I.

Can’t.

Breathe.

I stand on shaky legs and run.

Out of his house.

Down the beach, back to my car and head home.

How am I supposed to face him tomorrow?

The words echo through my mind all night long.

Make me come.