“Let the woman speak for herself,” Vanessa said.
“But she—” Can’t speak. That’s what Kirby almost said. She let out a breath, met my eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“She knows that, Kirby.” Vanessa plowed on. “We haven’t even given her a chance to make up her own mind.” She grabbed my foot, gave it a shake. “Here’s the deal. We’re going to Shipwreck and you’re coming with. Get dressed.”
Kirby laughed. “That’s letting her make up her own mind?”
“It’s motivational,” Vanessa said. “Positive thinking.”
“It’s a wonder you don’t have a book deal.”
“I’m sayin’. Anyway, come on. Decisions to be made.” Vanessa rose from the bed and attacked the closet, whipping through the hangers like a woman on a mission. She found a cute red mini with a fringed hem, one I’d worn on nights out back home. I wasn’t even sure why I’d brought it, but I hadn’t been thinking clearly at the time. That night in Tobago, plane ticket in hand, packing was the very last thing that stood between me and my escape.
“I need a certain kind of top for this,” Vanessa said. “But I’m onto something here.” She disappeared into Kirby’s room, and while she was gone, Kirby filled in the silence.
“Shipwreck,” she said. “The club? There’s a deejay from Portland spinning tonight. Everyone’s going. And it’s under-over, so you don’t need ID. After the club we can stop at the Black Pearl for pancakes or eggs. Late night breakfast is an after-dancing tradition. So. Um. I know you don’t like going out and everything, but . . . please come?”
“No one’s gonna force you to do anything,” Vanessa said, returning from Kirby’s room with a handful of wardrobe options. “I mean, other than forcing you to come with us. Once we’re there, you can mope on a velvet couch all night for all I care. But I’m gettin’ you out of this house and off this rocky-ass beach if it’s the last thing I do. You feelin’ me?”
Kirby giggled. “Elyse doesn’t swing that way. But Christian’ll probably take you up on that offer.”
Vanessa closed her eyes, sighed through her nose. “For a girl who’s never been naked with a boy, you sure have a lot to say on the matter. Here, put this on.” From the pile in her arms she tossed Kirby a slinky, forest-green number.
“That’s a slip!” Kirby said.
Vanessa added a wide black belt. “Now it’s a dress, and the color is perfect with your skin tone. And don’t say you’ll be cold, ’cause it’s a hundred degrees in that club. Put it on, my little sex kitten.”
Kirby sighed, but she’d warmed up to the slip-dress idea, and changed quickly out of her robe. When it was all put together, she spun before us. “Yea or nay?”
Vanessa was right; Kirby looked sexy. Still sweet, though, in her usual Kirby way. I gave her the thumbs-up and pointed at the wooden jewelry box on my dresser, full of necklaces and earrings I never wore anymore.
“Does this mean you’re in?” Kirby asked, clasping a rhinestone choker around her neck. It looked perfect with the dress, picking up the deep green silk, sparkling against her light brown skin.
Alas, I shook my head. I flipped to a new page in my notebook, scribbled out my excuse for Kirby. At least today’s was a new one, utterly original and true.
No. Christian’s mad at me. I broke starboard window, total mess. Not enough $ to fix.
My insides burned with embarrassment as I tried to pantomime what happened. After we’d caught Noah snooping around the boat twice this weekend and again this morning, Christian had set up camp above deck, inspecting the Queen’s ratty sails and keeping an eye out for the would-be pirate. He’d left me in charge below, a position I’d assured him I could handle.
But I’d had my earbuds in, Bella Garcia inspiring me to move-it-groove-it, don’t-have-to-prove-it, and in all my eagerness to be the dancing, cleaning queen, I’d smashed right through the window with a wooden mop handle.
It was a brilliant mess, glass raining down over the saloon, Christian rushing in, panicked. Then confused. Then annoyed.
“Jesus,” he’d said. “At this rate, we won’t need Noah to sabotage us. We’re doing fine on our own.”
I tried to apologize, and he tried to accept it, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. I couldn’t blame him. It was one more thing that would have to be repaired, one more cost added to the seemingly endless list. And finding the right-size glass, along with replacement aluminum and rubber for the frame and seal—all of which I’d damaged? The Vega was almost fifty years old. It would take a lot of phone calls and drive time to find a marina shop that had what we needed. The electrical work had eaten through a good bit of our mystery fund, and from the looks of it, we’d be spending more cash on new ropes and patch-ups for the chafed sails.
We’d finished out the day in awkward silence. Christian had been distracted from the moment he’d arrived, and that made me distracted. Did he regret the kisses? The time we’d spent together on and off the boat? Or was he thinking about his family, his father? Was he worried about the regatta? Upset about Noah? Did something else happen with Sebastian?
As easily as I could read his body language, his thoughts were always veiled, and once again I’d been left wondering who he really was, this boy who loved his brother fiercely, this boy who Kirby had so warned me against, this boy who alternately made me laugh and made me doubt, this boy who wore the sea in his eyes.
When he’d finally called it quits for the day, I skipped the salute that had become our good-bye. I just made myself scarce.
Part of me had hoped he’d follow. Or call after me. Or grab my hand, give me a reassuring squeeze and that heart-melting smile.
But he didn’t, and when I glanced back over my shoulder one last time, he was standing on the deck, his foot up on the coaming as he stared out across the sea.
“I’m sure he knows it was an accident,” Kirby said now.
“What was an accident?” Vanessa asked. After Kirby explained, Vanessa said, “Oh, I doubt he’s mad. But even if he is, he’ll take one look at you in this outfit, and all will be forgiven. Trust me.” She pressed the red skirt to her hips, holding up a sleeveless white fitted blouse with black buttons down the front. She was right; the outfit looked cute. Hot, even. Especially if I borrowed Kirby’s strappy silver sandals . . .
“You’re in,” Vanessa said. “I can see it all over your face. Yay!”
I wasn’t sure what I was doing, only that the girls were right—maybe I needed to get off this rocky beach, get a change of scenery. I dressed quickly, let Vanessa do my eye makeup. On her advice I left my hair wild, my crazy curls stretching up toward the night sky.
“Wow,” she said when all was said and done. The three of us stood in front of the bathroom mirror, arms linked, lips glossed and glowing, a trio of beautiful mermaids. “Eat your hearts out, summer boys.”
It had been a long time since I’d set foot in a club—never in the States—and though they’d talked it up the entire thirty-minute drive here, I wasn’t expecting it to be so legit. The space was dark but inviting, deep blue walls lit with turquoise sconces, strobe lights over the dance floor. It felt like an underwater lair, cool and otherworldly as bass pumped into the night.
We found a couch and table in the back and ordered a few sodas while we waited for Christian and Noah. When the boys finally arrived twenty minutes later, it was as if the entire club had been awaiting their grand entrance, everyone parting to let them pass, girls smiling, the energy in the room rising.
Noah nodded when he saw us, making his way through the crowd, but Christian hung back, looking everywhere but at us. I watched him scan the room, but he was only pretending—his eyes landed on no one, nothing. When a girl snuck up behind him and put her hands over his eyes, he looked startled and distracted. He grabbed her arms playfully, pulled her in front to identify her.
&nb
sp; Calla, the girl who’d texted him at the Black Pearl that day with the milkshakes, dragged him into a dance. I couldn’t tell if he was into it or just playing along.
My stomach knotted again as I recalled our day of disaster on the boat. I couldn’t watch him any longer, couldn’t deal with the summer girls and his mysteriously raging sea-eyes and his there-and-gone smile. I set my drink on the table, headed for the ladies’ room.
I spent a good ten minutes at the sink, washing my hands, redoing my lip gloss, watching the exchange of sparkly girls pass through the door. Finally, I caught Vanessa’s reflection in the mirror. She sauntered over, put her arm around me.
“You’re hidin’ out,” she said to the glass. “And I couldn’t help but notice that your whole duck-and-cover act started the moment Christian walked in. What’s up?”
I shrugged, stared at the sink.
“Elyse, if you don’t want to share, that’s one thing. Tell me to mind my business. But don’t be in here actin’ like it’s fine. I got a sense for this stuff.”
Christian, I finally mouthed at the mirror.
“Christian what?” she said. When I didn’t respond, she grabbed my shoulders gently, turned me toward her. “Listen, hon. I know Christian really well. And the boy’s got issues, yeah. But he likes you. Okay? You’ve got nothin’ to worry about. Just be you.”
I shrugged again. I knew he had issues. But I wasn’t so sure about the liking me part. Which would’ve been fine if I hadn’t already liked him.
A lot.
“Are you worried about Calla?” Her eyes were full of concern. “Because I promise you he’s not into her. She’s already dancin’ with someone else, anyway.”
My heart sped up. I had to tell someone my secret, and as much as I wished it could be Kirby, I couldn’t handle her freaking out on me tonight. I took a deep breath, steadied myself for the confession.
Christian and I . . . we . . .
I let the words fade away, unformed.
No. I couldn’t tell Vanessa, either. No matter what she said about Christian liking me, I couldn’t admit to kissing him, to liking him as much as I did. I still didn’t even know how she felt about him.
Or how he felt about her.
Maybe I didn’t even want to know.
I met her eyes again, surprised to see her devilish grin.
“I know you guys have been kissin’ and whatnot, honey bun.”
A spark shot through my insides, chasing away the denial my lips wanted to form. Christian told her? Was he happy about it? Or annoyed? Did he want to kiss me again?
Was Vanessa jealous? Upset?
I waited for her to say more, but I knew she wouldn’t betray his confidence. Or her own.
“All the more reason you should be out there instead of in here.” Vanessa smirked. “By the way, our little Kirby’s finally gettin’ her groove on with Noah. I knew that outfit would unleash her inner goddess.”
I let out a raspy laugh, nodded to let her know I was okay.
Maybe she was okay too.
She looped her arm through mine and led me back out, the music and lights assaulting us anew as we stepped into the fray.
Vanessa was so comfortable in her own skin. Large and in charge, Granna would’ve called her.
Hands in the air and a sultry smile on her lips, Vanessa glided through the crowd. Past the couches, past the bar, she reached back for my hand, pulled me onto the dance floor where the sounds of the Caribbean called.
They were playing Bunji Garlin. A song from home.
The crowd roared.
The deejay tossed glow-in-the-dark necklaces into the mob, outstretched hands catching and twirling them in the air.
There were so many things about the past I’d been trying to outrun, an anchor I’d carried for months without ever really escaping. There were things about the future that scared the hell out of me too—big impossible things I wasn’t ready to think about.
But the energy around me surged and sizzled in a way it never could when I was dancing alone on the beach, and I felt it, way down to the bones. Right here, right now, for the first time since I’d lost my voice, I let it all go.
There was no lost singing career. No family drama. No Prop 27. No regatta. No heartache. No guilt about my sister. No fear.
There was this: my hands in the air next to Vanessa and Kirby, our bodies shimmering and shaking, curls wild and electric, our mermaid hearts on fire in the deep blue sea of the club.
I closed my eyes, let the music pulse through my blood, fill my soul.
The deejay played on and on, an entire Caribbean mix, Bunji Garlin and Alison Hinds and the wining queen, Denise Belfon. When Bella Garcia belted out the opening words of “Work Ya Way Back,” I was in a full-on wine myself, rolling my hips, twisting and turning, all the old moves coming back even stronger than they had on the beach, infused again by the energy of the eager crowd. Like me, they’d been charged up by the music, the kind that made it impossible not to dance, not to feel it, not to move and be moved.
This is mine, I thought. Music. Rhythm. The intense rush that came from connecting with something so deeply, so right. No matter that I couldn’t sing. I could breathe. I could dance. I could move. The music was still in me. It always would be.
When I finally opened my eyes, heart pounding madly with the beat, Christian stood before me. Wordlessly we held each other’s gaze as the air between us evaporated. Christian’s hands landed warm on my hips, thumbs grazing the skin that peeked out beneath the hem of the blouse. I wrapped one arm loosely around his neck, the other waving at my side, keeping my balance as my sway deepened.
Again I heard that word in my head . . . safe . . . and I closed my eyes, letting the beat run deeper into my muscles and blood and heart and bones, a familiar twining of soul and music, guiding me across the dance floor. Christian kept pace, moving toward me and away, his body swiveling but his hands never leaving my hips. Warmth gathered between us like a living thing, something that pulsed and glowed and tethered us together. I moved in closer, and his hands slipped to my back, pressed out the last sliver of light between us.
For a time we were no longer in Oregon, dancing in a club in the damp northernmost curve of Atargatis Cove. We were underwater, the very bottom of the sea where impossible things bloomed, and with all the naked boldness of the Pacific, I stood on my toes and pressed my lips to Christian’s neck, savoring the hot, saltwater taste.
His arms around me tightened, and deep inside, everything stirred anew.
The dance mix finally ended, and our arms dropped. I pulled away, opened my eyes. Christian was watching me with new intensity, eyes wild with barely checked desire, but still he didn’t speak, and as we quietly made our way to the bar for waters, I knew he wouldn’t. Neither of us would speak of it, this momentary thing between us, this passion that had risen up like a wave, crashing against the sand, only to be sucked back out to sea.
Alone in my room later, wrapped in nothing but a T-shirt and cool white sheets, I closed my eyes and let the sounds of the ocean overtake me. For miles north and south, waves lashed the shore, ravishing the coastline, and something deep within—something long buried, forbidden—crept out from the darkest places in me. I thought of Christian, and with one hand between my thighs, sighed his name hot and damp into the night.
I still felt his warm hands on my hips. I imagined them roaming my body, slipping beneath my shirt, and my own hands made it so. I caressed my breasts slowly, one then the other, felt my nipples rise beneath the touch of cool fingers. With eyes closed tight, I let my hands drift down my belly. And maybe it was a dream, and maybe it was a fantasy I invited as I lost myself in the nearly forgotten ecstasy of music and dance, but one thing was certain: The scorch of Christian’s desirous gaze set my skin aflame; the ghost of his touch would not soon leave me.
For that secre
t night and many more after, as my fingers slipped inside me and found their own pulsating rhythm, I was grateful no one could hear the sound that otherwise would’ve passed my lips, a moan as deep as creation, a howl as loud as the sea.
Chapter 21
“Who would’ve thought one little bug could make so much noise?” Vanessa peeked through the cage of her fingers at the cricket she’d just captured. “We’re gonna be findin’ them everywhere for weeks.”
The morning after our club outing, Christian and I had arrived at the Queen of to find her filled with buckets of raw, chopped fish—an impressively disgusting feat that Noah must’ve stayed up all night to accomplish. The stench alone would’ve been enough to warrant pirate retaliation, but thanks to my shattered window, a dozen gulls had snuck in, lining up to feast.
“Gives new meaning to the phrase ‘poop deck,’ anyway,” Christian had said. The sight was so incredibly awful, all we could do was laugh. With one hand on my shoulder, through tears of hilarity that teetered on insanity, Christian shouted at the sea. “Katzenberg! You pirate!”
The two of us had sat on the docks then, texting for reinforcements. Twenty minutes later Vanessa showed up, Sebastian in tow, dressed to scrub. And despite the fact that she’d spent the previous night dancing and flirting with Noah, even Kirby answered our SOS, strolling down the docks in a headscarf, overalls, and rubber gloves up to her elbows.
It took us all day to clean up the mess. I suggested taking the remaining fish parts back to their owner, dumping them into the Never Flounder, but Christian was cooking up a different plan.
Christian said it was best to wait a few days to wage a retaliation, let the other guy think he was in the clear.
This morning, five days after the fish attack, we made our move.
“Piracy rule number one,” Christian said on the drive to the pet store. “Pirates don’t acknowledge the piracy to the pirate. When we see Katzenberg, it’s like this never happened.”