Drowning

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel
are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

DROWNING
Astor + Blue Editions
Copyright © 2014 by Jassy De Jong

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by:

Astor + Blue Editions
New York, NY 10036
www.astorandblue.com

Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data

DE JONG, JASSY. DROWNING.—1
^st
ed.

ISBN: 978-1-938231-98-8 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-938231-97-1 (epdf)
ISBN: 978-1-938231-98-8 (epub)

1. Women’s Erotica—Fiction. 2. American Photographer swept up in unexpected romance—Fiction 3. Contemporary Sex and Romance story—Fiction 4. High Adventure, in South African Bush Lodge—Fiction 5. Sex and Flirtation—Fiction 6. American Love story -Marriage and Infidelity 7. South Africa and New York City I. Title

Jacket Cover Design: Danielle Fiorella

For Dion, with all my love.

drowning

I don’t remember drowning.

I know it happened, of course, and I’m sure, locked away somewhere deep inside my mind, is the memory of what it was like. There are glimpses, now and again. The moment when the road began to collapse under the tires. How the floodwater streaming over the bridge stopped pushing against the car and started carrying it. The bobbing and bouncing as the little Toyota Yaris became suddenly unsteady, tumbling cork-like down the river before water began spurting inside.

It happened very fast. Perhaps I was screaming, shouting, struggling in panic. Or maybe I was paralyzed by shock while the car rocked and spun. I don’t remember if my life flashed past me or not. I don’t even know if I closed my eyes. If they were open, I would have been watching as the brown, foamy floods rushed in, covering me as it forced out the air, so that I was able to feel the water’s cold kiss on my breasts, my neck, my lips…

I’d never been afraid of water until that day. I’d always loved it. I adored swimming, submerging myself in its cool, blue depths, becoming one with it. I reveled in the feel of my long, dark hair streaming out behind me, my body all but weightless, my pale limbs shimmering in pearlescent hues.

In fact, when my husband had asked me what my favorite sexual fantasy was, I’d answered that it would be making love in water.

We’d been in bed at the time, in his elegant Soho loft apartment. It was a few months earlier, soon after we’d come back from honeymoon. We’d had a fight the previous night and he’d gone to bed silent and angry. When I’d awoken the next morning to find his fingers tracing the curve of my breast, I’d shivered in delight at the intimacy of his touch, and knew I was forgiven.

“So,” Vince had said, his voice soft, “what do you fantasize about sexually, Erin? Tell me. I want to know. Give me your favorite fantasy. Your wildest one.”

The question had taken me by surprise. What could I think of? How could I impress Vince with my answer?

“My fantasy?” I’d repeated, playing for time, my brain muzzy from sleep and confusion and desire. His fingertips were circling my hardening nipple now. He pinched it gently and I gasped. “Let me think… It’s… it’s making love in water.”

The minute I voiced it, I knew it was true. I pictured us in a clear lake somewhere, sun dancing on its surface. I imagined the flow of water against my naked skin as I waded toward him, wrapping my arms around his lean, toned body. He would smooth his hands down my back, caressing the curves of my buttocks as we kissed, his tongue sliding into my mouth. He’d hold me close to him, and as we moved out into the depths, our bodies would grow lighter, buoyed up by the lapping waves…

My thoughts had been interrupted by Vince’s laugh.

“In water?” he’d asked. “That’s not very original. I expected you to come up with something more imaginative that that, baby.”

The warm friction of his tongue on my nipple had taken the sting from his words.

Almost.

“I was thinking of something really adventurous,” he’d said. “Are you up for it?”

“Of course,” I’d agreed quickly, hoping enthusiasm could make up for my own lack of imagination.

“Touch me while I tell you.” He guided my hand down and I closed my fingers around his shaft, which was fully erect and felt warm to my grasp. I stroked him in the way he’d showed me he
liked it while he whispered in my ear, “I want us to go to the couch on the balcony, and have a quickie there. It’s getting light now, so there’s the risk somebody might see. That’s what makes it exciting. Shall we, Erin?”

Well, I could only hope none of the residents with a view of our sixteenth-floor balcony were early risers. It was difficult to say no to my husband, though; he usually got his way, as he did that time.

I still thought about my fantasy, though. Sometimes, I would dream about it. On waking, my mind would be filled with sensual coolness, the remembered softness of an intimate touch, the glimmer of sunlight on skin. And I hoped that one day, when we traveled out of the city to an exotic foreign location, it might happen.

At the time the accident occurred, I was on my way to the Kruger Park in South Africa. Vince and I were driving in a convoy—well, by then, his rented Land Rover was a good few miles ahead. I was belted into the passenger seat of the Toyota while Bulewi, the driver, who must have been all of nineteen years old, clutched the steering wheel with tight fingers and peered anxiously through the rain-spattered windshield.

We had taken a wrong turn earlier in the afternoon and were now lost. We were driving down a dirt track so rugged and uneven it really didn’t deserve to be called a road at all, in a storm so apocalyptic that it was like being inside a gigantic car wash. Sheets of water were being flung at the little Toyota from every direction. How Bulewi was seeing anything was a mystery to me, because in between the passes of the frantically moving wiper blades, I could find only a solid grayness.

Rain pounded on the car roof and the tires made a hissing sound as they cut through pooled water.

“Are you sure…” I began, convinced we’d left the track and were now driving through uncharted bushveld. I was afraid to tear my gaze away from where I hoped the road was for even a moment, but I needed to check that the carefully packed bags and boxes of camera equipment hadn’t shifted from their positions in the back seat during this bumpy ride.

As I looked around, the car tilted sickeningly to the left, bludgeoned by a wall of moving water, and I heard Bulewi yell, “Shit!”

The rushing sound suddenly grew much louder and I was aware we were falling, spinning, and then…

Then nothing.

I have no memory of Bulewi fumbling to undo my seatbelt before escaping through his window into the cold, storming river. I recall only flashes of the gushing streams flooding inside, of the car growing heavier, becoming one with the body of water surrounding it. The level creeping upwards, covering my body, lapping at my face, trickling in between my parted lips and, as the car finally slipped under, submerging me completely so that my hair floated over my wide, sightless eyes.

Out of the blackness that followed, I surfaced into a vivid dream where Vince was making love to me by the side of a lake. His body pounded into mine with powerful, rhythmic strokes. His arms were enfolding me tightly; holding me so close that he crushed the air out of me. In his passion, his lips were bruising my own. I was overwhelmed by his presence, his strength.

“Don’t leave me,” he shouted. “Don’t leave me! I’m not going to lose you!”

I wanted to tell him that he was never going to lose me, but I saw that the lake was rising, starting to engulf us. I feared that the waters would feel cold, but when they covered me, they were warm as blood. I reached for Vince, but could not find him. I understood suddenly that he had never been there at all; that I had been ravished by a stranger. Panicked, I cried out for my husband, willing myself to wake from this nightmare, but I could not rouse myself, and in my dream, I realized he was gone.

When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on my back and looking up into a roaring darkness.

My first thought: My head was aching, my throat was sore, and it hurt to breathe.

My second thought: I had no idea where the hell I was or how on earth I had gotten here. I was utterly disoriented.

I tried to sit up, an action that did little to improve my situation. My head spun as I propped myself on my right elbow, and a tube that was attached to my face by a piece of adhesive tape tugged painfully.

Vince. Where was he? What the hell was going on here?

“Help!” I shouted. Well, I tried to, but it came out as a hoarse, unrecognizable croak. Why was this tube here? I lifted my hand to feel. Cool air was filtering through it into my nostrils. Oxygen, I guessed.

And then a beam of light cut the darkness, pinning me in its glare, and a warm hand closed firmly over my left one.

“Easy,” a man’s voice said, the tone calm but authoritative. “Take it easy. You’ll feel better if you lie down again.”

Who was speaking? I had no idea. I blinked, the bright assault temporarily blinding me and leaving purple dots and slashes on my vision.

My heart was hammering as I lowered myself back down onto my pillow. I tried to speak again. Still no luck. The flashlight beam moved away from my face and pointed upward onto what appeared to be a high, thatched ceiling.

The speaker let go of my hand, leaving me feeling oddly alone. Then the tape was quickly removed and the tube lifted away from my face. He cupped his hand behind my head and raised it gently. A glass touched my lips. Water. I gulped greedily.

“That oxygen tank’s just about finished,” he told me, lowering me back to the pillow again. “You should be fine without it now, but let me know if you feel short of breath, or if you have any chest pain.”

“What happened to me?” I asked. Finally, success. I could speak again.

“You almost drowned.”

The speaker’s voice was deep and compelling. I couldn’t place his accent, although I could have listened to his voice all day. Or, in my current circumstance, all night.

“Where am I?”

“At Leopard Rock Lodge, near Kruger Park.”

Now I could recall the details of our trip. Boarding the plane at JFK, landing at O.R. Tambo in Johannesburg. Packing our gear into the Land Rover and driving out of the city, through miles and miles of farmland, and then deeper into countryside that had become progressively wilder and more beautiful.

“Why are the lights off?” I asked, wondering for a moment if this lodge was so remote that it didn’t even have electricity.

“The power went down in the storm. I don’t know why yet. There’s an emergency generator here, but the lights aren’t connected up to it.”

The storm… new memories were beginning to surface. Panicked memories. The claustrophobic feel of being battered by tons of falling water. The slippery, squirming path of the car as it fought through liquid mud.

Cutting my gaze sideways I could see a darker shape against the darkness where he was, but that was all.

I moved my left hand and, sensing it perhaps, he grasped my hand again.

“Breathing all right?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Please tell me—where’s Vince?” I tightened my fingers around his as I asked the question. He squeezed my hand back. His grasp was firm; his skin was smooth but not soft. His hand felt strong and capable, the same way his voice sounded. Its warmth was like a lifeline, holding me back from the darkness and confusion.

“Who’s Vince?”

“My husband.”

“He wasn’t in the car with you.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No, I… he…”

“Your driver said you were the only passenger.”

“My driver! Bulewi. Is he okay?”

“Miraculously, yes. He got out of the car and managed to grab hold of a tree on the opposite side of the river, and climbed to safety just before the flood worsened. He said he tried to free you. He didn’t
manage, but he did undo your seatbelt, which could well have meant the difference between life and death when we reached you.”

“Oh,” I considered this for a while. “I’m so glad Bulewi is okay. Vince wasn’t in the car with us. He was driving ahead, in the Land Rover.”

“Then he would have got over the bridge. Your car was crossing just as it collapsed.”

“So he’s all right?”

“I assume so.”

Relief filled me, but at the same time I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of anxiety, knowing how angry Vince had been with me in the hours before the crash, and that it would be up to me to make things right between us.

“Can I call him?”

“The phone lines are down now. Hopefully they’ll be back up tomorrow.”

“What time is it?”

“About eight p.m.”

I closed my eyes. I felt so tired, but at least the pain in my head was abating. A rapid drumming noise filled my ears. Rain on a high roof, the noise repetitive and strangely soothing. The storm hadn’t stopped yet.

As I drifted into a dreamless sleep, comforted by the warm pressure of the stranger’s fingers still touching my own, I couldn’t help feeling a nagging certainty that there was something important missing. Something I’d forgotten about.