Authors: Elle Lothlorien
When I have romantic scenes with Jonathan Varner, I picture myself with Brendan instead, prompting Andy Gordon and the crew to remark more than once on our “terrific on-screen chemistry.” This might be good for my acting career and the tabloids, but it’s not helping me make any headway towards getting Brendan out of his hospital scrubs. At this point, there’s no part of my body that doesn’t crave every part of his.
And knowing–like I know, and he knows (and he
knows
that I know)–that I’ve already had everything I’m imagining in my head leaves me feeling like a teenager with an active imagination and the worst case of blue balls in history. Since he’s insisting on this “take-things-slow, hands-off approach,” I’ve been left with no choice but to haul him to the most isolated place I know of, wear as little clothing as possible, and see what happens.
The cool morning air combined with the thoughts of my naughty plotting gives me a head-to-toe shiver. I force myself to focus on piloting the boat. We’re getting close, and it would be pretty unfortunate if my frustrated libido distracted me to the point of getting us killed.
Not long after Catalina Island is behind us, the east side of San Clemente Island comes into view. I double check our position on the GPS and adjust our course so we’re heading south, putting plenty of distance between us and the shoreline.
Brendan’s studying a navigational chart that I brought along in case the GPS fails. “Isn’t that San Clemente Island?” he says, pointing to the island now off our starboard side.
“That’s it.”
“Why do we look like we’re going away from it then?”
I think of how to explain in a way that won’t freak him out; telling him about the unexploded ordnance that lines the ocean floor along the coast probably won’t do the job. “Pyramid Cove’s on the southern tip.” He seems to accept my explanation. He’ll have the rest of the next two days to be nervous.
Twenty minutes later we’re approaching the cove from due south. I slowly pull back on the throttle until we’re idling. Grabbing the handheld radio, I check to make sure it’s tuned to channel sixteen and key it. “San Clemente Control Bravo, this is motor vessel
SurfRyder
Charlie Foxtrot five-five-seven-three on channel sixteen, switch to and answer channel six. Over.”
“
Roger, motor vessel SurfRyder Charlie Foxtrot five-five-seven-three. Switching to channel six.
”
Brendan’s brow is knotted up in confusion, his mouth already forming what looks like the double-u in the sentence “What the…?”
Before he can ask me anything, I quickly switch over to the operating channel. “San Clemente Operations, this is motor vessel
SurfRyder
Charlie Foxtrot five-five-seven-three on channel six.”
“
Roger, motor vessel SurfRyder Charlie Foxtrot five-five-seven-three. Go ahead.
”
“Be advised that we are a twenty-two foot, Larson Cabrio two-twenty, cuddy cabin, white hull, blue deck, two passengers, north three-two point eight-two, and west one-one-eight point three-eight bearing zero degrees magnetic, distance two hundred yards south Pyramid Cove, requesting location status and clearance to anchor.”
“
Roger, SurfRyder. Stand by.
”
I sit in the chair, tapping the radio against my leg–purposely not looking in Brendan’s direction–and wait. Thirty seconds later the radio crackles to life.
“
SurfRyder Charlie Foxtrot five-five-seven-three, be advised that Pyramid Cove is cold. Repeat: Pyramid Cove is cold. You are clear to anchor at your own risk.
”
I wrinkle my nose.
Great
,
nice of them to tack that last part on.
I can almost see the person on the other end of this exchange smiling. I key the radio. “Roger, San Clemente Operations. Be advised that we have obtained prior authorization to land and proceed to Lost per Lieutenant Commander Grayson. Please confirm.”
Another thirty seconds of nothing, and then: “
Roger, SurfRyder. Authorization to land confirmed. Lieutenant Commander Grayson advises Clemente Operations that you know the way. Watch your step.
”
I wince and glance up.
Brendan looks from me, then towards the cove, and then back at me again. “‘Watch your step?’” he says. “Are you kidding me? What the hell kind of place is this?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I say, trying to sound casual. I get back into my piloting position, my left knee on the seat this time. “They always say that.” I urge the boat forward at half power.
Brendan lifts his sunglasses. “Why would
anyone
say that? ‘The cove is cold?’ That doesn’t sound like a resort weather report.”
I sigh. “San Clemente is owned by the Navy, that’s all. They let you use some parts of the island if they’re not using it, but you have to radio ahead and ask for permission.”
“Using it? Using it for what?”
I shrug. “You know, for demolition practice and stuff.”
“‘And stuff.’” He shakes his head. “Are you telling me that we’re spending the only two days you and I have ever had off at the same time…at a bombing range?”
I roll my eyes. “They’re not bombing it right
now
. The guy said so. You heard him. I checked the schedule before we left. It won’t be hot down here for another three days.”
“Care to explain the ‘anchor at your own risk’ part?”
“There’ve been a couple of fishing boats that… but, you know, they dropped anchor in the kelp fields, and you should always–”
“Wait, wait, wait…what happened to the fishing boats?”
I position the boat over a crystal-clear spot in the rocky shallows, idle the engine, and let it drift as close to shore as I dare. There’s a
whirring
sound as I push the button to drop the anchor. I turn around and, standing on my tip-toes, kiss him on the chin. “They hit unexploded ordnance with their anchors.”
“And…?”
I wrap my arms around his waist and put my cheek on his chest. “And the bombs exploded.” I’m too scared to check his reaction. Out of the corner of my eye I see him studying his hands the way he does whenever he thinks there’s a possibility of damage that would ruin his surgical career. I add brightly, “But don’t worry, they didn’t die.”
“Uh-huh. Did you drop our anchor already?”
“Yep. See? We’re not dead or anything. And look at the bright side: If the paparazzi show up, they’re just as likely to be killed by an unexploded bomb as we are.”
“Oh, god,” he says, slowly lowering his hands and wrapping his arms around me. “I’m going to be scared shitless to move for the next forty-eight hours.”
I slide my hands under his jacket, worming my way beneath his t-shirt, and running my palms across the warm, bare skin of his back. “Do I already know that you like the way I look in a bikini?”
He shifts his weight as the boat moves up and down over a wave. “Uh, well, the only time I saw you at the beach, you were getting ready to surf with Wib, and you were wearing some sort of…not a bathing suit really, more like a tight–”
“Looked like a tight, long-sleeve shirt? With a bathing suit bottom?” I nod. “Rash guard. Standard girl-surfer gear.”
“What’s up with that anyway? Wouldn’t it be more comfortable to just wear a normal bathing suit top?”
I shake my head. “Halters and strings are fine in small waves, but rough surf has a bad habit of undressing you. You get tumbled in a rough wave, and you’ll be paddling in nekked.” I smile. “The first time that happens is usually the last time you worry about how cute you look in your surf gear.”
“Thanks for the pointer. I’ll know what to look for next time I’m sightseeing on the beach: surfer girls, rough waves and string bikinis.” He laughs at my grumpy expression. “Anyway, to answer your question: no. I’ve never seen you in a bikini.”
I tilt my head up, batting my eyes and trying to look as innocent as possible. “Well, in that case I’m pretty sure I can get you to move.”
Chapter Thirteen
Brendan drops the last of the bags on the beach and starts peeling off his water shoes. I’ve already pulled shorts over my bathing suit bottom, and I’m sitting on the sand fastening the last strap of my hiking shoes.
“So, this is it?”
I tighten the double knot on my shoe and look at him. “What?”
Dropping his second water shoe on the sand, he slowly turns in a half-circle, surveying the barren, smooth ledges of volcanic rock rising like tiers of a burned and blackened cake from the sand behind me.
“This looks like the most ill-advised experiment in terrace farming ever,” he says, drying his feet with a towel.
While he pulls on a pair of socks, I kick all the stuff we’re leaving behind as far away from the water as I can so it doesn’t get caught later in the rising tide. “The pyramid’s pretty though,” I say, pointing to the triangular rock prism of Pyramid Cove, the sun perched just above its point.
He nods. “It looks like a miniature Machu Pichu. Is that where we’re going?”
“Nope.” I lean over and grab my pack off the ground. Once I have the full weight of it, I bend over a little so I can tighten the straps. That’s when I see the two irons still laying on the sand. “Can you grab these,” I say, nudging the irons with my foot, “and put them in the zipper pocket on the side of my pack?”
He slides the seven by two inch aluminum rods into place without taking the trouble to question them, too busy eying his own pack with a frown. “I hope I don’t regret not bringing more,” he says, swinging it around and pushing his arms through the loops. “At the very least I should have brought more medical supplies. Maybe a tourniquet and a fold-out surgery center.”
I allow a quick smile before scrubbing every trace of levity from my voice. “Okay, it’s time to get serious. Remember what the guy on the radio said?”
He points at me. “You know the way.”
“That’s right. I know the way. I know the
only
way, okay? You have to follow right behind me, single file. Just like the walk to the lunch room in first grade.”
He watches me for a second. “If you–I don’t know–have a cataplexy fit and knock yourself unconscious on a rock, what am I supposed to do…just stand in place for three days and wait for the bombs to fall?”
I roll my eyes. “If I faint, I’m sure I’ll wake up. If I don’t, get on the radio, turn it to channel six and tell them where you are.”
“Oh, great,” he says, following me as I turn around and head down the beach. “I can’t wait to hear how this conversation’s going to go.” When I look back he’s pretending to hold a radio by his mouth. “Yo! This is Bulls-Eye. I’m standing in a pile of rocks, fire when ready.” He drops his arm. “Yeah, I’m sure they’ll know right where to find me.”
“Then don’t call them,” I say, smiling sweetly. “Just run for help. I’m sure the explosions you trigger with your feet will help them find you.” I punch him in the arm. “C’mon. I’m not going to faint, and you’re not going to explode. Quit being a Johnny Raincloud.”
I start up the steep trail that leads to the top of the cliffs. Not rock climbing, exactly, but still a tough ascent. With any luck, by the time we get where we’re going we’ll both be sweaty and filthy.
All part of my master plan
, I think.
“‘Johnny Raincloud?’” he calls from behind me. “No, no, no, Claire. Johnny Raincloud is when you order buffalo wings and you get ranch dressing instead of bleu cheese. Sorry if the thought of walking a live bombing range makes me a little bit of a buzz-kill.”
He stops talking long enough for us to get to the top. I pause to catch my breath while he surveys the landscape. It’s a pretty cheerless sight, the powdery gray soil broken here and there by the deep, ugly craters left by exploded ordnance. I wave my hand towards them. “Those are the Dinosaur Footprints. On the way there the Footprints will
always
be on your right. On the way back they’ll be on the left. Got it?”
He takes off his sweatshirt and wipes the sweat from his face with it before tying it around his waist. Still not looking at me he says, “It was the moon movie, wasn’t it?
“What moon movie?”
“The one we watched…oh, never mind. You probably don’t remember.”
“Oh, no,” I say, my voice heavy with warning. “You know you don’t get to do that. What moon movie?”
“That sci-fi flick,
Moon
. The guy was alone working for some company on the moon? He had an accident, got back to base and found out he’s a clone?”
I think hard. A series of images arranges themselves like a collage in my mind: A post-it note on a computer reading “Kick me,” a Hummer-like vehicle bouncing across a gray landscape, a man shouting “I am not a clone!”
I refocus on Brendan’s face. “I remember a little bit of it. What about it?”
“I really liked it. We watched it together at your place.” Brendan eyes the craters. “I just thought maybe you sort of subconsciously filed that away thinking I wanted to see what it was like to hike on the moon.”
I laugh. “This will not be like a hike on the moon.”
He scans the scene some more. “Could’ve fooled me. I think this is where they send people for hard labor to split rocks.”
I look at my watch. “C’mon, we have to stay on schedule.”
He moves out of my way, looking panicked again. “First grade teacher,” he mumbles to himself. “Dinosaurs on the right.”
I shake my head at his hopelessness. “Just stay behind me, Johnny.”
*****
“Oh. Wow.”
“What do you think of the moon now?” I say, dropping my pack to the trail, and stretching out my sore back.
“Forget the moon…this looks more like Ireland!” he says. He lifts his sunglasses. “It’s so
green
.”
His comparison to the Emerald Isle is a little over-the-top, but I chalk it up to the fact that he’s seen nothing for the last hour and a half but scorched earth. Still, it’s hard not to be impressed. One moment you’re on what feels like a death march up the vertical face of a volcano, the next you’ve gained the peak, and you’re standing on a picturesque, grassy highland. On the far side of a lush plateau dotted with moss-covered rocks and bushy white flowers, the land buckles into green waves that tumble down to the dark, blue waters of the Pacific far below.