The Darkest Joy (16 page)

The tail stops thrashing—finally.

I stand, the dead fish at my feet, my heart racing, my shoulders and every muscle in my body employed during the catch of one fish.

I swivel my head to the client as blood turns my white deck red.

Bob wipes a thick hand against his mouth, his skin a little gray. “Remind me never to piss you off, Chance Taylor.” He gives a shaky laugh, but his eyes are serious.

“I’m not really violent,” I say, my large hand gripping the wood like an old friend.

Matt smiles at my comment.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Bob mutters as I bend to put the halibut in the hold.

I wink at him. “I’m different on land.”

“Right,” Matt says so low only I hear.

I don’t say anything. The dead fish gives me an accusing glare from a sightless eye, a black hole where it had been. I let the hold door slam shut and move to the cab to return to Homer Bay.

I have a set to play at the Dawg and a two-hundred-pound fish to fillet.

And a girl who makes me forget the sea.

A first.

I
say the appropriate things to Tucker, but I’m not fooling him. He knows he’s landed a bomb on my head with the info about Chance.

I get into the bus and just stare at the black steering wheel, the only neutral color on the thing, and fight defeat—again. It’s not Tucker’s fault. He can’t know I’ve barely begun to live again. I turn on the air-cooled engine and it starts faithfully. It won’t begin to heat up until I begin moving. A sad little smile perks up the corners of my mouth as I shift to reverse and slowly back out.

I think about the prior night and sigh. It’s just what I needed. I want to feel again, live . . . breathe. Chance brings that into my life.

He also brings an income, a change of pace, and . . . clearly, not much else.

It’s not like Chance is asking me to marry him. Tucker says he’s only committed to the sea, not women.

And clearly he can fake tender like no one’s business. Is Chance that good an actor?

Can I risk another emotional bludgeoning?

No
. I can’t take the risk. It’s my job to protect myself. As much as I want to keep letting him in, let his presence chase the nightmares away, I can’t open my heart up to even more hurt. Each new relationship I allow is on a case-by-case basis. I know better than anyone how fragile those ties are, how easily things beyond my control can tear them away.

Like a horse that knows its way home, the bus moves down the spit at a plodding forty miles per hour, the seas are calm, the sun is a pale yellow ball in the sky as I make my way to Chance’s shanty office digs.

I pull up, and the faded rustic sign with the colorful writing swings in the light wind like it’s greeting me.

I get out, slapping the door closed, and walk up the wide weathered steps to the door. Putting my face against the window, I shield my eyes as I gaze inside. No one’s there. I move my cell out of my pocket and see that it’s three o’clock. I know by what Chance has told me that he should be back by now. I roll my lip into my mouth, giving it a light nibble.

Where is he? I need to set things right . . . I need, I suck in a deep breath, to walk away. Let him go. The exhale leaves me like a deflated balloon.

“Missy?”

I whirl around, hand to my heart, and look into the eyes of a wizened old man. He puffs on a pipe and a fragrant spiral rises around him like devil’s horns, his hat hanging cockeyed like a strange beret on the tufts of the hair that remains on his head.

“You scared me,” I say as a lame introduction, my heart hammering beneath my palm.

“Did I now?” he asks with a soft cackle; one brow raises like a gray caterpillar on his forehead.

“Yeah,” I say in a shaky exhale that escapes me in a low huff.

“Who you lookin’ for, doll?”

Doll?

My face scrunches but I reply, “Chance Taylor.”

His brows raise together in a comical arch. “He’s down at the dock, cleaning his catch, as always.”

Right. I look around and he unclamps his dentures from the end of his pipe, swinging the chewed and beaten stem toward the boats at the pier. “Just follow that sign that says Homer Marina, missy.”

“Ah . . . thank you,” I say, unable to hold back a smile. He’s like a little troll.

A troll by the sea.

I burst out laughing and he frowns, his eyes disappearing in the flaps of skin that hold his brows. That somehow makes it worse and I rudely begin to howl.

Nervous energy.

“Crazy girl!” he barks at me good-naturedly and I agree, nodding swiftly.

“Yes . . .” I hiccup as I laugh. “Definitely crazy!” I hold my sides and stagger across the street.

I turn and wave at the old man, “Thank you!” I call out when I can control myself.

He nods, raising his pipe like a flag.

I’m pretty sure I can hear his snort from here.

I turn, a smile plastered on my face and a case of wicked hiccups.

I see the sign and cross beneath it, my feet landing on an odd sort of woven metal grating with little barbs of metal.

That’d hurt like hell if you slipped on it
, I think, my eyes seeing through the grating to the churning tide below. It’s a long sloping walk on the carpet of metal that hangs over the water as I make my way down to the docks. Noise explodes all around me, a trick of the wind and my position as it’s carried to me while I make my way down to the docks. I reach the wide floating boards of weathered wood and people rush by, pushing wheeled carts full of large white-bellied fish. My eyes scan the pier, where boats are lined up like colorful sardines. Various modes of dress abound and I’m amazed I can already pick out the tourists.

I’m becoming a Homer snob. And it’s official, my aunt’s homestead puts me in good standing. Even though it’s inherited, somehow I’ve become part of that core group. I’ve never been so close to a group of such isolationists. An oxymoron for sure.

It’s pretty obvious as I begin to identify who the fisherman are. Then I catch sight of Chance and my formerly cool skin heats. I watch his automatic and supple movements as he guts fish.

You can’t think for a moment that a job like that can be sexy, but it’s a testimony to Chance that he is . . . no matter what he’s doing.

I gaze at him as he continues to work, unaware of my presence. People filter beside me like I’m a floating piece
of driftwood and they are the sea. They part and I stand there.

Watching.

His forearms ripple with fine muscle and the ink of his tat undulates like the twisted snake it represents, the tongue of the serpent appears to move as he flips his fillet knife around, the metal winking in the sun, turning it to silver fire as he slices through the whiteness of the fish then deftly removes what he needs to, the colorful scales of the ink appear iridescent in the light that slants over him as he works. He steps back, his tanned neck bent as he picks up a hose and sprays off the white marred surface of the cleaning table. Large orange bibs billow around him like a clown suit, rubber and waterproof, but they can’t hide the deep valley between shoulder blades that house a broad back from honest work.

I swallow, my throat tender and dry, and I realize I’ve been breathing through my mouth in a doglike pant.

This isn’t going to be easy.

Chance moves all the fish to one of those carts with four wheels and a bar, neatly stacking the meat inside coolers with layered ice. He swivels from the hips, giving the fish surface another final hose-down, then shuts it off with a flick of his wrist and hangs it on a large stainless hook attached to an electric pole.

He looks up and our gazes meet.

Chance Taylor steals my breath.

His open smile melts me.

I walk toward him.

It feels like a death march.

There she is
, I think, grinning like a fool.
You’re playing it so cool, dumbshit
, I tell myself.

I can’t shake it and go for aloof. It doesn’t fit. Not after last night’s kiss. Not after waking up with her in my arms. I can’t go backward; it keeps getting deeper. With each new intimacy, the bucket fills up. It’s more than a kiss. I hate to admit shit like this, but sometimes everything isn’t physical, and that’s what I’m feeling now.

I watch Brooke come and my smile fades. She doesn’t look happy. Immediately I get in my head, sifting through what’s happened.

Did I let the moment get away from us?

Yeah.

I can feel my face frown. But, as I recall, Brooke was a happy camper after our impromptu make-out session.

I rub my eyes again. I’m tired as hell. Maybe I’m reading shit where there isn’t any.

“Hey,” I say, my eyes searching her face.

God, she’s gorgeous. I can just stand here with only my catch between us and look at her for . . . about an hour. My lips curl thinking about it, those lavender eyes looking at me. They look like the wild lupine that will bloom around her cabin next month. I open my mouth to tell her that when she throws the wet blanket on my mental party.

“Hey . . . we need to talk,” she says, eyes steady.

Nope, not imagining shit
, I decide. Effing wonderful—the dreaded “we need to talk.”

I nod, my feeling of a great day slipping away with the tide. Damn.

“All right,” I reply slowly. “I need to get this catch up to the office. Client’s picking it up.”

Brooke looks down at the fish dolly and then her eyes meet mine. “I’m sorry about missing work today.”

I hear:
I’m sorry I made out with you last night
.

I stand there stupidly. I’m not used to a chick rejecting me. Usually, I can kinda have who I want. I keep them at arm’s reach and my life moves on.

I like it like that.

I don’t like this.

I wheel the fish with the coolers toward the grated plank. My eyes travel it and it’s steep. Terrific, tide’s low so the fucker’s sky-high.

Brooke follows my gaze. “Do you . . . can I help?” Brooke asks, throwing out an olive branch.

I lick suddenly dry lips. “Sure,” I say. Even to my own ears I sound like I’m going to puke.

“ ’Kay,” she says and sidles up beside me and we push the cart up together. It’s a bitch without help but I like her beside me, even if I won’t want to hear what she says later.

We make our way to the street, wait out the tourists and cross at the crosswalk. I look at her small hands on the bar of the dolly next to mine.

I remember how they felt when they dug into my shoulders when we were pressing against each other like we were the last solid things in the world.

Vividly.

Suddenly, I’m thankful as hell for bibs. The mighty concealers of wayward hard-ons.

We park the dolly just as Bob the barfer makes his way to the front door. I write out a receipt for his fish and direct him to the place that will pack his fish for the flight back to the Midwest.

I’d love to be a fly on the wall for his fish tales told where there isn’t any sea. I give a small shudder at the thought of living anywhere there’s no ocean.

Bob gives my hand a hard shake, his eyes momentarily sliding to Brooke. “He’s a keeper . . . You sure the hell don’t have to worry about your safety around Taylor here!” he says with frightening enthusiasm, and I give a low chuckle.

Brooke offers a puzzled smile, looking from my client to me. “What?”

I smile and tip Bob a wink. “What happens on the sea . . .”

“Stays at sea,” Bob finishes with a wave as he walks off, a kid taking the coolers for him.

“What’s that all about?” Brooke asks.

I wave a hand. “Same old, same old.” I smile.

“Another day fishing?” she asks with a smile. But I think it looks sad. I nod, my face getting serious.

I want to kiss the expression off her face. But something’s changing and I don’t know what. I don’t want to blow it.

It’s scary as shit when the first girl you feel something for is playing Russian roulette with your emotions. Hell, I didn’t think it was possible for me to get this kind of entanglement.

Wrong.

“So . . . what’s on your mind?” I ask, bracing for the blow.

Brooke surprises me, her hand touching my forearm, wrapping around it she covers my ink, a pale stripe against the black symbols that climb up the dark skin of my arm.

I don’t even know how it happens, but I raise hands cold from the water and cradle her face, kissing her lips so gently they barely touch. “Don’t say what I think you will, Brooke.” My voice is barely out of the range of begging.

“Don’t,” she whispers, kissing me back.

“I can’t stop when you’re in my hands . . .”

She steps back and I let her. Our eyes meet and I feel like I’ve been kicked in the guts. Twice.

My hands fall to my sides.

“What is it . . . what? Last night?”

She shakes her head, stray coal-black strands of hair curling around her jaw. “No . . . last night was . . .” She looks at me, really looks at me. “Beautiful.”

I can tell she means it. Totally. I’m confused as fuck, I gotta admit.

“Okay.” Thank God I didn’t fuck that up, hurt her . . . do the wrong thing. I scrub my face, looking at her over my hand.