The Darkest Joy (26 page)

“What’d you do today when I was out bringing home the bacon?” Chance asks, stroking my face, our nakedness clinging together.

“Fish, you mean?”

“Oink,” he says, sounding remarkably authentic.

“Tie-dye.”

His eyebrows lift, then a look of remembrance comes over his face. “Oh yeah, the tie-dye thing at A Better Sweater.” A furrow forms between his eyes. “Wait a sec, they sell hippie crap, handmade stuff. I didn’t think they did that.”

“Actually, it was in their parking lot. Y’know: pallets, pails, hoses, rubber bands. Lots and lots of rubber bands.” Chance smirks. I switch subjects, with appropriate guilt. “How’s Matt working out?” I knew it should be me working with him instead of flaky Matt.

Chance groans, kissing my nose. I think he’s got a nose fetish, he’s always kissing it. And a clit fetish . . . and . . .

He interrupts my thoughts. “Don’t ask. He shows up when he’s not hungover.”

“Huh.” I lick a path down his bare chest. His eyes go dark with heat, a look I know really well . . . a look I never get tired of seeing.

“What did you tie-dye?” he asks, his breaths coming shorter.

“Panties.” I stop and look at him. I sit up on my knees, mine pegged between his legs as he looks up at me from the bed. I survey his muscular body, completely relaxed as he looks up at me, loving his eyes that change color like the sea, his inky
hair, his awesome muscles marked with the symbols of his ancestry. He watches me looking at him and I slowly roll down the waistband of my yoga pants to reveal the brightly colored band that used to be white and is now a riot of brilliant jewel tones.

Chance gives a low whistle then drags me closer as he sits up, plowing his hands into the back of my pants, grabbing my butt. “I need a closer look!” he says loudly and I’m suddenly underneath him, the muscles I’d admired straining against me, caging me as his hand locks over my wrists and binds them above my head. He inserts a finger underneath the top of my pants and inches them down to reveal the beautiful pattern the tie-dye made.

They clear my ass and his eyes flick to the panties underneath, then to me. “I love them . . .”

“But?” I asked, breathless.

“I like them better off.”

He shows me just how much.

Afterward, he takes my wadded-up colorful underwear and studies the pattern the rubber bands made against the cotton fabric.

“You went by yourself?” he asks.

“No, Evan came too.”

Chance looks at me, his fingers clenching around the vibrant fabric. “Evan helped you tie-dye your underwear?” he asks, incredulous.

I nod.

“Hey, I don’t want any guy touching your underwear but me,” Chance says.

“Are you serious?” I ask, slightly uneasy. I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not.

He leans over me, tucking me underneath him again, trapping me. “No.”

Chance kisses me lightly on my lips.

He lifts his head, looking deeply into my eyes, his gaze reaching my toenails. “Yes,” he says and moves his mouth over mine, hard.

I open to the bruising pressure of ownership his lips convey—demand.

He lifts his mouth, coming up for breath as I pant beneath him, my panties not there to soak up my arousal. He pushes his finger inside my wetness and I gasp, the intrusion as welcome as it is unexpected.

“Deadly,” he says, his finger moving in and out of me as his mouth lowers to own mine again.

Chance proves something to me today. He is lighthearted when he needs to be and can switch gears if he wants to.

Deadly serious.

Lacey’s at the Homer airport, trying for incognito and missing it by a mile. She has Seattle chic going on: yoga pants, platform flip-flops with a sparkle thong accent, also black, and an aggressive red cami peeking out from underneath her ebony tee. Large movie-star sunglasses cover eyes I know are a clear greenish brown.

“It’s gotta be true love for me to brave that wacko journey of a hundred layovers,” she says as soon as I come near. Her
eyes start at my head and end at my clog-adorned feet. “What’s happened?” she asks.

I look down at myself, seeing the metamorphosis of my wardrobe. Certainly Seattle’s casual, but Seattleites would look positively uptight compared to the eclectic attire I’ve seen since coming to Alaska.

“What?” I say, a little self-consciously. Lacey’s always been my rock. She’s been there for every milestone, big or small. I don’t know what I’d do without her. I want her to like what I’m wearing. It’s stupid, I know . . . but she’s really all the family I have left, and I want her to approve of my new life.

“It’s like . . .” She shakes her head, puzzled, her finger tapping her bottom lip. “I don’t know: hippie meets girly meets . . . fisherwoman?”

I grin suddenly. “You wait, girlfriend, you haven’t seen anything!” I sling an arm around her.

“I can’t wait,” she replies in a droll voice.

Lacey gets over the shock of seeing the bus in all its psychedelic glory and gingerly slides her butt in. She looks around, her gear already in the cargo hold.

“You’re full of surprises,” she says noncommittally.

She grills me as I gush about Chance.

“So fisher boy is the new stud?” she asks and I give her a sideways glance, our conversation flowing easily as we wind down East End Road.

“It’s Chance, and yes it’s L-O-V-E.”

Lacey rolls her eyes. “You’re not even twenty-one; don’t let a case of panty-dropping lust pull a brain fog on you.”

I scowl and she shrugs.

We’re quiet until we get to Aunt Milli’s. “So this is the place Milli was always telling stories about.”

I just nod, a choke threatening me. “Yeah,” I manage.

Lacey studies me. “I thought you didn’t like Milli.”

I look at my hands. “I didn’t but . . . I didn’t want her dead. Then she gives me a house!” I say, sensing the guilt beginning to bubble to the surface again.

Lacey sniffs at the small cabin. Instead of going inside, she noses around the property. When she steps within sight of the outhouse, I can immediately interpret her expression of distaste. She eyes the weathered door, the classic half-moon cutout at the top of the door for ventilation that is now nothing more than decoration.

I don’t remember Lacey being this stuck-up. I don’t remember feeling so much like an adult either.

I sigh. “It
is
sort of small . . .”

“And . . . awful,” Lacey says, sympathy thick in her tone of voice.

I stop. And look critically at the cabin. I’ve been here almost two months now, Independence Day around the corner, and as I look at the cabin I realize what it represents now.

Home.

I haven’t felt right in my own skin for more than half a year . . . and finally, I do.

It’s not the six-thousand-square-foot house of my upbringing. But that was filled with my family—our memories. And they’re not there anymore so it’s not home. Milli’s home is fresh and new, at least for me. She was part of my family and a piece of them remains within these four walls, but the house’s
existense doesn’t define them. It’s a place of good memories, not the ones I’ve left behind. So I don’t give a shit if it’s small . . . it’s not awful. Nowhere near.

Lacey sees my expression and regret slides over her features, a shadow of something else chased away before I know what it is.

Maybe better I don’t.

“Oh, Brookie . . . I’m so sorry. I . . .
fuck
. I’m an ass.”

“Yeah,” I say with a nod.

We stand in awkward silence, the buzz of bees lighting on the wildflowers a typical comfort for me. But my heart’s full.

To breaking.

Lacey takes my hand. “You know how much I love you?” Her eyes flood with emotion, brimming with sincerity.

I nod, my eyes dry.

“Come on . . . show me the rest.”

“Okay,” I say, but my heart’s not in it. I want Lacey to love Alaska as I’ve come to love it.

Then I realize: would I love it as much if Chance weren’t a part of it?

T
he weather is made to order. I’ve just gotten off a run of three days of balls-to-the-wall fishing, 6 a.m. to almost 9 p.m. of solid sea time, and I’m ready to meet Brooke and Lacey at the Dawg. They’ve been able to get plenty of girl time in while I’ve been working.
My turn
.

Maybe Evan can stop worrying about my girlfriend’s panties and distract himself with Lacey.

I drive up to the Dawg in the ’Cuda, parking it carefully, tight against an old outdoor streetlamp, my hair still damp from the shower and clinging to the back of my neck like a wet hand. I’m so ready to feel Brooke in my arms I almost forget my guitar. I swing back around, gripping the chrome handle and lifting it as the back door swings open, smooth and heavy. I grab the neck of my guitar and take it out, closing the door. I look at the pool of light cast by the streetlamp and chuckle to myself. As bright as the sun is at 10 p.m., the illumination value
is beyond weak. I still like my car packed in tight against something that won’t beat the hell out of it with a swinging door.

I stride to the Dawg, the smell of booze, residual smoke, and old wood carry outside, greeting me in a memory trigger of nostalgia. The Salty Dawg will always be the place I first played my music in front of others.

I move inside the gloomy interior, the small, four-pane-divided windows allowing little light to grace the interior. I scan the saloon for Brooke and find her . . . and her friend Lacey.

I note Lacey is good-looking. It takes me about three seconds to lose interest; my eyes are all for Brooke. But Evan’s noticed Lacey and is clinging like a fly to shit.

Perfect.

Her blond hair is styled in that overly coiffed way that I think looks like ass, affected. My eyes move to Brooke; her softly waved hair has an untrained and natural look. My gaze doesn’t end there but travels to her tight jeans, formfitting cami with a sheer top thrown over it. It’s a soft purple color that makes me wish we were outside so I could see her better. Lacey’s been a good influence, I notice. I finish my visual sweep at Brooke’s high-heeled shoes and smile. Girls don’t usually wear heels in Homer. Brooke wore Xtratufs the two times she worked for me and now wears just clogs. Yet here she is in heels and a top so sheer I couldn’t tear my stare away from her if I tried.

Brooke smiles, turning her head to whisper something to Lacey, and the two girls’ hair mingles together, one black and one like dark gold. Lacey glances my way and giggles. Then Brooke stands and meets me in the middle of the packed bar. My hand has a tight hold on the guitar, but I use my other
hand to drag her close. I lean my head down to her neck, closer now from the extra height of the heels.

“You look hot,” I say into her ear, the talking all around us loud, way above white noise.

“Thank you,” Brooke says, moving sideways until her thigh touches my hard-on. Now bigger thanks to her maneuvering.

I laugh. “Alert: banana in pants.”

Brooke’s eyes drop. “I like bananas,” she says, perfectly deadpan.

I groan—
no shit?

Suddenly Lacey is there and I move Brooke in front of me, hiding my dick. Her ass moves up against my hardness.

No improvement.

“Nice,” I hiss good-naturedly.

“Welcome,” she chimes.

Lacey looks puzzled then sticks her hand out. I take it over Brooke’s shoulder.

“Brookie’s told me so much about you . . .” Her eyes sparkle with humor.

“Brookie?” I ask.

Brooke nods with a short laugh. “We’ve been best friends since—”

“—kindergarten,” Lacey finishes for her as Evan walks up, two drinks in hand.

I raise my brow. “Twenty-one.” Lacey answers my unspoken question. She takes the glass from Evan, sipping the cola-colored drink through twin tiny red straws, a cherry centered on top of the ice. “Yum, yum,” Lacey says, perfectly pivoting into Evan, her hand on the center of his chest for balance. “Lacey says thank you.”

“Simon says come dance with me,” Evan says, his mop of
hair pulled back in a ponytail at his nape. A spiral of hair escapes as I watch, as if it refuses the captivity.

“Simon says yes,” Lacey purrs. She flutters her fingers at me. “Nice to meet ya . . . Chance.”