Page 65 of Dock

“Work?” Genuine bafflement moves her brow. “You have a job?” Cringing is instantaneous. “Not like you can’t work or aren’t qualified to work, it just never crossed my mind you might have like…a job…’cause you’re…” she nervously fidgets with the edge of my cut prior to pointing to the name patch on the front, “a ya know.”

“Club member.”

“Yeah.” The uncomfortable nibble she delivers to her lip makes me want to lean up to let it happen to me instead. “Is your job like super illegal? Like drug designer or drug pusher or drug deliverer?”

“Do I look like a drug dealer to you?”

“No, but you don’t look like a college student either.”

Fair.

“And to be honest,” a second bite is stolen, “I don’t really know what a drug dealer is ‘supposed to’ look like anyway! I mean in books and movies and TV they basically run the gambit of races, ethnicities, genders as well as social and economic demographics; therefore ‘looking like’ isn’t a reasonable question to ask.”

Fuckme.

She’s beautiful.

Got a bangin’ bod.

And is fucking brilliant.

Is it wrong to love the idea of learning from her outside a classroom?

Is it fucked up to wanna be…smarter?

Feel less stupid?

Rather than continue to let her ramble to the point her entire body becomes crimson, I state, “I run Aboat Time over on Charlie’s Lake. We rent and sell lake gear, equipment, and excursion lessons. I mainly do management shit, but occasionally – when I wanna do less pencil pusher shit – I cover callouts or take lead. Teach touries how to ski or tube or whatever.”

“Touries isn’t a word,” she warmly teases.

“And tubing isn’t something you’ve ever done.” Closing the message is attached to a mirthful, “Yet.”

A second hip wiggle occurs tempting me into abandoning all my responsibilities, which is another first. “Isn’t it too early for…lake tutorials or…water class?”

Amusement openly takes over my face. “Yeah, but this is club business, not the other shit.”

“Um,” mirth swiftly shifts into place, “it’s definitely too early for club things. Shouldn’t they still be sleeping?!”

“Nahhhh.” My phone wielding hand momentarily abandons it to softly stroke her thigh. “Most of them ain’t even been to bed yet.”

The expression on Emmerz’s face transitions to one of skepticism, “Do you really need to go or is this because I wasn’t in the kitchen making you breakfast when you woke up? Because I can be! I can cook! I’m a really good cook-”

“Mow.”

“Don’t listen to him,” she brushes off with frantic headshake. “He’s just pissy because I don’t make his favorite every morning, but who has time to cook avocado toast with salmon and a poached egg every day?!"

“Never had it.”

“It’s so much work,” escapes in a rushing and gushing nature. “And if you forget any little part of it, the fresh dill or the capers or heaven forbid get the fresh garlic to red onion combination wrong and you basically have to start the whole thing over which may be why he likes when I make it because I tend to feed him the part he can eat.” There isn’t time to retort before she continues, “And I don’t have to make you avocado toast. I can make you something else! Regular toast. Or bagels. Or bagels drizzled in dark chocolate. Or pancakes.” Her nose scrunches, bouncing her big round framed glasses. “Out of the box pancakes, but they’re still better than out of the freezer and-”

“Emmerz.”

Her mouth instantly paralyzes mid spiral.

“I’m not leaving because I want to, baby.” My thumb gently caresses the skin it can reach. “I’m leaving because I have to. Club shit always comes first.”

“Always?”