Page 65 of Bend
I wonder how close he was to Gertrude.
I wonder why he doesn’t want to leave the island.
I’m a fool for caring.
He turns back around toward me, and a quick glance-over reveals he’s tucked his boner away. Or lost it. For a moment I’m dizzied by how good he looks in those slacks; how much broader his shoulders are than his hips.
Tall, dark, and handsome. That’s what he is. And an asshole.
“So, you ready?” The corner of his lip tugs up, as if he’s trying to smile and failing.
“Hmm.” I make him sweat it, because he deserves that much. Then, after I tuck my hair behind my ears and sit down on one of the benches, I tell him, “I guess so.”
A brilliant grin spreads over his face, confirming what I’d figured: He’s got a nice smile. It lightens his eyes, almost literally. They don’t look quite so dark-brown.
“Thanks for this. I’ll return you here tomorrow with a check.”
“You fucking better.”
I spend the next few minutes pretending to be absorbed with something on my phone. I have the wherewithal to be sure the GPS-tracking service is turned on, in the event he does turn out to be insane. But I don’t get that vibe.
A few minutes later, his big hand is pushing the boat away from the dock; he’s stepping over to the steering podium, and I’m shamelessly watching the way his shirt melds against the hard lines of his back.
I hunch my shoulders against the wind and watch him as he steers the boat, first idling through the cove, then pushing a handle up a few inches and increasing our speed until the boat’s nose rises out of the water, then the rest of it. The boat bobs and bounces as it flies across the sea.
I wonder if the money will be worth this ordeal. I hope I learn something from what I see of Gertrude’s home. I wish Gertru
de was here.
This day has turned out to be so fucking weird.
I let my mind wander as the wind whips my hair out behind me.
I’m curious to know whether Gertrude liked the color blue, like Mom did; whether she was a fan of sunflower patterns and brightly colored kitchenware. Mom was the queen of neon orange and pink coffee mugs, of funky watermelon plates in summer. Did she get her style from her stoic poet mother? How far off base was I, when I would dream of meeting the great Gertrude O’Malley?
Maybe Gertrude was more like me. My favorite colors are green and pink, my favorite season fall. I’m a writer. Not a poet, but still a writer.
I gather my hair into one of my hands and wonder why I didn’t bring a rubber band. I guess I thought Gertrude’s boat would have an inside. I pictured it big. I pictured her on it.
Sigh.
Another glance up at Race’s back and ass, and I’m distracted by the bulge I imagine is still straining against his pants.
I’m practically twitching with nervous energy—nervous, sexually appreciative, emotionally irritated energy—so I decide instead of just watching him from my seat, I’ll join him at the pedestal that houses the steering wheel, the throttle, and a few keypads.
I hold onto the side of the boat as I move, feeling grateful I wore sneakers. Beyond the boat’s nose, the horizon line bounces; clouds bear down on the water, matching my mood.
I clutch the edge of the podium, and he looks over at me. He’s not wearing sunglasses, so his eyes are squinted slightly against the glare of the water.
I lean closer to him, and I swear I think I can feel him checking me out. Not simply looking at me; looking at me.
I lean back a little, trying to ignore the way my body calls to his, and raise my voice so he can hear me over the wind and choppy sea. “Why did she want you to have the island?”
He shakes his head, turning toward me, so his torso is an inch from my shoulder, and his lips are almost brushing my cheek. “Probably because I live there.”
We hit a bump, and my shoulder bumps into his chest, sending a starburst of sensation through me. I look into his face, wondering why it strikes me as familiar. There’s no way I’ve met him before.
“Are you a recluse?”
