Between the Sheets (2 page)

“No way.” My feet were so calloused from daily trail runs, I’d never let anyone near them with nail polish.

We cruised north on the freeway and she reclined her seat, the coffee mug near her cheek, all but purring with satisfaction. “Soon as I wake up a bit more,” she said, “we’re going to have a little strategy session.”

Wake up more?

An hour later I parked on the ferry ramp and we climbed the corrugated steel steps to the passenger deck. At just after ten on a Friday morning, the ferry wasn’t crowded, even though we were still in vacation season. Rows of orange vinyl booths sat perpendicular to long windows, overlooking sapphire water, the surface sparkling like mica as small waves danced in the breeze.

I picked a spot where the sun turned the seat’s vinyl a warm tangerine. Krista plunked down next to me and tossed the
Cosm
o in my lap. “Read,” she said.

My morals were being tested, but the splashy pink dress worn by the cover model was kind of cute. Her smile dared me to—do something, and the headline in the upper left corner tweaked my curiosity.
Be a Sex Diva: Naughty Tricks Men Crave.
While the combination of daylight and sobriety assured me the odds of practicing any kind of naughty tricks at the choir director’s retreat were low at best, it never hurt to expand the repertoire.

And my repertoire was woefully rusty.

Fifteen minutes later I’d figured out
Cosmo
was
so
not the magazine for me. I didn’t want to dress like Angelina Jolie or learn how to apply black Amy Winehouse-style eyeliner copied from a 1950s Barbie Doll. I worked out often enough my stomach was already flat, thanks. If anything, my boyish body needed
more
curves, but none of the articles went there.

I came to the article promising to turn me into a sex diva.
Crazy.
Halfway down the page, one of the bold-type headings demanded I
Flick His Frenulum
. I vowed to flick the next one I saw, once I figured out where it was located. Apparently it would fire up his treasure trail, the line of hair running south from his bellybutton. The article said a real diva should take the initiative and undress her man. And I could imagine doing that exactly
never
. The next page suggested the standing doggie-style position would bring me to the highest heights.

O-kay.

The whole thing had me all twisted up, excitement and fear and desire making like ribbon candy in my belly. I tried to picture the kind of man I’d want behind me for standing doggie style. My ex came to mind, but right about the time the flood of bad memories started, Krista interrupted me with a sharp poke to the ribs.

“Check him out,” she said, her voice barely audible.

A man leaned against the railing at the front of the boat. He stared out at the water, taking lazy drags off the butt of a cigarette. Since he mostly had his back to us, I felt free to check him out.

Yum
. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a light green T-shirt. He turned to the right, giving us a profile shot and showing off a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. His toned forearm had the freckled, light toast color redheads get in the sun. He wasn’t a true carrot-top; more like a sandy red, and his short hair could have used a trim. His beard, too, was a day or so into scruffy.

A black tattoo circled his arm just below the hem of his sleeve, calling attention to the swell of his bicep. I closed the magazine and sat forward, trying to get a better look at the tat, when Krista grabbed my elbow.

“There is no way.” I spoke without turning my head or moving my lips, even though my twisted candy core started to melt. “Because even if he turns out, by some miracle, to be a music teacher, I couldn’t string sentences together in front of someone so incredibly handsome.”

She gave my elbow a shake. “If you get the chance, you are totally going to hit that.”

I shoved the magazine at her, hoping the Ginger God didn’t turn around and notice my blush.

Krista had always been the optimistic one.

Between the dull rumble of the ferry’s engines and Krista’s strategizing, my hangover head was overwhelmed in something less than twelve minutes. To combat them both, I dug out my mp3 player and let my favorite band, Albannach, cut loose with a sound so hot it all but melted my ear buds. If I turned the music loud enough, I couldn’t hear Krista’s pointed sighs.

Funny how the dull ache in my head could handle Scottish pipes, but not her “how to get a man” pep talk.

Out our window, a gull took a couple of lazy flaps with his wings, then dropped toward the water. He must have missed his intended victim, because his beak was empty when he came up.
Good for you, fishie!

When the other passengers packed up, Krista and I followed. We were halfway down the stairs to the car deck when the high-pitched grind from the engines told us the ferry captain had thrown on the brakes, and we scurried the rest of the way.

“Are you ready for this?” Krista asked, buckling herself into my CRV.

I pulled the earbuds out and tossed the player in my bag. Just outside our window, another gull made a dive for the waves and came up with breakfast. He flew past, the fish’s tail flipping in defeat. I knew how it felt. “What are my options, again?”

“You could have a little fun.” She lifted her shades to wink at me. “Or you could punk out.”

Her evil smile let me know which one she’d choose.

The rolling two-lane road took us past miniature farms, their space limited by the size of the island, then dumped us into the forest. The retreat was held at Lorreson Lodge, a three-story wood building fronted by a circular driveway and flanked by a half-circle of cabins. The front door faced the forest and behind the lodge was ocean beach.

The main entrance rose two full stories, anchored by a huge stone fireplace with a slate hearth. To the right of the fireplace a door led to the dining hall, and to the left was a stairway to the guest rooms on the second and third floors. Krista and I had reserved one of the cabins, figuring we might need an escape hatch. Bundling my things out of my CRV, I was grateful for her foresight.

A card table had been set to the left of the front door as a check-in point for the conference attendees. We got ourselves signed in, dumped our gear in the cabin, and went to the orientation session. The room was about two-thirds full, and I couldn’t help myself; I spent the entire ninety minutes assessing my fellow conference attendees for their romantic possibilities.

Well, the male ones, anyway.

They finally cut us loose, and Krista and I shuffled along the sandy path to our two-room cabin. We had one of the lucky ones facing the beach, which was cool, but still—if we held hands, Krista and I could touch all the walls in the main room at once. It held two bunks, a desk, and a folding chair, and the bathroom was so tiny I wasn’t sure I’d be able to turn around in the shower.

“‘
Keeping your program afloat
’? What a lame-ass title. Their ‘advocacy skills’ were rehashed common sense and a lot of wishful thinking.” Krista pushed the cabin door open wide, and a blast of late-afternoon sun highlighted the dusty sand our feet kicked up.

I landed hard on my bunk, the coils under the mattress giving a perfunctory whimper of protest. “Because starting off a conference with an hour-and-a-half discussion on how to keep your job is always uplifting.”

“Damn.”

Not exactly the response I was expecting, and Krista’s thumbs began a furious flurry over her phone.

“What?” I asked.

She tossed her phone on the bed. “Effing J-Bone says he can’t come Sunday night.”

“J-Bone?” I reached behind my neck for the ties holding my halter top up. “You’re dating a guy named J-Bone?”

“Well, everybody’s gotta have something they’re good at.” She propped herself up on her elbows and gave me a naughty wink. “And don’t even think about taking your dress off.”

I was saved from having to respond by her phone’s chirp. By the time she refocused on me, I’d untied the dress and was digging through my duffel bag for a pair of shorts.

“Nope. No way.” She swung her legs around to sit on the edge of the bed. “Social hour is next, and you’re not going dressed as a shortstop.”

“First base.”

“Whatever.”

Irritation drop-kicked my sense of humor out the window and I planted my fists on my hips. The front of my halter dress flopped forward, but I was too pissed to care. “Did you see anyone out there who would possibly care what I am wearing?”

“Yes.” Her phone chirped. “Wait a sec.” She grabbed it. “And put a shirt on. Your titties are bugging me.”

I expelled a bunch of frustration in a sigh for the ages and dropped onto the bed. I didn’t exactly tie the halter, but at least I tossed the straps over my shoulders.

Krista finished her text and raised an eyebrow at me. “P. Kirk Ringdahl is here.”

The head of our local teacher’s consortium, Kirk Ringdahl, starred in his own show. His breezy confidence was born of being one of the only unattached males in any group of music teachers, a status elevating him to the center of attention.

Sure, I’d seen him. And chosen to ignore him. “So?”

“So? He’s straight and single and—”

“If you say he’s handsome, I’m going to puke.” And I meant it. Seriously. My day-long sour stomach threatened a huge revenge. He was tanned and toned and handsome in a dark-haired, semi-effete way but his main flaw was his chin, which faded into his Adam’s apple.

“Get over it.” Krista glanced up from her text war to scold me.

I really needed to go for a run. “Aren’t you the one who said puberty did him a solid by letting him grow a goatee, so we’d know where his face ended and his neck began?”

She shook her head, catching her bottom lip with her teeth. “You are hopeless.”

“I don’t care how much lipstick you slap on this pig, my dear, there’s no way I’m going to get kissed.” Because even if there was a likely suspect out there, he wouldn’t be looking at me.

She jumped off her bunk and grabbed my arm. “Strap that dress on and let’s get out of here, because it won’t happen sitting in this cracker box.”

In the end, I let her tie my dress and lend me some lipstick and even fix my hair in a semi-cute little up-do. Giving in was easier than fighting Hurricane Krista.

“I feel naked,” I murmured in Krista’s general direction. She was half a step ahead of me on her way into the lodge’s dining area.

She turned and glared over the top of her glasses, a look made even sterner by the hard line of her bangs. She’d taken out the ponytail and her straight dark hair fell to a precise finish just above her shoulders. “Ball up.”

The sun-dress and hoodie combo hadn’t bugged me during the ferry ride, and sitting at the edge of a conference room had been okay, but wearing something so far out of character in front of a group of professional acquaintances, coworkers, and friends made me want to hide under a trench coat. The cleavage had dropped at least two inches since we’d left the cabin, and without shorts I’d have no crotch protection if my skirt blew up.

“P. Kirk at ten o’clock,” Krista said,
sotto voce
.

I locked my knees to keep from bolting. “What’s the P stand for, anyway?”

“Performance.” In her pink dress that looked like it was borrowed from a ’60s housewife, Krista smirked and strutted off in the approximate direction of ten o’clock.

Rather than follow her, I glanced around the room for some other familiar faces. My fellow music teachers filled about half the seats in the dining hall, a huge room with windows looking out onto the beach and a bar in one corner. Each of the round tables could hold eight or ten people. The color scheme was built around watery greens and blues, with the kind of easy-to-clean, indestructible furniture found in places catering to the anonymous public.

The grade-school teachers had congregated in one corner so I headed in their direction, ignoring Krista’s hiss. Predominately middle-aged and female, they were a safe group on which to try out my new look. I’d accrued several compliments and at least one person had asked where I shopped when something large and warm tapped on my shoulder.

I jerked around. “Yeah?”

Kirk Ringdahl handed me a glass of white wine. “Krista sent me over with this. You should come join us.”

My jaw dropped open, though in the back of my mind I could hear Mom telling me to shut my mouth because I looked like a fish. “Sure.”

His jovial smile forced his chin deeper into his neck, and though his hairline might have receded since the last retreat, he’d spent more time in the gym to compensate. And his smarmy attention implied I was some kind of prize.
Eek
.

While I was still floundering, he brushed my arm with his fingertips and led the way to his table. I followed, doing my best not to stumble on my sandals’ tiny heels. Krista greeted me with a little round of silent, mission-accomplished applause.

Which wasn’t obvious at all, except to anyone sitting at the table with two eyes and as many brain cells to rub together.

Kirk made an overproduction out of pulling me into the chair next to his, giving me yet another reason for embarrassment. Across the table, Jessica Freeman kept her beady hawk’s eye on every move I made. She was a high school choir director, therefore closer to Kirk in social standing, and her vibe made it clear she did not appreciate my presence.

In addition to Jessica, four other members of P. Kirk’s rooting section were taking me in with varying degrees of hostility. They all had good solid music-teacher names, like Jenny, Elaine, Karen, or Theresa. Except those weren’t their actual names. I forgot them as soon as Kirk said them, and decided, at least in my own head, they were all named Sue. Old Sue, Not-As-Old Sue, Doesn’t-Look-Old-Enough-For-College Sue, and Pregnant Sue were arrayed around Jessica like ladies-in-waiting. If she was the princess, then I was Cinderella’s jock cousin.

And Krista was Loki and Anansi and Coyote all rolled into one.

“Maggie Schafer, Maggie Schafer, Maggie Schafer,” Kirk drawled, his gaze traveling from my eyes to my mouth to parts further south. “I haven’t seen you since the last time this fine group congregated.”