Rock the Boat: A Griffin Bay Novel (6 page)

Inside the bag, Davis found his iPod and its two powerful little speakers. He cradled them against his chest as if they were some life-giving token, some magical elixir—and then he headed back to the ladder.

“What do you have there?” Jordan asked as he passed the galley. She was elbow-deep in a sudsy sink, washing the dinner dishes.

“Music,” Davis said, and hurried back up to the boat’s deck before she could stop him.

Somebody had turned on a small light affixed to the
Coriolis
’s rear mast. In the circle of its amber glow, Davis set up his speakers and flipped through his playlists until he found just the right music: classic rock with a heavy, confident beat and howling vocals—a sound that might as well have been his own half-lost, still-determined soul crying its defiance to the world. He let hips, knees, and shoulders swing loosely as the speakers blared, let the driving bass thump through him.

It thumped through the
Coriolis
, too. Jordan popped up from belowdecks, frowning at him sternly.

“Turn that off!” she said.

Davis cupped a hand to his ear as if he couldn’t hear her. It was
The Immigrant Song
by Led Zeppelin; he sang along with the wordless, high-pitched vocal intro.

“Waaah-waaaaah-
waaaah!
”

“Oh my God!” Jordan scrambled the rest of the way up the ladder and rushed toward he speakers.

Davis—his eyes on the wiggle of her hips as she ran, the enticement of her cleavage when she bent to seize his iPod—moved in close. He danced at her, circled her, surrounded her with the closeness of his body and the rhythm of his hips as they thrust at her subtly, in time with the music.

“Waaah-waaaaah-
waaaah!
” he sang again.

Jordan pulled the plug on his iPod; Davis’s last loud howl belted out across the water lone, without the accompaniment of Led Zeppelin. His voice and the final echo of the music rang loudly from the near-vertical walls of Stuart Island and filled the long, narrow bowl of the harbor.

A voice from one of the boats anchored at the harbor’s end shouted back a faint response. “
Shut up, jackass!
”

“What are you
doing?
” Jordan demanded.

Davis kept dancing around her even though the music was gone. He moved even closer, his body swinging in time to the beat he heard inside his head. He held her dark brown eyes with his own, and though her glare spoke plainly of her irritation, she didn’t look away.

“I’m dancing,” Davis said softly, so close to her now that he practically whispered the words in her ear.

In the orange glow of the deck light, Davis thought he saw her cheeks color. But instead of giving him the sign he was craving—a melting smile, a sarcastic but flirtatious comment—anything to tell him he was winning her over—Jordan braced her hands on her hips. Her scowl only grew more stern.

“Listen, Davis. You’re a client, and I take a professional approach to my business. I want to make your vacation a pleasant experience, but
I’m the captain of this boat
. You do what I say—that’s the rule of sailing. Got it?”

All the dance drained out of Davis’s body. “Yeah, yeah. Jeez, I got it.”

“Your manager sent you to me so you could relax, not so you could party. My boat isn’t a floating bar-room!”

Davis heard a soft sound from the cockpit. Emily was there; she had gently cleared her throat, and Jordan rounded on her with a sharp, “What?!”

“Can I speak to you for a moment, please?” Emily said.

Jordan fixed Davis with one last glare of warning, then stalked across the deck to Emily’s side. As the two women put their heads together in quiet conversation, Davis bent to wrap up the cords of his speakers and iPod. He felt like an idiot. He’d made a total fool of himself, and pissed off the other boaters on the harbor, too.

But it had been worth it, to get so close to Jordan. He’d practically been able to feel the heat of her skin—or maybe it was the heat of her anger. It didn’t matter which; Davis had enjoyed it. He bit his lip hard to stifle a victorious laugh.

Soft footsteps crossed the deck toward him. He looked up to see Emily standing over him, smiling self-consciously while she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“Hey,” Davis said.

“Hey. Uh… listen, I want to apologize to you for being such an idiot when you first got here.”

Davis straightened, speakers in hand. “It’s all right. Seriously, it’s fine. I’ve dealt with way worse before, believe me.”

“I was just talking to Jordan, and I think I might have convinced her that a little music would be a good thing tonight.”

“I don’t know,” Davis said, glancing over his shoulder toward the distant lights of the other anchored boats. “You and I might be alone out here in our appreciation for music.”

“Jordan said it would be okay… as long as it’s quiet. And acoustic.”

“Aha.” Davis chuckled. “You guys want a private concert—is that it?”

Emily blushed. “I didn’t mean…. We don’t want to impose. And of course you can say no. But maybe playing your guitar instead of playing your iPod would be a little…
tamer
? A little more chill.”

He smiled at her. “Don’t count on that. I can shred pretty hard, even on an acoustic.”

“I don’t doubt it. But it won’t carry as far, so the captain won’t have any reason to go into cardiac arrest.” She leaned toward him and whispered with a conspiratory air, “Plus, I’ve convinced Jordan to make a peace offering.”

Jordan came up the ladder bearing a resigned air and four wine glasses, clutched by their stems in one hand. She held an opened bottle of wine in the other. Davis watched a she set the bottle carefully on one of the cockpit’s bench seats, then arranged the glasses in a neat row.

He approached carefully. “I thought your boat wasn’t a floating bar-room.”

She looked up at him with a level stare that said,
Watch it, buddy
. But a moment later those full lips twitched with the barest hint of a smile.

“Emily can be very convincing sometimes.” She poured the dark wine into the glasses.

A few minutes later, Davis sat with his guitar resting on his knee while the crew of the
Coriolis
huddled around him. The night had grown chilly, but the wine—an excellent, full-bodied red—took some of the edge off. Davis did his best to keep the volume down for Jordan’s sake. He coaxed soft chords from the strings, playing first one gentle, slow song, and then another.

Perhaps it was to Emily’s disappointment that Davis didn’t play a single Local Youths song. His band’s stuff was just too harsh for this easy, quiet moment, too lively for the close proximity they all shared and the mellow taste of the wine on his tongue. Davis played through one ballad after another—other people’s songs, singing sweet and low. He gave a welcoming grin when Emily and Storm joined in—though nobody was brave enough to try until they’d finished a second glass of wine. The crew of the
Coriolis
wasn’t bad with a harmony—Davis had to hand it to them.

Jordan never sang. She sat wrapped in a wool blanket with her knees pulled up to her chest, watching Davis across the span of the cockpit as he played, her eyes serious and assessing. But now and then as her friends sang along, a gentle smile did play on her lips. She was even more beautiful when she allowed happiness to shine through her hard exterior.

Davis finished the last chords of a love song and reached for the bottle of wine. There was just enough left for one more glass. He reached out to top Jordan off, but she covered the glass with her hand.

“One’s the limit for the captain. Even at anchor.”

“You really take this captain stuff seriously, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” she said. She glanced quickly at Emily and Storm, then resolutely away from her friends. Her voice thickened with some intense emotion Davis couldn’t identify. “Sailing is my whole life.”

“I think that’s really cool,” he told her. He wasn’t turning on the charm now—not trying to win her over. He meant every word. “I mean, you’re not as old as I am, but you’ve found your thing—your path through life.”

Jordan gave a short, bitter laugh and stared down at the deck. “Yeah. I guess so.”

What had he said wrong? Davis watched Jordan’s face in the silvery starlight, but her thoughts seemed a thousand miles away. He poured the last of the wine into his own glass and sipped it, welcoming the warm tingle of alcohol along his veins.

He began to gently strum the opening chords of another song.

“Time for me to turn in,” Jordan said abruptly, rising and bundling up the blanket in her arms. “Have a good night, everybody, and my crew had better not stay up too late. We’re pulling anchor at eight a.m. sharp.”

Davis kept playing automatically, his hands moving smoothly through the chord progression. But his eyes and his thoughts followed Jordan as she disappeared below. Her absence from the cockpit—from their small, intimate gathering—felt like a huge, shocking thing. Midway through the song’s intro, he stopped—his hand froze on the fretboard, ignoring his will to continue. Instead he switched to a more melancholy tune. Somehow the tone of this new song seemed to fit his mood better, now that Jordan had gone.

But when he looked up at the sky, the lone star he’d seen before had been joined by hundreds more—thousands more. Davis’s fingers faltered again on the guitar strings. In all his tours through the world’s biggest cities, he had never seen a sky so bright with stars. Not a single point of light was lonely or isolated up in that vast, black curve of sky. And that made Davis feel just a little bit better.

.7.

T
he fourth day of the sailing trip dawned misty and damp—a far more typical Northwest morning than any they’d enjoyed since leaving Griffin Bay. The
Coriolis
glided through the pearl-gray fog into the mouth of Fisherman Bay. Jordan would have preferred clearer visibility for her entry into the bay, but getting in required the navigation of a tricky, narrow underwater channel. It was too easy to stick the boat’s keel in the mud or even damage the hull on the maze of hidden shoals. The tide was high early that morning, so that was when she had to enter the bay.

Storm stood at the prow, holding to the staysail’s rigging as he peered down into the water, on the lookout for any logs or other heavy objects which Jordan might have to steer around. Emily kept her eyes on the fathometer, calling out the water’s depth below the keel foot by foot as the
Coriolis
crawled under engine power toward its destination. It was delicate work. Jordan welcomed the quiet of morning as she handled the helm with an expert touch. The misty silence allowed her to concentrate on
not
running her boat aground.

That was when the thumping bass of Davis’s portable speakers started up below-decks.

“
Oh… my God
,” Jordan whispered tensely. “Does he
never
stop with the loud music?”

Emily stifled a laugh. It fought its way out as an undignified snort. “He
is
a rock star. What do you expect?”

“Quiet! That’s what I expect! Who comes to the San Juan Islands and mopes around in the cabin the whole time, blasting music into his own face when there’s so much out here to see and experience?”

“He hasn’t been in his cabin the
whole
time,” Emily said.

That was true. Over the past three days, while Jordan sailed the
Coriolis
through some of the most stirring, spectacular maritime vistas known to man, Davis had remained mostly in his cabin, wrapped in the filthy blanket of his disturbingly loud music. But to his credit he did emerge whenever it was time to eat. Once or twice he’d even come up to check out the scenery—for no more than fifteen minutes at a time—and then, with some dismissive comment that was carefully calculated to prove how cool he was, he vanished again to pound on Jordan’s nerves with his music.

As irritating as she found Davis’s total disregard for the sailing experience, Jordan had to admit to herself that she was just a little bit glad Davis kept mostly out of sight. Her body seemed to be in total rebellion against her common sense and good judgment, because whenever Davis did appear, he was the only thing Jordan could look at.

Often she found herself staring at him in disgusted fury, wondering how any person could remain so unmoved by the beauty through which they traveled. But the moment he’d speak in that dark, velvety voice, or the moment he’d move in his loose, casually graceful style, a tight knot would form in Jordan’s stomach. She didn’t know whether it was hatred or desire.

And God help Jordan if Davis came close enough for her to catch a whiff of his smell. A couple of times he’d settled down in the cockpit for a few minutes, gazing unmoved at the islands as they passed… and the prevailing breeze had bombarded Jordan’s senses with an over-awareness of his presence. Once, while in that pathetic state, she had let a line slip right through her hands and the mainsail had flapped like the wings of a startled bird—and once she’d lost track of where she was going and steered the
Coriolis
entirely off course.

Worse than her Davis-induced blunders was the sneaking suspicion Jordan had that he knew
exactly
what he was doing to her. He would linger around Jordan for a few minutes, and as soon as she slipped up somehow—as soon as she betrayed her distraction, her temptation—he fixed her with his slow, curling smile and those piercing blue eyes.
Got you
, those smoldering looks seemed to say. Then he headed back down to his cabin, leaving his lingering scent behind, along with the unspoken promise that he’d be back to shake Jordan up again, and twist up her mind with fury and longing, just as soon as she settled herself and began to sail straight again.

But that damn music never seemed to stop thumping and blaring from his cabin. It was almost as if Davis had some sort of peace-induced phobia.

“I can’t stand him,” Jordan muttered to Emily. “He’s so much worse than I thought he’d be.”

Emily glanced up from the fathometer with a skeptical smirk. “Oh,
really?
”

“Yeah, really. Six more days and I’ll be free of him for good. I’ll never have to see or talk to or
think about
Davis Steen again. I can’t wait.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she felt an uncomfortable twinge in her chest.
That’s a good thing, right? To never see him again?

“He’s really not that bad,” Emily said. “In fact, I kind of like him.”

“Of course you do. You were already a huge fan of his music.”

“No, I mean I like him as a person. Eleven feet,” she added, eyes back on the fathometer. “Storm likes him, too. Ten-point-two feet.”

“You and Storm are traitors, then.”

Emily giggled.

“I accuse you both of mutiny.”

“Okay, we’ll both walk the plank as soon as we drop anchor, if it’ll make you happy.”

The song on Davis’s sound system ended. Jordan breathed deep in the momentary silence, hoping he was done for the morning. Then a new song started up, twice as annoying as the one that had played before.

“I don’t get how either one of you can find anything to appreciate in a man like Davis,” Jordan muttered.

“That’s because you’re only looking at what he shows on the surface.”

Jordan took her eyes off the channel markers to glance at Emily, startled. “What do you mean by that?”

“I know he’s got this ‘too cool for school’ act down to a science, but come
on
, Jordy. It’s obviously just his defense.”

“Defense? What does
he
need to defend himself against? He’s world-famous! He’s got more money than I’ll ever have!”

Emily looked up from the fathometer again, her pretty face shadowed by an irritated frown. “You know it creeps me out to talk about how much money my family has. But… take it from your friend who was raised like a princess: money doesn’t solve all your problems. In fact, I think it only makes more problems.”

Jordan shook her head, annoyed at herself, chiding herself for the insensitivity. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right,” Emily said quickly. “You know I love ya. Thirteen feet.”

Jordan peered down at the GPS readout of the Fisherman Bay chart. She turned the helm expertly, angling the
Coriolis
into the exact center of the channel. They went on in silence for a few moments more. Then finally Jordan said, “So… what
do
you think Davis is hiding from?”

Emily raised one pale-gold eyebrow.

“Not that I’m really all that interested,” Jordan added.

“Of course not. Well, I can’t say for sure. But Davis seems to be really hate silence. Haven’t you noticed it? He can’t handle quiet—if there’s not something happening to hold his attention, some big, loud, thumping
noise
to distract him, he shuts himself in his cabin and blasts his music. It’s been a clear pattern since the first night of our trip. Something’s going on inside his head that makes silence intolerable.”

“His own thoughts?” Jordan wondered aloud. Dark thoughts or painful memories—those were the only things she could imagine that might haunt a quiet moment.

Emily shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

“Fat chance of that ever happening. The only time he ever talks to me is to ask me if there’s a town with a bar on whatever island we’re sailing past, so he can go ashore and
party
. What does he thinks this is, Jay-Z’s yacht?”

“Well, he is a paying customer,” Emily said. “Kind of. I don’t have to tell you, the consummate professional, that he gets
some
say over what he does, since we’re the work for hire.”

“I’m still the captain, and I call the shots as long as we’re onboard.”

They navigated through the final turn of the channel and glided out into the glassy, gray expanse of Fisherman Bay. The low, grass-green profile of Lopez Island emerged from the mist, and Jordan concentrated on anchoring the boat, grateful for a reason to stop wondering about Davis, even if it was only a momentary distraction. As the anchor chain rattled loudly down from the bow and the engine hummed into reverse, she realized that she didn’t really
want
to know what plagued Davis’s thoughts. If she learned what lay under that cocky, contrarian exterior she was afraid she might find him… sympathetic. As likable as Emily and Storm found him to be. Jordan didn’t want to like her final client. She wanted it to be easy to fold up Sea Wolf Charters and leave this experience behind. The last thing she needed was to look back on her chartering business with any warm, fuzzy feelings.

The sound of the anchor had evidently roused Davis from his shielding cocoon of obnoxious music. He came up the ladder to the cockpit and stood stretching right in front of Jordan’s face—his lean, hard body bent in a posture of lazy display, the muscles in his arms and chest rippling. He said nothing, but gave Jordan one of those slanted, arrogant, coolly amused smiles.

Jordan’s cheeks burned, and she hated herself for blushing—for showing any discomfiture where Davis could see. Had he known she’d been checking him out the whole time he was stretching? Of course he had. He seemed to know every time Jordan looked at him, as if he could feel her gaze like a physical touch. And he seemed to know, too, that Jordan couldn’t help it—she had no choice but to stare at him. He was so gorgeous, so captivating…
so totally infuriating
.

Emily headed down to the galley to make the coffee and round up a few pastries for their breakfast. To Jordan’s dismay, Storm was quick to join her, and she was left alone in the cockpit with Davis.

“Where to today?” Davis asked.

She waved at the island. “Lopez.” As she spun off a few facts about the island and its unique culture, her mind drifted into a litany of Davis’s many physical attractions.
Strong arms, scratchy face, bright blue eyes…
She kept her gaze on the misty shoreline so she could avoid glancing down at his jeans. She didn’t want any excuse to add
Intriguing package
to his list of finer points.

Davis cut off her bland recitation of Lopez Island Fun Facts. “Does this place have a town? With a—”

“A bar?” Jordan guessed.

Davis grinned at her, and the whole length of her spine tingled.

“It does,” she admitted. “But you aren’t not going there.”

“What?” His voice was flat, disbelieving. “Come on, Captain. It’s not like you’re my AA sponsor.”

“Do you have one?”

He laughed. The tingle in her spine turned to a lightning jolt along her limbs.

“No,” Davis said. “I’ve never needed one. I may like to party, but I’m not problematic.”

That’s debatable
, she told him silently. “You’re not going there because we won’t have time. The bar doesn’t open until after 5:00 sometime—”

“
Sometime?
”

“That’s the way things are out here in the islands. Schedules are more like suggestions. Or vague hints.”

“Well, why can’t we go over to the bar sometime after five?”

“Because we’ll be gone by then. The tide’s on a funky schedule today, and if we stay past three o’clock our keel will get stuck in the mud.”

“I thought you said schedules are more like suggestions.”

The comment caught her so off-guard that Jordan couldn’t help but smile. It was a real smile, open, willing to give Davis one brief chance—not one of the pinched attempts she’d made at hiding her conflicted, half-irritated happiness over the past several days of their voyage.

“That only applies to islanders,” she said with a little laugh. “Not to the gravitational pull of the moon.”

“Right. My bad.”

Davis fell silent, watching her for what felt like an eternity. Jordan glanced at him almost shyly; his blue eyes locked with her own, and Jordan found herself unable to look away. And she didn’t
want
to look away. In that brief moment of quiet, she thought she could finally make out what Emily saw in Davis—a certain mysterious vulnerability lurking just below his façade of unshakable cool, his mask of rock-star clichés.

He
is
bothered by something
, Jordan realized as she held Davis’s faintly troubled gaze. But what? What could possibly get past that unflappable exterior of perfect masculinity? In the quiet moment they shared—one of the only times she ever saw Davis without any accompanying noise or activity—all her annoyance fell away. She suddenly wanted to know what made him tick—what was inside the cavalier musician’s heart.