Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance (2 page)

I howl my victory; pump my fist in the air as my companions jump and cheer on the cliff top.
 

Yay! I did it! And I didn’t fucking die!

Again.

Go me.
 

I swim lazily around the opposite side of the rock formation that creates the pool and archway to where the
Vagabond
is anchored. I watch the other tourists I’ve been partying with the last few days, my “friends of the day”—my term for the temporary, single-serving friends I make wherever I go—run across the rocks on bare feet, making for my boat.
 

I swim up to the boat and climb up the ladder onto the deck, flopping over onto my back, still trying to get my heartbeat under control.

“You jumped?” Leanne says, pissed.

“Shit, yeah!” I hop to my feet, jubilant, flush with adrenaline. “I jumped, and I made it. I told you I’d be fine.”

She crosses her arms over her breasts, snarling at me. “But what if you hadn’t made it, Lock?”

I grab her by the arms, and jerk her up against me. “Then I’d be dead, and it wouldn’t fucking matter.”

“Yeah, it kind of would.” She’s sniffling now, trying to play my emotions.

Good luck with that, sweetheart.

I shut her up with a short, hard kiss. “Lee, seriously. You gotta quit worrying about me, babe. I’ll be fine. I’m always fine.”

“One of these days you
won
’
t
be fine.” She turns away, no trace of the sniffles remaining as we both watch the FODs scramble down the rock, jump into the water, swim for the boat, and then hop onto the deck, chattering to each other, and to me, and to Leanne.
 

There are six of them today. Hell if I can keep them all straight, but I know the big burly one is Carlos, the tall, stacked, black chick with the dreadlocks is Mel, and the short, smarmy dude is Victor. The other three are newer—they just showed up yesterday when they saw the party raging on deck, and invited themselves over. Fine by me because, hell, the more the merrier. Carlos, Mel, and Vic are all tourists, down in the BVIs for a week of fun in the sun that includes lots of booze and sex. I think Carlos is from Spain, Mel is from the UK somewhere, and Vic is Italian. That’s all I know, that’s all I care to know.

Once everyone’s aboard, I pull anchor and catch the wind. Carlos knows his way around the sails, so he’s immediately on the lines, helping me get us underway. The beauty of the
Vagabond
’s design is that I’m completely capable of running her all by myself, but obviously it’s easier with more hands to help.
 

Once the sails are set and the lines are cleated where I want them, I break out the good stuff: Lagavulin 16. After making that jump I feel I deserve a reward. We’re headed for Tortola—Road Town, to be specific—and it won’t take but an hour or so to get there, which means we’ve got plenty of time to party. I pour healthy measures of the fine-ass sixteen-year-old single malt over ice for the guys, and hand Leanne and Mel each a beer. Lee will drink whisky when it’s just the two of us, but in company she sticks to beer.
 

There’s a lively debate going on between Carlos and Vic about soccer, of course.
Football
, I should say. Those two will argue football from dawn till dusk, and if you add in some booze, it’ll get heated. All in good fun, though. Leanne and Mel are off by themselves, talking…about what I don’t know. My other FOD guests are a couple from Connecticut, John and Lacey, down here on their honeymoon, and the last person is a single girl. A sexy as hell single girl, too. Platinum hair, perfect skin, a bangin’ body, and a cute little Scandinavian accent. Astrid, her name is.
 

I offer her a beer, but she simply cocks an eyebrow at me. “Can I not have the whisky? Or is that only for the men?”

“You want whisky?”
 

“Beer is for pussies and those already drunk.”

I laugh. “Well, all right then. Neat or on the rocks?”

“On the rocks, please.”

“Coming right up.” I pour a glass over ice and hand it to her.
 

“So, Astrid. What brings you down this way?”
 

A laconic shrug. “I have just finish my degree at university. I am on holiday before I start doctorate work.”
 

“Doctorate, huh? In what?”
 

She sips the Lagavulin, swallows it without so much as a wince. “Medical research. Cancer research, more specifically.”
 

“Damn. That’s impressive.”
 

A smile, not quite shy, not quite proud, somewhere in between. “I suppose. What is it you do, Lachlan?”

“Call me Lock—only my mom calls me Lachlan.” I gesture at the boat with my tumbler of whisky. “This. Sail wherever I want to go, drink with friends. The occasional adventure, when the mood strikes me.”

A speculative glance, then. “So you do nothing?”
 

“Not all of us can be cancer researchers, Astrid.” I shake my glass to stir the ice.
 

“Don’t mistake me, please. It sounds wonderful.” She leans back against the railing, squints behind her sunglasses at the brilliant sunlight bathing her face. “To go wherever you wish, do whatever you wish? That is your whole life?”
 

“Pretty much.”
 

“How do you afford it?”

My turn to shrug. “The answer to that will only irritate you even more.”
 

“I am not irritated. Only jealous, a little.”
   

“It’s a good life. A little jealousy is natural.”
 

She lifts her glass, and I clink mine against hers. “To a good life, then.”
 

“To a good life,” I agree.
 

There’s a lot I’m not mentioning, of course. Things I’d never tell anyone, even Leanne. She has been sailing with me since South Africa, four and a half months ago, and there’s things even she doesn’t know. There’s no sense burdening anyone with bullshit that can’t be changed.
 

“I do not think I could do it, though,” Astrid says. She sips, and tugs at the strap of her halter bikini top, lifting her breasts up, then tugs the elastic beneath them, snugging those big, pale melons into place.
 

I can’t help but watch, and I know Astrid is watching me watch.
 

“Do what?” I ask.

She gestures with her tumbler, the way I did. “Your life. I am driven to work. I have to feel productive. And besides, I did not choose cancer research for the excitement of it.”

“No? Why did you, then?”
 

“My father died of cancer. So did my aunt. It is a nasty thing, to watch someone die of cancer. I want to do my part to find a cure.”
 

“Admirable.”

I can sense her cornflower blue eyes cut to mine, sharp and speculative. “Admirable? Why does that sound like an insult?”

“It’s not, I swear. It really
is
admirable. I respect you for having that goal, and for working as hard at it as I suspect you do.”

“I do work hard. I am twenty-three, and I have completed my undergraduate and graduate university work. I will have my doctorate by the time I am twenty-five. By thirty, I will be the most sought-after research doctor in Europe. You watch, you will see.”
 

“Damn, girl. You do have goals.” I really do respect the hell out of her for it, too. I’m not just paying lip service.

She nods. “Of course. Without goals, how do you know where you want to go in your life? You would only drift, aimless, like a ship without a keel.” She looks at me as she says this. It’s a dig. Subtle, but a dig.

“Not everything is as it seems, Astrid,” I murmur. I don’t owe her any explanations. “I have goals.”

“Such as what?”

Live to see thirty-one, or die trying? I don’t say this, though. “My goals aren’t the kind of thing you’d recognize as such. I don’t mean that as an insult, either. A person’s life, a person’s worth can’t be summed up by what they’ve done, what they’ve accomplished. It’s not that easy, to just…” I wave my hand in circles, “boil it all down to something that neat and simple.”
 

“Perhaps not.”
 

Astrid and I talk for the rest of the trip to Tortola, the topics shifting from philosophy to religion, politics, even to exes.
 

We arrive at the marina and I gently pull us into a slip and tie us off. The Lagavulin is gone by this point—that bottle, at least—and the party sort of naturally breaks up. Mel and Vic and the couple from Connecticut head off to find another party. Carlos has Leanne enthralled with an unlikely sounding story about hang gliding in Brazil. Leanne cuts me a glance, and I acknowledge it with a nod; she subtly starts moving off the
Vagabond
and Carlos goes as well, helping her onto the dock. I watch them vanish into the crowds, Carlos still gesticulating with typical Latin ebullience.

Astrid is on her third glass of whisky, and looking loose and happy. I take a seat beside her on the long, cushion-lined bench in the galley, sliding my arm behind her.

She leans into me. “I thought you and Leanne were…” She circles a hand. “A thing.”
 

“Not really. Sort of, but not really.”
 

“What does this mean?”
 

“It means we have an understanding.”
 

“You are a thing when it is convenient for you both?”

“Pretty much.” I twist so my back is against the cushion, pulling her closer. “It just means we’re not exclusive. She went with Carlos. She’ll come back in the morning, or if she decides she wants to hang here in Tortola with him for a while, then…whatever. I’m heading for St. Thomas tomorrow afternoon and she knows it. If she’s staying here in Tortola, she’ll drop by to get her things.”

“And you wouldn’t miss her?” Astrid rests her sweating, mostly empty tumbler on my chest, peering at me curiously. “You seem to know each other well.”

I shrug. “I’d miss her. We’ve sailed together for several months now. She made the Atlantic crossing with me. We’ve had some good times, and she’s a great companion. Smart, fun, easy to talk to, good looking, and a good sailor. But if she stays here, that’s her decision. I’d miss her, but it’d be her decision.”

“And you’ve slept together, you and Leanne?”

I nod. “Yeah. She’s a great lay.”
 

This gets me a frown. “It’s a strange relationship. You speak of it so openly.”

“It is what it is. She knows how it works as well as I do. We’ve talked about it. It was just her and me for a good month, from when we left South Africa to when we made landfall after the crossing. Just recently, Carlos, Mel, and Vic joined us. So Lee and I had a lot of time to just talk.”
 

“And this?” Astrid’s eyes penetrate mine, her palm on my chest, near my neck. She’s referring to her and me. She’s tipsy, but lucid, sharp. She wants to know the score. “What is
this
?”

“Whatever you want it to be, honey.” I take her glass from her and set it aside. I pull her up against my body, cup her ass and move in for a kiss, but stop short. I don’t take the kiss just yet. “It can be for tonight, or it can be for longer. You want to come to St. Thomas with me?”
 

“But it is not a thing?”

“If you want it to be a thing, it can be a thing.”

“Until someone else comes along, you mean.”

“Nope. If you and me are a thing, then we’re a thing. There wouldn’t be anyone else until we decided to go our separate ways.”
 

“But it’s not a forever thing.”

“Nothing is forever.”

“Some things are.”

“You’re headed back to Sweden for your doctorate, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“You looking for forever?”

“Not really, but—”

“Then why are you asking about it?”
 

She shrugs; it’s a cute, endearing gesture. “Good point. I tend to get philosophical when I’ve been drinking.”

“My philosophy is, when a good thing comes along, enjoy it for as long as you can.”
 

“And what does this mean for me?” This comes out sultry, her hips bumping against mine.

Oh man, she’s game; hell, yeah. “It means you’re a really good thing, and I’d like to enjoy you for as long as you want it to last.”
 

“That was a good line.” Her lips brush mine, but she’s holding back.

I go in for the kiss, and she responds eagerly. Knowing this kiss is just the beginning, I take her hand and lead her to my cabin. Neither of us are wearing much, so it doesn’t take long to shed the little we have on, and then she’s moving on top of me and I’ve got a handful of her slippery Slavic blonde locks, showing her how I like her to move. She takes what she wants, shows me how she likes it. She moves hard and fast, using her fingers to get herself there faster. Takes my breath away, when she gets there. When I find my own release, my heart hammers hard, and I get dizzy.

My heart is thumping so hard it hurts, and that’s a really bad thing.
 

Astrid is limp on top of me, and normally I’d welcome it, but I can’t breathe. I don’t want to worry her, so I try to make it casual, the way I roll her off. Then I tug her against my side so she’s in the nook, close, but no longer lying on my chest, not pressing against my lungs. She’s on the right side, so she can’t feel how mad my heartbeat is. I hold her, and focus on square breathing.
 

Square breathing is a technique I learned years ago to slow my heartbeat: deep breath in through my nose, hold it for four seconds, deep breath out, hold it for four seconds. Repeat until my heartbeat evens out.
 

It doesn’t take long for me to realize that Astrid is out, the combo of whisky and an orgasm taking her under. I slip my arm out from underneath her, go to my collection of stupid little orange fucking bottles. It’s a sizable collection, most of which shouldn’t be mixed with booze, but fuck it.

That’s my real philosophy: Fuck it.

I take the pill I need, pour another drink, down it, and get back in bed with Astrid.