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As soon as the rental agreement was signed, Todd jumped aboard and climbed the steps to the pilot’s chair. Roark staggered aboard, then turned to lend a hand to Mary Catherine, who managed to stumble against him as she stepped onto the deck. “Oopsy-daisy,” she giggled as she squirmed against him. She gave old Hatch a gay little wave as he untied the ropes from the cleats and tossed them onto the deck.
“Crazy kids,” he muttered.
“I don’t think he likes us,” Mary Catherine whined.
“What I think is, you have on too many clothes.”
Roark reached around to untie her top. She shrieked and slapped at his hands, but the protests were all for show. Roark came away with her bikini top and waved it like a banner above his head as Todd slowly guided the boat out of the marina. As soon as the craft cleared the channel, he gave it full throttle and it shot into the Atlantic.
Todd had proclaimed this would be a celebration none of them would ever forget and obviously he meant it. Roark was surprised by his friend’s extravagance. The coolers he had brought onboard were stocked with brand-name liquors. The food came from a deli that had the self-confidence to call itself Delectables.
“This is a mean shrimp salad.” Roark licked spiced mayonnaise from the corner of his lips.
“Let me do that.” Mary Catherine straddled his lap and sponged away the mayo with her tongue. She had taken her role as consolation prize to heart, devoting herself entirely to entertaining him and granting his every wish. That or converting him into a hedonist. Either way, he wasn’t fighting it.
The shared secret of the miscarriage had forged a special bond between them. When they were alone he called her Sheila. She’d given up on the mermaid idea as impractical because “the tail would probably be itchy.” But she was considering a chambermaid routine and had asked him to come up with a catchy name for her.
Although they flirted frequently and outrageously, the friendship had remained platonic. She’d made subtle overtures, but Roark had pretended not to notice them because he hadn’t wanted to mess up a good friendship.
But as she sucked at his lips,
he asked himself what would be so terrible about altering their friendship to include sex. Be friends with Sheila, but don’t have sex with Mary Catherine. Who wrote the rule that you couldn’t be both friend and lover?
Why not make happy with the iron hard-on he was sporting, compliments of her incredible proportions and her agile tongue and her hands, which were keeping themselves busy inside his swim trunks?
Maybe Todd had paid for her services today. So what? She was a good kid, trying to make a decent living using the assets she’d been given.
It was also possible that she was coming on to him only to make Todd jealous. He wouldn’t let that bother him, either. In fact, he wasn’t going to let anything bother him tonight.
Fuck writing. Fuck getting published. Fuck words that wouldn’t come.
Fuck Mary Catherine. That topped his things-to-do list. Definitely. He was sick to death of being such a damn Boy Scout. Nose to the grindstone all the time. For what? For freaking nothing, that’s what.
He was going to eat this rich food until he puked on it. He was going to get slobbery drunk. He was going to let Mary Catherine perform on him every debauched act in her extensive repertoire. He was going to have a good time tonight if it killed him.
* * *
Roark woke up with Mary Catherine draped across him. After a bout of rowdy copulation in the small berth, they had both passed out. Thirsty and needing badly to pee, he wiggled out from under her. She moaned a garbled objection and reached out to hold him back, but it was a halfhearted effort.
He successfully extricated himself and retrieved his trunks from the floor. It required some challenging concentration and a few fumbling attempts, but he finally managed to get his feet into the legs.
He was still pulling on the trunks as he stumbled up the steps to the deck. Todd had a bottle of Bacardi cradled in his arm and was staring at the constellations. Hearing Roark, he turned and smiled. “You survived?”
He stretched out the elastic waistband of his trunks and peered into them. “All parts present and accounted for, sir.”
Todd chuckled. “Judging from the racket, there were times I thought I might have to come down there and rescue you.”
“There were times when I thought you might have to.” He relieved himself over the side of the craft.
Todd asked, “Did she do that thing with her thumb?”
Roark tucked himself back into his trunks, turned, smiled, but said nothing.
“Oh. I forgot. Sir Roark never shares the juicy details. A real gallant.”
Roark was about to bow at the waist but figured that in his present condition that might be a tricky move, so he settled for a clumsy salute.
Todd motioned toward one of the ice chests. “Help yourself to a fresh bottle.”
