that he can have a vicious mouth on him, and she never knows when it’s coming—he’s lashed out at her before for voicing her opinion, even though he’s the hired hand.
He’s a man, he’s older, and he’s her lover. That gives him the power, and they both know it.
“I don’t give a shit,” Rusty answers laconically. “You hire me, you play by my rules. What’s the hurry, anyway?”
“Laura’s parents are expecting us.”
“You said to whenever.”
“But not forever.”
“I hear you. We’ll wait anyway.” He turns his back on Frank, ending the conversation.
The reason they don’t want Laura to hear them is that she doesn’t know about the cargo they picked up in Ecuador, two days before she joined them. This old buddy had called him out of the blue, Frank told her, he hadn’t heard from the guy in years, he was going to sail south to the Galapagos Islands for some serious scuba diving, then come back up north. He wanted Frank to join him, relive the bad old days.
Laura had wanted to make the trip with him; but that wasn’t feasible. Rusty (the old friend) wanted a few days of just boys hanging out. She could fly down to the Panama Canal and meet them there, there’d be plenty of good diving as they made their way up the coast.
The first two days after she’d met up with them had been great, the diving as good as anywhere she’d ever been. Frank had been all over her, showering her with affection and passion. Then Morgan had joined them, which, as far as Laura was concerned, sent the trip south. It wasn’t Morgan’s body that pissed Laura off, it really wasn’t. It was her brains, or lack thereof. Laura hates dumb broads. It reflects on her, on all women of intelligence.
“Rusty’s horny,” Frank said when she protested. “Besides, it’s his boat, he’s the captain.”
Bringing Morgan along for the ride had been Rusty’s idea, which Frank, once he understood the logic of it, had wholeheartedly embraced. Another woman, so Laura would have a member of her own sex to hang out with (that went over like tits on a boar, which Frank suspected would be the case); that was the so-called “official” reason; in reality, Morgan was a beard, a true innocent, because like Laura she really thought a cruise was a cruise was a cruise. If they ever did get busted—a one-in-a-million shot, but still, the possibility had to be acknowledged, they all knew that the risks were worth the rewards—Morgan would be an inviolable backup to Laura’s claims that she, Laura, didn’t have a clue about what was going on.
They secure their vessel, both bow and stern tied firmly to the dock so the boat can’t bang against the pilings and make a $5,000 dent. Rusty and his helper work easily, efficiently. They’re the best in the business at what they do; Rusty’s been taking out charters for twenty years all up and down the Pacific Coast, he’s sailed as far north as the gulf of Juneau and halfway down the Chilean coast, not to mention countless trips to Hawaii, Tahiti, and points west and south.
In all those years, Rusty had never lost a boat, either to the elements or the authorities. His hang-loose surfer looks and attitude are only surface-deep; he’s conservative, cautious to a fault, which is the main reason (after months of exhaustive research) Frank hired him. That and the fact that Rusty will haul anything anywhere, if the price is right and the odds are stacked overwhelmingly in his favor, which this voyage, after a lot of careful planning, was.
Laura, having gone below while they tied up, now comes up onto the deck from the main cabin, her duffel bag slung over her shoulder, a T-shirt and plaid Big Dog bermudas pulled over her bathing suit.
“Do you have all your stuff?” Franks asks her. “You check through the lockers, bathroom, storage bins?”
“Yes, Frank,” she promises, soothing his anxiety, which she doesn’t understand. If she did forget something on the boat she could call
He’s a man, he’s older, and he’s her lover. That gives him the power, and they both know it.
“I don’t give a shit,” Rusty answers laconically. “You hire me, you play by my rules. What’s the hurry, anyway?”
“Laura’s parents are expecting us.”
“You said to whenever.”
“But not forever.”
“I hear you. We’ll wait anyway.” He turns his back on Frank, ending the conversation.
The reason they don’t want Laura to hear them is that she doesn’t know about the cargo they picked up in Ecuador, two days before she joined them. This old buddy had called him out of the blue, Frank told her, he hadn’t heard from the guy in years, he was going to sail south to the Galapagos Islands for some serious scuba diving, then come back up north. He wanted Frank to join him, relive the bad old days.
Laura had wanted to make the trip with him; but that wasn’t feasible. Rusty (the old friend) wanted a few days of just boys hanging out. She could fly down to the Panama Canal and meet them there, there’d be plenty of good diving as they made their way up the coast.
The first two days after she’d met up with them had been great, the diving as good as anywhere she’d ever been. Frank had been all over her, showering her with affection and passion. Then Morgan had joined them, which, as far as Laura was concerned, sent the trip south. It wasn’t Morgan’s body that pissed Laura off, it really wasn’t. It was her brains, or lack thereof. Laura hates dumb broads. It reflects on her, on all women of intelligence.
“Rusty’s horny,” Frank said when she protested. “Besides, it’s his boat, he’s the captain.”
Bringing Morgan along for the ride had been Rusty’s idea, which Frank, once he understood the logic of it, had wholeheartedly embraced. Another woman, so Laura would have a member of her own sex to hang out with (that went over like tits on a boar, which Frank suspected would be the case); that was the so-called “official” reason; in reality, Morgan was a beard, a true innocent, because like Laura she really thought a cruise was a cruise was a cruise. If they ever did get busted—a one-in-a-million shot, but still, the possibility had to be acknowledged, they all knew that the risks were worth the rewards—Morgan would be an inviolable backup to Laura’s claims that she, Laura, didn’t have a clue about what was going on.
They secure their vessel, both bow and stern tied firmly to the dock so the boat can’t bang against the pilings and make a $5,000 dent. Rusty and his helper work easily, efficiently. They’re the best in the business at what they do; Rusty’s been taking out charters for twenty years all up and down the Pacific Coast, he’s sailed as far north as the gulf of Juneau and halfway down the Chilean coast, not to mention countless trips to Hawaii, Tahiti, and points west and south.
In all those years, Rusty had never lost a boat, either to the elements or the authorities. His hang-loose surfer looks and attitude are only surface-deep; he’s conservative, cautious to a fault, which is the main reason (after months of exhaustive research) Frank hired him. That and the fact that Rusty will haul anything anywhere, if the price is right and the odds are stacked overwhelmingly in his favor, which this voyage, after a lot of careful planning, was.
Laura, having gone below while they tied up, now comes up onto the deck from the main cabin, her duffel bag slung over her shoulder, a T-shirt and plaid Big Dog bermudas pulled over her bathing suit.
“Do you have all your stuff?” Franks asks her. “You check through the lockers, bathroom, storage bins?”
“Yes, Frank,” she promises, soothing his anxiety, which she doesn’t understand. If she did forget something on the boat she could call
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