Sleeping Tigers by Holly Robinson Page B

My brother dropped out of college during the last semester of his senior year without explanation. After that, he stumbled through odd jobs whenever he wasn’t traveling. His few postcards to me were limited to quotes from philosophers, literary figures, and musicians, conveying little about his life other than geographical locations: Wyoming, Oregon, India, Thailand, Bali, and, finally, California. The last post card he’d sent was postmarked on my birthday and showed San Francisco’s skyline at night, with the Trans Am building lit up like that Egyptian hotel in Las Vegas.
    “Yo!” Another sand cocoon sat up suddenly and faced me over Cam’s inert body, studying my face closely. “Jordan?”
    “Yes.”
    “You look just like your brother. And I mean that strictly as a compliment. Cam’s one of the beautiful people.”
    “Are you one of his roommates?”
    “I own the house.” The man nodded, his arms still wrapped in his blanket. “I’m Shepherd Jon.”
    I laughed. “And these would be what, your sheep?” I gestured around the beach, where I counted three other blanketed cocoons besides Cam’s.
    Jon gave me a tolerant look. “Housemates of like mind and spirit. I rent out rooms to a chosen few. The house used to belong to my parents, but now it’s mine.”
    Something about this man made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. He was being civil. Even friendly. Yet, I didn’t trust him. “This lie-in was your idea?” I asked.
    “Sure.” Shepherd Jon grinned. “And not a bad one, was it? You looked like you weren’t hurting any. Snoring away.”
    I was snoring? Well. So very gallant of the good Shepherd to tell me. The man might as well have pointed out the drool on my chin, too, which I now hastily wiped away with one hand.
    “I needed a nap. Jet lag.” My voice sounded cranky. Elderly.
    “It’s the negative ions in the air that does it.”
    “Does what?”
    Jon shrugged. “Whatever you need.” He stood up, dropping the blanket in a heap on the sand.
    Jon began walking around the beach, tapping the others on their shoulders. He had a swimmer’s build and a rock star’s swagger. His blonde hair was caught at the nape with a piece of rawhide and snaked over one shoulder in a thick ponytail. He wore ordinary clothes–a gray t-shirt and blue jeans–but, on him, the clothes looked alive, electric as an animal’s fur coat. His eyes were the same green as the glassy sea.
    Shepherd Jon was in his early thirties, judging from the lines on his face, but he was so tightly wound, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he walked across the sand, that he appeared much younger. Must be all those negative ions. Either that, or no mortgage. He was free and clear. Probably scrounged a good living from boarding his flock of sheep, including my brother.
    “Coming?” Jon touched Cam’s shoulder, but he was looking at me.
    Cam sat up and let the blanket fall to his waist. “Absolutely.”
    “Where to?” I stood up and shook out my blanket.
    Cam scrambled to his feet and looked at Shepherd Jon. “We really gonna make this thing happen, Bro, or what?”
    “You bet your ass.” Shepherd Jon grinned and unzipped his jeans. Within seconds, he was undressed and so was Cam. The two women did the same, as did the fifth member of the Lie-In party, a chubby man.
    Now I was surrounded by naked, shivering people. I kept my eyes averted from my brother, who I hadn’t seen naked since we bathed together as children. Jon did a few stretches, standing on one leg like a heron, still watching me. Probably waiting for a reaction. He was like that kid in my fourth grade class last year who liked to set fire to trash cans: any attention was better than none.
    “Coming for a swim?” Jon challenged me.
    I laughed. “Are you nuts? That water’s about 50 degrees!”
    “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
    “Oh, I think I do. Cam and I used to go swimming in Maine.”
    I was having trouble not looking at his penis,