The Closer You Get by Carter Ashby

them,” Rye said.
    Cora felt her breath leave her in a whoosh. He was looking after her. A real protector. “Um. Thanks. I’m actually going home.”
    “Me, too,” Lyssa said.
    “All right,” Adam said. “We’ll stay until you’re on your way. Okay?”
    Cora and Lyssa paid for their drinks. They left the bar and split apart to go to their cars. Cora felt a presence behind her, but she knew it was Rye. She unlocked her car and turned to face him. “Thank you,” she said before he could say anything.
    He shrugged. “You wanna come fishing with us?” If only the man would exhibit some emotion, she might be able to tell what he was after.
    “Um. Thanks. But I’m going to head home.”
    “Okay,” he said like he didn’t care one way or another.  
    “All right.” She turned back to her car.
    “I’m not asking you out,” he said. “It’s just, I gotta keep an eye on Cash, and if you wanted to come, then, I wouldn’t feel like such a third wheel.”
    She turned to face him again. She felt a little sick and a little excited. The thought of being near him in the dark on the riverbank sent her heart racing. But she reminded herself that there was professionalism to keep in mind. Not to mention that he’d gone off with another woman earlier this evening. “Did you have fun with Erica?” she asked. She did her best not to sound spiteful or jealous. She only wanted to remind him of who she was and who he was.
    He let out a bitter laugh and moved back a step. “Fun? Yeah, I had fun with her.”
    “Maybe she’ll go fishing with you, then.”
    His expression sobered. The moon was doing crazy things with his eyes. “Yeah. Maybe she will. Thanks, boss,” he said. He turned and strode back to the bar.  
    Cora swallowed down the inexplicable pain and disappointment, drove home, and went straight to bed.

    Cash loved fishing. It was peaceful. It forced you to exert calm and patience. And the reward, should you get lucky enough to snag a fish, was incredible—a surge of adrenaline, usually followed by disappointment when you saw the fish wasn’t nearly as big as you’d hoped. But occasionally followed by vast amounts of pride and satisfaction, as well as a big dinner. The entire experience could be a metaphor for life.
    Of course, that was when your fishing partner wasn’t as fidgety as a five-year-old, and the quiet of the night wasn’t punctured by the harsh laughs and squeals of your brother’s date. Not Erica. Some other woman. They were back in the truck doing God only knew what.
    “I think something ate my bait,” Adam said, for the tenth time.
    “Nothing ate your bait.”
    “I think it did because I felt a tug a minute ago, and I wasn’t sure that it was a bite, but then nothing happened…I’m gonna check.”
    Cash rolled his eyes and looked heavenward. God help us, he thought.
    Somewhere behind them, from in the pickup truck, came a sharp scream followed by Rye’s laughter. The woman cursed him out.  
    “Jesus,” Cash muttered.
    “There, see? Bait…gone. Here.” Adam swung his hook over to Cash.  
    Cash dug in the styrofoam cup of dirt and worms for another worm. “Mr. Fancy Pants can’t bait his own hook. Seriously, man.”
    “It’s disgusting. And I told you I haven’t done this since I was a kid.”
    “Obviously. Now if something tugs on your line, give it a jerk and reel it in.”
    “I’ll try.”
    Before he could cast out again, the woman came streaking out of the truck in her underwear. She splashed into the river, with Rye in his boxers on her heels. He tackled her and took her under. Cash sighed and reeled his line in. It started raining underwear as the woman flung first her bra, then her panties, then Rye’s boxers onto the gravel bar around them. “Are you going to do this in front of us?” Cash shouted.  
    They were a few yards into the river, the water up to Rye’s navel. “Unless you leave,” he answered and then hefted the woman up on his hips. She