Where the Stars Still Shine(19)

He extends a hand. “I’m Alex.”

Without telling him I already know his name, I let him pull me to my feet. “I’m Callie.”

As we walk to his boat, we’re close enough that I can feel the sleeve of his T-shirt graze the bare skin of my arm, sending a flurry of shivers down my spine. He climbs aboard first.

“Pretty dress,” he says, as he helps me up and over the side. “What’s the occasion?”

“I am.”

His laugh is warm and slightly wicked. It should scare me, but it doesn’t. Well, maybe a little, but I don’t care. “Yes, you are.”

“I mean, a homecoming party. For me.” I watch his face for signs of recognition—for him to connect the dots between me and the Kidnapped Girl—but they don’t seem to appear.

“Where were you?” he asks.

“Everywhere.”

“And you came back here?” Alex shakes his head. “Well, welcome home anyway.”

The boat stinks. Literally. As if I’ve walked into a bathroom after someone forgot to flush. I fan my hand in front of my nose, and he laughs again.

“It’s the sponges,” he explains, flipping the latch on a small door in the cockpit of the boat. “Until they’re finished decomposing, they secrete this foul-smelling shit called gurry.”

“How long does that take?”

He opens the door and steps down into a small cabin that reminds me of the Airstream, beckoning me to follow. “Three, sometimes four days.”

“How can you stand it?”

Alex shrugs. “I don’t really notice it much.”

He reaches into a small refrigerator for a couple bottles of beer, twists off the tops, and hands me one. We stand there for a moment, and we’re both looking at each other as if neither of us can stop. And this inexplicable thing between us hangs the way humidity hangs in the air, heavy and thick.

Finally, he takes a long drink of his beer, his eyes still on mine.

“I need a shower,” he says. “Do you mind?”

“Yes. I mean, no,” I say, my face growing warm as he grins at my stammering. “No, I don’t mind.”

He takes his beer with him into the bathroom and less than a minute later I hear the shower running. I look around the cabin while I wait. The berth opposite me is made up for sleeping with blue-striped sheets and a navy comforter. On the floor, the zipper-edged mouth of a duffel bag gapes open, exposing a jumble of T-shirts, shorts, and plaid boxer shorts. An open box of brown-sugar Pop-Tarts sits on the counter. And beside me, the sink is filled with books—Burroughs, Kerouac, Bukowski, Hemingway, Thoreau, and a bunch of brightly colored Carl Hiaasen paperback mysteries—which makes me smile.

I’m paging through a Hiaasen when Alex comes out of the bathroom. His curls are wet and I watch a drop of water fall onto his bare chest and slide south until it disappears into the waistband of his shorts.

“My library,” he says, and I remember I’m holding a book.

It takes him only a couple of steps to reach me. His mouth touches mine and Stormy Weather crashes to the cabin floor, my arms sliding up around his neck. I twine my fingers in his hair as he catches the back of my dress in his fists. Kissing him holds the same sweet relief as inhaling after holding a breath too long. I lose track of how long we stand there, our bodies pressed together. You could tell me that the sun went down and rose again the next day, and I would believe it.

Alex’s mouth pulls away from mine and wanders down my neck to my collarbone. Heat pools between my thighs and my nerve endings explode in tiny fireworks as his lips brush my skin. His grip on my dress loosens, but only to lift it up over my head. His shorts come off. My bra. His boxers. My underwear. He eases me onto the striped sheets, as cool against my back as his skin is warm against the front of me.

His hand skims down between my legs, and reality gets wrapped around memory. I feel Frank’s sour breath against my face and Frank’s rough fingers probing where they don’t belong. I grab his wrist. “Don’t.”

“What did I do wrong?” The voice in my ear isn’t Frank. It’s Alex.

“Just—don’t. Please.”

Confusion flickers in his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything. He moves his hand away, cupping my face and kissing me until the memories melt away. Kissing me until I want him again. It doesn’t take long.

“Do you have protection?” Not sure why I’m whispering.

“Oh, shit. Yes. Hang on.” Alex scrambles off me and rummages through his duffel, swearing, apologizing, scattering half the contents, and his butt is so white compared with the tan of his skin it makes me laugh. “Found one.” He holds up the foil packet. “You know, in my head this goes much smoother.”

“You’ve thought about this?”

“I’ve been in a boat in the Gulf of Mexico for five days with another dude.” He returns to the bed. “I’ve thought about this a lot.”

“With me?”

“Yes. With you.”

Sex is so different with Alex. On a purely physical level, there’s more kissing and less grunting, more touching and less groping. And when it’s over I feel as if I’m shining bright enough to light a room.

“I should probably go.” Right now I don’t feel like I’m trash waiting to be discarded, but I want to leave instead of being asked to go.