Inappropriate Pirates, Modern Love

"Wait. One quick question first."

"Yes, I'd still vote for you, even after this."

"That wan't my question, but good one." She continually impressed him. Even distracted, emotional, her wit was a force to be with reckoned with. "I keep wondering how the heck you ended up back here, in this house, in this particular humid bit of paradise. It seems pretty random."

"Not random at all. I had some of the happiness moments of my childhood here. I was looking for vacation rentals in the area, in a map view, and thar she blew." She finished with a shrug. Her knees flexed, preparing to vault over rail and leave ninja-style. He thought he could grow addicted to watching her body in motion, then brought his eyes up quickly when she looked back over her shoulder. "One last question for you, Cap'n."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Did you ask me that now as a distraction, to get my mind off of Mr. You Do What You Do? Never mind. Don't answer. See ya." Striped pirate pants went up and over a wrought iron manatee, below-the-knee fringe flapping. She twisted in the air, grabbed a long bird's neck in either hand and dropped out of sight, fearless as a ten-year old swinging from a mast top.

Not particularly hungry anymore, Rob chewed through a sandwich left flavorless by his regrets, worried. Who was he to get involved? Just because he was jealous of this coach-manager conman didn't mean he should butt in and ruin a budding professional, and possibly personal, relationship. JB hadn't burst into tears this time, but his prodding had brought out seething anger in the poor girl. And she had seemed so happy when she bounded onto his balcony, showing off her ridiculous - cute, flattering and sexy, but definitely ridiculous - outfit. Way to wreck a mood.

He concentrated on probably the hardest, but most mindless part of his repair project: hauling the heavy debris out of the house, down the stairs, and to the dumpster. Broken tile, old mortar and grout, and damp, moldy Sheetrock. Once, coming back up the stairs for another heavy load, he heard the dull metal on metal clank of an anger-fueled workout. He hoped JB didn't hurt herself. His attempts to avoid picturing her body sweating with the exertion, arm muscles cut with fine lines, perspiration striping down the space between small, firm breasts where her fingers had pressed transient white imprints in the sunburn, and the tantalizing effect on her backside of deep, slow squats failed miserably.

At least this work was exhausting and he fell asleep early, probably catching up after he'd compounded a restless, thought-haunted night with the long drive down here.

Morning found him still kicking himself for his interference. A bitter laugh escaped him: once the dust settled and retrospect kicked in, he would be willing to bet his 'crew' would not be so quick to reelect him captain.

He dug into the plumbing. The leak wasn't bad at all, but now that the pipes were exposed, he could see a series of half-assed, amateur repairs and 'improvements' that had been done over the decades. The best way to proceed, as he'd learned from a wise and wizened old man with an almost mystical understanding of things mechanical, was to work backwards at first, removing any previous idiocy, and start again with a clean slate.

At least everything was concentrated under the sink and behind the toilet. The bathtub and shower were solid and wouldn't need any work. Same with the floor. The tub would likely have required opening an exterior wall and hiring help.

"Hey."

He jumped, simultaneously dropping a pipe wrench and hitting his head on the edge of the sink above him.

"Oh shit. Sorry." Bare arms, slick with sweat, were around him. More sweat met the side of his dusty, dirty face as it was pressed against JB's chest. "I'm so sorry. You didn't hear my 'ahoy' so I let myself in."

"I'm okay. I've got a thick skull." He eased down to sit on the floor, one hand going to the back of his head. No bump, but one spot was definitely tender. "Ahoy to you too."

JB squatted near the bath doorway, concern in her eyes but unable to hide a slight smile. He couldn't help noticing the sweat-soaked grey jog bra and tight little black yoga shorts that clung to her. Her hair was tied back, tucked through opening in the back of a simple ball cap. God. She was glorious, angelic, and he couldn't blame the bang on his head for the vision.

"Let me help you up." She stood, offering him both hands. "Easy now. Go slow."

No spinning or lightheadedness, that was good. The effortless strength as she hauled him up was impressive. JB was definitely an athlete, as if he needed more proof.

"Come on, over to the couch with you." She had an arm cinched around his waist, her head tucked under his armpit to support him. He didn't object and let himself be guided to the living room.

"Wait. I'm filthy." It was his first resistance to her care.

"Yes you are, you dirty, dirty man. Hold on while I get a towel. Can you stand on your own?"

"I think so. We'll find out." He felt fine, but her almost coddling attention felt way too good.

She was back with a large beach towel almost before he finished, spreading it over half the small couch.

"Turn. Face me. That's it. And now we lower you down. Easy does it." Her voice was calm, low, comforting.

"My Florence Nightingale."

My Captain." She responded as she slipped onto the cushion beside him. "Is your head okay to lean against me?"

His answer was to let her adjust their position, easing his head against her, half-cradled in her strong arms. A hand stroked through his hair, silkier hair smoothed over one cheek as her sweet sweat-mingled scent filled his nose. She was his angel and this felt like heaven. Maybe he was concussed, a little delirious. He wouldn't have had it any other way.

Eyes closed, he felt a slight tension in her embrace before she broke the silence. "Is it okay if I talk?"

"Absolutely." His voice sounded muffled to his own ears. His eyes shot open as he realized that his lips brushed against her neck as he answered. If she noticed, or minded, her hand didn't stop stroking his head. If anything, she pulled him a little bit closer.

"You were right."

"Hmm?" He didn't want to risk actual words, another almost-kiss on her slim neck, that might spoil things.

"Not only is Mr. Stay In Your Own Lane a project that would do Mom proud, he's a putz. No. Worse. A lying, cheating liar."

She actually growled. It seemed fitting, coming from this sleek jungle-cat of a girl.

"I called my friend, the contact that got us - got me, damn it - in with this big time potential sponsor I mentioned. The Vice President that Dipshit is supposedly meeting today is skiing in the Alps this week. Who the fuck skis anymore?"

"Hey." For the sake of his head, he didn't yell. Instead, he managed to slobber wetly on her neck. Her arm cinched tight again, halting his embarrassed attempt to sit up. "Sorry."

"It's okay. I've known you were a drooler for a long time." It was good to hear her laugh.

She went on. One finger was now twirling small circles at the back of his neck, playing with a stray curl there. He had planned to get a haircut before the Vermont trip but had been putting it off.

"So I confronted Rusty and he went full-on 'how dare you' on me. How dare you check up on me. How dare you spy on me. He actually said I was spying on him. I realized how many times he had puffed up like that, going on the attack, and I would switch to peacemaker-role, just like Mom would, smoothing things over."

With his head in its position he felt a slight flutter in her chest, like sob held back.

Her voice hardened. "But not this time. He deflated like a leaky ballon when I didn't back down. It was almost funny if it wan't so damn predictable. Just. Like. Mom."

"Hey." This time he pushed himself back, creating space between them. So he could look into those beautiful sad, hurt eyes. And so he didn't brush against her neck again. Did he want to kiss at her there, even under the ruse of talking? Without a doubt. But he didn't want to take advantage of her distress. He couldn't. She deserved so much better.

"That's enough of that. No more beating yourself up with unfair comparisons. One thing I know for absolute certain: you are like no one else on earth. Truly special, one of a kind. You always have been. I mean that."

A single solitary tear welled up, spilled over, tracked down over one cheekbone then down, to stop, hanging at her jawline. He raised a hand, gently smoothed it away with one finger. She leaned into his palm, her lips mouthing a silent "Thank you."

He could almost hear the tightness in her throat without the need for sound.

Her head nuzzled harder into his open hand before she pushed herself up in a smooth, graceful motion. Once again the jungle-cat.

"What now?" He eased himself up, following her lead.

"Careful."

"I'm fine. No mere porcelain sink is going to break this thick skull."

She drew a deep breath, considering. "When I didn't back down, my former manager took off in the rental car. Not another peep out him."

"Former manager?"

"I called a lawyer I know. It sounds like breach of contract will work, but one way or another, he ain't my manager or anything else anymore."

"Good for you."

"I think so. But for now, I think a nice long walk on the beach and maybe a dip in the ocean is in order. I need to work through some things."

"Want company?"

She considered it. "You are the only person I would even consider being around right now, but no, I need to do this alone."

She bit down, strong, straight upper teeth indenting her lower lip. "I will take a hug though."

Arms slipped around his neck. "And an inappropriate sniff."

Another nuzzle, this one with her nose and face buried under his ear. The sensation was growing more familiar.

He let his hand stroke over her back as her sweaty body stayed close to his. "Speaking of inappropriate," he started.

"Yes?" There was no missing her damp lips on him now.

"I have to tell you," his hand traced a circle through the slick sweat coating her lower back. "You have the smoothest, softest skin I have ever felt."

She leaned back with her shoulders and head to look at him. It pressed their lower bodies closer. "Wanna touch it?"

Another slick circle. "I am."

"Wanna touch...more of it?" Her hips moved against him. Bright eyes studied his, restless, unsure.

"Way too much." He couldn't lie under that gaze.

She was suddenly close, her kiss firm, insistent. His lips parted in surprise and a soft tongue slipped in, finding his own. His response was automatic, immediate, the arm around her waist pulling her tight.

Then hands were on his chest, separating them. He tumbled back onto the couch, breathless.

"Sorry. Sorry. That was really not appropriate. I need to work on my own shit and you...you've got a ski bunny cutie to..."

"She's not..."

"Hush!" A finger T'ed her lips to emphasize her command.

"I'm going to take that long walk, work on some me shit. You - assuming there's no internal bleeding from that head wound I'm beginning to think you've been exaggerating in order to drool on me - get to work on you shit. And by that I mean the bathroom."

He nodded assent. "Can I...will I see you later?"

"I sure hope so." She kissed her thumb, leaned forward enough to press the damp pad to his forehead. "Until later, my Cap'n."

Back at the wheel of his work truck, Rob's thoughts went over the past few days, unable to focus on any one aspect for long, with the exception of seeing JB later. Whenever that was. This afternoon's simple trip to pick up backer board, tile and grout was taking forever. The tile he was matching was popular and standard and should have been in stock at the local box store. But no. After two dead ends, he was now on what he hoped would be his final stop: a tile specialty shop over an hour away.

It was dark when he got back. No rental car in the driveway. All the lights were off downstairs.

He hauled the heavy water-resistant 'green' board up the stairs. These had to go up before any tiles on the wall, replacing the inadequate regular gypsum drywall the previous amateur installer had used. His back and legs informed him that the tiles, mortar and grout could wait until tomorrow.

Tired, but still restless and nervous, he decided to start hanging the backing. It would keep him doing something other than looking outside every few minutes for lights and the car. It would also make enough noise that anyone downstairs would hear it. When JB showed up, she'd know exactly where he was.

He finally went to bed late, worried and wondering. Maybe she really regretted that spontaneous kiss, didn't want to face him and explain what was probably just an 'on the rebound' impulsiveness that would never be repeated.

At dawn he was up, looking down the stairs. No car. He forced himself to brew coffee and drink a mugful at an excruciatingly slow pace before he was knocking on their door. Nothing. He knocked again, louder. Then pounded.

The shades were drawn; he couldn't see anything inside. He thought about calling the property manager. And ask them what? They wouldn't be open for almost an hour anyhow. When knocking once more didn't work, he fished out his keys.

"Hello! Hello! Landlord! Anyone home?" He yelled through the door after opening it only a crack. He pushed the door wider.

Nothing. Freshly, crisply vacuumed carpet with no footprints at all.

"Hello! Landlord!" The kitchen was immaculate. He took a deep breath before heading for the master bedroom. "Hello?"

Nothing. No luggage, shoes, any sign occupancy. Same with the second bedroom and bath.

Okay. She had regretted the kiss and probably everything else. Probably made up with the manager and concluded he'd put doubts in her head out of stupid, selfish jealousy for woman eight years younger, gorgeous, and on the verge of stardom. Out of his league. Would she be wrong?

About making up with the manager, likely yes, but maybe the 'insights' he'd offered would help keep her eyes open if he really was a bad egg.

About his jealousy over a beauty barely knew who happened to make every box on his fantasy list, if he actually had such a thing, obsolete? He couldn't say she'd be wrong on that.

But still, he'd felt a real connection. Not just the kiss. Humor, tears, easy camaraderie that was not common in his experience, what felt like the beginnings real intimacy. And she was just gone. What he had left was a single cold strand of blond silk on a silver tray.

Mid-morning, more mopey than he had felt in years, he took a break from the repairs and called the his property manager.

Yes, the tenant had stopped in yesterday, dropped off the keys, had to leave early. He came back late in the afternoon to pick up his deposit after the unit was cleaned and inspected. She had sent over the cleaning crew immediately, hoped to rent it back out for at least two nights over New Years Eve and Day, charging a high premium price.

"You said 'he.' Just the one tenant?"

"That's all I saw, and the only name we had. Russell Farnham. But now that you ask, a woman called in when the cleaners got there. She said she'd paid for the week and didn't know anything about moving out. I said Farnham is the only name we had and he'd already checked out and collected the security deposit.

"The cleaner said she was more than a little pissed at the guy and I can't blame her. Not the first time I've seen someone ditched in a vacation rental. The guys helped take her stuff outside and she left in a cab."

Fucking Mr. I Do What I Do.

Rob thanked the agent, and almost hung up before changing his mind. "Oh yeah, the real reason I called: about the leak. My fault, but the ceiling of the downstairs unit has some water damage. You haven't rented it back out have you?"

"It just posted maybe an hour ago, so no. Not yet."

"Pull the listing please. Sorry to miss the extra money, getting paid twice for the same holiday, but the sooner I get repairs done, the sooner I can head home. I'll let you know when I'm done."

The water damage was a lie, but he had zero desire to be around anyone right now, even if they were just new, different voices downstairs. And this way he could use the pool and get stoned as often as he wanted with no one around. That sounded good right now.

"And one more thing. If the woman happens to call back, give her my number. It turns out she...was a friend of my mother's."

That wasn't a lie, really. Funny, but until the agent mentioned it, he'd forgotten entirely about New Year's being tomorrow night.

The tile went up without a hitch. It was actually nice to have no one around when he set up the noisy, dusty tile saw. He was thankful to have work to concentrate on. Work that required his attention and kept him busy, accomplishing something with his hands. Tomorrow, he could grout all. And then it was just waiting for it to dry followed by cleanup.

Done for the day, he rolled another joint, picked up the lighter, set it back down. Something had been bothering him, under his skin, even though he hadn't looked at it straight on.

Jennifer. She was beautiful - true - and easy enough to talk to, but the main idea behind their trip had been the sex. Getting her away from prying ears to see if that would make for better sex. It sounded pretty shallow put that way.

It felt profoundly empty now, like their last call, focused on the weather. At least compared to the instant rapport he had had with JB. Even ignoring the physical electricity, he cared, her pain had hurt him, he'd felt giddy and silly and connected and somehow whole. Even if he never saw her again - and that hurt to even contemplate - she had opened him to the possibility that there was something much bigger, much more real out there than just checking boxes off. Something worth striving for.

He called Jennifer. After all, it was the new year, a time for clean, fresh starts. She didn't sound surprised. He told her he'd met someone from his past, felt something that he'd always regret not pursing further. They'd been in Florida on vacation, gone now, but that he needed to see if there was anything there.

"You? Felt something?"

They'd both laughed. "I know, talking about feelings is not my strong suit."

"Tell me you at least got her number?"

"Actually, no."

Another laugh. "Too bad."

"I know. But typical, huh?"

"Let's just say I'm not surprised. My recollection is I had to text you. Thanks for being honest though, Rob, and telling me. Not going through the motions with me, dragging things out."

"Of course. I wouldn't do that."

"A lot of guys would. You're a good guy, Rob, decent. I hope this, or something else, works for you."

He felt lighter. Miserable and sorry for himself, but better than before.

This time he was not interrupted and smoked almost the entire joint on his balcony, alone. He looked down at the pool and the empty chaise lounge. Then he did something he hadn't done in years, and never when his mother, or another adult, was around.

He pulled the heavy table out from the corner of the balcony, pushed it up against railing. Hopping onto its surface, he paused, then stepped lightly up onto the top of the rail itself. A hand on the side wall kept him balanced.

The concrete deck below him looked frighteningly distant. It was probably close to 15 feet down, but spanned no more than six feet before it ended at the deepest part of the pool. The imaginative side of the pot he'd smoked had given him this inspiration. Now the paranoid side kicked in, saying that span was at least eight feet, maybe ten.

All this somewhat intoxicated reconsideration ended up doing for him was a final check of his pockets. His wallet was on the kitchen counter, but he fished out his phone and dropped it on the table by the lighter. He changed his mind, tugged off shirt, shorts, boxers.