8
WES DIDN’T KNOW HOW MANY hours he stayed away from the cabin. Two? Three? It didn’t matter.
All he knew was that every time he found himself stopping to take stock of what’d just happened with Erin, realization crystallized his brain.
The ocean, he kept thinking, staring out at the black depths. It was his life. And he was this damned ship, floating and drifting even when it was anchored.
Erin might as well have told him that he was just an object to her-a plaything that existed only to amuse. And, truth be told, the old Wes would’ve been more than happy to oblige. But, just this once, he’d allowed himself to think he could be meaningful, and it’d backfired in his face.
So why try with her again? Why not just go back to what he was comfortable with? Life had been good to him this far, so why was he pining for something else that could turn out to hurt him much more in the long run?
He finally went inside, making his way to the ninth-deck casino. Going back to the cabin would only be an exercise in futility, and who the hell needed more “curses,” character assassination and cock-blocking?
As he entered the gaming area, complete with slot machines and blackjack tables, he told himself he was happy to be back to normal.
Whatever normal
He watched all the silk-and-satin people laughing at a roulette table, women in pearls hanging over men with loosened ties and slicked-back hair. Music from the disco next door pounded through the area-something hard, something that was bound to make females writhe on the dance floor with sinuous invitation. Maybe he should go over there.
But when he spied three women near the roulette wheel giving him the eye, Wes hesitated. Two brunettes and one blonde.
Blonde. Short, sassy hair, just like Erin’s style…
Wes turned away from them. Deciding to get a drink, he ambled to the bar and ordered a whiskey straight up. While he waited for it to arrive, he surveyed the lively room some more, avoiding the trio of lustful temptation because he didn’t want to be reminded of what awaited him back in the cabin.
Or what didn’t await him.
Ding-ding-ding, went the machines. Hooray, went the people at one blackjack table as a dealer busted.
All the sounds and sights melded into a gray blur. Even his whiskey, when it was served, tasted dull.
Where had his capacity for pleasure gone? And why couldn’t he stop himself from wanting to just go back to his room to be near her?
Down the bar a few seats, Wes became aware of a pickup in progress. As he absently sipped his drink, he saw that an older man was lounging on a stool, ice rattling in his cocktail glass as he talked to two women who had to be in their twenties. The girls were glamorous in that way women were when they looked at a fashion magazine and dressed the way it told them to for a night on the town: big hair, glitter on their smooth skin, skimpy halter dresses with short skirts. The man, though, was a different story: pewter hair, bourbon-heavy gaze, his collar opened enough to show a tanned, gray-hair-sprinkled chest.
Wes negligently listened in on the conversation, having nothing better to do.
“…was in Hawaii on a layover when I met two women, just as pretty as you, in the hotel bar,” the man said. “The big island is full of beautiful girls. Is that where you’re both from?” His voice was slightly slurred, but friendly.
One of the girls, a redhead, who looked like the ringleader, answered. “We’re from Chula Vista, near San Diego,” she said, tone halfway to disinterested.
But the guy wasn’t gauging that. He also wasn’t catching the glance the women shared as he continued his story. It was a glance that predicted their escape from the barfly, a glance that made Wes feel sorry for the older man. Wes wanted to tell him to turn back to his drink and stop making a play for this prey; he was embarrassed for him.
“Yeah,” he said, “I was a pilot for years. Traveled a lot of places…”
The girls nodded, trading another loaded look.
“Oh!” the redhead interrupted, looking toward the casino’s exit. “I see Debbie!” She turned to the man. “Our friend’s outside waiting for us.”
The pilot stopped talking, finally getting it.
“It was nice talking to you,” said the quieter girl.
“Yes, nice meeting you,” said the redhead as she linked arms with her friend on the way out. “Have fun tonight.”
The older man didn’t even have time to respond before the duo darted away. As they left, they giggled to each other, loudly enough for the pilot to hear.
Mortified now, Wes waited a few moments, scanning the room again and pretending to be so absorbed in the activity that he hadn’t heard the exchange next to him. When he finally chanced a look at the pilot, the older man snagged his gaze.
Wes’s world seemed to web into cracks. In the pieces, he saw himself in the other guy-Wes Ryan in twenty-five years, wrung out, an object of scorn for all the single girls he’d still be trying to hit on.
Slowly, the pilot turned toward the bar, hunching over his drink.
Shaken, Wes quietly ordered another round for the man, paid for it and left.
The walk back to the room was like a trip through a silent maze. Or maybe that’s just how it felt, because frat boys wove down the corridors and parties spilled from open doors. But Wes didn’t absorb any of it.
When he finally got to his cabin, he unlocked the door, slipping inside the darkness and standing there until his eyesight adjusted. Erin lay in bed sleeping, one arm sprawled over his pillow, her face angled toward the half- curtained window.
After stripping and putting on a pair of pajama bottoms, he slipped into bed, covering himself with the sheet. Tenderly, he took Erin’s hand from his pillow, holding it to his chest as he faced her.
He wished she’d just open her eyes, as he already had, and really see him.
But she never did.
9
ERIN AWOKE TO THE SOFT morning sun peeking through a slit of curtain. The light had the quality of dawn to it: weak but promising.
She blinked, suddenly aware that she wasn’t alone in bed. Turning her head to the side, she felt her body tighten at the view of Wes, one muscled, dusky arm sprawled above his head in slumber. His hair was tufted over the pillow in lazy disarray, a shadow stubbling his jawline. The bed sheets had bunched down to just barely cover his belly; a trail of hair hinted at what the sheet covered.
Erin ached to slide her hand under the linen and explore him. She could almost feel his length in her hand, could imagine coaxing an erection with long, sultry, persuasive strokes.
Clit stiffening, she touched herself instead, slipping her fingers beneath the sheet, between her legs, into the crease of her sex. She pressed where it pained her, then rubbed until she grew damp. Burying her face in the crook of her arm, she quietly fantasized that it was Wes stimulating her…
But it wasn’t.
She lost momentum and, in pure frustration, stopped altogether, disgusted with all her hang-ups.
Damned jinx. It wasn’t even letting her have sex with herself.
Disgruntled, she stealthily got out of bed, careful not to disturb Wes as she stepped into the shower. She made
