Moored Heart (Catalina Dreams Book 1) Page 2

  Jason messed around on his phone, catching up with his friends back in LA via Facebook, and then finally got to his feet, stretching for a moment before he drained the rest of his coffee.

  It was nearly ten. If he went to the store and returned to the boat right away, he could start writing at about 11:30. Except he’d want lunch at noon or a little later, and he wouldn’t really get much writing done in that little window of time before lunch. He’d eat noon and get started writing at one. That was a solid plan, he thought.

  Jason walked behind Crescent Avenue to the grocery store where the locals shopped. He kicked himself for not taking his golf cart after all, and ended up lugging four heavy bags all the way back to the dock, pushing through the tourists and dodging pedi-cabs, carts, and the occasional real car. He made himself a pasta salad with fresh crab for lunch, and thought it came out pretty nicely. Then he realized his kitchenette could really use a scrub down and that kept him busy for a while. After that, his leg felt stiff, so he went for a swim.

  It was four o’clock before Jason sat down at his laptop to write in his little office corner in the stateroom on the lower deck. He had an advance. He had a contract. He also had a mountain of research. But most of his material was in his own head. He was supposed to write about his experience as a beat cop turned detective. He’d written a couple pieces for The Atlantic after achieving just a little of notoriety out of sheer dumb luck, and it had brought him an opportunity that came around just when he’d wanted to quit the force as his marriage was breaking up. He had peace and quiet and he had a functioning computer and a brain.

  The page remained blank.

  2

  Charlie

  Charlie Benton tossed his empty boba cup in a bin and tripped on the sidewalk. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he righted himself, quickly dodging a family pushing two strollers as they barreled down Crescent Avenue. He smiled at them, even giving a brief salute. They were tourists. Eventually they would get to the shop, he was sure. He was always careful to be polite, helpful, and friendly to tourists in public because sometimes people remembered you.

  He hunched a little as he walked. He had been six foot two since the tenth grade and he never felt quite comfortable in his height. Back then, he was skinny too, a lanky mess with his head down. Now he was much broader. He was lean but not thin. Still, he always found himself self-consciously hunching. His mother had given up correcting it.

  Charlie kept an eye out for Andy as he trotted back to the shop just a couple blocks down. He wondered if Andy had come across the yacht guy yet. Andy always met everyone first.

  The conversation with Jason—Jason the hunk, Jason the wet dream—would crackle in his head all day. He couldn’t wait to talk to Andy about it. But it was nearly eleven already, and his mother needed him at the shop. He quickened his pace.

  Around five thousand people lived on the island and Charlie knew almost everyone, having grown up there. He knew all the shortcuts to the other side of the island. He’d spent a chunk of high school getting high up in the hills and watching the bison run, camping there under the stars. He knew when the fish market had the freshest fish. He knew the best spots for snorkeling and scuba diving and never told tourists because they would ruin it. He knew three people who would take him to the mainland for five bucks whenever he asked. He also knew every guy in town with any proclivity for other men. He’d slept with a couple of them. Charlie knew every inch of Catalina. New people who weren’t just tourists were always thrilling.

  Jason was especially thrilling.

  Charlie tripped up the sidewalk to his mother’s shop just as his junior year chemistry teacher, Mr. Takeshi, tossed him a friendly wave while cruising by in a golf cart. Charlie waved back and smiled.

  Porpoise Pot was as touristy as a trap could get. They sold anything made of seashells, beachy knick knacks, and things more specifically themed to Catalina, some books, stuff his mother made, T-shirts, and lots of things that Charlie found totally unnecessary in life.

  “Hey, mom!” Charlie hollered, his voice breaking the muted ambiance of the place as the bells above the door jingled. Enya was playing, and he winced. His mother thought tourists liked Enya. “Have you seen Captain America?”

  The store was small. “Cozy,” his mother liked to call it. All their merch was crowded onto glass and wooden shelves from floor to nearly the ceiling and Charlie had learned to dance his lurching, broad-shouldered frame around everything. He sidled up to the counter where his mother sat on a stool, reading a romance novel.

  She looked up and blinked at him. “Sure, I’ve seen Captain America, sweetie. We watched it together. You wouldn’t—”

  “No, no, I mean—”

  “Shut up about it,” she went on. “All that fuss over the poor boy with a metal arm—”

  “Mom—”

  “I think you’re right, by the way. Steve and Bucky should have been a couple—”

  “I’m not talking about the actual Captain America.”

  “Oh.”

  “There’s a new guy in town,” Charlie said slyly, leaning on his arms. “Lives on a yacht? I almost passed out when I saw him. I mean, he looks like if Captain America retired once he hit middle-age and got soft and comfy. Started wearing sweaters. But still, like... Gah.”

  “Lives on a yacht?” his mother said, narrowing her eyes. “How old is he? Young people don’t live on yachts.”

  “Sure they do, if they’re rich. And he was... I don’t know. Forty, probably.”

  “Sounds too old for you.” Charlie’s mother was Sandra. She had long, salt and pepper hair that she habitually wore in a braid. She was partial to tie-dye and faded jeans and dangly, beaded earrings. She crocheted and knitted and sold blankets in the shop for absurd amounts of money. But people bought them.

  “I’m thirty-two!” Charlie said, coming around behind the counter and leaning on the wall.

  “Oh, you’re not a real thirty-two,” his mother said, with a wave of her hand. “You’re a millennial thirty-two.”

  “I’m having an urge to needlepoint that on a pillow,” Charlie cracked.

  “I’m sure it would sell well.”

  “And what is this not-young man’s name?” his mother said, rising from her stool and placing her bookmark between the pages of her novel.

  “Jason,” Charlie said. “Didn’t get his last name. But he’s moved here. I’m sure I’ll see him around.”

  “And do you think he enjoys the attention of other gentlemen?” his mother said, lowering her voice. She batted her eyes.

  “How come whenever you talk about me and guys, you turn into Mae West?”

  “I am being supportive.”

  “Alright, alright. No, I don’t know!” Charlie threw up his hands. “My gaydar sucks as always. I gotta see if Andy’s met him yet. Andy can always tell.”

  His mother smacked him on the shoulder. “For Christ’s sake, sweetie, don’t let Andy meet him first. He’ll snap him right up! That boy is all thirst.”

  He gawked at his mother. “I can’t believe you just used ‘thirst.’ And you used it correctly.”

  “I’m very adaptable, sweetie.”

  “I don’t even use thirst,” Charlie muttered. He wished he had more boba.

  Somebody cleared their throat, and Charlie and his mother finally noticed the customer waiting at their register. The tourist was a teenage girl, and she smiled at them, seemingly amused by the conversation. She held up a little box covered with seashells and a stuffed bison.

  “Those are two for one!” Charlie pointed at the bison.

  “Nice!” She skipped over to the shelf and he rang her up. His mother was humming, and she drifted through the beaded curtain behind him to the backroom that let out to a patio.

  His mother made the seashell boxes herself and spent half the day glue-gunning shells to whatever object would carry them. She made wind chimes out of driftwood, and knitted giant chunky throw blankets for which they could reasonably ch
arge an arm and a leg. Charlie handled the counter during the afternoons most days, gave bike tours around the island, and chartered their few small boats. There were a million places that gave tours on Catalina and most of them were more popular than the shop, but they all booked their slots quickly and Porpoise Pot made money on the overflow.

  Charlie spent the next couple hours handling customers, a rush of boat charterers appearing out of nowhere. He texted Andy and didn’t hear back. The Jason Incident was the most exciting thing to happen to Charlie in a while. It had been a eons since he’d gotten laid. He’d been thinking about taking Andy on a booty call trip to the mainland. It was that or start hitting on tourists. Locals were out. He knew everyone too well by now.

  Tourists could work if you got lucky, but they could be obnoxious in Charlie’s experience, so in love with the idea of banging an island boy. But a new local..?

  Jason was most likely straight. But he didn’t know for sure, and that meant he could live for a while in the sweet Schrödinger’s Box of sexuality. As long as Charlie didn’t know how Jason swung; he liked men.

  Around the time Charlie’s stomach started rumbling, Andy appeared with burgers from Buffalo, the best burger joint in town. He tossed Charlie a nod and, without needing to ask, spread the burgers out on the counter and pulled up a stool. Charlie had been listening to RadioLab playing from his phone because the store was slow. He tapped it off and pulled extra ketchup packets and napkins out from under the counter.

  “How goes it?” Andy said.

  “Same as always,” Charlie said, and unpacked his favored barbecue burger and onion rings. “No lettuce, right?”

  “Of course not,” Andy said. “Heaven forbid you eat warm lettuce.”

  “Warm lettuce is disgusting.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “So, have you seen him?” Charlie said, raising his eyebrows. “You get my text? Tall, thick as hell, blond—”

  “He wasn’t blond,” Andy said, a fry sticking out of his mouth.

  “Wait, maybe we’re not talking about the same person…”

  “No, we definitely are.” He chewed lazily on his fry. “His name is Jason, yeah?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Light brown hair, I would not call it blond.”

  “I would.” He took a big bite of his barbecue burger and waited until he could swallow before saying, “Dark blond. Sandy.”

  “Brown.”

  “We can agree to disagree.”

  “Why do people say that?” Andy scowled. He waved a fry around. “How can anyone agree to disagree? Don’t be afraid to disagree! It doesn’t even make sense!”

  “You are literally the most exhausting person I know.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Hello, Andy!” His mother came breezing back inside with a box of handmade trinkets. Andy stuck a French fry in her mouth as she walked by and giggled.

  “Hello, Sandra,” Andy said. “I got you a shake. Black and white like you like.”

  “Sweet boy!” She set down her box, came back to the counter, and he handed her the shake.

  “Don’t fall for it,” Charlie said. “She called you thirsty this morning.”

  “Ha!” Andy slapped his knee. “Well, she’s not wrong.”

  “Exactly!” Sandra smiled at him around her straw and went to shelving. “So, have you seen Mr. Captain America?”

  “Ooh!” Andy slapped Charlie’s shoulder. “He does look like him a little! Just older and a little grizzled. Yeah, I saw him. Hard to miss. Even in those awful shorts. You know what was a great era? The eighties. Guys everywhere wearing tiny, tiny shorts.”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said with a snort. “What a great era the eighties were for gay men.”

  “Okay, downer,” Andy muttered.

  “So, what’s the verdict?” Sandra said. “Gaydar?”

  “I think he’s straight,” Andy said, sounding regretful. “Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna fuck with him like he’s not.”

  “Shit,” Charlie said. “Well, it would figure.”

  “I’ve been wrong before,” Andy said. “So, you met him. What did you guys talk about?”

  “Ugh, it makes sense he’s straight anyway,” Charlie grumbled, poking at his fries. “I probably sensed it, that’s why I was so cool with him. I made him laugh and everything.” He smiled a little sadly at Andy. “Should’ve seen me, man. I was so charming. It would’ve blown your mind.”

  “I don’t like this negative tone!” Sandra piped up from the shelves. She pointed at Charlie. “You need to find a nice boy and settle down. You worry me.”

  “What’d I do?” Charlie said.

  “You worry her,” Andy said.

  “Why?” Charlie said, his voice pitching up.

  “I don’t want you to be lonely,” his mother said. “I think you should move to the mainland.”

  “Ugh.” Charlie shook his head. He exchanged a knowing look with Andy before digging into his burger.

  Charlie’s mother seemed eternally convinced that Charlie was unhappy and lonely living on the island. Sometimes things could get a little claustrophobic. But he rather liked selling seashell boxes and Andy bringing him lunch so they could gossip, surfing and reading on hidden beaches where the tourists never ventured, and going to bonfires with his old friends. He liked knowing that Mrs. Grayson always needed help grocery shopping. In summer he taught the kids how to snorkel and the next year he saw the same kids older and snorkeling expertly. He liked the hominess of the place, even with all its tourist trappings.

  But he didn’t say all that.

  He only quietly ate his burger after mumbling, “Don’t wanna live on the mainland.’

  3

  Jason

  Jason sat in front of his laptop and sighed. The page remained blank. It didn’t make sense to him. He’d done plenty of writing in the last year. Granted, he’d never written a book in his life, but he’d written a few long form pieces about his experiences as a homicide detective in Los Angeles in general, and about catching Flower Man. Now he couldn’t seem to type a word. He stared at that white screen and felt frozen, almost physically unable to move, much less type coherent sentences. Yet when he read through his notes and his outline, the stories he had to tell seemed well organized and compelling. He just... couldn’t.

  The sun was setting. Another wasted day. He’d moved out to Catalina to relax a little, but he’d also intended to write the book. It was his job now. Eventually the publisher would start asking about his progress.

  Jason rubbed his eyes just as his phone buzzed. A jolt of anxiety made him wonder if he’d just wished a phone call from his publisher into existence. But no, it was just Cal.

  “Cal,” Jason said. “What’s up?”

  “Heeey! Lonesome wanderer!” Cal said, cackling.

  “Well…” Jason tittered. “Not much wandering. Twenty-six miles to the island and I anchored. How’s it going, man?”

  “Oh, it’s goin’ fine, goin’ fine,” Cal said. Jason pictured him as he spoke. Cal was from the San Fernando Valley and had the air of the Midwest about him somehow. He was big, red-headed, and good at being a detective, a solid cop. He’d also seen Jason at his worst and his best. One of the weirder parts of moving was no longer seeing Cal every day. “Just wanted to check in. See how you’re doin’. How’s the book?”

  “Oh, ya know…” Jason grimaced, staring at that blank page. “I’m pluggin’ along.” Jason squeezed his eyes shut and felt a headache coming on. The blank screen was glaring at him, glowing white and accusatory. He pictured Cal going about his day, still on the force, chasing down kingpins and murderers.

  Meanwhile, his ass was slightly sore just from sitting in a substandard desk chair for too long.

  “That’s great!” Cal said, enthusiastic as ever. “Can’t wait to read it. It’s gonna be fantastic. After those pieces you wrote? In a book format? Christ, it’s gonna be a bestseller, I’m tellin’ ya.”

  “Y
eah…” Jason let a breath out slowly. “I bet it... will be.”

  If I ever finish the damn thing...or start it.

  “Listen, buddy,” Cal said, “I got some time off comin’ to me, thought I’d pay you a visit. If you’re not too busy with the book, that is? Don’t worry, I’m not gonna try to read it. I know writers are precious about the work.” He snickered at that, and Jason winced.

  “Yeah, real precious,” Jason said, leaning on his hand. “No, I’d love to see you. Anytime. Miss your ugly mug, man. Come on out. I’ll take you snorkeling, if you think you can zip a wetsuit over that beer gut.” He smiled, knowing the reaction it would get, and sure enough Cal burst out laughing.

  “You son of a bitch!” Cal said, catching his breath. “I owe you a rap in the mouth for that one, Jay.”

  “Like you could catch me,” Jason said. He tapped his fingers on the desk and gazed out his stateroom window. It looked out on the ocean with an unobstructed view to the shore, except for the crowd of other boats anchored between Jason and land. “Listen,” Jason said. “Have you seen Alyssa lately?”

  “Oh, yeah!” Cal said. “Sure, I was just over at the house last night, matter of fact. “Sutter was sick so—”

  “Wait, Sutter’s sick?” Jason said, tensing just a little. The Irish Setter had been his dog originally. He had become Alyssa’s over time. Still, Jason missed him. It had stung to leave Sutter behind. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Hey hey, it’s nothing serious,” Cal said. “Just an ear infection. But you know Sutter flips out when you take him to the vet. She just needed help with him.”

  “Is he okay now?” Jason said.

  “Yeah, he’s fine. I mean, she has to squirt meds in his ear. You know he loves that…”

  “Heh. Yeah.”

  The sky was turning orange and reflecting off the rippling waves. It dulled the ache of missing his old life, as much as he liked the idea of his new one.

  “I’m glad you’re there to help her out.” A lump of emotion appeared in Jason’s throat and he coughed to cover it. “It made it a little easier for me,” he admitted now, “knowing you’d be around for Alyssa. I don’t know if I deserved for anything to be easier…”