Children of the Sea 01 - Sea Witch

spent most of second period with a hard-on. Something about her voice . . . Her eyes . . . It was weird.
     
    “In case I need to get in touch with you,” he explained.
     
    “That would be nice.”
     
    He was staring at her mouth. Her wide, wet, full-lipped mouth.
    “What?”
     
    “If you got in touch with me. I want you to touch me.”
     
    He jerked himself back. “What?”
     
    She looked surprised. “Isn’t that what you want?”
     
    Yes .
     
    “No.”
     
    Fuck .
     
    Caleb was frustrated, savagely disappointed with himself and with her. He knew plenty of women—badge bunnies—went for cops. Some figured sex would get them out of trouble or a ticket. Some were simply into uniforms or guns or handcuffs.
     
    He hadn’t taken her for one of them.
     
    “Oh.” She regarded him thoughtfully.
     
    His stomach muscles tightened.
     
    And then she smiled. “You are lying,” she said.
     
    11
    Yeah, he was.
     
    He shrugged. “Just because I’m”— horny , hot , hard — “attracted doesn’t mean I have to act on it.”
     
    She tilted her head. “Why not?”
     
    He exhaled, a gust between a laugh and a groan. “For starters, I’m a cop.”
     
    “Cops don’t have sex?”
     
    He couldn’t believe they were having this discussion. “Not on duty.”
     
    Which was mostly true. True for him anyway. He hadn’t seen any horizontal action since . . . God, since the last time he was home on leave, over eighteen months ago. His brief marriage hadn’t survived his first deployment, and nobody since had cared enough to be waiting when he got out.
     
    “When are you not on duty?” she asked.
     
    He shook his head. “What, you want a date?”
     
    Even sarcasm didn’t throw this chick. “I would meet you again, yes.
    I am . . . attracted, too.”
     
    She wanted him .
     
    Not that it mattered.
     
    He cleared his throat. “I’m never off duty. I’m the only cop on the island.”
     
    “I don’t live on your island. I am only . . .” Again with the pause, like English was her second language or something. “Visiting,” she concluded with a smile.
     
    Like fucking a tourist would be perfectly okay.
     
    Well , wouldn’t it ?
     
    12
    The thought popped unbidden into his head. It wasn’t like he was arresting her. He didn’t even suspect her of anything except wanting to have sex with him, and he wasn’t a big enough hypocrite to hold that against her.
     
    But he didn’t understand this alleged attraction she felt. He felt.
     
    And Caleb did not trust what he did not understand.
     
    “Where are you staying?” he asked. “I’ll walk you home.”
     
    “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
     
    “I’m trying to keep you safe.”
     
    “That’s very kind of you. And quite unnecessary.”
     
    He stuck his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “You getting rid of me now?”
     
    She smiled, her teeth white in the moonlight. “No.”
     
    “So?”
     
    She turned away, her footprints creating small, reflective pools in the sand. “So I will see you.”
     
    He was oddly reluctant to let her go. “Where?”
     
    “Around. On the beach. I walk on the beach in the evening.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “Come find me sometime . . . when you’re not on duty.”
     
    13
     

Two
     
    THE FOUR O’CLOCK FERRY WHISTLE CUT THROUGH the bright air like an ambulance siren, piercing the quiet of Caleb’s office.
     
    He set his coffee mug on the desk blotter with a steady hand.
     
    Only six weeks, and the rising wail no longer made him tense and wait for the inevitable second explosion that took out civilians and rescuers alike. He’d grown up with that whistle; he’d ridden that ferry home from high school; and part of him, at least, accepted he was home.
    Slowly, the familiar sounds and rhythms of the island were settling into his consciousness, awakening reassuring echoes in his blood. The cry of the gulls, the tide’s ebb and flow, the lobster boats chugging out every morning, soothed him like a mother’s rocking.
     
    Progress, he thought wryly. Maybe in another two months he’d be able to walk down the street without his jaw and neck clenching, without scanning the doorways and rooftops for snipers. Maybe he’d start sleeping through the nights again.
     
    An image of Margred—Margaret—wavered in his mind, her cloudy dark hair, her round breasts under a loose sweatshirt. Come find me sometime . . . when you’re not on duty