Page 14 of Father Figure

Sam wasn’t typically a cuddler, in or out of bed. He showed his affection in other ways, like acts of service—making sure the boat ran smoothly, that the tank was full of diesel, the pantry stocked, and that I stayed well hydrated and protected from the sun. Surprisingly, he was also a great listener.

“What is it?” When I remained silent, he prodded, “Is it Nicky?”

I rolled away from him on my side, the heat from his body warming my back.

“Talk to me, Cass. Is it Brian?”

My heart beat painfully hard. If I told him, would he judge me? Would Sam see me differently?

No differently than I now see myself. How could I even entertain thoughts like these about a boy I helped raise? A boy who trusted me. A boy whose father trusted me. I should be shot. Shot and hung out to dry.

“Fine, have it your way,” he huffed, rolling over. “I’m going to bed. If you have an attack of conscience in the night, don’t wake me.”

Attack of conscience? Yeah, my conscience was attacking me hard right now. In fact, it was kicking my fucking ass. How was I going to make it through another trip with him, let alone the entire summer? I just prayed to God he left that damn bathing suit at home this time.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I was all packed and ready for Barbados. Last night, after spending hours debating what to bring, I finally decided on my shortest shorts, several tank tops, and, of course, my white Speedo. Cass was so funny, telling me not to pack it, and suggesting I should bring something larger. Just thinking about it made me laugh.

I looked terrible in baggy swim trunks. My butt was so small it was almost nonexistent, but it did have a nice bubble… if you didn’t mind that it could fit in the palm of your hand. With room left over.

Cass wouldn’t look at me like he did on the pink sand beach if I wore my board shorts with flamingos on them.

Outside, a car horn honked, and I knew Cass had arrived. I hurried out the door and climbed in the back seat of his pickup.

“Morning Cass. Hey Sam.”

I didn’t know he’d be here. Had they driven together? Or had they spent the night together? Since Cass had admitted they were occasional lovers, I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibilities. Did they hook up on our last trip right under my nose? Were they together last night?

Both men were gorgeous, so thinking about it definitely got me hot, but also… jealous? Yeah, I was feeling a little jealous. I wasn’t used to sharing Cass’s attention with anyone. When he was with my dad, I spent more time with him one-on-one than in the company of them together. One of them was always working. After they split, my time with Cass was intentional—meeting for lunch, seeing a movie, a day at the beach, or fishing. I always had his undivided attention. But now, I had to share his attention with Sam, his best friend. His sometimes lover. How could I compete with that?

“I spent hours last night reading up on Barbados. Did you know they have an extensive coral reef system, and they have all these strict rules about it, like, there are certain types of sunscreen you can’t wear if you’re going snorkeling? And, of course, no standing on the reef or touching it. And if you get caught with a piece of coral, there are steep fines.”

“No, I didn’t know that. That’s fascinating,” Cass replied. “Did you know that, Sam?”

“Fascinating,” he replied in a less-than-fascinated voice.

“Anyway, they sell pieces of it in the street markets and boutiques, but only the stuff that washes up on the beach during storms. Maybe I can find a neat piece to buy and bring home as a souvenir!”

“I’ll help you look for one,” Cass promised. He winked at me in the rearview mirror, and my stomach felt warm and gooey.

“I also want to try Fried Flying Fish! Have you ever tried it?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

Sam laughed, shaking his head. He had a way of making me feel two feet tall sometimes.

“What?” I snapped, trying not to lose my patience.

“I’ve been going to Barbados for years, and I’ve never tried the Fried Flying Fish.”

“Well, it’s a delicacy there. It’s what they’re known for,” I informed him haughtily. “That and the Cou-cou.”

“What’s a cuckoo?”

“Not the bird! It's made of cornmeal and okra. It tastes like polenta.”

“I’ve never tried polenta either,” he said obstinately.

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