Page 10 of Captive of the Pirate King
The next several days pass in a haze of quiet, desperate survival. Beyond what my serving duties require, I keep away from the sailors, and I avoid looking directly at the captain or Locke. No one seems to miss Jinks. They all assume he was washed overboard during the storm.
I move through a cycle of scanty sleep, hastily-gobbled portions of food, and bone-wearing, finger-callusing work. I snatch what privacy I can to relieve myself, and crash into my hammock wearing the same increasingly filthy clothes every night. Thank the gods my bleeding time ended not two days before the pirates attacked theWending Willow. If I had to deal with those womanly needs on top of everything else, I'd go mad.
I've never been one to sweat much or smell malodorous. Maybe because back home I bathed regularly with fine soaps, spritzed myself with perfume each day, and didn't do any more difficult labor than the occasional promenade or horseback ride.
Now I can barely sleep because I smell so disgusting. My own stench keeps me awake.
I lie in my hammock, listening to the chorus of snores around me, and I think back over the past week. I've done well to survive this long. I've kept busy so no one wondered why I didn't go shirtless on the hottest days like the other men did, or why I didn’t join the noisy washing-up sessions on deck. I was always moving too quickly from one task to the next—no time for anyone to stop me or question me. But it's gotten to the point where I need to bathe. Desperately.
It's late, and the sea is calm. Except for the watch on deck, the ship is quieter than usual. There's always the susurration of the sea, and the slap of waves, the soft whistle of wind through cracks, and the groaning of the ship's timbers.
Not to mention the choir of snorts and growls coming from the sleeping crew members.
There couldn't be a better time for a good washing-up. I know for a fact that the galley is usually empty at a time like this—Cook locks up the best of the stores and leaves a few bits and bobs out for any sailors who might be feeling peckish—usually the things that are about to go bad or have a few tiny spots of mold.
I could slip into the galley and give myself a thorough sponge bath. I can't risk an actual bath, and I can't strip completely—but if I don't do something about my own stink, I won't be able to sleep.
7
On quiet feet I pad down the corridor and push open the door to the galley. It doesn’t squeak, thanks to my earlier ministrations to its hinges with an oil rub I devised myself. It was a task I concocted to escape the incessant questions of the other cabin boy, Dez. He seems to like me, probably because I take on most of the work and let him have the easiest jobs. I’m glad to have a friend of sorts, but unfortunately friendship also comes with interest in my past, and questions I don’t want to answer.
I step into the galley—and then I freeze.
There’s a naked man in the room, standing in a wooden washtub with his back to me. He swipes a sponge across one shoulder, and glistening suds slide along the slabs of back muscle, trailing down to the crevice between the globes of his ass.
Across his tanned skin, spanning both shoulder blades, is a massive tattoo of a moth, so exquisitely detailed that I want to stroke its feathery wings. There’s a tiny crown above the moth’s antennae, at the base of the man’s neck. Three small knives radiate from the lower end of its body.
Many sailors and pirates have tattoos, but I’ve never seen one quite so elegant and well-crafted.
But I don’t have time to admire it, because the man turns at that very moment.
It’s Locke. Although I almost don’t recognize him because I’ve never seen him without the bandana covering his hair. His locks are jaw-length, black and wavy, with a white streak arching from his hairline, sweeping down past his right temple.
I know I startled him—I can see the jolt of shock in his eyes—but he doesn’t jump, or give any physical sign of the surprise. He’s completely in control of his body’s reactions.
Two thoughts collide in my brain.
He’s not wearing an eyepatch, and both his eyes look perfectly healthy and functional.
Also, his dick is on full display. It lies soft and lax, a strange contrast to the hard, well-muscled planes of his abdomen.
“Nick,” he says quietly. “What are you doing in here? I thought I locked the door.”
“The inner lock mechanism is broken,” I murmur. “I tried to fix it, but it’s beyond my skill. I did fix the squeak though. See?” I move the galley door back and forth.
“Wonderful,” he purrs. “Now anyone can sneak up on me when I crave a little privacy.”
I frown, momentarily distracted from his nether regions. He’s speaking differently than he usually does. In fact, he seems like an entirely different person right now, without his headwrap, eye-patch, clothes—all the usual pieces of his—his costume—
Shock blazes along my nerves as I realize that I’ve never seen Locke without his shirt, either. He’s definitely not hiding any feminine parts, like I am, but perhaps he’s been concealing this unique tattoo?
He’s in disguise, just like me. Hiding who he really is with the bandana concealing his distinctive hair, and the eye-patch concealing a perfectly healthy eye, and the ragged shirt covering the identifying mark on his back.
“Are you going to stand there ogling me?” Locke says. “Or are you going to toddle back to your hammock like a good boy?”
I should go back to bed. But I’m peeved that he upended my plans for a private bathing session.
“I was going to bathe in here,” I mutter.
