Page 3 of Blood of the Sirens
I’d always been obsessedwith the ocean. And not the YOLO, $4.99 mug that said “life’s a beach” obsessed or someone who has their entire bathroom covered in seashells and annoying, quirky little wooden signs that said ‘wipe your sandals’ or ‘wine o’clock.’
No, I was legit. Or at least, I made a promise to keep telling myself that. I was a competitive swimmer who’d grown up going to the ocean at least once a year even though my single mother hadn’t really had the means to make it happen. Thank God my gram and my pap lived out here, so we could stay for free.
We both had the ocean in our blood, my mother jokes.
Photos of me at the beach when I was young littered my room. I was all brown braids and pink cheeks, hazel eyes brimming with excitement as I held up a seashell. It was a differenttime and the contrast of the state of the house between now and then was a stark reminder.
The bright white paint was faded and chipped. A spot on the ceiling in my bedroom leaked, and the mice were slowly waging war and making advancements in the attic every night. Despite all that, my grandparents' run-down house had an excellent location right on North Carolina’s intercoastal waterway. They’d moved to a retirement village further south and weren’t quite ready to part with the North Carolina house yet. So, I lived here and kept the place up while attending school. Well, I was supposed to be attending school.
Though the house was making its own case of giving up … crack by crack.
I pushed my paddle harder into the intercoastal waterway, my kayak zooming through the reeds. At least now that I was kicked out of school, I should have more time to work on the house. I hoped that I could fix it up and prove to my grandparents I could care for it. Maybe one day I could buy it.
I tried not to think about the letter from the township on my kitchen table, calling the house a liability. There was a lot of other legal jargon, but the intent was clear: fix it up or it’ll be condemned.
A large splash jerked me out of my thoughts. There were alligators around, after all. What was that moving lump up ahead?
Oh.Oh.
Only his upper body was visible as his lower half disappeared under the water. He stared at me, open-mouthed. I had a great view of the etched ‘V’ below his ab muscles. You didn’t see them built like that every day.
I’d read a dirty romance book once that referred to it as a ‘cum gutter.’
My face went red just thinking about it.
Focus, Jesse.
Right. The hot guy. Was he stuck or caught on something? Fishermen sometimes left traps and other things that could easily ensnare a swimmer or kayaker. Maybe he needed help? He looked embarrassed about something.
“You good?” I asked.
Blonde dreadlocks rested against his tan shoulders with an odd tinkling sound. Bits of shells and sea glass were woven into the strands intricately; they were either in the dread itself or in one of the many braids that went down his back.
Hot and unique-looking. Lucky me.
Wide eyes stared back at me. They were a bright, alarming turquoise the color of which I’d only seen on tv or photos of far-away islands, but nowhere in the oceans I’d been around. Certainly not here. Green and blue blinked, and pale, pink lips parted slightly and revealed perfect and glaringly white teeth.
Water sluiced down his heavily muscled upper torso as he straightened. The water ran over an odd tattoo that snaked around his upper arm and across his clavicle to wrap around his neck. It reminded me of the traditional tribal tattoos from Polynesian cultures. Not ones done at a shop, but ones done the old-fashioned way—with a bone needle and ink.
He looked like one of those muscled fire dancers from commercials except blond and blue-eyed.
I gripped my paddle tightly, aware that my wet hair and lumpy wetsuit wasnotthe ideal way I wanted to meet someone who looked likehim. A stab of the familiar fear and anxiety cropped up, but I immediately shoved it down. Not now.
I was used to people staring at my rolls and my thick legs, and yep, even my ass. At twenty-six, I was sick of the shit and the yo-yo diets. I’d made a vow to be fat and happy. Or tried to. It was a work in progress. Fuck men and their expectations. I wouldn’t treat this one any differently.
I cleared my throat, realizing we’d been just staring at each other. I looked left and right, frowning at him. “Did you lose your kayak or your paddle board?”
We were pretty far out from the nearest beach house by a few miles. Wetlands stretched all around us, so it didn’t seem likely he’d swam here. He looked like a surfer or a paddle board guy.
He certainly looked strong enough.
I dipped my paddle in the water and gave a small push toward him. He flinched away like I’d charged him with my kayak. His arms pinwheeled out behind him, water sloshing toward me in a mini wave.
My kayak bounced up and down.
“Dude, chill. Just making sure you’re OK.” I paused, taking in the utter look of panic on his face. “Youaregood, right? This isn’t a two-person kayak, but we could figure something out.”
I reached a hand out toward him. I didn’t know why. His nostrils flared the closer I got to him.
