Page 11 of Love On Deck
Chapter Five
Connor is up way before the ass crack of dawn and waiting at the theater door. Anger, frustration, and regret bubble in the cauldron that’s become his gut. The attraction seething between him and Andrew and the feel of Andrew’s body had haunted him all night. Scratchy eyes and heavy limbs from too little sleep add to his aggravation. He’d kill for a round of hot, sweaty, uninhibited sex to take the edge off, but a couple of hours of ballet followed by jerking off in the shower will have to do. Choosing not to sleep with Andrew again was the right choice, even if his body disagrees.
He stretches right there in the lobby while he waits. No sense in wasting the time. Then he’ll have more time to actually dance once he gains access to the theater.
The only people around at the moment are ship personnel cleaning up after yesterday or setting up for today. Men and women run vacuum cleaners, dust walls and pictures, and wipe down the large potted palms and ferns. A couple people look over at him, but not for long, and he reaches for his toes, stretching his back, hamstrings, and calves. With a hand to an ankle, he pulls his legs backwards, each one in turn. By the time he’s feeling fairly limber, a short Hispanic woman wearing a black suit and white shirt approaches him.
“Mr. Kulyk?” she asks, her melodious accent pleasant to the ears. She does a pretty good job of wrapping her Latin tongue around his Ukrainian surname.
“Sí. Buenos días.”He scans the gold disk on her chest. “Ms. Flores,” he adds, rolling the R just a bit. He’s been a conversational Spanish speaker for years.
She smiles and cants her head in acknowledgment as she pulls a set of keys from her coat pocket. “Mr. Sanders asked me to let you in.”
“I know it’s early, but I really appreciate it.”
“No es ningún problema.I always work the early shift.” She unlocks the door and waves him inside. With the use of an odd-looking key, a bank of recessed lighting comes on. “That should get you up to the stage. Stage lights are all controlled by regular switches. The doors auto-lock so you can just leave when you’re done.Hasta mañana, sí?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says and nods.“Muchas gracias.”
She smiles and the door clicks shut behind her.
Connor jogs to the stage, shedding clothes as he goes. He wore his dance belt this morning, so there will be leaps and jumps and spins. As high and as fast as he can make them. He needs this time like he hasn’t in a very long time, and the hours loom in front of him. An auxiliary cable connects his cell phone to the speaker again, and the music of his warm-up playlist fills the silence.
Three hours later, his ribs ache from the pounding they’re taking from his heart and lungs trying to throb their way out of his chest cavity. Sweat has plastered his hair to his scalp and stings his eyes. His leg muscles quiver from his abuse. He pushed hard, probably too hard, but concentrating on the music and the ability of his body was the only way to quiet his brain. Between considering telling Casey that he’s gay and now the temptation of Andrew, his brain has been on overdrive. The relief is short-lived however. Without the need to focus on the music and the corresponding moves of his body, the thoughts slink back into his mind. They’re more of a soft hum now than the mechanical buzz of a chainsaw, though, so that’s something at least.
Connor wipes the sweat from his face with the button-down shirt he’d worn over his tee shirt and pushes out of the theater. The ship’s housekeeping folks have disappeared, and people preparing to disembark for the various excursions fill the lobby.
“God, you weren’t kidding, were you?”
He whirls around to find Casey and Will, but no Andrew. He’s disappointed and relieved at the same time. The surprise in her tone is expected, though no less irritating for its familiarity.
“About keeping up my training?” he says between still-heavy breaths. “No, Case, I wasn’t kidding. I can’t afford to miss a single day. I’m a professional athlete. Daily conditioning and training have been a part of my life for well over a decade. You know that. I’m not sure why you think I make this shit up.”
“I used to have to drag you kicking and screaming to practice,” she says.
“God, Casey, when I was eight, when I was ten, yeah. From the time I discovered I could make a career out of baseball, not so much. Am I never going to fucking grow up in your eyes? Jesus.” He speaks before he thinks better of it, but Christ.
Hurt paints her cheeks an unflattering flamingo pink and tears shimmer in her eyes, and, well, fuck.
“That was uncalled for,” says Will gently, curling his arm around Casey and tucking her into his chest.
It was mostly called for, and Connor isn’t going to feel completely guilty for speaking his mind, but he sighs. “Maybe now wasn’t the time or the place, I’ll grant you, but it doesn’t make the sentiment any less true, and you know it.”
Will presses his lips together, but says nothing, because he does know.
Connor takes Casey’s hands and kisses the back of each one. “I love you and I’m sorry, okay? I could have handled the situation better. I should have. But my body feels like Jell-O and my mouth got the better of my brain.” He kisses her forehead. “Now, go on your excursion and bring me back a key chain or something, will ya?” He offers her a lopsided grin.
She laughs and sniffles and pulls him into a hug. “You’re right. I’m sorry too. I don’t see you very often and not in professional athlete mode. I forget.”
He waves them off and, although he should go find a shower, he opts to go in search of breakfast instead. He’s starving, as usual, after a workout. With the number of people lined up to leave the ship for the day, there’s bound to be a deserted corner of the dining room where his post-workout stink won’t offend anyone.
And he’s right. He loads up a tray with mostly protein-heavy items, along with a pumpernickel bagel, and several bananas. Orange juice and coffee round out his meal. There’s a table near the window and he heads for it. Cozumel bustles beyond the plate glass.
“Connor. Connor, young man, over here.”
He searches for the voice and sees Ms. Marva waving him over. He’d seen her and her sister around the ship yesterday and had waved or exchanged greetings in passing. They’re both a hoot, but there’s something about Ms. Marva that evokes memories of chocolate chip cookies and kissed owies. A melancholy for experiences he barely remembers flutters in the pit of his stomach, and he’s not quite sure what to do with those feelings, but Ms. Marva is still gesturing at him so he pushes them aside for now and detours to say hello.
“Morning, Ms. Marva,” he says. “Not going on an excursion?”
