Seb’s Summer by K.C. Wells

Chapter Four

 

June 15

When his alarm went off, Seb wanted to throw his phone against the wall. It was four freakin’ a.m. He rolled onto his back, his morning wood tenting the sheet. He had half an hour to get to the pickup point. After a shower, coffee, and more coffee, that left no time to deal with his hard-on.

Fuck it. There’s always time to deal with a hard-on.

Seb threw back the sheets and went into the bathroom in search of the bag where he’d stashed his lube. Then he slipped back beneath the comforter, bent his legs, planted his feet on the mattress, and slicked up his hand. He closed his eyes, knowing exactly who he’d see behind them—the guy from the market.

God, you are one big tease, you know that?

The only decent-looking man for miles, and he was straight. Okay, Seb didn’t know that for sure, but the evidence was definitely there. Seb’s graphic tee had drawn no comment, and as for his mention of Out? Christ, that had been inspired. The guy’s lack of reaction kinda nailed it though. He wouldn’t have known Out magazine if someone smacked his ass with a rolled-up copy of it.

Seb slid his hand a little faster along his hard shaft at the thought of landing his hand on the guy’s firm, bare butt with a sharp slap. So what if he was straight? Seb could dream, right? And Market Guy checked all Seb’s boxes. His dark hair was longer on top, but that silver at his temples and the sides where it was shorter had caught Seb’s interest in a nanosecond. Gimme a silver fox any day. The guy’s firm jawline and upper lip were covered in scruff, mostly gray but peppered with black. He had good lips, the kind Seb could imagine sliding his dick between, watching it emerge glistening and pink, only to bury it again in a tight throat. His brows were heavy and dark, giving his blue eyes a sultry gaze that had almost unraveled Seb right there in the store. And as for the rest of him…

Seb tugged on his cock, trying to picture Market Guy naked. He wasn’t some muscle-bound hunk, but he wasn’t a wimp either. Just right. The kind of guy who’d be freaking perfect, kneeling between Seb’s spread thighs, fucking him with slick fingers while he sucked on Seb’s dick—

Warmth coated Seb’s belly, and he shuddered, his body jolting with each drop that pulsed from his slit. He lay there, relishing the afterglow.

So what if the guy was straight? He was gorgeous, and Seb envisioned making frequent withdrawals from his spank bank while he pictured him in that black tee and black leather jacket. Not to mention those tight jeans that showed off his long legs and toned thighs.

You’re not off the hook, God. This is so not fair. You bring me to this god-awful spot, then dangle a delicious guy in front of me before you yank him away. Seb was not into straight guys. Been there. It was always the same. Some bi-curious guy would demand to fuck or be fucked, and Seb would oblige. Hey, never turn down a willing ass or a nice dick, right? Then the guy would wake up the next morning full of remorse and recriminations. Life was too short for that shit. Give Seb a man who rolled over, kissed him, maybe indulged in a good morning wank or fuck, then went on their way.

His chest tightened. And where has that got me?

Alone, that was where.

Seb got out of bed and headed for the shower. He had no time for regrets. He had lobster to catch.

 

 

Seb leaned on the railings at the end of the pier, contemplating the ocean. Behind him to the right was the Cape Pier Chowder House, and to the left was the grassy headland where visitors came to watch the boats in the harbor. He rested his forearms on the top rail, holding his insulated mug in both hands. The sky was that strange ethereal mix of twilight colors that always preceded dawn. Four-thirty had come and gone, and there was still no sign of Tim. Not that Seb was concerned—he knew Tim would get there eventually.

He gazed out over the calm water. Maybe he was being unfair to Cape Porpoise.

As he watched, the sun came up over the islands in the bay, tingeing the tops of the trees there with gold. Seagulls were already spiraling overhead, their cries harsh against the quiet of the morning. It was beautiful. And after all, this was why he’d stayed in Maine, right? This was why he lived in Ogunquit. So what if the view from his window was of more houses? Seb knew he didn’t have to go all that far to be confronted with the rolling ocean, miles of sand, and a vast expanse of sky. For the next couple of months, the view out of Gary’s window was way better than his own back in Ogunquit.

“You figure on workin’ today, yow’un?”

Seb snapped to attention. Tim sat below him in a small rowboat, his eyes filled with obvious amusement. He had to be going on forty, but the wrinkles made him appear older. He wore a zipped-up thin jacket beneath his bright yellow oil pants, a baseball hat on his head.

Seb grinned. “Hey, Tim. Long time no see. And I’m not so young anymore.”

Tim snorted. “Lord, but you grew tall. Get your ass in here.” He paddled the boat closer to the wooden ladder a few feet away.

Seb climbed down, stepping carefully into the rocking boat. “You got oil pants and muck boots for me too? There were none at Gary’s.”

“On the boat.” He looked Seb up and down with obvious approval. “You wore layers. Good job.”

“Some things you don’t forget, apparently.” Seb hunkered down on the wooden slat bench, and Tim sculled out into the bay.

“He’s gone to his sister’s then,” Tim commented as he rowed. He grinned. “Sucks to be him.” Then his smile faded. “How was he?”

“Suffering.” Seb finished what remained of his coffee.

Tim nodded gloomily. “That’d be right. Not sure which is worse—the pain from his injuries, or havin’ to stay with his sister.” His eyes widened. “Shit. I forgot she’s your aunt.”

Seb chuckled. “You’re safe. I know what she’s like.”

Tim had moored the thirty-six-foot lobster boat close to a buoy. That hadn’t changed one bit. Even at a distance, Seb spotted the paint peeling in places, but she was a sturdy craft. “Good to see the Liza Jane is still going strong.”

Tim laughed. “She’ll outlast me, I reckon.”

The first time Seb had met him, Tim had to have been about twenty. “You were doing your apprenticeship last time I was here.”

“Yup. Got my license last year.”

Seb gaped. “It’s taken you that long to get a license?”

Tim cackled. “Apprenticeship lasted two years. But it can take years, even decades, to get a license. You have to wait for lobstermen to retire before they let someone new in. And we’re not talkin’ just one lobsterman retirin’ neither. A whole heap of ’em.”

They reached the boat, and Tim dropped the anchor. Seb climbed the metal ladder and clambered over the side onto the deck, Tim following. He recognized the barrels of bait, the crates piled up, the hooks and grapples everywhere, even the barrels of fuel lashed into place.

It was as if he’d never been away.

He glanced at the plastic-coated traps piled up in the stern. “Hey, he got rid of the wooden ones.”

“’Bout ten years ago.” Tim tapped the top of one of them. “This is the regulation now. Gotta have a biodegradable hatch so lobsters can escape if the trap gets lost in the ocean.” He headed for the bow. “I’ll get your oilskins and muck boots. Got a barvel for ya too.” He paused. “Do I have to remind you of the rule?”

“I remember. Don’t step in the rope.” He was liable to get caught in a flying line and dragged overboard.

Tim smiled. “You always was a good kid. When Gary told me you were comin’, I wondered how you’d turn up. Glad to see you remembered how to dress.” His eyes sparkled. “Read somethin’ in a magazine t’other week. Some dub talkin’ ’bout lobster fishing. He was sayin’ how lobsters practically climbed into his boat. I laughed so hard I wet myself. There was a picture of him standin’ on the wharf. Jeezum crow, I reckon if you added up the price of everything he was wearin’, you’d get no change out of seven or eight thousand dollars.” He unzipped his jacket. “I’ve got a fifteen-dollar Carhartt shirt and three Carhartt sweatshirts under here. He wears all that to go fishin’? What a gaumy dub. One day aboard the Liza Jane would pretty much ruin it all. When the top layer gets caked in salt, bait and grease, I just take it off and put on another one. Christ, the most expensive thing we wear is muck boots, and they cost about a hundred.” He cleared his throat. “Okay, enough jarrin’. Sun’s up and we got work to do.”

And just like that, Seb’s day began, and he stepped back in time.

Some things hadn’t changed: the sound of the waves slapping against the hull; boots squeaking on the wet deck; the whine of the winch as it drew up a trawl; and the soft chug of the engine. There were the smells too, taking him right back—gasoline fumes and motor oil. Then there was the wet spray that slipped under his collar, the feel of the sun on his face, dazzling him as it sparkled on the water.

He’d forgotten how fast he had to work. Tim steered the boat, while he prepped the bait. Then as they reached each buoy, Tim leaned over to grab the line with a hook, and Seb used the winch to haul up the eight traps connected to the trawl. They emptied the catch into a crate.

Seb had never forgotten the clicking sound of lobster claws.

Tim held up a gauge. “This is how we decide which ones are keepers. You measure from the rear of the eye sockets to the beginning of the tail. The minimum it can be is three-and-a-quarter inches, and the maximum is five inches. The shorts get thrown back, along with the oversize ones. We figure they’re stronger producers.”

“Does anything else get into the pots?”

“Yuh. One time there was this fish that looked like it was something prehistoric.” He picked up a lobster in his gloved hand and pointed to a triangular notch cut into the flipper. “That shows she’s carryin’ eggs. The v-notch shows she’s a breeder. Can’t keep those. You do that, and they slap a fine on you of over a thousand dollars.” He tossed her back into the ocean.

Seb peered into the crate. “You can tell if a lobster is male or female? They all look the same.”

Tim cackled. “All you gotta do is lift up their skirts.” He turned the lobster over to reveal its underside. “Look at the swimmerets here. If they’re hard, it’s a male. If they’re soft and feathery, it’s female. The females have wider tails too.”

He picked up a lobster, and even with Seb’s limited experience, it appeared odd. The shell appeared rotten. “What’s wrong with that one?”

“Shell disease. Can’t be sold on the live market, but it can be sent to the processors—the meat’s still good. Used to be, shell disease was found in southern Massachusetts and Rhode Island, but it’s creepin’ north into Maine.” Tim scowled. “Yet another thing makin’ it hard to earn a livin’.”

They got into a pattern. Tim lifted each hatch and they sifted through the catch. Once it was emptied, Seb took a prepped bait needle, which resembled a giant metal skewer, and threaded the bait onto a string inside each lobster trap. Each newly baited trap would fly off the stern one by one. Then it was on to the next buoy, the next trawl of eight traps.

Tim nodded in satisfaction. “And now they’ll sit on the bottom overnight, and tomorrow we get to do it all over again.”

The lobsters were in a milk crate. Seb and Tim went about the next task of slipping rubber bands over their claws with a pair of pliers. He got nipped once or twice, and he let out a yelp. “They have a wicked bite.”

Tim hooted. “You get used to it.” Then all the lobsters were placed in a tank.

By noon, they were done. Tim steered the boat to the wharf on the bank across from where he’d picked up Seb that morning. The lobsters were packed into pallets, unloaded and weighed. All in all, it came to three hundred and fifty pounds.

“Not a good day,” Tim muttered as he stuffed the receipt for the catch into his pocket. “Gary told me to hold onto all the receipts so you don’t have to bother with ’em. I get twenty percent. Let’s hope we have better luck tomorrow.” He snorted. “I come across far too many dubbers who think lobstermen earn a packet. If Gary brings in six hundred pounds, that works out at about a thousand dollars. What folk don’t see is the three hundred or more dollars he paid out for bait, or the repairs on the boat that cost an arm and a leg.” He gestured to the Liza Jane. “Come on, I’ll take you over to the other side.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can walk from here.” Langsford Road would take him back to Pier Road and Gary’s place.

Tim grinned. “You’ll prob’bly be achin’ like a son of a bitch tonight. Just be ready in the morning, same time, same place.” He pointed to Seb’s oil pants. “Wanna keep hold of those?”

“I might as well.” Seb went back to the boat and exchanged muck boots for his own. He grabbed his jacket, then gave Tim a nod. “See you in the morning.”

Right then he could almost hear the shower calling his name, and maybe the bed too.

As he strolled along Langsford Road, he realized he was starving. Bed could wait. He walked past the fish and lobster wholesalers, noting the cars in the lot. Business appeared brisk. Then he caught sight of a familiar face heading his way.

Market Guy wore the same jacket. In one hand he carried a set of binoculars. Seb knew the instant the guy recognized him: he came to a halt in the middle of what little sidewalk there was.

Seb gave him a cheerful smile. “Hey.”

Market Guy scrutinized him, an up and down study from head to foot. “That’s a different look.” His lips twitched.

Shit. The oilskins.

“I’ve been out hauling traps.” Seb smirked. “Just so you know, this isn’t something I make a habit of wearing.”

“Hey, what you choose to wear is none of my business.” Those blue eyes sparkled. “I think I prefer the tee though. Even if it was about as subtle as a train wreck.” Then he smiled. “I’ll let you get on your way.” He strolled past Seb, close enough that he caught a whiff of—

Was that sandalwood?

On impulse, Seb spun around and called after him, “Excuse me?”

The guy stopped and turned, gazing at him, his eyebrows arched.

“You live around here?” Seb asked. “Because if you do, there’s a chance we could bump into each other again, seeing as I’m gonna be staying here a while, and if that’s gonna happen, I think I’d like to know the name of the guy I keep running into.” He took a breath.

Jesus, that was corny as fuck. I have never sounded like such an idiot.

Market Guy clearly thought so too—there was definite amusement in those cool eyes. He studied Seb for a moment, as though deciding on a course of action. At last, he spoke. “My name’s Marcus Gilbert, but I don’t live here—I’m just staying here too.”

Seb beamed. “Good to meet you, Marcus. I’m Seb Williams.”

Marcus gave him a polite smile. “And now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your day.” He turned around and kept on going.

It was only then that Marcus’s words sank in.

He noticed my tee.

Now that was interesting.