Page 25 of Windlass (Seal Cove #3)

It took Angie a long time to come inside—much longer than it had taken her to come, Stevie thought, the joke falling flat even to herself.

She sat in Lilian’s greenhouse, which felt humid but safe in a way the house did not.

Lilian’s tortoise still resided here, along with the plants she tended regularly.

Angie fed the tortoise. Lilian and Angie had always been closer, the mirror of Morgan and Stevie.

Circe stumped over to see her anyway, in search of attention and romaine.

She rubbed her shell and murmured a hello.

“No snacks,” she told the tortoise. Beady eyes glinted suspiciously in the light from the door leading from the house to the greenhouse.

A whine sounded from behind that door. Stevie sighed. “Marvin, I’m right here, and if you’d been awake when I came inside, you could be here, too.”

A lie—Marvin was not allowed in the greenhouse. He ate dirt.

Lilian’s meditation pad protected her ass from the slate tile floor, but Stevie leaned forward, arousing further suspicion from Circe, and rested her forehead against the cool stone. If she’d thought her skin feverish before, it was nothing to now.

“What,” she said aloud. Just what . She had no question to follow.

Or rather, too many. What had just happened?

What would happen now? What was Angie thinking?

What was she supposed to do? To say? She couldn’t hide from Angie long enough for hiding to be worth trying.

Marvin would give her position away instantly.

She would need to leave the house, and driving away to find Morgan might spur Angie to call Lana.

Even thinking Lana’s name made her feel ill. Surely Angie wouldn’t. Not after this.

Or maybe she would because of this. Stevie didn’t know, and not knowing was worse.

But holiest of shits, Angie had been beautiful.

The memory, recent enough to feel present, seized her in another shiver.

Walking away had to be the hardest thing she’d ever done.

When Angie had said her full name—she had thought naively, when she first began to fall, that to touch Angie once would be enough.

She’d known even then it was a lie, but she’d had no idea, no fucking clue, the extent.

The need to do it all over again gave her stomach cramps from desire, but she was also terrified.

What would Angie do?

Marvin barked. She heard the back door open, then shut, and Angie tentatively call her name. Marvin ran to the greenhouse and barked again, the shameless traitor.

“Stevie?”

“Yeah.”

The door opened after a moment’s hesitation, and Angie squeezed past Marvin with an apology.

“It’s warm in here.”

“Smells good, though,” said Stevie. Angie had smelled good.

She wanted that smell on her pillow, on her sheets, on her hands—she needed to stop shaking before Angie reached her.

Leaning back, she propped herself up as if she’d been enjoying the night instead of resting her head on the floor like a supplicant.

“Wanna smoke?” Angie picked her way through the greenery.

Smoking some weed would certainly take the edge off her nerves. She felt, though, that she should be sober for this conversation.

“Maybe in a little bit.”

Angie sat down. Her hair remained disheveled and wild, and Stevie longed to bury her face in it as she’d buried her hands. Circe stumped over to Angie with enthusiasm. Angie plucked something off a nearby plant to feed the tortoise. If Stevie fed Angie like that, would she suck her fingers after?

“So,” said Angie.

“Sorry to leave you hanging.”

“Oh my god, Stevie.” Angie laughed, though, as she swatted Stevie’s leg.

“That is, in fact, what you said.”

Angie was maybe blushing; Stevie couldn’t tell in the dark.

“I can’t believe you walked out on me. Again.”

Stevie nudged her with the leg she’d swatted. “Can’t you? You looked a little strung out.”

“I swear—”

“I can be serious, if you want.”

Angie rested her chin on her knees and looked at her. “I don’t know if I’d recognize you, serious.”

“Is that a no?”

“It’s an observation.” Angie rested a hand on Stevie’s bare ankle and brushed her thumb over the bone. The gesture was intimate, and while Stevie didn’t think Angie meant it to be erotic, she felt the touch all the way up her leg.

“Should we . . .” Angie trailed off.

“Do you want to talk?”

“I never want to talk.” Angie’s fingers continued their gentle exploration of her ankle, almost innocent. “But . . .”

“But you’re here to explain why that can’t happen again.”

Angie winced but did not withdraw her hand. “It’s not that simple.”

“Could be.” Stevie hoped—prayed, for all that she had as much belief in a higher power as Circe did—that she sounded composed.

“How?”

“It’s called redirection therapy.”

Angie’s laugh rewarded her. She didn’t dare relax yet, though.

“Please, by all means, elaborate.” Angie’s nails trailed lightly across Stevie’s skin.

“Your attempts to distract me won’t work.”

“Your attempts to distract me won’t work,” Angie mimicked in an approximation of a Hollywood villain.

Stevie smiled. The expression loosened something inside her. “Replace unhealthy coping mechanisms with slightly healthier ones.”

“I thought you meant, like, bowling.”

“If you want to feel my balls—”

“I swear to god, Stevie—”

“You’ll what?”

“Keep my shirt on the rest of my life, and you’ll never see my tits again.”

Stevie winced. “That’s a crime against humanity, not just me.”

“You think so?” Angie’s hand slid up Stevie’s calf. That touch was less innocent.

“I’m an unbiased observer,” she said.

“Good to know. So what is this healthier coping mechanism?” asked Angie. “Please go on.”

“It’s really an obscure theory. You’ve probably never heard of it.” Stevie put on her best hipster drawl.

“Try me.” One nail trailed down her leg. Since every nerve in her body had relocated to that leg, this had predictable results.

“Fuck, Angie.” She squeezed her thighs together and took a deep breath to stop herself from ending this conversation early. “Fine. Friends with benefits. That’s my solution.”

A terrible solution. What she wanted was far, far more than the casual nature that arrangement suggested. If she asked for more, however, Angie would run. This inane inadequacy might allow Angie to pretend the stakes were low enough to risk.

Angie’s hand stilled. “You can’t be serious.”

Playing the clown most of her life had given her a modicum of acting skills. She shrugged, playing off her words as casually as she could. “Lana wasn’t your friend. She didn’t care about you. I do. Therefore healthier.”

“Okay, but—”

“Unless you have a better idea?” She dropped all pretense of joking and let her voice fall flat. Angie did not answer for a moment. Was that because she didn’t have a better idea, or because her idea was leaving and never coming back?

“You don’t think this could, like, backfire catastrophically?” Angie bit her lip when she finished speaking. She really needed to stop that if she expected Stevie’s brain to function.

“Do you honestly think we can go back to pretending things are normal?”

“That’s not . . . I don’t . . . You deserve better.” Angie’s voice broke on the last word.

Stevie snorted, which, judging by Angie’s startled expression, was not the reaction she’d expected. “Yeah, okay.”

“You do.”

“Nobody ‘deserves’ anything. Besides, what is it, exactly, that you think I need? Tell me what I deserve, Angie.”

“I—” Angie stumbled over her words. “Someone who’s stable.”

“Am I asking you to hold me up?”

“What?”

“Ladders are stable. Foundations are stable. Places where horses live are stable. People aren’t stable. We’re mostly liquid shoved into skin sacks.”

“You say the sexiest things to me.”

“I try.”

“You know what I mean, though,” said Angie.

“I do, and I disagree. Let me judge what I deserve because I’ll tell you what I don’t deserve: walking around this house with you every day, pretending like I don’t want to take you on this counter.”

Angie closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. Good . When she opened her eyes again, desire had crept back in.

“Stevie . . .”

“Hear me out. You’re worried you’re going to hurt me. Right?”

“I—”

“Yes or no answers.”

“Yes, but—”

“And we’ll pretend you have no worries about getting hurt. I won’t flatter myself.”

“That—” Angie huffed in frustration, her lips poised to argue. Stevie steamrolled on. She had to get this out before she lost her nerve.

“I’m an adult. So are you. I’ll tell you what will hurt more, and that’s trying to go back to the way things were. They say you can’t die from sexual frustration, but do you really want to take that risk?”

“Don’t you even start with me,” said Angie.

“I’m starting.”

Angie leaned forward, falling onto her hands and knees and taking one slinking move toward Stevie after another, effectively closing the distance between them like something directly out of her dirtiest dreams. One more move and Angie would be on top of her—basically was on top of her already, hair falling around her shoulders in thick waves begging to be tugged.

In her coolest, most chill voice, Stevie quietly murmured, “Oh fuck.”

“Oh, you don’t deserve to get fucked after what you did to me.” Angie stopped with their faces inches apart. In the reflection on the opposite wall, Stevie could see Angie’s ass, and she had a visceral image of gripping Angie by the hips in that position and making her scream.

“Your complaint has been registered with the proper authorities,” said Stevie, her voice only slightly strangled.

“I’m not complaining. It’s a fact.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d let you do the fucking.” In addition to their reflection in the glass, Angie’s position revealed a devastating sweep of cleavage.

Angie closed her eyes and sank back on her heels, though she was now sitting between Stevie’s legs. “You can’t say things like that to me. It turns off my brain.”

“Oops.” Stevie’s brain had gone off-line some time ago.