Shark Bait

13. Shark. Unboxed

THIRTEEN

SHARK. UNBOXED

TROY

I wake up with a light blue blanket over my belly.

Since it’s summertime and Valerina mentioned they’d remodeled this house, I assume she turned up the air-conditioning for the first time while I slept. Hence, the blanket to keep me warm.

I spot a fan spinning above me too. I’m sure I didn’t turn that on either. With a groan, I turn onto my back, but halt as I bump into a body. My breath catches in my throat, and I hear myself gasp as if I’m choking.

Before I freak out, Shark says, “It’s just me.”

I shift onto my side so I’m facing him, still a little tense, but since it’s just him, the guy who’s just there for me and with me, my breathing evens out.

“Hi, just you,” I say.

Warm brown eyes narrow at the corners as he smiles. “Hi back.”

“I’m not sure there’s anything ‘just’”—I make air quote with my right hand—“about you, Shark.”

He takes my hand and kisses it, then keeps it under his hand on the mattress. His head is propped up on his right hand, and as I look at his handsome face, I notice stubble on his jaw. Somehow, it suits his personality. Shark’s rugged, with refined, sharp edges one could cut themselves on if one wasn’t careful.

He’s not “just another dude,” which makes him interesting to me. He’s also attractive, with plush lips, chestnut eyes, and a straight nose. There’s a mysterious bad-boy appeal to him. I think that’s my type.

“You’re my type,” I announce.

He smiles wider. “Oh yeah? What type is that?”

“A walking red flag.”

“Lovely,” he deadpans.

We’re quiet for a while. The way he plays with my hair reminds me of Fis. I freeze up, and Shark picks up on it right away. “What’s the matter?”

If I tell him, he’ll never touch my hair or me again. “Memories I want to erase, is all. Don’t stop.”

Shark twirls my hair around his finger. “I’ve been where you are,” he says. I’m not even breathing for fear of distracting him.

He continues. “I decided I’m in the driver’s seat.” He taps his head. “This up here is the important part. You can hide all you want about what happened to you. You get to handle your misfortune any way you see fit, because the truth is, even if the pair of us experienced the very same thing, we would process it differently. We heal differently.”

I think he’s telling me I’m doing well and he won’t judge me for acting in whatever manner or however I choose as I try to move on from that life and into my newfound freedom. I’m also hoping he’s telling me he’ll offer support when I need it, which is more than I can ask from someone who rescued me and gave me millions so I’ll never have to worry about money again.

“You offer the wisest advice,” I tell him.

“Get used to it. I’m very wise.”

I believe it. I want him to tell me more about himself, but I don’t want to ask him things he isn’t ready to share. I tread carefully. “How old were you when…you were taken?”

“I wasn’t taken.” He taps his forefinger on the top of my hand, a movement that’s followed by an almost visible mood shift, a distancing of sorts. I can even see it in his eyes, in the emptiness of his gaze. He’s moving away mentally, but the body’s staying. The taps are starting to become more uniform. I count them, noting there’s a cadence to them.

He taps, then holds his fingers up for two seconds, then taps the mattress again.

Tap. One-two. Tap.

Tap. One-two. Tap .

One. One-two. One, one-two. Reminds me of rhythm, which makes me think of music.

Shark clears his throat. “I was nine when I lost my parents.”

Tap. One-two. Tap.

I tap the mattrass with him. He notices I’m matching his rhythm, and now that we’re doing it together, I get the feeling he’s succeeded in distracting himself from the memories enough to make it sound as if it happened to someone else. He can now talk about his past.

Which is exactly how I want these types of heavy conversations to feel. Like I’m telling a story that never happened to me. I wish I could tell the story that never happened to me, but I don’t think I can yet, so I tell no stories whatsoever.

Shark might not tell me much, but in case he wants to, I’m here. I am here for him, and I’m grateful for him teaching me about tapping. It feels like he’s letting me in on a huge secret. Tapping might be his coping mechanism when he’s uncomfortable. I like it.

I like it because it’s rhythmic. It’s music. I used to play music as if my life depended on it, but I don’t hear music anymore the way I used to.

“It was a messy civil war situation,” he continues. “With politicians selling land for power and money. After the sale, people were forced out of their homes. In the wake of an invading army, my parents grabbed me and fled with all the other refugees, on foot or on tractors, or, if they were from cities or towns, in their cars. No fancy jets, you know.”

He’s making a joke, so I take a clue and invert my bottom lip into a pout. “Bummer.”

Shark’s gaze drops to my lips.

I swipe the pouty one with my tongue, inviting his attention, coaxing him to pursue me.

He looks up, and we lock eyes as he continues as if nothing else is happening between us. But something is happening.

Tap. One-two. Tap.

“The gaps in my memory are substantial, so I can’t tell you what happened during our journey from home to safety, but I’ve been told my parents died on the road. My memory kicks off again when I’m in someone’s house in a place where it’s safe. I’m sitting at the table with six other boys, finally eating after days of nothing in the belly.” He smiles. “Lard on a slice of bread. An older woman with her hair covered under a scarf, with only two front teeth, sprinkles a pinch of salt on my meal. Lots of other kids are running around behind me. I remember the noise, but not how long I was there or where I was.”

“Was it an orphanage?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Sounds like one. I think I spent a few years there but ran away in my early teens and started getting into trouble. Once, I stole from the wrong person, ended up on his radar, and he held that over my head while trafficking me through Europe.” Shark clears his throat. “For years, we traveled all over the world. In Rome, I met Alessio. We were both teens at the time, but he was everything I wanted to be. His own man.” Shark smiles. “Bastard wore the nicest leather shoes. Still does.”

I chuckle.

The tapping stops, and Shark returns to the present with me, his eyes taking on the warmth they normally carry. “The man I traveled with along with his crew tried to drug Alessio, but I swapped our drinks and drank his. Don’t ask me why. I didn’t even know him. I only knew I couldn’t let them use him. When I started to feel the effects of the drug, Alessio figured out what had happened.” Shark swipes his lips with his tongue, bites the bottom one between his teeth, then releases it.

His face glows when he smiles. “Alessio left the party with me and blood on his leather shoes. I’ve worked for him ever since. But my work is cleaner. Much cleaner. He left a glorious and bloody mess.”

A little over six months in captivity, and I’m broken. Shark endured much more, and he’s whole again or at least able to speak of it with another person. He gives me hope, and hope is everything. “I hear shopping is nice in Rome.”

“It’s just another big city.” He lifts my hand as if to kiss it again, but I press my lips to his knuckles instead. Then I scoot closer and kiss him on the mouth. I close my eyes and move my lips, coaxing him to kiss me back. At first, he doesn’t. Not at all. He even grips my throat as if to push me back, but that turns me on even more.

I think it might turn him on too, because he growls and gives my throat a squeeze. “Troy, I’m twice your age.”

“Say that again,” I whisper against his lips.

His eyes widen. “I’m twice your age.”

“Which is why I have to collect the debt you owe me before you keel over and die.”

Shark laughs, and the moment is broken.

I snap open my eyes. “Why do I say the dumbest jokes at the worst times?”

“Nonsense. Your jokes are the best.”

“But said at the wrong time.” Also, he thinks my jokes are the best.

He rests his arm over my hip in a way that allows his hand to dangle behind me, his fingers tracing the top of my butt cheek. His firm biceps flex, and I squeeze them, watching his eyes, seeking the intimacy I ruined with my joke.

Shark presses a palm to the small of my back and pulls me into him. My pregnant belly keeps us apart, but the baby is quiet, as if he knows Mommy wants some attention from a man who makes her feel good.

“Hey,” I say, “I want to tell you something.”

“Now?” he asks.

“Is it bad timing again?”

“That depends on what you say.”

“Okay then, I’ll say it, and we’ll see what happens.”

He waits.

“I think I’m using you, and I’m sorry I can’t stop it.”

“How so?” he asks, appearing slightly uneasy.

I swallow. “I just… I feel dirty, and I want you to clean me. I need to bathe in you, and I hope the memory gaps you spoke of stick with me as they’ve stuck with you. Because I also have some. If I try hard enough, I can access the memories, but I don’t want to try that hard. I don’t… I want them to stay hidden, eventually forgotten completely. Locked away, you know?”

Shark nods. “I don’t like the idea of being used by anyone anymore.” He tilts his head. “How, exactly, do you want to use me?”

“You know how,” I say.

He rolls onto his back and licks his lips. “Hop on.”