16. Morgan
SIXTEEN
Morgan
If you stay up too late and stare too long at the ocean, you’ll start to see things. Hear them too. It’s happened to all of us. Sirens, maybe, but nobody’s singing and the visions aren’t pretty.
It’s death and destruction, the ocean staring back at you.
It’s the amber glow of flames on deck, the bobbing lights of a ship you never pass, the silhouette of the last captain standing behind your back.
It’s the phantom splash of someone falling overboard.
The distant cries of a crew lost at sea.
The whispers of a loved one using their last breath to warn you of their death, but you’re too far away to do anything.
The radio scratches. My pulse races into a canter.
“Sleeping Beauty, this is the Unfathomable. You got me here?”
I grab the mic with a yawn. “Hey Kent. It’s Briar Anteros, not Briar Rose. Is it two AM already?”
The Briar and the Unfathomable caravan up the coast every year, even though both crews hate each other. It’s a ritual Dan Morrissey and Kent’s dad, Luke, started decades ago. Any captain who survived this long without sinking their ship would be crazy to change it.
Kent was Cole’s friend first, but we forged our own friendship over the monthly calls he made to check on Cole after he got hurt. Now that we’re both at sea, we’ve been keeping each other company on lonely night shifts.
“How are things over there?” I ask.
He sighs. We should be alone on this frequency, but you never know who could be listening. I pick up my phone and call him.
“What do you think about hiring me?” Kent whispers upon answering. “I don’t know how long I can do this.”
“Say the word and we’ll come get you.”
The Unfathomables are known for being assholes, and as the youngest of three sons, Kent has taken the brunt of the verbal abuse. The crew chews through new staff and spits them out season after season, but they treat Kent even worse because he doesn’t fit into their toxic frat boy culture.
A few years ago, Kent told me and Cole that he’s gay. He’s terrified that his family or crew might find out. I feel for the guy. My uncle kicked me out when he figured out I was bi.
“What about Cole?” Kent asks.
“He’ll say yes.” Cole has changed a lot, but not enough that he’d refuse to help Kent get out of a tight spot. “Besides, I’m half-owner so Cole has to half-listen to me.”
“Is that a hot dog or a hamburger split down the middle?”
“Hamburger, and I’ve got the half with the engine. You have a place here if you need it, okay?”
The line goes quiet.
“Thanks,” he whispers a few seconds later. “I’ll stay with Dad for king crab, but I want to do the rest on the Briar.”
“Happy to hear it. How are you going to tell Luke?”
“In public, from the bow of your boat as we pull away from the dock.”
I laugh. “I don’t blame you. Are you sure you don’t want to come now?”
“Yeah. LJ gets off probation at the end of the month. Dad won’t be as pissed if I leave him less shorthanded. How are things with Cole?”
“It’s been…” I sigh. “The boat isn’t big enough for the baggage we have. It’s really hard. Every time we get close to working things out, we slingshot farther apart.”
This jog up the coast has been nothing like the years before. We used to watch movies as a crew in the wheelhouse, horse around on deck, playing flag football or pranks on each other.
When you’re on the Bering Sea, your world shrinks down to the members of your crew. Everything else fades away. You have to put the troubles back home in a box. It’s too dangerous to dwell on them. But this year, without Seb, without Cole, idle hours are all I have.
“Don’t worry,” Kent says. “That dumbass will come around eventually.”
“Maybe. Let’s see where we are at by the end of the season. Hopefully, the boat will still be intact.”
Kent laughs. His voice lowers. “—Huh? Oh, sorry, Dad. I’ll keep it down.” The line goes dead.
Kent
Have to go.
Morgan
No worries. Text me anytime. Shoot up a flare or something and we’ll come pick you up.
Kent
Thanks, man.
Sunlight pierces the wheelhouse windows and casts a glare on the water, an antithesis to the eerie darkness last night. This far north, the angle of the sun is more acute, and I’m tired of light blasting directly into my eyes.
Voices murmur from below, unrecognizable except for Lawrence’s loud chatter and easy laughter. Silverware clatters, a fridge opens and closes. Bacon sizzles.
A few minutes ago, Cole emerged from his room, pulling a hoodie over his head, flashing his bare chest, blue eyes blinking blearily. He told me good morning in a voice thick with sleep, and offered to give me a break from the wheel.
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to ask him to come sit on my lap, or better yet, come put me to bed, but I told him to go eat first, and send Alejo up instead. His reflection lingered behind me at the top of the stairs for a few seconds before he sighed, then descended the steps.
Cole and I may share the same 109-foot boat, but we’re literally two ships passing. We only have to talk to each other once every twenty-four hours, and we keep it strictly business—updates about the wind direction, weather, and how heavy the seas are.
At least Cole went down to eat with the others. He usually eats at the wheel. As far as I can tell, the only time he talks to anyone is when Lawrence invades the wheelhouse, and forces him to socialize ‘so he doesn’t become a hermit like Wes.’
Alejo raps on the wood wall at the top of the stairs. “Hey, Morgan. You ready?”
“Hey.” I yawn and stretch my arm overhead.
“Go get some rest.” He rubs my shoulders.
The platonic touch is welcome. Going for so long without being touched by another person fucks with my head, and makes me miss Finn even more than I already do.
“Thanks.” I brace myself and descend the steps.
Downstairs, Javi and Lawrence are still eating breakfast. Cole’s not there. I’m relieved and disappointed.
“Morgan, do you have any fishy spider senses to report, yet?” Lawrence asks.
“Huh?”
Wes shuts the fridge and leans against it. “Apparently, Lawrence has taken a special interest in premonitions after your bad feeling about Cole came true.”
I scoff. “It wasn’t a premonition.” I narrow my eyes at Lawrence. “And I’m not a Magic 8 Ball.”
“Okay, okay,” Lawrence says. “Whatever it was, if you’re getting any bad feelings, I want to know who to stay away from, and I need to know if Javi’s cursed.”
I smirk. “Other than the curse of sharing a room with you? Nah.”
Lawrence frowns. “I think you mixed your tea leaves up. I’m the cursed one.”
Javi snickers.
“If I have to hear another you hang up first, no you, I might throw myself over the rail on purpose,” Lawrence says.
Porcelain clinks as Javi lowers his mug to the table. “You can’t joke about heavy shit like that.”
Lawrence follows suit with more gusto, slamming his own mug down with an ominous thunk. “Are you my friend or my mom? It’s annoying as hell.”
For all that bluster about me and Cole making everyone miserable when we fight, Lawrence should look in the mirror he shares with Javi.
“I’m going to bed. Try not to kill each other. I don’t want to train someone new.”
I nearly slam into Cole in the hallway as he emerges from the head, freshly showered, towel around his waist and nothing else, cock just visible beneath the terry cloth, water still dewing on his pebbled skin.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He startles in the most theatrical, obviously staged way. “Sorry. I didn’t see you there. I ran out of conditioner.”
“Your hair is an inch long.”
He flips invisible shoulder-length hair. “I’m trying to do more self-care.”
I grin. “Bullshit, Sunshine.”
He smiles all the way to his dimples, like the boy I’ve loved all my life, the man I missed this past year.
“Okay, fine. I wanted to smell like you.”
“Nah. You set a trap for me.”
“Me? I’d never.”
“Liar.” I open the door to our room. “Get your ass in here.” I snatch his towel from his waist on the way in.
Fuck. He’s been working out since I last saw him, the already tight muscles in his chest and thighs more defined.
I lock the door. “You don’t talk.”
He nods, submitting with blue eyes dilated. I want to tell him I need him, but I can’t do that. He has to.
I steal his mouth in a rough kiss, forcing my tongue inside, taking full advantage of the opportunity to get my fix after he deprived me.
But the kiss doesn’t quench my thirst. It only makes it worse.
I rock my hips into him, wishing we were skin to skin, resolve crumbling as I palm his pec and graze his nipple with my thumb, then work my other hand down his abs and around to squeeze his sexy ass.
But I can’t take it any further than that, and I definitely can’t take off my own pants. I don’t trust myself not to lose control and give him what we both want.
“What were you doing waiting for me in nothing but a slutty towel, hm?”
Before he can answer, I push my fingers between his lips, crank his mouth open, and spit into it.
“Don’t you dare swallow.”
He gives me a small, abortive nod.
“Let me remind you that when I left you at your loft…”
His eyes are so expressive, they turn down in the corners, projecting hurt.
“You caught that, huh?” I grip his cheeks, thumbs pressing into his jaw muscles, reminding him not to talk. “That loft stopped being ours the day you kicked me out. I was just too stupid to realize.”
He shakes his head.
“I told you that you have to fight for me, not rile me up so you get what you want.” I spit into his mouth again. “Tempting me like this is cruel. Selfish.” I exhale a frustrated growl through clenched teeth. “You don’t think I’m suffering enough already?”
He shakes his head again.
“This boat is claustrophobic as fuck, and there’s all these empty hours with nothing to do except miss you. I spend half of the time talking myself out of taking out all my pain on you, and the other half trying not to cry.”
Keeping his jaw hinged open, I drag him a few steps to the narrow sink.
“You don’t get to swallow. You don’t get to have anything from me. Not until you earn it.”
I angle his head down over the sink and release him with rough hands. “Now spit.”
He does what he’s told, and collapses forward, bracing his hands on the porcelain, breathing fast as the flush in his cheeks fills the reverse handprints I left, cock painfully hard, all ruddy with blood trapped inside, poor thing so neglected and wanting.
I click my tongue. “You love this, don’t you?”
I’m not a total monster. I’m just enjoying degrading him more than I usually do.
“Put these on.” I toss him a pair of dark sweatpants and boxer briefs.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you.”
“I’m not doing this to spare you the humiliation of walking back out there with your dick hard.
I’m doing it because I don’t want to look at you, but I don’t want anyone else to look at what’s mine.
That cock doesn’t belong to you anymore.
If you want me back, you’re not going to come.
Not unless you ask me first. Understood? ”
His brows dart together, his lips curve down into a small frown before he nods.
“Good.” I open the door. “Out.”
Every fisherman has an internal compass, one they were born with, fine-tuned with experience, all those subtle details filed away subconsciously, hundreds of days studying the sea. That’s a fisherman’s intuition.
Under the surface of every situation, your history is there, recognizing patterns, warning you of danger, telling you where to go next. You only run into trouble when you go against your instincts, when you let someone tell you it’s in your head.
Cole has his own intuition, just like the rest of us, but his navigation is fucked. I’m done listening to him. I go where my instincts tell me, and right now, my instincts are telling me to stay away from my husband.