2. Seth
Seth
It’s been a nonstop carnival ride ever since we entered Bristol Bay to scope out our usual fishing grounds. Eight-to-ten-foot swells break against the Suoja’s bow, seven seconds between them.
Welcome to king crab season, says the ocean, good luck, fuckers.
I’m woken from a two-hour nap by a particularly nasty wave knocking me into the wall. The first thing I do is check my skull for a knot. The second thing I do is laugh and pull on my bibs. Aside from the new bruises, I’m feeling pretty refreshed.
Nothing’s better than a nice hard sleep on rough seas.
Especially when the cyclic whoosh of water building, rising, crashing, grows loud enough to drown out the sound of the engine, and all you’re left with is a pleasant vibration against sore muscles.
I was sort of hoping the weather would simmer down by the time I needed to be on deck to bait and secure the pots for our first drop, but calm wasn’t in the cards.
That’s fishing. Some days the ocean’s greasy flat, the sun’s shining, and you’re rolling in cash. Some days you’re coming up empty, growing icicles from your beard, and trying not to get tossed the fuck overboard.
Some people endure the bad days for the high of a good day, but maybe I’m a bit of a masochist. There’s something cathartic about getting slapped around by Mother Nature.
I pull on the rest of my gear. Hat, gloves, jacket, boots.
My body adjusts to the movement of the ship as I make my way down the narrow hall and up the staircase to the galley.
But as soon as I hear the clatter of someone digging through the pantry, my balance is lost. I stumble up the last three steps, peeking through the doorway.
A different sort of wave crashes over me. It feels a lot bigger than ten feet and a lot colder than forty-one degrees, even though it’s exactly six-foot-one and a toasty ninety-eight-point-six.
Nicolas Lundvall is the only captain I’ve ever met who cooks for his crew, and I’ve met many.
I dropped out of high school at sixteen to start tendering, and I’ve worked everywhere you can work on a boat.
I’ve gutted mackerel on a sleazy factory trawler.
I’ve sweated my ass off in the engine room as an oiler.
I’ve been a guide on saltwater fishing tours.
I’ve worked on 20-foot skiffs and 160-foot crab boats.
I’ve worked with captains who are too old and too young, too bullheaded and too laid back, and everything in between.
And then I took a job aboard the Suoja, and it wasn’t just the ocean that felt like home to me anymore. It was this ship, this crew. This captain.
Nick is one of a kind, that’s what he is.
He waits until everyone else is available to handle things on deck, then he makes his way down here—running on as tragically little sleep as the rest of us—and whips up something hearty and warm and packed with all those sweet, sweet fats, proteins, and carbs your body craves when you’re burning 10,000 calories in a day.
And when he’s finished, he either takes his own meal back up to the bridge to relieve whoever’s driving, or he forgets to eat entirely.
I’ve known Nick for four years, so I know how he operates. I know I should’ve expected to see him prepping a meal now that my shift has started, but I still have to stand here and wait for my body to catch up to my brain.
Or, okay. I don’t have to.
Nick has his back turned to me, his ash-blond hair sticking up all over the place thanks to hat-frizz. The cranking waves don’t affect him one bit while he stands at the counter, assembling a dozen roast beef sandwiches like a one-man deli during a New York City lunch rush.
He’s effortlessly steady, his hips rotating, shoulders shifting, knees bending to accommodate each pitch of the boat. A lifetime fisherman, his body attuned to absorbing the impact of the ocean.
He stoops, unlocking one of the cabinets to grab another loaf of bread, and I give myself one more second.
Just one more second to watch him from the shadows of the staircase.
One long second, because I don’t have much self-control when it comes to him.
How am I supposed to, when he’s all winter-gray eyes beneath those tense brows, windburnt-pink cheeks against creamy skin, and rock-solid muscle hidden by far too many layers of clothing?
When he’s bent over, and his sweatpants are so perfectly molded to his ass that I can see every innate twitch his muscles make to correct and maintain his balance?
My knees go weak. I wish I could drop onto them, right on the floor of the galley. Behind him. In front of him. Wish I could make his brow furrow deeper, in a different way.
Okay—yeah. It’s been longer than a second. But it’s hard to cut myself off when I’ve already wasted the last four years pining over a straight man. A straight man who’s diligent and kind and one-hundred percent oblivious about my obsession with him.
I take a deep breath and try to step into the galley like a man who’s spent the last sixteen years working on fishing boats, not a toddler learning to walk.
“Mornin’, Nicky!” I say, impressing myself when his eyes meet mine and the next swell doesn’t immediately toss my limp body into the dinette.
“Good morning” doesn’t really mean anything here. We all sleep and rise on different schedules, and you don’t get a scenic sunrise or chirping songbirds at 0500 in the Bering Sea. It’s still pitch-dark outside and will be for hours.
Nick glances at me. “Morning.”
“Need any help?”
“Oh no, don’t worry about it. I’m almost done here.”
He turns back to the task at hand, spreading mayo and mustard between the meat and cheese slices. So the bread doesn’t get soggy.
That’s how thoughtful Nick is, and I was supposed to not develop a crush on him? The odds were all stacked against me.
I start helping him anyway, wrapping up the sandwiches as he finishes them and packing them into a freezer bag.
Not that it’s altruistic. In fact, it’s mostly self-serving.
An excuse to spend a few more minutes with him.
To stand close enough that his forearm brushes mine and his hip bumps into me as the boat rocks.
He could order me up to the deck and I would go, but I’m grateful he doesn’t.
“Sleep well?” he asks.
“Like a rock. No nap like a boat nap.”
He grunts in agreement, rolling a slice of roast beef and provolone together to snack while he works. “Glad to hear it.”
“Glad to see you actually eating.”
“What? Do I look malnourished to you?”
“Not at all.” You look strong enough to take everything I’d give you if I pinned you up against this counter right now. Wanna find out? “But you know what I mean. You get caught in your own little world up there.”
“There’s a lot to pay attention to.”
“And your brain needs food to function.”
“I’m functioning just fine. Concentrate on your own brain.”
“All I do in my free time is eat.” I pat my stomach. “So the issues with my brain aren’t fuel related. Must be structural.”
He laughs under his breath and keeps the assembly line going.
Mayo, mustard, close, wrap, bag. Mayo, mustard—
The gush and hiss of water outside is our only warning before a particularly large wave picks up the Suoja and slams her down.
The mayo bottle drops onto the floor and rolls under the cabinets. Nick’s body gets thrown into mine, and his hands fly to the counter to steady us both. His thigh presses against the length of mine. Half of his chest covers my back. His arms cage us together.
His warm breath fans my neck, an exhale, and then a soft stutter of a laugh as he eases back. “Sorry about that.”
I pray we get a storm within the next two seconds. Something strong enough to slam him back up against me, where he belongs.
“Perry’s driving, huh?” I joke, making a useless attempt to swallow the wad of cotton at the back of my throat.
“The wind and the tide are fighting each other,” he says. “Should get better in a couple hours.”
He picks up the mayonnaise bottle, gaze dropping to my legs. Or to…?
I’m way more disappointed than I have any right to be when I see he’s looking at a condiment splatter that struck my overalls.
He’s straight, Seth. He fucks women. Get a grip.
But all I get a grip on is the countertop when Nick takes a paper towel and crouches in front of me. One hand grabbing my calf, the other wiping away the mayo on my thigh.
I stare at his head and force myself to think of Amber.
I bet she’s tall and leggy and has great tits.
I bet she’s confident and extroverted, and she was drawn to Nick because he’s all quiet and mysterious at first. But she stuck around because she found out he’s a giver under all that stoicism.
He cares about people, and he shows it with actions above words.
Not that it matters what Amber is like. She’s a woman. That’s what I need to remember about her.
Nick glances up at me before he stands and—because our interactions are basically a humiliation ritual for me at this point—I smirk and say, “Whoops, sorry about that. You know how excited I get about opening day.”
Nick is already pretty fair, but color leeches from his face. His eyes widen. I’m contemplating fashioning a plank to walk my dumb ass off of when he finally chuckles and shakes his head.
“Definitely a structural issue,” he says, a little thickly. “You’re something else, Rit.”
No, I feel like something very, very basic right now. Something primitive.
Nick, however, feels nothing, because he seamlessly transitions back to work as he finishes with the sandwiches. “I’m thinking we hit up our hot spots from last year before pushing a little farther north. Check out those markers we dropped during cod season. Any thoughts?”
“I like it.” I nod. “I heard Captain Ericsen saying they had good luck over by the Pribilofs last season. Might be worth tossing a few strings over there and seeing what we pull up.”
“Even better if we beat him to it. He’d love that.”
I set aside two of the sandwiches for us and hand Nick the baggies I filled. He zips them up, setting them in the fridge with the leftover ingredients and reenabling the safety lock on the door.
“Feel free to send the guys down ahead of schedule if they finish up early. I want all hands well rested for tomorrow. It’ll be a hard push, but the weather’s looking decent and everyone’ll get a bit of a break while we run up to the islands.”
“Copy.”
My heart already aches knowing our few minutes together have come to an end, but it worsens, aggressively, when Nick holds eye contact. Offering me one of those small, personal smiles I’ve never seen him give to anyone else.
“I know I don’t say it enough, but I’m glad you’re here, Rittenburg. Makes my job easier, knowing I can rely on you.”
It’s not at the top of the list of compliments I wish he’d pay me, but it’s all I can get from him, and so my greedy heart swallows it like the last drop of fresh water to a sailor stranded at sea.
“Ah, that’s not true. You’ve told me before, Cap’.”
“Nowhere near as often as I’ve thought it, though.”
What else have you thought about me?
Even if I could ask, his answer wouldn’t be what I want to hear.
Sometimes I think I keep coming back to the Suoja, season after season, for the same reason I keep coming back to the ocean. It feels good to exist on the water, even if I was never meant to call it my home. It feels good to be appreciated by Nick, even if I’ll never be wanted by him.
Uuussshhh, tssss, the next wave builds.
“Well, I—”
Bang.
The sound of metal on metal is still echoing through the cabinets when I’m thrown into Nick. My chest crashes into his and sends us both tumbling down.
He collapses onto the steps leading from the deck down to the galley, his arms reflexively wrapping around me. One hand cups the back of my head, protecting my skull, and the other grabs a fistful of my hoodie as I fall on top of him. Sprawled over his chest.
I try to open my mouth to laugh it off, but a shocked, wanton breath slips out instead. And I don’t laugh. I don’t say anything at all. I don’t even have the decency to look away when he finally loosens his grip.
I just stare down at him, my body blurring out every ache and pain, and honing in on the way his knees feel bracketing my hips. The way his chest feels pushing against mine when he breathes in. The way he blinks up at me, lips parted, fingers still brushing my hair and splayed over my lower back.
“Are you okay?” he asks breathlessly.
Of course he’s breathless. All 190 pounds of me crashed into him like a longliner into a piling.
But I hear his voice, and all I can think about is what it would sound like if he was saying my name. Grinding his hips against mine. Whispering, I want you. I need you.
“Yeah. I’m okay.”
No. I’m fucking not.
I’m hot all over. There are so many goddamned layers of clothing between me and him, and it’s a blessing, because my cock is responding to this position.
Keenly. But if this is the only time I ever get to have him beneath me, fucking hell do I wish I could feel him more—feel him everywhere he’s hard, everywhere he’s soft, everywhere he’s sensitive.
“You?” I remember to ask, pushing myself up to create some space.
That’s when, I swear to god, he groans.
At first, I think maybe I just want to hear him groan.
Because it’s taking every ounce of my restraint not to grab his ankles and prop his feet on the next step higher.
Feel that round, tight ass against my aching dick, and tell him, “I fucking love your ass, Nicky. No one should look that hot in bibs and cargos.”
But then his hands fall away from me, and I hear that same soft sound again.
“I’m fine,” he says so quietly, I have to read his lips over the bellow of the engine.
My eyes search his for any trace of pain, but come up empty. What I do find, I can’t discern.
Fear?
Disgust?
Confusion?
Concern?
Whatever it is, I’m sure he wants me to get the hell off him but is too polite to yell at me.
These are far from the roughest waves I’ve encountered, but it’s the hardest time I’ve ever had getting back on my feet. I hold out a hand to Nick, but his callused palm only clasps mine for a second before he’s standing sturdy and unshakeable.
“See you on deck,” he says roughly, brushing past me to get to the interior entrance to the bridge.
“Wait.” I grab the sandwich I set aside for him off the counter, tossing it to him. “Don’t forget to eat.”
He tips his chin and heads up to the wheelhouse, footsteps hurriedly thumping up the stairs.
Only after I hear him moving around overhead do I let out the words I’ve been biting back. One word, in particular.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck.”