Chapter 11: The Boathouse

The boathouse stood at the south end of the bay, a long shed on stilts with a slip door that opened onto black water.

Ray had found the key on a nail behind the dock box.

"Ten o'clock," he said. "The crew stops rolling at ten. Renata's in the trailer watching the dailies."

"How do you know the schedule?"

"I read the call sheet."

"You read the call sheet like a man who owns the building."

He opened the door without answering and held it for me.

Inside, it smelled of cedar and gasoline and old rope.

A wooden launch hung in a sling over the slip, and along the back wall ran a workbench scattered with tools.

Ray pulled a space heater out from under it and plugged it into a wall socket.

It clicked, glowed orange, and began to hum.

I stood in the middle of the floor with my coat on and my pulse in my throat.

"My daughter is coming tonight," I said.

"I know."

"I should be putting on lipstick and cleaning my fingernails."

"You should be doing exactly what you're doing."

"Which is what?"

He crossed the planks to me in three long steps.

"Standing here," said Ray, "looking at me like that."

I grabbed his collar and pulled his mouth down.

We kissed hard, with teeth, until my back found the workbench and the edge of it dug into my hips.

He picked me up under the thighs and set me on top of it.

Wrenches rolled and clattered onto the floor.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, and his hands pushed my coat off my shoulders and then my sweater up over my head.

The heater's orange glow ran over my skin.

Cold air and warm hands, both at once, and I shivered all the way down.

"I want you in my mouth," Ray said against my breast. "Tonight. Right now."

I stared at him.

"Here?"

"Here."

"On a workbench."

"It's a very good workbench."

I laughed until he lowered his head and drew my nipple between his teeth.

Then I stopped laughing.

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