The water hitting tile. The soft sound of her humming something I don’t recognise. I can picture her—head tilted back, water running down her neck, her shoulders, her—
Stop it.
Okay, so maybe I do revisit one-night stands.
All cleaned up, I dry off in record time. Cleo is still in the shower. I can hear her humming.
It’s fine.
Everything is fine.
My bunk has a little curtain for privacy. I usually sleep with it open, but on the odd occasion I need space, I’ll happily slide that sucker shut.
Kit and Boot are still in the lounge, giving me enough time to get settled without interruption. Once my bunk is sealed off from the rest of the room, no one will disturb me.
I’m not stupid enough to try to sleep. My mind is too busy for that. Pulling out the well-worn copy of my favourite book, I open it to page one, for the millionth time. Dragons and pirates are my escape. I love a good sapphic fantasy, and this particular book hits all my spots.
Somehow, though, Cleo invades this part of my life, too. I’m reading, yet when I picture the character who is trying to escape her evil overlords, I see her face. She’s my MC. The MC I’ve read about over and over again. The one that has passionate and graphic sex with the other MC, who is a pirate. I’m at the part where Captain Thorne pins Lady Elara against the ship’s mast, all heat and desperation. It’s my favourite scene. I’ve read it dozens of times.
But now Lady Elara has Cleo’s face. Her voice. Her eyebrow raise when Captain Thorne says something cocky.
Great, now my book is ruined.
This is getting out of hand. Am I really that insecure that a simple comment from Cleo has me spinning out? Is my ego that fragile? Will I keep asking the same fucking questions until I go bonkers?
“Jesus fucking Christ.” My book gets launched to the other end of the bed.
“Romeo?”
Shit, I didn’t hear Kit come back.
“I’m fine,” I say through the curtain. I’m not fine.
“You sure about that, mate? Wanna talk?”
Believe it or not, I’m not one for deep conversations. I live a simple life that doesn’t require much reflection. I’ve always been the same way.My parents divorced when I was ten. It was an ugly fight, and it showed me the dark side of love. They tried to tell me it wouldn’t affect our family, but of course that was a lie.
Being an only child back then was the worst. I had no one to confide in, so I learned to deal with shit on my own. And by dealing with it, I mean I kept it locked up. Until I got old enough to cope with things by having meaningless sexual encounters, that is.
Mum and Dad did couples counselling both before and after they split, and it never helped. I’d say it made things worse, if I’m honest. They always came back angrier than before going. Whoever their fucking psychologist was sucked at their job.
They’d come home from sessions and immediately start fighting about what was said. Mum would cry. Dadwould slam doors. I’d hide in my room with headphones on, trying to drown it out.
That’s when I learned talking about feelings doesn’t fix anything. It just makes everything worse.
When I left for the Navy, I knew my life had to be different from theirs. No way was I going to settle for anything that made me miserable. To this date, it’s worked out great. Women make me happy. Sex makes me happy. The Navy makes me happy. So why are all the things that make me happy suddenly not?
Women still make me happy—or they did until two nights ago. Sex is my go-to stress relief, but tonight it only brought me more frustration. The Navy is still my life, but for once I wish I weren’t on board.
I’d kill to have my own place right now. A place to reset and get myself under fucking control.
“River? You gonna answer me?”
Closing my eyes, I grit my teeth. “All good, Kit.”
My curtain swishes open. I’m genuinely stunned because it’s an unwritten law that when the curtain is closed, you leave the person alone.
Kit parks her arse on the end of my bed. As far as I can see, Boot isn’t here.
