Chapter 12: The Celebration of Independence

Oceano, California

July 4^th, 2004

“Oh my Gawd, no,” Chase Best said in an almost agonizing tone of voice, when the alarm on her Nokia 6100 phone began to issue its obnoxious melody—something called Groove Tone 3, which sounded like an ice cream truck giving birth. It was 4:00 AM, an ungodly hour for anyone to have to get up. She had only been asleep for about five hours or so. She wanted desperately to silence the cursed alarm and go back to sleep. But she would not do that. It was time to go fishing. She had driven all the way up here the day before for this fishing trip and she was damn sure going to be on the boat when it left the Morro Bay Marina an hour from now.

It was just soooo friggin’ early.

She pulled the covers off and sat up. She was nude as she had taken a bath in the jacuzzi tub in the guest room she was staying in before crashing out for the night. And she had discovered something profound during that bath. If she let one of the jacuzzi jet nozzles point directly at her vagina and clitoris, it felt good. It felt really good. She had squirted her way to three orgasms in this manner before climbing into bed, two more than any of her previous lovers had ever given her during a single session—and, in truth, only one lover had even managed to pull one from her. That one had been a project engineer who had been assigned to mentor her during her internship with the Bannock County department of civil engineering. And the reason he had been so good at it was because he had turned out to be married—not divorced as he had told her prior to their unprofessional hookup—and had been getting regular practice screwing his little Catholic wife.

Oh well, live and learn, she thought good naturedly. It wasn’t like she had intended to sleep with a married man. And the sex had been the best she’d ever had. A pity her stupid and inconvenient moral code had not allowed her to indulge any further once she found out the truth.

The smell of coffee penetrated her brain and served to perk her up a bit. She padded over to the bathroom and peed. She then brushed her teeth and put on the thong underwear and matching bra she had laid out the night before. She put on jeans and a pullover t-shirt with the Idaho State University’s mascot—a Bengal tiger—proudly displayed on the front. She then brushed out her long blonde hair and pulled it into a practical ponytail. Her ISU baseball cap went on her head and her Payless Shoes generic sneakers went on her feet. She followed the smell of coffee out of the room and down the hallway to the kitchen.

She had arrived at Uncle Jake and Aunt Laura’s mansion late the previous afternoon. Though she and Gracie had told Aunt Laura they wanted nothing to do with their judgmental grandmother and aunt and would stay in Los Angeles for the duration of the visit (if that was okay—which it was), the thrill and fun of the deep sea fishing trip had lured her in. She had grown up loving fishing and hunting waterfowl with her father and had been introduced to deep sea fishing by Uncle Jake on their first visit to see the Kingsleys back when she’d been fourteen years old and a dorky virgin. She loved the ocean, loved being out on it, loved looking at the vastness of it, feeling the power of it, and so she’d decided to suck it up and make the drive up to Oceano to enjoy it. Gracie, though she loved deep sea fishing as well, could not quite put aside her aversion to her biological family enough to make the trip with her. She and Gina—they were such a cute couple—were going to take Jake’s F-150 up to Griffith Park for the day.

Uncle Jake, Aunt Laura, and Caydee were already in the kitchen when she arrived, the adults pouring coffee and looking just as sleepy as she felt. All three were dressed for a summer day on the ocean—jeans and t-shirts for now, with sweaters and jackets packed for later. Out on the fickle Pacific, they had no idea what the wind or temperature might do.

“Good morning,” she grunted to them.

“Is it?” asked Uncle Jake.

“It will be after a hit of this Jamaican shit,” Aunt Laura said, referring to the Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee that was their typical morning brew. It was totally the best coffee in the world, hands down.

“We got time for one cup apiece and then we have to hit the highway,” Jake said. “I already have two thermoses packed in the fish ice chest for out on the boat.”

“Did you get the ocean forecast yet, Daddy?” asked Caydee, who had her hair in adorable pigtails.

“Just checked it while the coffee was brewing,” Jake said. “Winds fifteen to twenty after sunrise. The seas will be five to eight feet.”

“Is that a lot?” asked Chase. She was an Idahoan and knew little of the ocean’s ways.

“Mild to moderate seas,” Jake said. “Not exactly a mirror pond, but not quite clinging to the freakin’ mizzenmast level either.”

Chase nodded wisely and then asked, “What exactly is a mizzenmast? Does our boat even have one?”

“Are you questioning my nautical knowledge, young lady?” Jake asked sternly.

“Yes,” she said.

He smiled. “I have no idea what a mizzenmast is. It sounds boatie though, doesn’t it?”

Chase had to admit he was right. It did sound boatie.

She poured herself a mug of wakeup juice and carried it into the entertainment room, which was the nucleus of Kingsley Manor. The other houseguests and/or residents who were crazy enough to get their asses up at four in the freaking morning were all present and accounted for. There was Sean and Westin, the gay couple that served as housekeeper and chef. Though they were technically employees of the Kingsleys, they were more than just servants. They were part of the family and had family access to things such as annual holiday fishing trips. They were sitting together on one of the loveseats, both dressed in jeans and t-shirts with several other layers nearby.

Conspicuously absent from the gathering were her mom and dad, both of whom had been looking forward to the fishing trip for weeks, months maybe. But alas, it was not to be. Dad had been out body surfing with Jake and Celia and Caydee at Avila Beach the day before and had underestimated the power of the ocean. He had ended up “smoking some sand” as Uncle Jake put it, when his face slammed into the beach as the wave broke. This had resulted in a pulled muscle in his neck. He could not turn his head at all. And mom, though she had not been manhandled by the ocean, was staying with him. It was probably for the best for the rest of the household. Daddy, in her experience, made a terrible patient. Whatever he was sick with was worse than anyone else suffering it could possibly imagine.

And then there was Elizabeth, her father’s sister, a woman she had never met until arriving at Kingsley Manor an hour before dinner the night before. Her dad’s oldest sister, though she was still younger than Dad, who was the oldest of that generation of Bests. She sat stiffly in one of the recliners, as if the idea of reclining might make her appear too relaxed. She had a hint of her father’s facial features, but nothing else about her resembled him. She was dressed in a pair of jeans of her own and a thick, baggy sweater.

Chase did not like her. She did not like her one little bit. She found her judgmental and close-minded. Chase had given her a chance the night before. She truly and sincerely had. And she had found nothing to like about her father’s sister. In fact, she understood now why her father had kept her away from that part of the family all her life.

The night before—less than twenty minutes after meeting her for the first time—Elizabeth had decided it was perfectly appropriate to comment on Chase’s lifestyle. She seemed to believe that being biologically related gave her some kind of legally binding authority. Like auntiehood automatically came with a badge and a whistle.

“Is that alcohol you’re drinking, dear?” Elizabeth had asked, eyeing the double Chivas in Chase’s hand.

“Yes,” Chase had replied. “I’m a college student. It’s required that we drink to excess on a regular basis.”

“I’m sure they teach you that in college,” Elizabeth had replied, “but it’s not terribly becoming for a young lady to indulge in spirits.”

And that was all it took for Chase to make up her mind. Automatic fail of the respect test. There was no coming back from it. Elizabeth could pull her from a burning building at this point and she would thank her for it, but she would not respect her. And she would not call her “Aunt”. Aunt Laura and Uncle Jake had earned their titles. This woman never had and never could.

“Good morning, dear,” Elizabeth greeted.

“It’s certainly morning,” Chase said. She took a sip out of her mug and then looked directly at her non-aunt. “This is really good coffee,” she told her with a smile, silently daring her to say something about it.

She did not. Chase then turned to the two servants. “Hey, guys,” she greeted, considerably more cheer in her voice now.

“Good morning, Chase,” Sean said. “I trust you put your clothes in the hamper for collection when I resume duties?”

This was an ongoing battle between the two of them (a battle Sean always won) played out whenever she visited. Chase was a self-defined slob. She had lived her entire childhood sharing a room with her sister and subject to strict neatness rules from her mother. Now that she was out on her own and had no roommate or boyfriend living with her, she reveled in her ability to just throw her clothes on the floor and let them sit there until she decided to move them somewhere else or wash them. This behavior was in direct conflict with Sean’s Prime Directive.

“They will be in the hamper by the time you resume your duties,” Chase said with a smile.

“So, they are not there now then,” Sean said with sigh. It was not a question.

“It’s a Schrodinger’s Cat situation, Sean,” Chase told him. “You won’t know if there are clothes on the floor or not until you open the door of my room.”

“Clever,” Sean said. “I’m glad to see your college education is not going to waste. Just know that any clothes on the floor will remain there, dead or alive, Ms. Schrodinger.”

“Schrodinger’s Cat?” asked Elizabeth, a confused look on her face.

“Once of those things they taught me in college,” Chase said. Probably too thin to slip into your closed mind, she did not say.

They finished their coffee and then loaded up Uncle Jake’s black Navigator. Once all the ice chests and extra clothes were stowed in the back, they climbed in, Uncle Jake behind the wheel. Chase sat next to Caydee in the very rear of the vehicle. Elizabeth sat on the other side of Caydee.

“So ... this friend of yours that’s coming on the trip with us,” Elizabeth said to Caydee. “He’s a boy? A Mexican boy?”

“That is correct,” Caydee said politely. She said no more. Chase had picked up that her cousin did not care much for Elizabeth or Robin either. It had been clear as day the night before.

“He’s not really a Mexican boy,” Jake said. “He’s a United States citizen, born and raised in our country. He and his sister both. Not that that really matters.”

“Does he speak English?” Elizabeth wanted to know.

“Yeah,” Uncle Jake said slowly. “He’s pretty good with it.”

They were able to park close to the berth the fishing boat was in. It was the Black Pearl II, a fifty-eight footer, as the Captain called it, with twin diesel engines and a large enclosed cabin below the deck thingy where it was steered from. She had been out on it twice now and loved it. It was big enough to feel safe in out on the open ocean, and small enough to get tossed around in the swells. She, like cousin Caydee, was a fan of things like the bumpies and the bouncies and the rollie-pollies.

She’d been told that Brendt (he insisted on being called that) was still the captain of the Black Pearl II, but she hadn’t asked about the deckhands. There had been two on her previous trips: Travis Casey, a dreamboat of a man with thick, tanned arms covered in tattoos, and some older guy named Paul. She’d flirted shamelessly with Travis the first time she went out—only to get shot down before she could even leave the ground.

And dammit, she’d been cute back then.

That he’d been in his mid-twenties and she’d been fifteen at the time hadn’t factored into her thinking. She’d just assumed he was gay. Why else would a guy not flirt back?

When she helped carry gear up the ramp, she saw that Travis was still aboard. Dressed in work jeans and a sweater, he looked even better than she remembered—more mature, more solid. Her female eyes locked instinctively on his ring finger. There was now a band of gold there.

“Hi, Miss Chase,” he said with a warm smile. “Welcome aboard again.”

“Thank you,” she replied, matching his smile, though puzzling internally. Married? To who? Maybe he was one of the gay couples that got hitched in San Francisco a few months back when the mayor opened City Hall. Or maybe he just didn’t know what that ring meant. She wasn’t convinced he wasn’t gay. He’d turned her down that first trip and barely spoken to her on the second.

And Chase—who’d grown up cute, popular, and the object of steady male attention—still believed deep down that any guy who didn’t want her had to be gay. There was no other plausible explanation.

“You’re looking as pretty as ever, Miss Chase,” Brendt told her as she stepped into the main cabin. He was a handsome man for an older dude, with gray hair and a weathered face. He was still in amazing shape and she enjoyed his sense of humor and confidence. And he had even let her drive the boat once. That had been way cool.

“Thanks, Brendt,” she told him. “I drove all the way up from LA to be here. I love your fishing trips.”

“Always happy to have the Kingsley bunch aboard,” he said. “Let me introduce you to my new deckhand. Zane! Come down here for a minute.”

“Coming!” a voice said from above, up in the boat steering thingy deck.

A young man—younger than her by several years it appeared—came down the steps. He was thin but not emaciated. His face was cute, with bitchin’ brown eyes. His hair was long, almost as long as Uncle Jake’s. He was wearing jeans, deck shoes, and a yellow sweater with the name and silhouette of the boat on it.

Chase’s hormones took a little jump as she looked at him. Yes, he was younger than her, but he was old enough to work on a fishing boat as a deckhand. That made him over eighteen, right? And it had been four long months now since she had been laid. And that had been one of her crappiest lays ever! Fucking athletes! She had vowed never to attempt to engage with one again.

“This is my nephew, Zane,” Brendt said to group, which now included Uncle Jake, Aunt Laura, Caydee, and Elizabeth. “I hired him on last year after Paul bought his own rig. He’s grown up on this boat. Someday he might buy it from me.”