Chapter 32

“Go home with the one that brung ye,” he said.

I thought about that. I remember, more than once, that Cyn left with one guy and came home with another. “She interests you?”

“Any man that likes women would be interested. I’m male ... it’s how we’re wired. I knew your mom. If you look like she did before she died ... and I can see that you will ... I’d have to be crazy to dump you for that redheaded bit of fluff.”

Two was looking sullen. “I’m right here,” she said ... and she was ... standing on the deck of John’s boat.

“Who could not notice?” John said.

“Fluff?” Two whined. “Fluff? Fluff ... I’ll show you fluff.” And she did.

Two was wearing ... and that’s a misnomer for her attire ... Tropical Island Beach wear. She grabbed the cups and lifted them off the mammary acreage, they didn’t rebound or bobble ... they did shimmer a bit. Two’s top wasn’t for support. Support was one thing she didn’t need ... it was for modesty. Not her modesty ... for the island inhabitants modesty ... and they didn’t have much.

Every island in the archipelago had a few nude beaches ... they might not be the easiest reached but they were there and every teen body knew where they were.

Two knew where they were. Of course she did ... extremely advanced scientists know everything ... just like omniscient gods ... no matter what the scientists claim.

“Two?” I had been noticing the dinghy she had used to motor over from MY catamaran to my present location ... John’s monohull.

“Yesss?” Two responded.

“Is That my dinghy?”

She shuffled her feet and looked around, anywhere but at us. “Umh ... yes,” Two said.

“Hmmm ... John ... load up ... let’s go ashore. Not you, Two. Someone needs to watch the boat.”

A pull on the starter rope handle, a shift to forward, John grabbed the bow line and leaned back. The bow came up and we were planing. A turn to starboard...

“It’ll take a couple of minutes,” I said as we powered away, “Then she’ll realize nobody guards their boats.”

“Think she’ll be mad?” John said.

“She won’t get mad ... she’ll get even,” I said.

“You know her,” he said.

“All my life ... I’ll not call her a friend ... she’s a buddy of my mothers.”

“Your mother? Good lord, Surprise! She can’t be 19.”

“She wears well.”

When we walked into last nights scene of ribald debauchery, the bartenders greeted me by name and presented me with whatever drink it was that turned my life inside out.

“You going to dance for us again?”