Pier Lights by Ella M. Kaye
Rated 18+ . All Rights Reserved.
~ One ~
Rated 18+ . All Rights Reserved.
~ One ~
Gripping the cool, damp sand at the edge of the water with her toes, Caroline raised her foot from its hole, extended the leg behind her, and let her body drift forward in balance. Balance was difficult in the sand. Still she managed a decent arabesque with her arms extended, one over her head, reaching out toward the soft waves of the Atlantic ocean, the other reaching up to the sky. Relaxing her foot, the one she so often cursed these days, she felt the sand tickle through her toes as it fell.
Her polish would scratch, she supposed. As late as it was already, she didn’t want to go home and repaint her toenails. Still, she dug. The lights of the pier sparkled in the dark to her right: a long string of lights beckoning her to join the festivities under the pavilion. Soft streams of jazz floated over along skimming waves.
She should dance on the pier. Normal dance. Not trained dance. Bringing her right leg and foot back to the ground, Caroline felt a long aching wail ready to stream forward from her tired soul. The soul that longed to dance. Trained dance. Not normal dance.
With a cleansing breath of briny ocean air, she decided it wouldn’t hurt to at least get close enough to the pier to hear voices. There was no reason to make the decision until morning. He’d given her that long.
The sand shifted under her feet and she moved closer to the water until waves brushed up over her toes, over her ankles, and deeper still until it splashed up onto her calves. Normally, she would never walk where she couldn’t see what her feet might find. Her feet were her lifeblood. Or they had been.
Now, she could walk where she pleased. Caroline did her best to convince herself the freedom would be worth it; it was the good side, where others had told her to focus. The good side. All in all, she would rather go back to watching every step. The good side had never been much of a friend that she’d been able to tell.
A pinch on her arch made her jump and she pulled her foot up to survey the damage. It was too dark to see whether there was blood or a protrusion. Rubbing her hand gently over the spot, she didn’t feel anything other than moisture, and the pain felt only surface deep. A prick from a sea shell, Caroline guessed. Payback for her negative thoughts. Karma was, after all, a true bitch.
Swishing her foot around in the cool water to soothe the pain, Caroline continued toward the lights, the music, the voices. She wouldn’t go up on the pier. That was far closer to people than she had any need to be. Instead, she made her way to the immense wooden support posts that looked to her like three rows of silent sentries leading from the base of the Folly Beach Fishing Pier, a long building held up by stilts, and extending a thousand-some feet into the ocean to an angled square platform featuring a two-story gazebo. As grand as the pier was, it was only a little speck of minor interruption to the ocean’s flow. It always made her feel insignificant to walk along under the pier and realize it didn’t matter to the ocean that she was there. It would still do whatever it was going to do, gladly taking out anything in its path along the way, without remorse.
Hand-in-hand couples nearly made her turn back. Caroline rolled her eyes. Wait until reality slaps in, little ones. Instead of turning back, she moved away from them, farther up the beach, underneath the long pier where locals and tourists talked and laughed and stomped against the wood planks above her head. Time to go home. She had an interview in the morning. Her looks mattered, and bags under her eyes wouldn’t help any more than would scratched toe nails.
Home. Caroline laughed at herself. The bed and breakfast barely off the beach wasn’t home. The three days she’d hidden inside didn’t make it hers, especially since she sounded like a visitor to South Carolina, which used to be home. Her voice training had been worth the cost. Her accent was all but gone. If anyone guessed, they guessed she was Canadian. She refuted it but never said where she was from. Caroline from South Carolina was far too worn out to have to listen to it one more time.
A shiver urged her out from under the pier, but she remained just inside the water’s edge, letting it splash her ankles. She’d gone farther than she realized. The outgoing path was always shorter than the return path. It was always true, whether or not it made sense.
Just before she moved out of the water to head back to her room, a flicker of light caught her eye. It was a moving flicker, similar to a lighthouse glow as it turned continuous circles, but far smaller. And far closer. She headed that direction. Caroline had always been too curious. Her mother had told her many times she was too curious. It killed the cat, so the story went. Caroline figured she was safe enough since she wasn’t a cat. She’d gone well past her nine lives of curiosity and it hadn’t killed her yet.
As she got close enough to find the source of the flicker, she decided it might not be all that safe. A man. A large man. With a sword. On a small boat. Alone.
Her gut told her to turn away, to go back to her room, to shower and redo her toe nails and sleep, in case her answer would be yes. Although in all truth, she expected it not to be. She only wanted the option.
The flicker came from the sword as he twirled it around his body. Twirled wasn’t the right word. That was what Caroline did. Or what she used to do. It was a delicate, graceful movement. But then, so was this man. He was a delicate, graceful movement, if she could allow herself to stretch the definition of the word delicate. His precision was. As far as she could tell, the sword moved in exactly the same path, repeated, smooth, strong, graceful. It moved like a dancer, but more deadly.
Depending on its intent.
As she moved closer, Caroline found herself wishing it was not quite so dark, that the moon was more than half full or that the light emanating from the bottom of his boat was stronger so she could see him better. He was dark haired. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Muscular. His dark shorts hugged his hips and thighs. His thighs were broad but toned. The rippled muscles of his chest were occasionally highlighted by the moon’s glint and the lights from the pier.
His face was mostly washed out by shadows. Only his chin showed. Odd.
The pattern changed, became faster, more intricate. His arm muscles surged and receded in imitation of the waves around him. By now, she was as close as she could get to him without getting her clothes wet. He was a good way out, standing up on the seat of the boat, balancing easily even while the small craft bounced with the gentle waves.
He stopped, chest expanding, shoulders circling, sword tip down between his feet.
Caroline stood in awe. His head was down. At rest.
A good time to leave. She stepped backward, slowly, tripped on a rock, and splashed into the water. Cursing, she righted herself, shivered from the shock of cold water and a slight breeze brushing against her still sun-heated skin.
He was looking her direction, as far as she could tell. His head tilted. Slightly. Held still.
She shuffled backward, slowly. The nick on the bottom of her foot pinched, so she curled her foot to take pressure off as she continued her slow creep away from the sword. He didn’t move. He watched her. Or she imagined he watched her. It was dark. She was too far away, in black calf-length leggings and a long dark gray short-sleeved tunic. He couldn’t see her.
To test her theory, she edged to the side, out of the water, still backward, away from the angle his face pointed.
His head followed.
Her stomach clenched and she turned, nearly jogging up the beach toward the sidewalk that would take her back to her room. Caroline glanced back several times, but there was no sign that he followed. As far as she knew, he was still on that little boat, with his big sword resting between his legs.
With her heartbeat calm again, she caught the spicy whiff of Taco Boy near the Beachside Bed and Breakfast and detoured that direction. When had she last allowed herself greasy tacos? She didn’t remember.
Tonight, she would splurge, although she’d have to get them to go since she couldn’t sit in the place soaked to the skin.
Tomorrow, she would decide whether to audition for the job.
Her polish would scratch, she supposed. As late as it was already, she didn’t want to go home and repaint her toenails. Still, she dug. The lights of the pier sparkled in the dark to her right: a long string of lights beckoning her to join the festivities under the pavilion. Soft streams of jazz floated over along skimming waves.
She should dance on the pier. Normal dance. Not trained dance. Bringing her right leg and foot back to the ground, Caroline felt a long aching wail ready to stream forward from her tired soul. The soul that longed to dance. Trained dance. Not normal dance.
With a cleansing breath of briny ocean air, she decided it wouldn’t hurt to at least get close enough to the pier to hear voices. There was no reason to make the decision until morning. He’d given her that long.
The sand shifted under her feet and she moved closer to the water until waves brushed up over her toes, over her ankles, and deeper still until it splashed up onto her calves. Normally, she would never walk where she couldn’t see what her feet might find. Her feet were her lifeblood. Or they had been.
Now, she could walk where she pleased. Caroline did her best to convince herself the freedom would be worth it; it was the good side, where others had told her to focus. The good side. All in all, she would rather go back to watching every step. The good side had never been much of a friend that she’d been able to tell.
A pinch on her arch made her jump and she pulled her foot up to survey the damage. It was too dark to see whether there was blood or a protrusion. Rubbing her hand gently over the spot, she didn’t feel anything other than moisture, and the pain felt only surface deep. A prick from a sea shell, Caroline guessed. Payback for her negative thoughts. Karma was, after all, a true bitch.
Swishing her foot around in the cool water to soothe the pain, Caroline continued toward the lights, the music, the voices. She wouldn’t go up on the pier. That was far closer to people than she had any need to be. Instead, she made her way to the immense wooden support posts that looked to her like three rows of silent sentries leading from the base of the Folly Beach Fishing Pier, a long building held up by stilts, and extending a thousand-some feet into the ocean to an angled square platform featuring a two-story gazebo. As grand as the pier was, it was only a little speck of minor interruption to the ocean’s flow. It always made her feel insignificant to walk along under the pier and realize it didn’t matter to the ocean that she was there. It would still do whatever it was going to do, gladly taking out anything in its path along the way, without remorse.
Hand-in-hand couples nearly made her turn back. Caroline rolled her eyes. Wait until reality slaps in, little ones. Instead of turning back, she moved away from them, farther up the beach, underneath the long pier where locals and tourists talked and laughed and stomped against the wood planks above her head. Time to go home. She had an interview in the morning. Her looks mattered, and bags under her eyes wouldn’t help any more than would scratched toe nails.
Home. Caroline laughed at herself. The bed and breakfast barely off the beach wasn’t home. The three days she’d hidden inside didn’t make it hers, especially since she sounded like a visitor to South Carolina, which used to be home. Her voice training had been worth the cost. Her accent was all but gone. If anyone guessed, they guessed she was Canadian. She refuted it but never said where she was from. Caroline from South Carolina was far too worn out to have to listen to it one more time.
A shiver urged her out from under the pier, but she remained just inside the water’s edge, letting it splash her ankles. She’d gone farther than she realized. The outgoing path was always shorter than the return path. It was always true, whether or not it made sense.
Just before she moved out of the water to head back to her room, a flicker of light caught her eye. It was a moving flicker, similar to a lighthouse glow as it turned continuous circles, but far smaller. And far closer. She headed that direction. Caroline had always been too curious. Her mother had told her many times she was too curious. It killed the cat, so the story went. Caroline figured she was safe enough since she wasn’t a cat. She’d gone well past her nine lives of curiosity and it hadn’t killed her yet.
As she got close enough to find the source of the flicker, she decided it might not be all that safe. A man. A large man. With a sword. On a small boat. Alone.
Her gut told her to turn away, to go back to her room, to shower and redo her toe nails and sleep, in case her answer would be yes. Although in all truth, she expected it not to be. She only wanted the option.
The flicker came from the sword as he twirled it around his body. Twirled wasn’t the right word. That was what Caroline did. Or what she used to do. It was a delicate, graceful movement. But then, so was this man. He was a delicate, graceful movement, if she could allow herself to stretch the definition of the word delicate. His precision was. As far as she could tell, the sword moved in exactly the same path, repeated, smooth, strong, graceful. It moved like a dancer, but more deadly.
Depending on its intent.
As she moved closer, Caroline found herself wishing it was not quite so dark, that the moon was more than half full or that the light emanating from the bottom of his boat was stronger so she could see him better. He was dark haired. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Muscular. His dark shorts hugged his hips and thighs. His thighs were broad but toned. The rippled muscles of his chest were occasionally highlighted by the moon’s glint and the lights from the pier.
His face was mostly washed out by shadows. Only his chin showed. Odd.
The pattern changed, became faster, more intricate. His arm muscles surged and receded in imitation of the waves around him. By now, she was as close as she could get to him without getting her clothes wet. He was a good way out, standing up on the seat of the boat, balancing easily even while the small craft bounced with the gentle waves.
He stopped, chest expanding, shoulders circling, sword tip down between his feet.
Caroline stood in awe. His head was down. At rest.
A good time to leave. She stepped backward, slowly, tripped on a rock, and splashed into the water. Cursing, she righted herself, shivered from the shock of cold water and a slight breeze brushing against her still sun-heated skin.
He was looking her direction, as far as she could tell. His head tilted. Slightly. Held still.
She shuffled backward, slowly. The nick on the bottom of her foot pinched, so she curled her foot to take pressure off as she continued her slow creep away from the sword. He didn’t move. He watched her. Or she imagined he watched her. It was dark. She was too far away, in black calf-length leggings and a long dark gray short-sleeved tunic. He couldn’t see her.
To test her theory, she edged to the side, out of the water, still backward, away from the angle his face pointed.
His head followed.
Her stomach clenched and she turned, nearly jogging up the beach toward the sidewalk that would take her back to her room. Caroline glanced back several times, but there was no sign that he followed. As far as she knew, he was still on that little boat, with his big sword resting between his legs.
With her heartbeat calm again, she caught the spicy whiff of Taco Boy near the Beachside Bed and Breakfast and detoured that direction. When had she last allowed herself greasy tacos? She didn’t remember.
Tonight, she would splurge, although she’d have to get them to go since she couldn’t sit in the place soaked to the skin.
Tomorrow, she would decide whether to audition for the job.