Dead Over Heels (9 page)

But he wasn’t entirely surprised when she came back. It seemed she was doomed to always come back. This time she didn’t bother knocking, just popped up out of the water and said, “What are feminine wiles?”

“They’re when you grow gorgeous long legs and flop into the boat like a wet dream come true, and I’m so busy trying not to stare at your bush and your legs and your boobs and your eyes that you can pretty much talk me into anything.”

“And a ‘wet dream’?”

“Forget about it.”

“But you feel better now, yes?”

“Yes,” he grumped.

“Then I think it is past time you left.”

He waved his arms around, trying not to fall out of the boat. “We’re in the middle of the South Pacific! And I’ve only got one oar.”

“So jump in,” she said with barely concealed impatience.

“I, uh, can’t swim.”

She blinked and said nothing.

“Okay,” he said, “I’m well aware of the irony of a survival expert who gets his ass stranded, can’t stand to eat raw fish, loses an oar, and can’t swim. I’m
aware
, ’kay? But see, I’m the
star
. I don’t have to do those things, I just have to be able to tell people about them.”

“I had no idea,” she marveled, “that bipeds were so completely helpless.”

“You shut up.”

“And in fact,” she pointed out, “you
do
have to do those things.”

“Well, I can’t,” he grumped, “so stop with the nagging.”

“That’s all right,” she soothed.

“
You’re
in a good mood.”

“I’ve never had a pet before.”

He had just flopped back down, but now bolted upright in outrage. “I’m not your goddamned pet!”

“You are a creature who would die without my help, who needs constant tending, and who cannot get out of trouble on his own. Is that not a pet?”

He sputtered and fought the urge to seize a handful of her long hair and yank. Dimly, part of him realized that he was overreacting, that he was getting in real trouble and needed to get to land and protein pronto, but most of his brain was consumed with rage.

“I am not your fucking pet!”

“Oh, but you are,” she went on with maddening cheer. “Do not fear; have I not taken excellent care of you so far?”

He seized the lone oar, wrenched it out of the oar-lock, and smacked her over the head with it.

“Ouch!” she cried, while he stared at the cracked oar. She really
did
have a head like a coconut. “Bad, bad biped!”

“Jeez, I’m sorry, I don’t know what . . . came . . . over . . .” Then everything fuzzed out and he collapsed back into the boat.

R
eanesta shook him gently, and he eventually opened his eyes and grinned dizzily at her. “Hey, you’ve got legs again!”

“It was the quickest way to get into the boat. I think you’d better actually
eat
some fish now, instead of just drinking the bl—the fluids.”

“I’ll tell you, I could murder a steak right now. Oh, and I’m really, really sorry I hit you. You should whip my ass.”

“You are not yourself. I was wrong to tease you about being a pet.”

“That was teasing?”

“I am not funny,” she informed him.

“No, no, it was hilarious.” He forced a giggle. “I just, uh, wasn’t tracking very well.”

“See here,” she said. “I have descaled this fish and broken it into small chunks. Won’t you sit up and try some?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Please, Con?”

He wasn’t sure if it was the “please,” or her use of his name, or sheer desperation, but whatever it was, it changed his mind. “Okay,” he said, and sat up too fast, and the bow dipped and swayed (more than usual) and the sky spun a crazy blue until things settled down. “Oooooh, boy! What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

“Really? You guys keep track of the days of the week?”

“Stop stalling and chew.”

He opened his mouth to protest, and she stuffed a slimy, fishy chunk inside. He held his nose and chewed, gagged, chewed more, swallowed, gagged again, held his head over the side of the boat, and threw it up.

“Again,” she said impassively, but he was so tired and wrung out, even the sight of her breasts hanging in his face failed to distract him, or even interest him that much.

No question: he was dying. The day he didn’t take notice of a terrific rack was the day they’d—

“Again,” she said, and stuffed another chunk into his mouth. He held his nose again, chewed, swallowed, gagged . . . and kept it down.

She fed him for about half an hour, occasionally disappearing for more fish, which she beheaded, scaled, and chopped up (with her teeth? He didn’t want to think about it) before getting back into the boat. He managed to keep about a dozen pieces down.

“I’m sorry,” he groaned, tossing his cookies (his rainbow fish) once again. “This must be so disgusting for you.”

“It’s fine. You’re doing quite well. Fear not, you will be home soon.”

“Naw, I won’t. But you’re sweet to say so. I’m gonna nap now, ’kay?”

Her lips were moving, but he had no idea what she was saying, and then his eyes slipped shut and he knew no more.

W
hen he woke up, the sun was setting and he felt much better. Ree was swimming aimlessly around his boat, and when he sat up she swam straight over.

“How are you?”

“Better. Almost human and everything! Except for the smell. Whoo! How do you stand it, honey?”

“You cannot help it,” she said with typical bluntness. “Listen, I have a plan. Perhaps I could try to find another of my kind and we could get help.”

He peered at her. “How come you sound so doubtful?”

“You were correct; we
are
in the middle of nowhere. And my telepathic range is very limited. It might take days to find help and by then you’d—ah—”

“Telepathic—oh, right! I read about that, in
News-week
I think. How all you mer-guys are telepaths. That must come in handy.”

“Right now,” she said grimly, “it seems a fairly useless talent.”

“Aw, don’t be so hard on yourself. I—what’s the matter?”

For she had turned her head and was looking off into the distance, straight (or so it seemed to him) into the setting sun.

“That hammerhead shark is back,” she said casually.

He nearly shrieked. “Hammerhead?” Then, “Back?”

“Yes, it occasionally noses around, mostly while you’re uncon—asleep. I keep warning it away.”

“Oh—the telepathy. You talk to fish, too?”

“Of course. But she’s heavy with pup and is not inclined to listen. I—oh, in the king’s name,” she said, exasperated, and this time he could see the fin arrowing out of the water toward Ree.

“I will come back,” she said, and dived to meet it.

“Ree!” he screamed. “Get in the boat with me!” But she couldn’t hear him, so he lunged over the side—and sank like a stone.

L
uckily, he’d taken a big breath before hitting the water, and even better, the water was warm, but the salt stung his eyes and for a moment he couldn’t see anything.

Then he saw Ree darting to meet the shark, which looked like it had about a zillion teeth. He wished
he
was telepathic; he’d tell her to get the fuck away from it. He wished he’d thought to grab the oar on the way down. He wished he’d taken those swim lessons at the Y.

He clumsily swung his arms in the water and made about half a foot of forward progress. Meanwhile, Ree had deftly caught the shark—an eight footer!—by the jaws and was holding them open. Then she reared up, let go of the jaws, and grabbed it by the hammer-thing. It snapped, but Ree was too quick and it missed her tail by about four inches.

Then—he wondered if the salt was blinding him, because he was having trouble believing his eyes—still holding onto the hammer, Ree somehow lunged forward—and took a bite out of the shark’s back!

The shark tried to rear away from her and she let it, giving it a smack on the fin as it sped away from her, trailing blood. Then she turned and her eyes widened as she saw him.

He managed a wave, still sinking, trying to drown without being too much trouble, and she arrowed toward him, seized him under the armpits, then darted toward the surface. He was amazed; she was swimming, with his bulk, even faster than he had sunk.

They popped to the surface and he took a breath, then coughed. “Lucky I was there to save your ass,” he gasped, suddenly conscious of her breasts pressing against the back of his T-shirt.

She heaved him into the boat like a sack of potatoes—Christ, she was strong!—not once letting up with the scolding. “What were you thinking, stupid Con? You cannot swim! You would have had
no
chance against a pregnant shark, particularly that breed. She was starving, which is the only reason I did not kill her, but if she comes back I
will
kill her, and you, too, if you do such a foolish thing ever again.”

“Couldn’t let you get eaten on my account.”

“We are the top of the food chain in the ocean, as you are on land, stupid Con! I was in no danger.”

“Now you tell me,” he mumbled.

She paddled agitatedly around the boat for a minute, then said, “I cannot put this off any longer. You need land.”

“Now you tell me,” he said again.

“I do not know how long it will take. It may take too long.”

“Whatever,” he said, yawning.

She seized the bow (or was it the stern?) of the boat with one hand and started to swim. Slowly, the boat started to move. He tried to sit up, thinking he could help row with the (broken) oar, but saw at once it was no good—he’d cracked it too thoroughly on her head.

So he flopped back in the boat and dozed. He had no idea what she was up to, but felt perfectly safe. Anyone who could fight off a hammerhead in ten seconds could certainly manage
his
destiny.

H
e woke up to a gorgeous sunrise, to see Ree stumbling through the surf, dragging the boat behind her. “We are here,” she croaked, looking at him with enormous dark-ringed eyes. She staggered forward onto the sand of the small beach and collapsed, deeply asleep almost at once.

He scrambled out of the boat (which she had considerately hauled up on land for him) and went to her, gently touching her shoulder. She must have hauled the boat all fucking night, he thought, appalled and amazed. And was out cold from sheer exhaustion.

He stripped off his shirt and covered her with it, then went to look for firewood. The island was tiny—he could walk the length of it in less than ten minutes—but had lots of shrubbery and trees, and he had no trouble finding plenty of kindling and firewood. Then he went to the rowboat and found the matches.

One thing he
could
do was start a fire with a minimum of matches, and the wood was nice and dry. By the time Ree woke up, he had a nice blaze going.

“Oh, good, now you can cook,” she said groggily, sitting up and shaking the sand out of her hair.

“I can’t believe you towed the boat all night! You’re an angel!”

“Oh, well,” she said modestly, but looked pleased. “I am a hungry angel. I will come back.”

“Wait!” He pressed her back into the sand. “Aren’t you pooped? Maybe you should rest awhile.”

“No,” she said firmly, removing his hands from her shoulders. “I have responsibilities.”

“I’m not your damned pet!”

“Yes, but you have no fishing gear and are still starving. Also, did you find the fresh stream on the north side of the island?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But there’s plenty of coconuts we can eat; they’re all over the ground.”

“Cooked fish will be better for you.” She stood, shaking out her long hair. Then seemed to remember something. “I, ah, apologize for my appearance.”

He goggled at her. “Huh?”

“I am aware of your cultural taboo against nudity. If I had clothes I would wear them, so as not to offend you.”

“Uh, Ree, where I come from, a gorgeous woman walking around naked is
not
offensive.”

She relaxed. “Oh. Perhaps I was misinformed. Very well. I will come back.”

“I’ll be here,” he promised, watching her dart into the surf and make the cleanest dive he’d ever seen. Her legs went in and he saw a saucy flash of her tail and then she was gone. Again.

He flopped back down in the sand. God, it was so great to be on land and out of that nasty little boat! And with fascinating company, no less. If he ever got out of this mess, he’d have the most amazing comeback show in the history of the channel! He’d tell them all about Ree and how she saved his life and fought a shark and tugged the boat to an island and brought him food. And—

If he got out of this—if he was rescued—he doubted Ree would come with him. And what would he do without her? He’d
die
without her.

Once he was back on land, he wouldn’t be in any danger. He wouldn’t need Ree.

Except that felt like the biggest lie on land
or
sea.

R
eanesta felt much better once she hit the water. It had been a long, exhausting night and for a while she feared she’d lost her bearings and wouldn’t find the island. But her sense of direction had not deserted her, and just as the sun was coming up she spotted it. By then she was so tired her limbs were shaking and she feared she might vomit like Con frequently did.

Instead, she dragged the boat up on shore and immediately went to sleep. When she woke, it was to burning brightness and she realized that her helpless biped could do at least
one
thing. Besides make her feel strange in her stomach.

The strangeness was probably impatience, she thought, snatching two wrasse and three pinfish. He was definitely the most infuriating creature she had ever met. Were all bipeds like that? she wondered. What had Fredrika Bimm gotten them into?