"Nice red, Mike." "You get him today?" Jason inquired. Mike sat back and looked at Jason as if telling him about his first day of school. "Shit Jase, I got him 10 minutes before I got here just slow trolling a little pin (pinfish to a snow bird) out the back. Thought I hooked the damn bar out there but then that drag started screaming at me. I aint caught one like that in a few, that's for sure." Jason could tell by the size of the carcass that the red had been well over slot (18-27 inches in Southwest Florida) because it was damn near pressing 40. Mike slurped his beer loudly and inquired as to why Jason and Rusty did the same shit every time they saw each other. Jason simply replied "Because he's a hard working old salt man, otherwise known as a wonderful asshole". This got Mike to chuckling, "That he is."
Around the front of this makeshift shack that everyone referred to as the harbor, sat Margie Dawson, ol trashcan herself, Dave Chilton to her right, Stacy Lavist to her left. On the other side of the "bar" (if you consider old plywood a bar) sat George Mitchell, the skinniest man alive, Brody Ralos, the second skinniest man alive, and Sarah Darvish. This rounded out the crowd tonight in addition to Jason, Mike, and Rusty. That was just fine with Jason; you could only fit about 20 souls on the wart, that is the harbor, on a given night. As everyone sat around, most drinking beer, except Margie, trashcan herself, she drank wine. She said it made her feel sophisticated. "Yeah just sophisticated enough to let Rusty dump his trash in her", Jason always thought. As Jason vigorously enjoyed his oysters, beer, and blackened redfish, something stirred to his right, it sounded like footsteps but he couldn't be sure. He listened intently now. Something wasn't right, he hadn't heard a shit bucket idle up next to the harbor. He hadn't heard any voices of new castaways in the distance. He allowed his senses to take in the blanket of night that began to snuggle them so closely nearly an hour ago. "There!" he said to himself, "It's coming up the drunken path of the north side". He had felt foolish because apparently no one else could unclog their ears, because they were full of Rusty's bullshit at the moment. Coming up the path closer now, he could make out a silhouette. It was dark and moving elegantly. "Damn 4 beers in and I'm already seeing shit, God Rusty would have a field day if he knew it only took 4 to get me my warm and fuzzy." Jason immediately sobered up a touch at this point. There it was again, the silhouette came into range now. Jason almost got up out of instinct to escape this stealthy intruder. "Hey Jase" the apparition seemed to whisper. "Who is that?" Jason replied. "eeeeewwww ahhhhhhh booga booga booga" the apparition responded. James almost immediately knew that he was in for it when Rusty found out. Up the drunken path came Brook Bingham herself. Brook was 20, a wonderful copper tanned specimen of a woman who would soon drown out the hope of any lady attendees this night of keeping the attention of any of the men in their presence. Brook was beautiful. Long black hair, Hershey kiss eyes, a strong jawline, prevalent in women who have ambition and Jason was in love. Not at that moment but the first time he had seen her at the marina last year. He mistook her for a tourist being that he'd never seen anyone that looked quite like her that was a local. He had asked his buddies at the marina about her and they simply replied "transplant". A term used for someone who was trying to be local but didn't have it in their blood. He felt somewhat taken aback when he first felt those feelings, it was almost immediate. However, he felt outclassed, ill equipped, and ultimately decided that he was destined for a real local woman. A woman that would bear him children, host cookouts with him, drink cheap beer, and never inspire him to be more than he was, never carry a conversation with more depth than a mud puddle, and name an old dock at the marina after him when he died. That kind of woman was what Jason felt he'd end up with and part of him felt fine with that but part of him wanted more. He wanted the uncertainty of the chase, the prospect of adventure and the unknown. Most of all, he wanted something different. But as it goes for men who fantasize about all those things, his spine turned to jelly and his words turned to sputtering jibberish whenever he saw her. He could never bring himself to shed the skin of a frequent acquaintance and ask the questions he desperately wanted to. Until tonight, right now. For whatever reason, this night was different. He couldn't tell if it was the booze or if it was the slimy oysters thrashing around in his gut. He was still in awe of her and now his spine began to solidify and his gibberish turned to potential complete sentences in his mind. He would make his move. Throw caution to the wind. Tonight he would take a stand, be a man, and take what he wanted. What he didn't know was that the uncomfortable silences he shared with Brook every morning at the café were a two way street. There was an almost "touchable" friction between them. Brook felt the same way about Jason but no self respecting woman would dare make the first move. This had gone on for the better part of a year now. She had taken the same approach to Jason as he had taken with her, distant infatuation. Something had to give she often thought. Something might give tonight.
Chapter 2
Start from the beginning
