Mooncusser Cove Page 4

  "Not for long,” Jin said, grabbing Maria's breasts as they closed the cooler behind them.

  She giggled. “I'm going to lose it right here next to the chickens and mangos.” Jin lifted his apron and unzipped his jeans. His smooth, brown erection popped out of his shorts.

  Maria giggled again. The sound came from her, but it wasn't her. Not any longer. She wasn't the same girl she'd been when she got up that morning. She slipped out of her khaki shorts and bent over a crate of cabbage.

  Jin nailed her with one brutal thrust. Maria gasped and held her breath as she adjusted to being stretched open by Jin's hardness. It hurt like Hell, but she resisted the temptation to pull away. He had a powerful hold on her, both physically and olfactorily.

  A few slick strokes and she started whimpering. It wasn't all bad. Maria touched her fingertips to her clitoris. She could see how this sex thing could only get better.

  Jin pulled away, leaving Maria panting and wet against the crate of cabbages. “Next time..."

  Maria stopped Jin from speaking. “Look, I'll do whatever you want so long as when we go out there, I get her first. I can't get her out of my mind. I want to do bad things to her. I want to watch her bleed,” Maria replied.

  "Every breath I take is filled with her scent. I taste her on the air. My skin crawls with the memory of her embrace,” Jin agreed.

  "She took blood from me. Did she do that to you? She bit me. She didn't sex me, really—but it felt like it. At first, I thought we'd done it—but we didn't."

  Jin shook his head. “She screwed my brains out."

  "The drive back to work after being at her place is like a bad dream to me. All of a sudden it was like the memories of her didn't want to be in my head. Like I shouldn't have remembered what happened. But I do."

  "She really took blood?” Jin asked.

  Maria nodded.

  "Show me where. I want to ... be close to her. I want to be where she's been,” Jin said.

  Maria turned and sat down on the crate. “Here.” She cocked her head to the right and ran her fingers across the small puncture wounds on her throat. “She was here."

  "Then that's where I need to be.” Jin dropped to his knees and buried his face against Maria's throat. He caressed the small puncture wounds with the tip of his tongue. “These bites are so small and delicate. Like pin pricks more than an attack by a vampire."

  Maria steadied herself atop the crate. She wanted him to bite her. Bite her and drink her blood like Vesper had done. “Do it, Jin. Bite me like she did,” Maria begged.

  Jin sank his teeth into her, puncturing her, drawing blood.

  Maria shuddered as an unexpected surge of orgasm overtook her. She covered her mouth to stifle a scream as she came, imagining she was back in Vesper's arms on the crimson bed, giving Vesper whatever part of her she wanted.

  Chapter Five

  Jerrod Castaneda grabbed a random cassette from the holder and shoved it into the slot on his dash. The ancient radio/cassette deck whirred to life as the first song cued. The song sputtered as the decades-old cassette strained to play its tune. Jerrod didn't care. He sang along to the ‘70s Eagles classic, “Witchy Woman,” drowning out any skips and jumps in the music with his off-pitch voice and jumbled lyrics. He didn't really know the song any longer. He'd only just started relearning music he'd forgotten after the accident. Three months in a coma will do that to a guy. A year of rehab and one big guessing game as to who he really was had pushed relearning old songs to the background.

  He popped the cassette out after a few stanzas, agonizing over the small defeat of mental acuity versus brain injury trauma. The radio blared to life with the cheerful voices of the local FM radio program hosts, Dave and Shari. Jerrod chuckled over their light-humored banter, until the conversation turned to the morning health minute. Just his luck, the topic of the day was “natural memory boosters."

  He rolled his eyes. Besides relearning how to walk and talk and tie his own shoes, the only thing he'd done for months was work on memory boosting techniques. If he were a book, he'd say his back story was missing pages, his middle was sagging and his ending had not yet been plotted. Jerrod referred to his memory loss as a vacation into a vacuum chamber where everything else moved, grew, changed and evolved—but where he had remained static. He had a lot of catching up to do.

  During Jerrod's literal “time away,” his father, the malevolent John D. Paladin, succumbed to death after a long illness brought about by a twisted life. Jerrod didn't think he'd miss his dad much. They had not spoken since Jerrod legally changed his last name to “Castaneda"—his mother's maiden name—when he turned eighteen. He saw no need to be a Paladin.

  Jerrod really wanted the memories of his mother to return. Seeing her loving face and warm brown eyes in teasing, brutal flashes when he closed his eyes was incredibly painful. Algret Castaneda-Paladin had been not only his mother, but his best friend. Her demise had been his. He lost his whole world at age ten.

  Jerrod had been sent to live with relatives, seeing his father two or three times a year. Dad worked nights and had a demanding employer. He couldn't care for a boy. Jerrod's young mind translated that into abandonment. Which it was.

  Looking back, as snippets of his past flashed before him, he realized that his father, the abusive John D., must have felt pretty guilty about sending his only child to live with an aunt and uncle, who in His infinite wisdom, God had left childless.

  Though he'd forsaken the family name and barely spoken to his father, John D. had left Jerrod everything. A pretty big everything. Jerrod inherited millions in cash, investments, and oddly, beachfront property. Of course, he knew none of this until recently. It took awhile for his father's lawyers to catch up with him after the accident.

  The beach property came as a surprise even to John D.'s attorneys. Dad had kept that asset very well-hidden. Jerrod had no idea why. He assumed it had to do something with his father's irrational fear of the sea.

  Jerrod checked his map. He'd never been to the coast as a child—that much he recalled quite clearly. Father had forbidden any family outings closer than twenty miles to a shoreline. Strange thing for such a powerful man to fear. Not enemies or failing in a business venture—but the beach. The ocean.

  So why the man owned beachfront properly was beyond him. In fact, the lawyers said the property had been in the family since the days when parcels were claimed by musket balls and shot powder. Apparently the original deed was written on stretched deer hide. It was written in French with heavy strokes of iron-gall ink. It was signed with a thumbprint, in blood. The original was in a museum clean room undergoing restoration. Maybe DNA testing. Who knew?

  Jerrod didn't really care. He sat behind the wheel of his truck, driving to his beach, with his life ahead of him. He'd never had a damned thing before, and now he had it all.

  Mostly, he had time.

  Time to regroup on a little parcel of land God had made just for him and daddy dearest had tried to hide. Why, he wondered.

  Time to think about things when he wasn't working for the boss lady. Seems the old crone who owned all the land around his parcel needed help—and didn't trust the locals to do the job. Sight unseen, he'd signed on to be her maintenance man.

  It had been quite the serendipitous offer as fate would have it. Timely. Mystical, even.

  Jerrod had awoken from his coma with a new passion. It seemed his long sleep had spurred new interests. He described it to his doctors as having dreamed a lifetime of piracy while in a hospital bed. The nasal-gastric tube was his bottle of rum. The heart monitor was his cutlass. The gurney he'd called home for so long was his ship. The various scars of long-term care became battle scars. The tracheotomy insertion site was his scar from the bite of a rival's dagger. The soreness of his penis from extended catheterization, a ramrod of fiery steel to cure him of the clap. The numerous pin pricks and blood draws, the joys of sleeping on crusty sand under starlit nights.

  Jerrod had emerged from the cocoo
n of a brain injury ravenous to relearn and recall. He grew stronger by the hour upon awakening and once able to walk on his own, he found his way to the rehab library—where he found the book of his dreams propping open a window. American Pirates. Legends of the New England Coast.

  He'd dreamed every word of the book. And of the book he needed to write.

  After surviving a horrendous car crash, living another life while in a coma and then being inspired by an old book used to prop up a window, he recognized a blessing of fate when he saw one. Thus Jerrod Castaneda became handyman and author.

  On the beach. His beach.

  He'd written before the accident. A successful series on renovating centuries-old houses á la This Old House. His next project was a coffee-table book on something a bit on the morose side. The Mooncussers. Legend said the Mooncussers were a band of land pirates luring ships to their doom on the reef. They ransacked the wreckage, becoming the wealthiest bandits of their time. Legend also claimed the Mooncussers were vampires—feeding off the innocent and unsuspecting. The wealthiest boogeymen of their time. From pirates to things that went bump in the night, Jerrod thought he had a great book in the making. So did his publisher. He'd sold the idea on spec and outline and now had to pull it all together. On the very beach where Mooncussers once roamed. On his legally owned piece of land on the beach were the Mooncussers once roamed.

  That had been a selling point. The old woman on the beach had promised to give him scads of local lore and historical data for his book. He had to lift and tote for her, and she would recite for him. A quid pro quo of mutually beneficial will work for stories. He hoped she didn't smell like mothballs or hospital-grade cleansers. He'd had enough of musty, dank smells.

  He laughed as Dave introduced the Eagles classic, “Witchy Woman.” Perfect timing! He was going to like it here at Marshes Coomb. He already liked the radio station.

  The village of Marshes Coomb swelled with the seasons. Like the ebb and flow of the ocean it abutted, Marshes Coomb could either be a ghost town or a tourist town.

  March was too chilly for sunbathers, therefore, the streets were clear of traffic as he passed through the gates of the city emblazoned with the words, “Marshes Coomb, a good place to live! Lions Club. Elks Lodge. Royal Order of Moose."

  Quaint. Quiet. Queer as hell. Not quite Fire Island—queer, but damn ... his driving up Main Street must have been the high point of the day for all the stares his truck was receiving. When would a barber holding scissors poised to clip, stop and stare at an old beater truck? Maybe it was the dog hanging her little golden face out the window. Could be that the villagers had never seen a dog before? Jerrod laughed. Yeah, that had to be it.

  He knew his hotel was at the end of the line. He'd MapQuested it. Marshes Coomb's finest for fifty-eight bucks a night for a non-smoking king room. The dog would be an extra twenty. He patted the retriever's haunches. She was worth every penny.

  He leashed the pooch and walked into the lobby of the Mooncusser Hotel with a big smile and hand extended to the desk clerk.

  "Ayuh,” the desk clerk said, shaking Jerrod's hand. “You must be Castaneda from up nohth, come to write about the Mooncussahs."

  "Yes, nice to meet you, Mr...” Jerrod squinted to read the man's name badge. “...Mr. Winslow."

  "Nice pooch you have therah. Housebroken, I assume,” Mr. Winslow replied.

  "Yes, sir. I'm not sure how many days I'll need the room. I want to get the lay of the land out at the cove before I move into the mansion,” Jerrod said.

  "Old house has been around forevah. Can't say we see much of the Adaires ‘round herah, though. They keep to themselves. In fact, I don't think I've run into a one of them in over twenty yeahs now."

  "I'm trading handyman skills for Mooncusser stories with Vesper Adaire. Highgate-Adaire. Ever meet her?” Jerrod asked.

  "Can't say that I have,” Mr. Winslow replied. “Have your room key, Mr. Castaneda. Continental at eight. Maggie's down the way serves up wicked eggs if you need more than a warm bun in the morning. I believe there're still a few bagels left on the tray in the day-room ovah yondah. And the coffee is always on."

  "Thanks.” Jerrod scooped up his key and headed to his room. A day of rest after such a long drive would do him some good. He felt his jacket pocket for his Ambien. He needed a good night's rest. A sleep without dreams of pirates and sandy sex on the beach under a full moon.

  The room was bright, clean and spacious. With a slight, over-the-rooftops view of the Atlantic Ocean. Nice. Jerrod glanced at the clock radio as he stripped out of his jeans and t-shirt. He felt caked with road grime and desperately wanted a shower. He'd driven sixteen hours, pretty much straight through. The pooch had begged him to make a few pit stops along the way, and he'd obliged. Made it to the Coomb at nine o'clock in the morning on March sixteenth. Keeping track of time had become a habit he'd developed in rehab. He ran his hand along the still-pink scar on his right thigh. He had a steel rod in his leg. Just about every bone on the right side of his body had been shattered in the crash. They said he'd never walk again. He'd walked within a month. They said he'd never recall a damned thing and would have to relearn everything, from how to hold a fork to how to wipe his bum. He'd gone in deep and pulled memories out. No one was going to teach him how to wipe his ass. Other memories surfaced with visual and olfactory stimuli. The scent of macaroni and cheese brought back the first memory of being a latch-key kid after his mother died. The scent of bourbon brought back a painful memory of a backhand to the face by dear old dad.

  He stepped into the glass-encased shower stall and turned the water on full blast. No amount of hot water was ever going to wash away the stain of daddy's beatings. Memory loss or not, he'd never forget the malevolent John D. Paladin.

  He stayed under the spray until the water ran cold. A little black nose surrounded by golden hair pressed up against the glass. “Hi, baby,” Jerrod said. The dog yipped. “I hear ya. I'm coming out."

  Jerrod from the stall. His dog began the familiar “potty dance.” “You wanna go out, girl?"

  The retriever yipped again. “Let's go get a cup of coffee, too,” Jerrod said. He pulled on a fresh pair of shorts from a new package. A new t-shirt, too. The old, comfortable jeans went back on.

  They headed downstairs and out the front door for a quick walk in the doggy-area of the hotel's yard. Mr. Winslow nodded to him as he stepped back into the hotel's dayroom through a sliding-glass door. “Like ya room there, Mistah?"

  "I do. Thank you. I came down to claim one of those bagels and a cup of coffee,” Jerrod replied.

  "Help yourself,” Mr. Winslow replied.

  Jerrod grabbed an earthenware cup from a peg behind the buffet and poured a cup of rich, black coffee. The bagels smelled fresh and were puffy and huge. Various jellies and a couple of cream cheese spreads were set out to complete the bagel breakfast.

  The radio was on softly in the background. The room had good acoustics. Seemed to be an oldies morning with Dave and Shari. Hauntingly familiar, Hotel California filled the room with its intricate guitar and soft vocals.

  Jerrod patted his pup's head. “You're a good girl. Think I should phone the boss lady and tell her I made it here?” He scrolled through his cell phone's address book and dialed the Mooncusser Mansion. Vespers by the Sea.

  The machine came on. The voice was smokin'. Jerrod felt his unused manly parts tighten a bit at the sound of the sultry voice recorded on the machine. Could this be the little old lady? Holy shit.

  "Thank you for phoning Vespers by the Sea. Reservations are now being accepted online at www.vespers-by-the-sea.com, or you may leave your contact information after the beep."

  Jerrod waited for the perfunctory beeping noise to end. “Hi, Miss Adaire? Jerrod Castaneda here. I'm staying in town tonight. I'll drive out your way tomorrow. You've got my cell number if you need me. Thanks.” Thanks, you sexy-throated enchantress.

  Nearly eleven in the morning. It was time for bed. Every bone in hi
s body was screaming for rest. The pup would settle in if he stuck her under the blanket next to him. Jerrod stretched. He popped an Ambien into his mouth and swallowed, then headed back to his room.

  * * * *

  Dreams are funny things.

  They are a release.

  They can be prophetic.

  They can tease and torment.

  They can frighten or enlighten.

  They can leave a body more tired than it began.

  That's what Jerrod's dreams had been like. Exhausting!

  He struck flint to steel and watched as his carefully stacked pile of combustibles sparked and ignited into flame. He carried the fire high as he waded through the surf. The smell of creosote and oil permeated the bay. The others had brushed a heavy coat of the noxious substance on the broken hull of the galleon. It was his job to light it ablaze. He was the clan's fire-starter. He'd moved up from grave-digger and hoped to become warden of the storehouse someday.

  He looked back at the shore. His father's cold gaze seemed almost affectionate in approval. His father had started off as a fire-starter and had held the regal position of warden of the storehouse for thirty years. But father was in failing health. The job would go someone, soon enough. He wanted it. Seventeen and a man by standards of the day, having learned the trade at the heels of father and grandfather, he was ready to inherit the best job on the beach. Even if he had to subdue other applicants by sword or fist.

  He searched out the faces of the wenches lining the beach.

  The round belly of his woman bumped out from the crowd like a bright jewel in a crown. His son would come soon. The midwives told him it was only a matter of days.

  She was thirteen. His Marguerite. A finer woman couldn't be found in the clan. She came from strong stock. Birthing a babe would be nothing for her. Black Spaniard blood coursed through her veins, and she had the sturdy, wide hips of her Liberian mothers. She would have been a queen in the land of her foremothers. Here, she was simply his love. His common-law wife. Someday he'd marry her proper in the Church. When he became warden.