Summer Swap 3.6

Everything was going down, right in front of Sully. And Byron knew it, too. They both could see it, plain as day—that’s how obvious Scarlet and Philippe were making it.

Byron said, “Looks like something’s brewing.”

Sully muttered, “It’s been brewing a long while.”

“Then let me say it looks like it might boil over, posthaste.”

Sully and Byron were sitting together on a couch on the yacht’s forward deck, the fourth level. Across from them, over the coffee table festooned with depleted appetizers and empty cocktail glasses, Lily and Arlo cuddled up on a small sofa. Behind Lily and Arlo, near the dining table where’d they’d had a wonderful catered dinner brought to the yacht by a service boat, Cheyenne sat and chatted and laughed with Cody and Carla. But it was the couple sitting kitty corner to Sully’s situation that had all his attention: Scarlet with Philippe, engaged in fun banter.

Sully grunted, “What the fuck does that mean?”

“What?”

“‘Posthaste.’”

“Fuck if I know. Fast. Like real fast.”

Lily, reclining on the sofa, snuggled up next to Arlo, who held her with one arm draped over her skinny shoulders, sniffled, then said in her quiet voice, “Couriers used to be called ‘posts.’ ‘Posthaste’ was an instruction to a courier, a post, that the matter of the letter was urgent.”

“Posthaste, my good man,” Byron said in an old-timey voice, and tried to poke a finger in Sully’s ear. Sully batted Byron’s stupid hand away, never taking his eyes off Scarlet and Philippe.

Arlo said, “Shakespeare, right, Lily?”

Lily said, “He didn’t make the word up, but he used it in a play.”

Byron said to her, “Which one?”

Lily shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

Byron said, “Some help you are,” and then Byron, Arlo, and Lily laughed.

Meanwhile, Sully’s beautiful and charming wife was laying out all the tricks she’d used on Sully back in their dating days. She didn’t need to use these tricks anymore, not with Sully, because she’d hooked him, caught him, reeled him up into her dinghy, and, well . . . currently she was running a blade up his fish-belly tickle-bits, looking to pull out all his insides and lay them out on the dock and let them sparkle in the moonlight.

So much of him—even though he’d committed to this game—wanted to back out of this. His heart hammered in his chest, looking at the familiar yet forgotten flirty affectations his wife utilized. She sat with her legs tucked under her, graceful in the round wicker seat for one, her wedding-finger hand curled over one slender ankle. She played with her collar, touched her hair, and laughed at things Philippe said that weren’t even that funny—not that he heard much of what they were saying. Philippe could not be funny as Sullivan Hill. No way. Yet Scarlet laughed. Doing so in her most flattering way. Scarlet had a beautiful mouth and an absolutely dazzling smile. Perfect teeth, sultry lips that peeled back in a wide and winsome elastic stretch. It was fucking turning her husband on—what was it doing to Philippe?

***

One by one, their friends left them until the only other person remaining was Sully. Watching her. Studying her. Gaze hollowed, yet sparkling like chips of obsidian in the starry night. Arlo and Lily were the first to bed, then it was Byron getting up, patting poor Sully on the arm as he headed over to bring Cheyenne to bed with him. Pulling Chey away from her cowboy lover-boy and her cowboy lover-boy’s wife. Cody and Carla were soon to follow, coming by to say good night to them, Carla hugging Philippe’s bull neck and kissing his hair.

Then there were three.

And the weirdest thing was the third person here—her husband—was the third wheel. An unnecessary addition to the events that might unfold tonight.

Truth was, her husband was only a third wheel insomuch as he’d relegated himself to that position. Sully was being a baby about joining in, about watching her ‘get down’ with Philippe. But that was his decision.

Only thing was, with him hanging out and watching now, he was setting their strange troika into a wobble, like too much snow caking up in a tire rim.

When Philippe paused to take a drink, she let her eyes roam to her weird husband, lurking but not joining in like a normal husband would do, coming by to sit and talk. She raised her eyebrows at him, widening her eyes and flexing her jaw muscles, expressing a question along the lines of “What are you doing?” Or more like: “Piss or get off the pot, Sully-baby.” Either get over here and hang, or get lost, buddy.

Sully flinched with her eye contact, like he’d been caught out in the open in her search light. The uneasiness he applied to the situation seemed to dawn on him, and he licked his lips and nodded.

As Philippe began talking again, Sully was at her side. He kissed her hair and stroked her shoulder, saying, “I’m going to hit the hay, babe. You stay up if you want.”

She and Philippe said their good nights to him, and as her husband skulked away she couldn’t help smiling, knowing—just knowing—he had an erection. If everything went the way she wanted, Sully would be missing out on quite a show. But she had a backup plan to deal with her skittish husband, who didn’t know what was good for him. At least not as much as his wife did.

She regarded Philippe now and smiled wide. “Looks like we’re the only ones up.”

Philippe nodded, smirking to one side, his mustache lifting, and the glimpse of some beautiful dimples showing again, even under his dense black beard. “What time is it?”

She checked her phone, tucked on the cushion at her side. “It’s almost two.”

“It is getting late.”

Scarlet pooched out her lower lip. “You’re not going to leave me out here, are you? What, you have to work in the morning?”

“Not at all,” he said, smiling still. He put an elbow up on the curved wicker edge of the chair and lay his cheek on his palm, eyeing her dreamily. He had dark and dazzling eyes. “Do you want to go in where it’s warm?”

“That’s a good idea,” she said.

They rose together, snuffed the remaining candles and strolled inside, chatting still, walking through the fourth level to the rear, then down the stairs. With neither of them mentioning it, she accompanied him past her and Sully’s level and down to the level below, where Philippe slept alone in his suite.

But once in the hallway leading down the center of the suites on the lower level, Philippe said, “No one’s ever walked me home before.”

Scarlet said, “I always make sure my dates get home safe and sound.”

“Looks like we passed the lounge,” Philippe said. “Maybe you’d like to come in for a coffee.”

The two of them stood outside his suite’s door, in the warm and empty hall, face to face, him taller, handsome, looking at her knowingly. Scarlet looked up and down the hall, then said, “Is this where we kiss awkwardly?”

“You pucker up first,” Philippe said. “Let’s see what happens.”

They both stared into the other’s eyes, full of mirth and amusement. This was really going to happen.

She said, “I tell you what: I don’t drink coffee this late, but I’ll come in for a night cap.”

“Your husband doesn’t mind?”

“If he minded, we wouldn’t be standing here.”

That smile again. “He knows you’re a big girl.”

“And he’s a big boy.”

Philippe put his hand on the door lever but didn’t open it yet. “You can call him if you want.”

“I’m sure he’s already asleep.”

“Good for him.”

She said, “You make it sound like something’s going to happen here.”

Philippe smirked again, lips thinning, eyes narrowing and twinkling. He said no more and opened the door and she followed him inside his suite. First thing she noticed was how tidy he kept it. Nothing out of place, and the bed made.

Philippe made his way to the far side of the room and she closed the door behind them, Philippe saying, “I just admire the man’s steady hand and admirable ability to catch his necessary Zs.”

“That’s why he’s always so chipper,” Scarlet said, wandering in the small space of the elegant room.

“Sleep?”

Scarlet set her butt down on the side of his bed, even though there were two chairs. “Rest is underrated.”

Philippe stepped up to the raised edge at the end of the room that led to a dresser, chair, and his closet. “Oh, I don’t think so. All anybody talks about is not getting enough sleep.”

“Exactly. If it weren’t underrated, you wouldn’t hear people complaining they didn’t get enough sleep because they’d be so well rested, you know, understanding how important it is.”

“I see your point. . . . Now, night cap, night cap,” he said, moving bottles on the table top of his dresser. “I have moonshine. Canadian moonshine.”

“Sounds strong.”

“Flavored with maple syrup.”

“Sounds fancy.”

“Not really fancy,” he said, half turning, pulling a cork out of a glass jug sloshing with pale amber liquid. “Bush sap. Corn mash liquor, copper still in the backwoods—”

“Oh my god.” She rolled her eyes. “Who makes it?”

“Some guys I buy lumber from up north.”

“Up north up north?”

“Way up north.” He poured two short glasses for them. No ice. “In fact, the maple syrup is local to the still. Bas–Saint–Laurent, Gaspésie.”

“You have excellent French,” she said. “You speak French?”

“Of course,” he said, bringing two glasses over. He sat next to her, his weight almost making her slump against his side, but she righted herself. She tried her drink—like sweet turpentine fire.

“Smooth,” she said, surprised that after that first harsh bite, the taste mellowed. “Your friends know what they’re doing.”

“Centuries of practice,” he said, sipping his moonshine. “How long have you been married?”

“To Sully?”

Philippe looked over, frowning, glass of moonshine paused at his lips. “You were married before?”

She laughed, then straightened her shorts’ legs. “No, no. Married only to one man forever. My Sully boy. Three years plus some months.”

“Good for you guys.”

“Shoot, that reminds me,” she said, getting up and leaving Philippe alone on the bed, waking her phone. She set the moonshine on the small round table between two chairs and sat down across from Philippe, saying to him, “I’m so rude. Give me one second, Philippe.”

“Take your time.”

She dashed out a text to her husband, knowing there was no way he was sleeping right now.

Scarlet: I’m so sorry, baby. I forgot my tape measure. Can you bring it to me?

Right away, he answered.

Sully: No

Scarlet: Please. I need it.

Sully: No way.

She smiled and chuckled to herself.

Scarlet: I really do need it. I’m not kidding. Can you just bring it down and you don’t have to come in, I swear. Just pop your arm in his room and I’ll grab the tape measure and you can get back to whatever it is you’re doing. Prob masturbating again.

Sully: I’m not doing that

Scarlet: Good, you’re not busy. Please, baby, please?

It took fifteen seconds for him to answer.

Sully: Does he know I’m bringing you a tape measure so you can measure his thing?

Scarlet: No.

Way longer than fifteen seconds this time—to the point she thought he wouldn’t answer at all. She could picture him storming around the room in sexual frustration and distress, his hair in disarray. But then he answered.

Sully: Fine.

Scarlet: You’ll do it?

Sully: I said fine!

Scarlet: You’re the best

Sully: Where is it?

“Right where I hid it,” she muttered, thumbing the measuring tape’s location in a text to Sully.

Philippe said, “Hid what?”

Scarlet plopped her phone on the seat cushion and scoffed. “God, men are so nosy.”

Philippe chuckled in hearty coughs like a good-looking cartoon bear, leaning his head back, and she joined in with him, laughing, then taking a sip of the moonshine.

When Philippe settled, knocking back the end of his moonshine, then leaning closer, she asked him, “How long were you married?”

Philippe eyed her with a devilish gleam, raising one eyebrow. “To Paloma?”

Scarlet smirked but didn’t commit to outright laughter. “Why, you weren’t married to someone else, were you?”

Philippe’s easy smile faltered.