Page 108 of Faking the Pass
Tuesday morning, I emerged from my room to find Presley waiting in the living room instead of holed away in his gym or out for his daily swim as he usually was at this time.
He was wearing shorts and a t-shirt that stretched perfectly across his chest and shoulders and biceps.
He gave me a once over as well. And frowned. As usual.
There were no cameras around of course, so he didn’t have to fake anything.
The vacation attire he’d seemed to fully enjoy on the island now seemed to displease him. Today I wore a hot pink halter and shorts set that would have been ideal for the French Riviera.
“Good morning.” Presley delivered the traditional greeting in the least cheery tone it had likelyeverbeen said in.
I tried to be chipper and upbeat anyway. I couldn’t be his sexual playmate, but I didn’t want us to be enemies either.
“Good morning. What’s today’s episode of the ‘Rosie and Presley Show’ going to be?”
“Deep sea fishing,” he said. “Ever been?”
“No. I haven’t.”
Though I’d grown up in the same seaside town as he had, my coastal life hadnotincluded expensive activities like deep sea fishing excursions. The only seafood I’d eaten back then had come from a can with a blonde mermaid on the label—and only when it was on sale.
“But that sounds fine if it’s what you want to do,” I said.
I knew Presley loved fishing. And considering I was denying him the pleasures hereallywanted, it was only fair to spend the day doing an activity he enjoyed.
“Great. I’ve got us booked to depart from the marina in about an hour,” he said.
His gaze traveled up my body, lingering over my bare legs before settling on my bare midriff.
“You might want to change into something more… casual,” he grunted. “You’ll need to wear sneakers so you don’t slip on the deck. A pair you wouldn’t mind getting wet. And make sure you apply sunscreen if you’re going to show that much skin. It’s a hot one out there today.”
Then he turned and walked away without another word.
Arriving at the Eastport Bay Yachting Center Marina in the center of the town’s historic harbor district an hour later, we made our way to a private slip where a large white fishing boat awaited.
The captain leaned over the side and yelled a greeting to us.
“Right on time. Welcome aboard.”
He was a young guy with a wild shock of blond hair and a deep tan, and Presley introduced him as Matt.
Matt offered us both life jackets, which we put on, and some motion sickness medication, which Presley refused.
“Do you tend to get seasick?” Matt asked me.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been out on the open ocean.” I glanced at the blister-wrapped pills in his hands. “Do those things have side effects?”
“Drowsiness mainly. Some people get dry mouth and some blurred vision.”
“I think I’ll pass.”
It seemed to me the last thing you’d want on a rocking boat deck was to be drowsy and have blurry vision.
Matt led us to a tall storage locker in the back of the boat to check out a selection of fishing gear. Presley sifted through it deftly, choosing a rod and reel for himself and one for me.
“This length should work,” he said, standing the rod up next to me to gauge its height. “It’s a good size for you. Not too unwieldy but strong enough not to break if you catch a big one.”
His familiarity with the proper gear for a woman hinted that I wasn’t the first one he’d taken deep sea fishing.
