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  And still frustrated as hell, because even though I'd come, and pretty hard, the fantasy hadn't done anything to quench the real need I felt, and picturing Xavier had only made me want him all the more, because now I wanted--needed--to know if reality matched my imagination.

  I lay awake for another hour at least, until sleep finally claimed me--and even then, the dreams were back, only now they were weird, intense, and sexually fraught.

  5

  Xavier

  * * *

  Dawn found me already awake, wired with energy, and restless. I'd stayed awake building robots until after three in the morning, and it was just barely past seven, but that was typical for me--I'd never needed more than a handful of hours of sleep a day, and I felt groggy and sluggish and irritable if I got more than six hours in a night.

  Restless didn't do justice to the way I felt, though. Thoughts were cycling through my skull, a torrent, a waterfall of ideas and images and data, all tangled up with visions of Low and strange, dark, dirty desires.

  At least they felt that way to me. I didn't know what to do with them. How to handle them, how to even go about feeling them.

  My issues with touch extended even to myself. When I showered, I did so swiftly, with a minimum of contact with my own skin. I hated getting dressed, hated being dressed--hated the feeling of clothes against my skin. I could only tolerate clothing if it was of a certain type--usually expensive. Soft undergarments, stretchy denim without holes or rips, not skin-tight, but not baggy. T-shirts had to be of the softest cotton possible--and I tended to wash T-shirts a dozen times before I wore them the first time, just to make them softer. Ankle socks or thick cotton boot socks only, no crew length. No V-necks. No sweaters, no long sleeves, certainly nothing with a buttoned collar--ties were so completely out of the question it was almost comical--I'd tried once and hadn't even been able to keep the topmost button done for more than fifteen seconds, let alone long enough to tie the tie.

  Once I was home and in my room alone for the night, I stripped out of my clothes and opened the window, liking the air on my skin, and the lack of constricting garments. Even in the winter, I kept the window open for the airflow.

  Touch was a constant issue. Washing my hands required focus to get through it without cringing and wanting to stop. I hated shaving, but hated the scratchiness of stubble even more. Hugs from family, accidental contact with strangers--I didn't like any of it and couldn't handle it. Thus my tendency to keep to myself.

  So, this desire, this intensity, this...need I felt for Low was all the more baffling, and confounding, and troublesome. I'd had crushes, of course. Girls at school I'd found attractive, whose attention I'd wished I'd known how to get. I was always too awkward, too shy. They never noticed me, and my crushes went unrequited. Fantasies of suddenly being able to talk to girls were a constant feature of my youth, none of which ever materialized.

  I once got up the courage to go to a party during my freshman year. It had been so loud, so chaotic, so insane and out of control I'd left immediately.

  One time, when home alone after school, I'd run out of lead for my mechanical pencil and had gone into Brock's room to borrow some--he'd been at flying lessons at the time. In my search for lead, I'd come across a stack of magazines hidden rather cleverly in the desk he and Bax had shared--those magazines had contained full-color photographs of nude women in all sorts of poses, and my raging, barely teenaged hormones had been piqued, along with my curiosity. Flipping through page after page of huge breasts and glistening buttocks and shaved groins, I'd had the natural, normal reaction, along with the natural, normal urge of what to do about the pressure I felt.

  So, I'd taken the magazine in the bathroom and done what teenage boys do.

  It had not gone well. The sense of my own touch had been unbearable, but the straining, aching pressure had been worse--continuing had been nearly impossible, but quitting while still engorged had been worse. When I'd finally found release, I'd vowed never to do that again, and I hadn't. I'd stolen one of the magazines, though, too curious to help myself; I looked at it frequently, and then let my mind wander into fantasies and daydreams --usually conjured while trying to fall asleep--and that, along with a sock and some grinding into my mattress, was enough to alleviate the frustration that occasionally overwhelmed me. As I got older, I learned it was easier to just avoid those thoughts and desires than to engage in the difficult process of trying to get myself off without actually touching myself.

  It just wasn't worth it.

  What I was feeling after my day with Low...was different. I still had that magazine hidden somewhere in my room, but it was probably dusty from disuse by this time. And my thoughts of Low...well...those were little better than the images in the magazine. I saw her, again and again, in that red and pink and white kimono, her breasts barely covered, large and round and firm and jiggly, swaying with each movement of her lush body. The hem had barely covered her buttocks--in fact, I'd seen the lower curve of her buttocks more than once as she'd moved around. When she sat, she'd been careful to cross her legs, or sit in such a way that I couldn't have seen anything between them, but that hadn't stopped me from trying to look as she shifted positions. I'd hoped, deep down, that she would move wrong and I'd see more--that I'd get to see in real life what I'd only seen in that magazine.

  Usually, I only indulged in these kinds of thoughts as I was falling asleep, but right now images of Low's breasts in that kimono were all I could think of. That, and her backside against my front as I reeled in the fish. I kept wondering if she had made contact accidentally, unaware, or if she'd done it on purpose. Had she felt how aroused I'd been?

  When no amount of reading or robotics could dislodge my lewd thoughts, I decided to go for a run. Intentionally I went in the opposite direction of Low's boat. No earbuds, no music, so all I had to think about were my feet and my lungs and my legs. Run, run, run. My shoes pounding the pavement, my lungs burning, my thighs churning. Mile after mile. There was no escaping it, though--no escaping her. No escaping my thoughts of her.

  I ended up back at home after running more miles than I'd ever run at one time, shaking from exhaustion, dripping sweat, gasping for air...with images of a scantily clad Low still lodged firmly in my head, and a hard-on that wouldn't go away.

  I darted up to my room, hoping no one would be awake yet. I decided on a shower.

  Mistake.

  The hot water did nothing to wash away the lecherous images from my mind, or force my erection to subside.

  For the first time in years, I wrapped my hand around myself. I tried to imagine it was Low's hand, those small, narrow, dainty fingers instead of mine. I pictured her standing in front of me, tugging apart the knot holding her robe closed. Letting the kimono fall open. She would have perfect breasts, of course, far better than the fake ones in the magazine. Real, natural, and perfect. She would smile at me, reach for me. She wouldn't have to tell me I could touch her--I would just know. I would touch her with the confidence my brothers all possessed, which I'd always envied. As I caressed her breasts, she would wrap those small, soft, strong fingers around me, touching me.

  Oh--oh god.

  Within seconds of that image, I made a mess all over my hand, and the hot water mercifully washed it away, swirling it down the drain.

  Immediately, I felt guilty, like I'd used Low in some way.

  If she knew what I'd just done while thinking about her, what would she say? Would she be angry? Hate me? Would she think it was stupid, think I was stupid? Maybe she wouldn't care at all. Or worse yet, think it was "cute."

  I washed as quickly as I could, dressed, and went back to trying to study--I was taking an online course in an advanced programming language, which, while not difficult conceptually, still provided enough intellectual stimuli that I was able to focus on it rather than allowing my mind to run away from me again.

  I was scheduled to work tonight, so around four in the afternoon I changed into clothing I didn't mind s
melling like a kitchen, and began my shift. After an initial dinner rush, business died away, and I left the kitchen to see who was out there.

  Zane and Bast were behind the bar and Zane was trying to teach Bast how to juggle knives, using a trio of butter knives. Claire, Dru, Mara, and Eva were at the family booth, playing a card game that involved a lot of slapping the table and screaming and laughing, while Luce was functioning as bar-back, server, and busser. Joss was at the bar near the service bar, reading a book, dandling my nephew Jax on her knee as he chewed on the end of her dreadlock.

  Bast saw me emerge from the kitchen, and waved me over. "Yo, Xavier. What's up with you, little bro?"

  I leaned against the service bar and poured myself a glass of water from the beverage gun. "I never know how to answer that. Logically, the answer is meaningless. Everything that is not down is, clearly, up. But I know you mean it as a slang version of asking what is going on in my life. And to that, the answer is..." I sighed, not wanting to share the presence of Low in my life with anyone yet. "Not much, I suppose. Building robots, and continuing my coding class."

  Bast nodded, his gaze speculative and even somewhat puzzled. "Okay...gotcha." He slapped the bar with his palms. "Hey, so I have a question. Well, more an idea I've been tossing around that I'm ready to run by you."

  "All right."

  He gestured at the bar. "Why don't you take a seat?" I took a stool next to Joss, who smiled at me absently and went back to reading and bouncing Jax on her knee. "I've been thinking about our staffing issues."

  I mentally followed the path of his thought process to its likely logical conclusion and summarized: "You want to hire outside help. With Canaan, Corin, Brock, and Bax having stepped back from the bar almost entirely, the strain of taking up the extra hours is telling upon all of us who are left to run this establishment. Additional resources are required, especially as you all become more involved with your significant others."

  Bast chuckled. "Well, you're in a mood, aren't you, buddy?"

  I blinked. "What?"

  "You only talk like a walking encyclopedia when you're really deep in your head."

  I sighed. "I am not ready to discuss the source of my distraction, Sebastian."

  He held up his hands. "All right, all right. No big deal." He leaned his thick forearms on the bar. "So. What do you think about hiring a few people?"

  "For which positions?"

  He shrugged. "I dunno. I was thinking a server or two, and a cook." His eyes met mine, his gaze searching. "You've been working pretty much every single night since you came back from Stanford, and I thought you may appreciate some time away to figure out what else you want to do with your life besides flip burgers and drop fries."

  "I have my robot business."

  "Yeah, but if you're always here every night, you can't really spend the time on it you need to in order to really start growing it into a viable living. If that's what you want, I mean." Bast's gaze shuttered a bit. "And there's always Stanford. I think they'd take you back in a heartbeat if you asked."

  I shook my head and shrugged. "Oh, assuredly. So would MIT or Caltech or wherever. But I am not certain a formal educational environment is right for me at this time in my life." I smiled hesitantly. "Nor do I necessarily wish to leave Ketchikan, especially now that we are all here together."

  "So, back to the question at hand."

  "I think hiring a few individuals would be the correct and most appropriate business decision for us." I contemplated momentarily. "Our budget can certainly handle it--business is better than ever. If you hired an executive chef with the proper qualifications, we could expand our menu during the dinner rush hours and thus draw a wider dinner-hour clientele. Additionally, if we hired two skilled, experienced servers, our capacity would increase greatly."

  Bast rubbed his jaw. "If we expanded our menu, though, that'd mean actual dishes, which would mean a busser and a dishwasher."

  "Those are hourly positions and easily filled, and also well within budget," I said.

  Zane, silent on the topic until now, finally chimed in. "So, since we're on this topic, I've actually been thinking about this myself, lately. I was talking to the chief of the local PD yesterday--I bumped into him after a run. They need guys, and bad. He said with my skills and background, I could get rank pretty fast. But I don't want to leave you guys in the lurch, here."

  Bast sighed and scrubbed his hand through his hair. "It's been fun having everyone around running this place, and it's definitely helped get it off the ropes like it was, but I guess this has been a while coming."

  Zane slapped his shoulder. "I'd still put in hours, Bast, you know that. I love it behind the bar. This place is home, you know?"

  "Not like it is for me, though."

  "You ever want to do anything else?" Zane asked. "For real."

  Bast nodded. "Fuck yeah, all the time. But then I realize I'd end up hating anything else. This is all I know, and all I've ever known."

  "But you've thought about doing something else," Zane pressed.

  Bast grabbed a rag and started polishing the already clean bar top. "I used to enjoy tinkering with engines, and still do, when I get the time. I've always thought it would be fun to open a little garage, do rebuilds and customs. It was always an idle daydream, though, you know? It'll never happen."

  "It could happen," Zane said. "If we get this place running right, it could happen."

  "It's Badd's Bar and Grill, though," Bast pointed out. "There's got to be a Badd running it."

  "And there always will be. We'll all still be here, helping. But we've all gotten to do our shit, live our lives and pursue our dreams." Zane clapped Bast on the back. "Maybe it's your turn, huh?"

  "I would not mind a few free evenings, personally," I said. "And additional staff, at this stage, can only help. I am in favor of this plan."

  Bast held his fists out, and Zane tapped his knuckles to Bast's; after watching Zane, I did the same.

  "So, time for a family meeting, I guess, huh?" Bast whipped out his phone and sent a mass text to everyone, announcing a Badd clan meeting tomorrow afternoon. Everyone replied within minutes, and Canaan and Aerie said to Skype them in, as they were in Austin for a pair of shows.

  The rest of the shift went smoothly, with business picking up again for the evening drinks rush. By the time we locked the door, it was after two in the morning. When the stools and chairs were up, floors swept and mopped, kitchen shut down and wiped down, bar stocked, and the bathrooms cleaned, Bast and Zane headed to their respective homes, and Luce to his apartment with Joss over The Garden.

  Leaving me with nothing to do, and nowhere to go. Usually after work I went upstairs and studied, read, and tinkered, but this evening my mind was just not in it. The thought of sitting at home, alone, in my bedroom, reading and tinkering as I did every single night just didn't appeal tonight.

  I was restless again.

  Truthfully, my mind was occupied by thoughts of Low. What was she doing? Sleeping? Watching TV? Reading?

  I found myself heading out the back door of the kitchen and walking down to the docks. It was a brightly lit night, the moon high and full and silver, stars twinkling in their countless millions. The air was warm, the water still, and my mind and heart and body were all restless and antsy.

  Where was I going? What was my plan? Well, it was obvious where my feet were taking me; my plan once I got there, however, was a different story. As in, I didn't have a plan. I was, on the surface, in denial that I was going to Low's yacht slip, even though deep down I knew that's where I was going. Once I got there...what then? Hope she was awake? Wake her up? And say what? What would be different from the last time? Nothing. My issues were the same, and unresolved.

  I didn't care.

  Or, I did care, but couldn't seem to stop myself from making the long walk down the docks to her slip anyway.

  When I finally reached her slip, her yacht was dark, all the lights off. For a long moment, I just stood on t
he dock next to the bow of her yacht, watching the pointed tip dip and rise with the lapping of the water, listened to things clinking and thumping. Willing, perhaps, her to somehow suddenly wake up and see me, and invite me aboard, and then...what?

  I stood outside her yacht, staring up at what I knew was the balcony outside her private cabin--that balcony was on the forward section of the superstructure, overlooking the bow, with a low railing. Standing where I was, it was less than twenty feet from the dock to her balcony.

  How long was I there? Five minutes? Ten? Long enough to know she was asleep and staying that way, and long enough to feel painfully aware that this behavior of mine could, perhaps, be construed as being creepy, or stalkerish.

  I was about to turn away when I heard a sound--the sliding of a glass door. I froze, heart thundering. Now that it seemed she was waking up and would come out and see me standing here in the dark, staring up at her balcony like a lonely little puppy, I was embarrassed to have come, and afraid of what she'd say.

  Rather than running like the scared little boy I felt like, I stood my ground and waited for her to emerge, and see me.

  The door slid open, and I saw her step out onto the small balcony. Her hair was a tangled, messy, sweat-damp explosion of curls, sticking to her cheeks and forehead and lips. She was breathing hard, gasping for breath. Her fingers stabbed into her hair, yanking it away from her face with a ragged groan.

  She was naked.

  Completely, totally nude. Heavy round breasts, lifting and swaying side to side with each ragged breath. Dark areolae the size of half-dollars, and thick pink nipples. She had freckles on her breasts, in spatters and sprays. She had a flat abdomen, a six-pack of clearly defined muscles flexing and heaving with her panting breaths. Her thighs were thick and muscular, but toned. Between them? A small, narrow triangle of closely trimmed reddish-gold pubic hair.

  As she emerged onto the balcony, her head was tipped back, fingers tangled in her hair, viciously tugging in what appeared to be either frustration or anger.

  I backed away a step, involuntarily. I shouldn't see her like that. She didn't know I was here. She was not showing herself to me voluntarily. This was wrong of me.