The First Step, page 2
“Cal, what the hell am I going to do on the sidelines?” The last thing he wanted to do was sit out the election.
“I’ve got just the job for you.”
When Reed moved to Long Island from the North Carolina mountains, he’d never looked back. Growing up gay with a Jewish mother had made that decision easy. Little had he known then that the job in question was a piece for BeaconCorp’s foodie magazine, Eats and Treats—what kind of fucking name was that?—that would send him straight back to the same state he’d fled when he’d left for college.
“I’m not going back there,” he said when Cal proposed the article about GenX and its impact on the seafood industry in southeastern North Carolina.
“GenX?”
“It’s been all over the news. The national news?” Cal shook his head. “Chemical company’s been dumping that shit into the Cape Fear River for years. It’s in the groundwater and wells. The seafood industry’s panicking.”
“Isn’t that Robbie Carlyle’s thing? He’s the Washington guy.”
“This isn’t about the EPA. It’s about the community. Besides, no one regulates the stuff.”
Reed shook his head. “Not my thing. I don’t know anything about chemicals in the—”
“If you want a snowball’s chance in hell of getting your old job back,” Cal told him with a long-suffering sigh, “you’ll take the gig. Two weeks, in and out. Do good work and maybe I’ll be able to convince the powers that be that you deserve back on the political beat.”
Reed took the job. He’d survive two weeks in North Carolina and he’d write a good story about chemical dumping. He didn’t have to like it, though. But the pilot story called to him. Big ships, dangerous seas, unsung heroes.
Now to sell the story….
Reed finished the remainder of his sandwich and tapped a preset on this cell. “Hey, Cal. How’s it going?”
“It’ll be going a lot better if you’re calling to tell me how much progress you’ve made on the story,” Cal countered.
“I’ve got the interviews with the chemical company, the state environmental folks, and the activists recorded.” Reed was pretty proud of himself. He’d knocked all those out in his first three days on the ground. “I’m working on photos and interviews with some of the fishermen.”
“Not bad.”
“Not bad? I have just about enough to start writing the story.” Slipping back into their comfortable dance made Reed smile.
“Good. Then you’re coming back early?”
“Yeah, well, about that….”
“Reed? Don’t tell me this is another of your I’ve-got-this-amazing-idea-for-a-story conversations, because I—”
“It really is a great idea.”
Cal sighed theatrically. “Okay. I’m listening.”
About 50 percent of the time, Reed’s off-the-wall ideas stuck, and Cal knew it. “So you’ve seen those massive container ships pulling into New York Harbor?”
“Sure. And?”
“Have you ever thought about who guides those monsters into port?” Reed asked.
“Not really. The ship’s captain? Listen, Reed, I—”
“So I was out on the river this morning, and I nearly got flattened by one of those things.”
“Near miss for the Darwin awards.” Cal laughed at his own joke.
“Seriously, Cal, I’m pitching here. Hear me out.”
“Okay. I’m all ears.”
“So I come to find out it isn’t the captain at all who sails those things into the harbor. It’s some guy—a river pilot, or harbor pilot, or ocean pilot—”
“Cut the geek and get to the point,” Cal pressed. “I’ve got a meeting in five.”
“So they send these guys out on the water, out into the middle of the ocean, and they hop from a little chase boat onto those football-field-sized babies.”
“Hop?”
“Yeah. They literally jump from the little boat onto a rope ladder on the side of the ships, then sail them in. Pilots have been doing this kind of thing for centuries. It’s a tradition.” Reed took a deep breath and waited.
“And the hook?”
Shit. It was always about the hook.
“Reed, just because you’re having a nerd-gasm over what these guys do doesn’t make it a story I can sell. You know the drill.”
Hook. What’s the hook? Sexy, prickly Justin? No, that wouldn’t close the deal with Cal. What’s the hook?
“Reed, I need to—”
“These guys get paid nearly a half million dollars a year, and no one’s ever heard of them,” Reed said. “Plus the work’s super dangerous. People die doing this job. We could title it ‘Staring Down the Abyss,’ or something like that. Sell it for one of the spots in the Sunday magazine.”
“You seriously want to do a human interest story?”
Reed didn’t exactly see it that way, but he didn’t really care what Cal called it. He wanted to write the story. “Yeah. I guess I do.”
For a long moment Cal remained silent. Finally he said, “Okay.”
“Great!”
“Wait a minute,” Cal warned. “There are a few conditions.”
“Okay, hit me with them.”
“First,” Cal said, “you have to finish the GenX story on time.”
“Got it.”
“And you’re not staying any longer. You’ll be flying back on that return ticket in a little over a week.”
Reed had no intention of hanging out in North Carolina longer than planned. “No problem.”
“And no extra money for incidentals, at least not up front. If the story runs, I’ll reimburse you. If it doesn’t, it’s coming out of your pocket.”
“That’s cool.” He didn’t really want to dip into his own bank account, but there was enough money there to make it work.
“That’s it. I’m hanging up now.”
“Thanks, Cal. You won’t regret it,” Reed said.
“Yeah. That’s what they all say.” Cal hung up.
Reed set the phone down and grinned, then realized he’d forgotten the most important thing. He dialed Cal again.
“What now? I told you I need to—”
“I’ll make it quick.”
“Ten seconds,” Cal said.
“I need an invitation to drop in on the guys at the Cape Fear River Pilots’ Association,” Reed said.
“An invitation as in a little push? Can’t you take care of that yourself?”
Normally he would have. But seeing as he’d pissed off Justin to the point of nearly getting strangled, he figured charm might not do it this time. “I might have made things a little difficult….”
“You mean when you almost got creamed by one of their boats?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
Cal sighed again. “Okay. I’ll make a couple of calls. I’ll text you when you’re good to go.”
“Thanks, Cal. You’re the best editor—”
Cal disconnected the call. Reed grinned and tossed the phone onto the bed. He’d wait for the text and then head to Southport to talk to the pilots. And maybe in the meantime he’d start writing the story that had brought him here in the first place.
Chapter Three
THE WIND howled and water stung Justin Vance’s cheeks as he stepped onto the deck of the pilot boat. The acrid scent of diesel warred with the bright salty air as the breeze traveled over the ocean’s surface. The tips of the waves caught the boat’s running lights from time to time, then vanished into the darkness as the boat pitched and rolled. In the distance, the lights of the Sentaria flickered in the rain, growing brighter the nearer they came. She was making fifteen knots or more, but she appeared to float unmoving on the dark sea.
He took a deep breath to slow his racing heart. The first step is the longest. He pulled the safety hook from the tether around his waist and attached it to the metal bar on the side of the cockpit, then slid his hand over the cool metal and worked his way slowly and deliberately to the ship’s bow, careful not to snag his backpack on the edge of the cockpit. The storm had blown in quickly, tracking faster than the weather reports had indicated. Not unusual, but it did make things more challenging with the swells now approaching five or six feet out beyond the buoys marking the Cape Fear Inlet.
Justin glanced back at the pilot boat’s captain, who called to the container ship to slow to eight knots as it approached the boarding station, the area of ocean beyond which ships pulling into the Port of Wilmington needed a river pilot to proceed. The boarding station wasn’t a structure at all—it was ocean, just like the rest of the surrounding area. But here, with the shadow of Bald Head Island barely visible through the sheeting rain, Justin would step across the waves to shepherd the huge vessel into port.
Justin’s hands tingled and his throat tightened as the smooth wall of the Sentaria rose from the water—a black steel monolith that filled his field of vision and caused his pulse to race once again. The rumble of her massive engines made his bones vibrate. He’d lost count of how many times he’d made the transfer from pilot boat to cargo ship, but the adrenaline rush was still heady, like the first sip of Kentucky bourbon on a cold winter day. On a day like today, when the waves made the small boat roll and pitch like a coaster screaming down the tracks and bounced him up, down, and sideways, the thought of a warm shot of alcohol in front of the fire was a pleasant one.
The two boats were now just feet apart. Against the huge freighter, the pilot ship looked like a toy. They’d been in far rougher seas than this, but Justin focused on his goal with the same intensity. There wasn’t room for mistakes in any part of his job as a river pilot, but no other part of his job was as dangerous.
The first step is the longest. The mantra helped him focus on something other than the thrum of dread that rose from his gut and threatened to devour him whole.
Fifty feet away, a light appeared in the behemoth’s side—a doorway where several crewmen stood wearing life vests. He waved at them, and they tossed a rope ladder over the side. It ended a few feet from the waves, and the wooden rungs were already slick with moisture from the rain. Instinctively, Justin tugged on the clips that held his inflatable vest in place. Then he turned and gave his captain a thumbs-up.
He’d just taken his place at the transfer point on the bow when a particularly powerful wave broke over the pulpit, spraying him with water. He wiped his face and eyed the ladder as the boat rolled once again.
Timing is everything. The words of his mentor reverberated in his thoughts. There were no guarantees when you stepped over the roiling seas. Even with the best instincts, you could never prepare for the unexpected wave. Miss your opening, and you could just as easily end up between container ship and pilot boat and drown.
The pilot boat rose on another swell and Justin reached for the ladder, grabbing the rope with his right hand just as another wave crashed over the railing. He swung for a moment, suspended over the waves, then captured the other side with his left.
Not today.
He climbed the ladder, placing his feet on each rung with the deliberation of a chess player scoping out the next move. A minute later, safely inside the cargo ship, he wiped his face with a towel one of the deckhands provided. “Lovely weather, eh?”
Justin grinned. “Says the guy who’s dry.”
The officer standing near the opening laughed and held out his hand. “Second Mate Gabe Redding. Nice to meet you and welcome aboard. The ship’s master’s waiting.”
Justin shook the man’s hand. “Then I’d better not keep ’im waiting any longer.”
“You know the way?”
“Yep.” Justin tossed the damp towel back to the deckhand and headed toward the elevator. He pressed the button for the bridge and glanced at his watch—4:37 a.m. and his second job since supper the night before. He would sleep well when he got back home.
“WE’RE HERE,” Joey said as he pulled in front of HQ in downtown Southport. Justin rubbed his eyes. Sunlight breaking through the clouds burned his retinas after the nap he’d taken in the car on the ride back from Wilmington. As he walked into the office, his stomach voiced its pleasure at the smell of coffee, its audible growl a fitting counterpoint to the squawk of the VHF radio that always droned in the background. He tossed his backpack onto a chair by the door.
“Nice of the sun to wait until you got back.” Ed Searcy, the dispatcher, peered over his computer.
Justin grunted and pulled his mug off the strainer by the sink, then set it on the table and filled it with coffee. He took a sip, ignoring the stale twang that assaulted his tongue, and swallowed. Two, maybe three hours old. It’d do the trick, even if it tasted like shit.
He fingered the familiar chip on the cup’s handle and gazed out the window. A small sailboat made its way down the Cape Fear River, headed for the Intracoastal Waterway. A few hundred feet away, a large cabin cruiser sailed in the other direction—a straggler, since most of the other pleasure craft had already moved north in anticipation of hurricane season. The day after tomorrow he’d finish his one-week rotation and take his own boat out, maybe sail her down to Georgetown, South Carolina, and spend a day or two there.
“Things go okay out there?” Ed eyed him warily. “I heard it was kinda rough.”
“Six-foot seas aren’t rough.” Justin hated when his coworkers worried about him, and after Scott’s accident, they seemed to be doing a lot more of it.
Ed shrugged. “Nothin’ wrong with wantin’ to have your back.”
Justin felt suddenly guilty for having blown Ed off. “I appreciate that.”
“Boss wants to speak to you once you’re human again.” Ed rubbed his salt-and-pepper beard and smirked.
“Yep.” He’d head back to his house for a long nap after he spoke with Greg. They’d been really busy the past couple of days, and the coffee couldn’t compensate for the measly two hours’ sleep he’d gotten between jobs. He finished the last of the coffee and rinsed out the cup.
“You coming out with us tomorrow?” Ed asked.
Justin’s shoulders tensed of their own accord. “I’ve got plans this weekend. Sorry.” A couple of beers and people tended to ask questions of a personal nature, and in eastern North Carolina, folks weren’t as progressive as in the big cities. He’d never doubted his own sexuality, but he didn’t need it interfering with relationships at work.
“Busy man.”
He wasn’t sure why Ed and the others kept asking, since he always told them the same thing. He wasn’t all that interesting to spend time with anyhow. Of course, he made exceptions to his no-fraternization rule for Kerry’s July 4 barbeque and the boss’s Christmas gigs. But drinks with the guys? Way too complicated. “Thanks, though,” he added. “Maybe next time.”
“Sure.”
Justin didn’t knock before walking into Greg Carter’s office. “This better be good,” he said as he opened the door. “I’m fixin’ to take a really long nap and I—”
Greg cleared his throat and Justin realized there was someone sitting in one of the chairs facing the desk. Not just someone. The idiot reporter he’d nearly killed the day before.
“Oh hell no.” Justin turned to leave.
“Justin?” Greg wore a you’d-better-damn-well-behave expression. “Mr. Barfield’s here to do a story.”
“Did he tell you he nearly was the story?” Justin snapped.
Greg frowned. “I get the impression I’m missing something here.”
“It was entirely my fault,” Reed said, to his credit. “I was out on the water taking some photos of a shrimp boat, and I didn’t see the container ship coming.”
Greg met Justin’s gaze and his expression registered understanding. “Oh.”
Reed flashed that fucking charming smile and almost managed to pull off a sheepish look.
“I was just about to take a nap.” He’d nearly lost it at the port the day before. Without any sleep, he was at his limit. He stifled a yawn.
“Mr. Barfield? Can you give us a few minutes, please?” Greg asked.
“Of course.” Reed smiled again and left, closing the door behind him.
“Don’t say it,” Justin warned. “If I have to spend another minute with that—”
“You’re the only one around, Justin. I know you’re angry about what happened yesterday. Hell, you’ve every right to be. But I’m getting a little pressure on this one, and I need you to help me out.”
“Pressure?”
“The governor’s office called. Seems Mr. Barfield has a few connections.” Greg looked as exhausted as Justin felt.
Great. “Okay.” Greg had gone to bat for him more times than he could count, and no matter how he loathed the idea of spending time with some idiot reporter, Justin owed Greg.
“You’re the best.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Talk to the guy. Tell him about what we do. That’s it.”
Justin nodded. He could manage that much. “Will do.”
He walked out of the office a moment later. Reed, who’d been sitting in the waiting area, popped up. “Sounds like you’ve had a long night.” He appeared entirely confident, but Justin caught the slight shift of his weight from one foot to the other.
“Yep.” Just because he had to make nice didn’t mean he had to pretend he was happy about it.
“Mr. Barfield—”
“Please, call me Reed.”
“Reed, I’m beat.”
“No problem. We can talk when you’ve had a chance to rest up.” Reed’s smile was blinding. And total bullshit. But the guy was easy on the eyes, dressed as he was in a fitted suit that skimmed the planes of his lean body. Reddish brown curls and eyes that reminded Justin of melted caramel didn’t hurt either.
“Yep.” Justin yawned as he opened the front door.
“Sweet dreams.” Reed’s playful expression was both charming and irritating as hell.
Justin waved and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him. It was going to be a really long week.
