Free Twillyweed by Mary Anne Kelly

was great, a real doll, but—Jenny Rose stopped on the shore and lit a cigarette—she’d been so sure she’d get to meet her mother. So sure! She pressed her back against a piling, sank down onto the dock, and looked up at the moving sky. There was no comfort. She felt nothing but desolate. If she’d had a joint, she’d have smoked it. Feeling herself watched, she looked up. There was that guy again. That cute guy on the pirate ship, now tethered to the dock. With something like rebellion, she jutted her chin out and stared right back at him and with no more encouragement than that, he hoisted himself over the prow of his boat and came across to her, moving with an elegant, catlike poise.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” was the first thing out of the side of his mouth. The emphasis was on the your . Like she was next in line.
    â€œJenny Rose,” she answered, her eyes on the level of his worn, black jeans, “Jenny Rose Cashin. What’s yours?”
    â€œMalcolm McGlintock. But you can call me Glinty.”
    She looked him up and down with more coolness than she felt. He was, she smirked to herself, right up her alley.
    â€œHere on vacation?”
    You could get arrested for working without papers. “Sort of,” she replied, smiling.
    He tipped his head. “Irish?”
    â€œYeah. Scots?”
    â€œThat’s right.” His eyes circled her slowly, assessing her, taking in the tattoo, the devil-may-care eyes. She was thin, but curvy. Suddenly the sun broke through. Liking what he saw, he said, “Wanna see my boat?”
    She let him pull her up. “Why not?”
    They walked together across the reach, the glare so bright you could hardly see. Jenny Rose followed him along the heaving dock and onto his sloop. The boat was a two-master, painted all black, The Black Pearl Is Mine , with a white stripe of a railing, pine-colored wood on the deck with faded Moroccan red sails when they were unfurled, tied up neatly now. Jenny Rose felt herself go weightless with the ebb and flow of the deck, the sound of the bay sloshing against the prow. She followed him, this perfect stranger, beautiful as he was, down the hatch and into the cabin, with his long, lustrous black hair, and for a moment she thought of her mother, never there, never there for her, not even now after she’d come so far across the ocean. She touched his sleeve and he turned around and she raised her chin and opened her mouth and, understanding what she wanted, he kissed her. Through the grinding cloth she felt the stirring of his erection. Their eyes caught in the dark and now, winding into the rickety tight galley and before she could catch her breath, he fell with her onto the bunk, pinning her under him, kissing her neck while they undid each other’s jeans. His skin was milky white and dense, almost silver, with a fray of black hairs in a silky trail leading down. She saw him only swiftly, his pendulum toward her, as he lifted her leg and moved forward into her, his wet eyes catching hold of hers in the dark cabin. There was a moment when she flew away, propelled, and then, brought back to that elegant moment of staggering bliss, erupted. She’d felt that before, but never with someone, always alone under covers in her bed, and she pivoted into a frenzy of stillness, a clenching and then a gush without warning.
    â€œJenny Rose,” he whispered and flinched.
    She was still in a spasm. She locked her knees up and she rattled again. “Oh, my God,” she breathed out, trickling down.
    â€œWow,” he said, turning her face. “Most girls don’t get there so quick.”
    And she shuddered again.
    â€œThat was awesome,” he said, getting up. He went into the head.
    She got sober quick. “Fuck,” she said, remembering. Patsy Mooney would be waiting, wondering what she was up to. She reached for her jeans. He was still in the loo. “I’ve got to