MaryJanice Davidson - Dead Over Heels

“Huh? Did what? Bleeeccchh! What the hell did you do?” He spit over the side.

“You drank the whole fish!”

“I did what ? No fair!” he accused. “You distracted me with your nudity.”

“And a good thing, too,” she said primly, folding her arms across her chest and crossing her legs. “Otherwise you’d be dead of dehydration. Now. Ready to try another one?”

“Another what?” he said absently, but opened his mouth again, and drank both fish, and afterward they had a terrific argument about the diabolical use of her feminine wiles—whatever that meant—and she jumped overboard and swam away again.

An hour later, he was still spitting, but couldn’t deny he felt better. But it was pretty damn diabolical of her to use her body like that to distract him into—eecccch!—drinking fish blood.

And it had all started so innocently, too! He’d been minding his own business, working on not staring at her tits, when all of a sudden she had legs (and like the song said, she knew how to use them) and was clambering into the rowboat.

She was all flashing pale skin and long hair and silver eyes. Her lips were moving, but he had no idea what she was saying; he was too busy hoping she wasn’t noticing his hard-on.

And the next thing he knew, his mouth had tasted like blood and she was cheering, which made her breasts bounce in a really charming way, but didn’t lessen his feeling of being tricked.

So they had another fight, and off she went. And good riddance!

But he wasn’t entirely surprised when she came back. It seemed she was doomed to always come back. This time she didn’t bother knocking, just popped up out of the water and said, “What are feminine wiles?”

“They’re when you grow gorgeous long legs and flop into the boat like a wet dream come true, and I’m so busy trying not to stare at your bush and your legs and your boobs and your eyes that you can pretty much talk me into anything.”

“And a ‘wet dream’?”

“Forget about it.”

“But you feel better now, yes?”

“Yes,” he grumped.

“Then I think it is past time you left.”

He waved his arms around, trying not to fall out of the boat. “We’re in the middle of the South Pacific! And I’ve only got one oar.”

“So jump in,” she said with barely concealed impatience.

“I, uh, can’t swim.”

She blinked and said nothing.

“Okay,” he said, “I’m well aware of the irony of a survival expert who gets his ass stranded, can’t stand to eat raw fish, loses an oar, and can’t swim. I’m aware , ’kay? But see, I’m the star . I don’t have to do those things, I just have to be able to tell people about them.”

“I had no idea,” she marveled, “that bipeds were so completely helpless.”

“You shut up.”

“And in fact,” she pointed out, “you do have to do those things.”

“Well, I can’t,” he grumped, “so stop with the nagging.”

“That’s all right,” she soothed.

“ You’re in a good mood.”

“I’ve never had a pet before.”

He had just flopped back down, but now bolted upright in outrage. “I’m not your goddamned pet!”

“You are a creature who would die without my help, who needs constant tending, and who cannot get out of trouble on his own. Is that not a pet?”

He sputtered and fought the urge to seize a handful of her long hair and yank. Dimly, part of him realized that he was overreacting, that he was getting in real trouble and needed to get to land and protein pronto, but most of his brain was consumed with rage.

“I am not your fucking pet!”

“Oh, but you are,” she went on with maddening cheer. “Do not fear; have I not taken excellent care of you so far?”

He seized the lone oar, wrenched it out of the oar-lock, and smacked her over the head with it.

“Ouch!” she cried, while he stared at the cracked oar. She really did have a head like a coconut. “Bad, bad biped!”

“Jeez, I’m sorry, I don’t know what . . . came . . . over . . .” Then everything fuzzed out and he collapsed back into the boat.

Reanesta shook him gently, and he eventually opened his eyes and grinned dizzily at her. “Hey, you’ve got legs again!”

“It was the quickest way to get into the boat. I think you’d better actually eat some fish now, instead of just drinking the bl—the fluids.”

“I’ll tell you, I could murder a steak right now. Oh, and I’m really, really sorry I hit you. You should whip my ass.”

“You are not yourself. I was wrong to tease you about being a pet.”

“That was teasing?”

“I am not funny,” she informed him.

“No, no, it was hilarious.” He forced a giggle. “I just, uh, wasn’t tracking very well.”

“See here,” she said. “I have descaled this fish and broken it into small chunks. Won’t you sit up and try some?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Please, Con?”

He wasn’t sure if it was the “please,” or her use of his name, or sheer desperation, but whatever it was, it changed his mind. “Okay,” he said, and sat up too fast, and the bow dipped and swayed (more than usual) and the sky spun a crazy blue until things settled down. “Oooooh, boy! What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

“Really? You guys keep track of the days of the week?”

“Stop stalling and chew.”

He opened his mouth to protest, and she stuffed a slimy, fishy chunk inside. He held his nose and chewed, gagged, chewed more, swallowed, gagged again, held his head over the side of the boat, and threw it up.

“Again,” she said impassively, but he was so tired and wrung out, even the sight of her breasts hanging in his face failed to distract him, or even interest him that much.

No question: he was dying. The day he didn’t take notice of a terrific rack was the day they’d—

“Again,” she said, and stuffed another chunk into his mouth. He held his nose again, chewed, swallowed, gagged . . . and kept it down.

She fed him for about half an hour, occasionally disappearing for more fish, which she beheaded, scaled, and chopped up (with her teeth? He didn’t want to think about it) before getting back into the boat. He managed to keep about a dozen pieces down.

“I’m sorry,” he groaned, tossing his cookies (his rainbow fish) once again. “This must be so disgusting for you.”

“It’s fine. You’re doing quite well. Fear not, you will be home soon.”

“Naw, I won’t. But you’re sweet to say so. I’m gonna nap now, ’kay?”

Her lips were moving, but he had no idea what she was saying, and then his eyes slipped shut and he knew no more.

When he woke up, the sun was setting and he felt much better. Ree was swimming aimlessly around his boat, and when he sat up she swam straight over.

“How are you?”

“Better. Almost human and everything! Except for the smell. Whoo! How do you stand it, honey?”

“You cannot help it,” she said with typical bluntness. “Listen, I have a plan. Perhaps I could try to find another of my kind and we could get help.”

He peered at her. “How come you sound so doubtful?”

“You were correct; we are in the middle of nowhere. And my telepathic range is very limited. It might take days to find help and by then you’d—ah—”

“Telepathic—oh, right! I read about that, in News-week I think. How all you mer-guys are telepaths. That must come in handy.”