Leander reminds me of a swashbuckler sea captain I saw in a movie once. His long ponytail, deep tan, unbuttoned sleeveless shirt and ripped muscles make me wonder if he’s a real captain or a model for one of those trashy romance novels the girls at school hide from the teachers.
“Hmmph,” Leander turns away, and starts winding a loose length of rope. “I don’t like being left in the dark. The Council wants me to use my ketch, no questions asked. But you’re just a kid. I’m not sure how I feel about that.” He draws a Bowie knife from his belt loop, pulls a block of chewing tobacco out of his shirt pocket, and shaves off a small piece. “So, where’re we going, chump?”
Leander stands on the upper deck with his hands on his hips. “Ah, Daniel my friend. You didn’t tell me you there would be three lovely ladies.”
“Is he kidding me?” Cypress hisses through gritted teeth.
“Save it,” I whisper. “The more you challenge him, the worse he’ll be.” Then, to Leander, I say, “We need to store this gear.”
“Sure thing, Sport.” Leander swaggers to the staircase, descends, and stops in front of Cypress. “Welcome to the Sundown.” He tilts his head slightly and bows. “I am Leander Pan, Don of this fine ketch. And you are?”
“So not interested,” Cypress responds.