Happy pride month, everyone! Today I am publishing a short story that is exclusive to my blog. It is very gay.
This is one of those stories that I know will find a publisher eventually, it's just a matter of finding the right fit, but I don't want to wait. I love this story so much and I'm tired of it not being in the world, so I'm giving it to all of you as a pride present.
It's called GAY JAWS.
Yes, really.
This story was written because I made the mistake of telling my friend Corey that I thought Darkside Rey was pretty in Rise Of Skywalker, and he proceeded to tease me about liking girls with sharp teeth, so I started writing about girls with sharp teeth. To… spite him? I don't really remember the reason, but it's his fault and that's the important thing. (Another sharp toothed girl is featured in my choose your own adventure short story "Write Me A Soul," available in Community Of Magic Pens.)
Somehow the story became The Island Of Doctor Moreau meets Jaws but if Quint was in love with the shark, and of course it's very gay. So… Enjoy!
GAY JAWS
By Jennifer Lee Rossman
Her eyes are nothing like a doll's. Black, yes. Unnerving at times, maybe. But not lifeless. I could write research papers entirely on the depths of her eyes. I've certainly stared at them long enough, them and her mouth of shiny, razor-sharp teeth.
But if they want to quote Jaws all evening, fine by me. I'm not about to disenchant them of the notion that we're going after a regular old shark, no matter how much I want to discredit Vaughn and put an end to his so-called research.
She's safer if they think she's a shark.
One of the men–either Martin or Matthew, forgive me but I can't tell middle-aged white guys apart–looks over at me, chuckles. "You all right there, kid?"
I shield my eyes against the sun. "I beg your pardon?"
"You look a little green around the gills."
"Maybe your romance novel can wait till you're back at the hotel," the other one says, crumpling up his cigarette pack and tossing it overboard.
I tighten my grip on my notebook where I've been hand-writing code all day. A tiny, terrible part of me hopes she eats him next.
I want to ask them if they even know who I am or why I am here, but I don't dare. Partially because reminding them that I am a marine biologist and Hamilton Vaughn personally chose me to go along with them would bring up questions as to why the world's preeminent cancer researcher has a marine biologist on staff and why they care about shark attacks.
And partially because I am, to use a highly technical scientific term, a chickenshit.
That's why I'm out here. Why she's out here. Because I didn't stand up for her or the others, because I didn't go to the media when I had the chance.
But if I can just keep to myself until tonight, steer them away from discovering the truth, we should be good. Once the ceremony is over, it won't be so catastrophic to Vaughn if she's discovered. He'll call off the hunt; at least, he should drop it down from the shoot-to-kill order the guys currently have.
As long as she plays it smart and stops following me.
No sooner is that thought formed does Martin or Matthew shout and point to something off the port side. Or maybe starboard. Whatever word means "right" when you're on a boat.
I throw my head back against the exterior wall of the wheelhouse. No, no, no. She has the entire coastline to terrorize; why here? But I know the answer. I'm the only person in the world whose scent she doesn't associate with pain.
Matthew and Martin launch into action, shouting and running around and grabbing equipment and–is that a harpoon gun? Do those actually exist anymore?
My palms are clammy as I scramble to my feet; I wipe them on my cardigan, desperately searching for any way out of this.
Buckets of chum turn the water an unappetizing shade of red. Pointless. She doesn't like fish and anyway, she doesn't want to be fed. She wants to hunt.
I go to the side of the boat just in time to see her silhouette dive underneath us. The guys follow her to the other side, but I see the confusion on their faces. It isn't a shark.
They lean over the water for a better look. I open my mouth to call them back, but the words don't come out. I just watch, my heart not knowing whether to stop or go into tachycardia, as the ocean seems to hold its breath in anticipation.
I can imagine her, circling just below the surface, teasing them with her exquisitely human form. Letting the rippling shadows of the water obscure the details of her curves.
I've seen her do it in the lab, tricking the new hires into thinking she was a mermaid only to lunge at them, teeth bared. But that was all in good fun. There was glass between her and them. Usually.
There's a splash and a scream, and Martin disappears over the bow. Or maybe it was Matthew. Either way, he's gone.
I cover my face in horror.
No.
No, they thought she was a person. They weren't going to kill her. They were going to let her go, and then she had to go and–
Does she know enough to flee? She's made up of two apex predators. She doesn't know what it's like to be hunted; she knows there's another person on board she can drag down.
But he's pointing the harpoon gun at her, and she's probably still playing with the first one. I can't help it. Her name bursts out of my mouth.
"Amity!"
Harpoon man lowers his gun to look at me. Anxiety forces the consequences of what I've just done to play through my head on fast forward.
He knows I know her. Either he kills her now or another crew does it later, but he knows I'm in on it. Her life is over one way or another, and now so is mine. Vaughn will frame me for the whole scandal. I see my picture, the terrible one from my ID where I actually tried to style my mousy hair, splashed across every scientific journal and tabloid magazine. "Modern Day Frankenstein Creates Hybrid Killing Machines!"
Maybe that's why I do it, to save myself.
No, no I don't think so. Those are all afterthoughts; the real reason I run across the deck and push him overboard?
I do it for Amity.
***
The blood is on both our hands. Metaphorically, I mean. In reality, the blood is on her hands. And face. And teeth.
Fortunately, I always carry a spare toothbrush in my purse.
"Open wider," I prompt, gently putting my free hand to her jawline. I hope she doesn't notice that I'm shaking, but the adrenaline is still pumping through me nearly half an hour later.
"You're afraid."
At least, I think that's what she says. Kind of hard to understand around the toothbrush.
"Afraid isn't the right word," I say softly, moving closer to her so I can see better. I've never brushed multiple rows of teeth before.
"Rapid breathing. Tachycardic pulse. Sweaty palms." She says this in a level voice, never breaking eye contact, but her nostrils are flaring in time with the gills running down the side of her long neck, and I've studied her enough to know her fear response. "And your pupils are enormous."
Well, that last one probably has less to do with being afraid and more to do with my face being just inches from hers.
She was a beautiful woman before Hamilton Vaughn got his hands on her, all soft curves and freckles, but there's something about her now that just… does something to me. I always knew I liked girls, but I never knew I liked dangerous girls with bald heads and fangs.
I feel like I've been staring at her too long. I look down, bite my lip, try not to imagine Amity biting it instead.
"You… you can spit," I say, rinsing the toothbrush with my bottled water.
She swallows the toothpaste instead. Well, with all the toxins she's survived being pumped into her body, I guess a little fluoride won't hurt her.
"Smile for me?"
Amity doesn't have eyebrows anymore–doesn't have hair anywhere on her body–but she still manages to raise one snarkily. I know why; there isn't a woman, human or shark, in his house of pain whom Vaughn hasn't told to smile more often.
"I need to make sure I got all of the…" I stare at her for a moment. Flesh. That's the word I should use. Flesh, human, Martin and Matthew.
She stares at me, her black eyes begging me to use any other word. Like she hasn't seen me constantly taking her side and standing up for her these past two years in the lab. Like I haven't had a soft spot for her since the day I met her.
Like I didn't just help her murder someone and brush away the evidence.
"I need to make sure I got all of the food out of your teeth," I say, and her grateful smile is a welcome sight. "And for the record, I'm not afraid of you."
She stands, follows me to the wheelhouse with her characteristic side-to-side swaying motion, always leading with her head and shoulders like she never left the water. "Why not?" she challenges. "I am."
Because I know her. Because I get her. Because she could've killed me but never once considered it.
I shrug. Damn. There's blood on my sweater. I take it off, put it in the box with the guys’ IDs and the toothbrush. If only I had brought my portable label maker; I would mark this box "Evidence Of Quinn And Amity Committing Murder."
"I'm not afraid of you because there are more important things to be afraid of right now," I say, looking at the controls of the boat. "Like getting arrested for murder, you being killed or locked up again, Vaughn turning more people into hybrid monsters."
I'm smart. I have a PhD in marine biology. I hack into secure systems for fun. Why can't I find the ON button?
"You don't know how to drive a boat?" Amity asks.
"I don't get out of the lab much."
"Neither do I," she says, and I jump at the closeness of her voice. Somehow she is beside me, having made no sound as she walked, and our faces are almost touching as she reaches in front of me to push the ignition.
She lingers there a moment, looking at me. I can feel the heat coming off her face, smell the saltwater still dripping from her wetsuit and the minty toothpaste on her breath.
Amity leans imperceptibly closer, and it's all I can do not to close the gap between us. "But I own a boat. Or I did, before I became a monster." She snarls, nudging me out of the way so she can drive.
My heart breaks, and that's not an easy thing to do. I work for a man who experiments on people, I have to see them every day, locked away from the world. I fell for one of them, only to see her tortured and exploited and then hunted down when she finally found a chance at freedom. I saw her kill a man, helped her kill another. But it's this moment, her thinking that I see her as anything other than perfect, that finally breaks my heart.
"That isn't what I mean, Amity."
"I know," she admits begrudgingly. "Still true, though."
It isn't, but that is a conversation for another time. I stand silently beside her for a moment, watching the waves as we make our way back to shore. I don't want to go back, don't want to see Hamilton Vaughn receive the award and accompanying grant money that will let him keep destroying lives like he destroyed Amity's.
"What's your plan, Amity?" I ask, half hoping she will reveal herself to the world and bring his island of Dr. Moreau to an end, half hoping she wants to run away with me and start a new life.
Her lips part in a toothy grin and she chooses none of the above.
"I'm going to kill Hamilton Vaughn."
***
It's only a matter of time until someone figures it out. Everyone knows everyone around here; someone will talk, will mention that Martin and Matthew went out in the morning with some nerd girl, and someone else will mention seeing their boat come back that evening with a nerd girl and her scary girlfriend. And yeah, it will make my heart smile to hear them call us girlfriends, but then we're going to get arrested for murder so… kind of a net loss situation.
But Amity isn't thinking that far ahead. She has one goal, and what happens after that doesn't matter to her.
Shark instinct.
I cringe. Amity looks at me curiously.
"I just… I just categorized your behavior. It's something Vaughn had me do. Quantify how much of what you do is human versus shark instinct."
She shakes her head in disgust, starts pacing the length of my hotel room. Always in motion. "What percentage did he deem acceptable?"
"90 percent human, 10 percent shark." Preempting her next question, I say, "You were 60/40, and that was with me hacking the computers every night and fudging the numbers."
She stops abruptly, turns to look at me. People say they have trouble reading her emotions, what with her eyes and all that, but I never have. Her expression may not have changed, but her breathing has. Both her respiratory breathing and the flaring of her gills. The nictitating membranes in her eyes move at double-speed to clear the tears she's struggling not to shed.
"You."
I don't know if it's an accusation or not, or what she might be accusing me of, so I say nothing.
"You, Quinn Dreyfuss. The scared little guppy who won't download an app on her phone without actually reading through the terms and conditions. Ms. 'there's nothing more sacred than accurate documentation'. You lied?" Her voice is cracking, but it's closer to laughter than tears now. "You fudged numbers for me."
I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, shrug. "After what he did to the ones who didn't meet the 50/50 threshold? Of course I did."
I just couldn't fudge them enough. Small behavioral quirks, yeah. No problem framing them in a human context. 17 stitches on a research assistant's arm? Not so much.
Amity frowns. "Wait. What did I just do? To make you say shark?"
I bite my lip. It's so much easier to rationalize dehumanizing someone when it's on paperwork, not to their face. "Preoccupation with prey, inability to see how your actions will impact your future, choosing violence over communication."
Snarling, she shakes her head, and I can practically see her train of thought gaining speed as it goes from indignation to fury, and before I know it, it's barreling down the tracks at me. She has been wronged and it might not be my fault, but she has to direct her anger somewhere and I'm the only person available right now.
She rushes at me, slams her hands into my shoulders. We fall back onto the twin bed, Amity on top of me, and while I can't say I've never thought about this, it's not exactly what I imagined.
My reflection stares back at me from her impossibly black eyes; her lips curl back and she opens her mouth to reveal all those rows of teeth designed for ripping through flesh.
Animalistic impulsivity. Tendency toward violence. Several instances of killing and partially consuming human beings since her escape.
That's what Vaughn would put in her notes. Him, and most of the other researchers I work with.
But I don't see shark behavior.
"Amity Benchley is a quick-tempered woman," I say softly, not moving a muscle. It's what they taught us at orientation–play dead–but I'm not doing it out of fear; I don't want her to think of me as a threat.
She's breathing heavily, her body pressing on mine, but the rage in her face starts to ebb just the slightest. Good thing; if she wanted me dead, I wouldn't even have time to scream.
"She is prone to bouts of anger, likely due to the trauma of being kept against her will and turned into a shark-human hybrid because some asshole thinks that's the way to cure cancer."
With every word, I can see her settling down. Her breathing begins to sync to mine–still fast, but not as rasping and feral. She relaxes her arms, perhaps subconsciously, putting more of her weight on me. Where our bare arms touch, I am acutely aware of how smooth her skin is. I guess I was expecting the sandpaper of sharkskin.
"She is on a quest for vengeance. A distinctly human quality, because sharks are smart but no matter what Spielberg and his terrible movies try to tell you, only humans have the capacity to plot out revenge."
My voice is shaking. I don't think anyone has ever told her they still see her as a human, and I blame myself for that. I should've told her long ago, I should've told her every day.
"But most importantly, Amity Benchley shows great restraint, fighting the animalistic urges that were carelessly spliced into her system along with her beautiful eyes and those teeth that drive me wild. She wants to kill anyone involved in this, but she has formed an attachment to this researcher over the last few years in a way sharks just don't do."
A long moment passes. Wait, did I really just tell Amity that her teeth drive me wild? And here she is, practically laying on top of me in this tiny hotel bed.
I think we realize how awkward it is at the same time. Amity gives a slight nod, pushes off of me. For the first time today–no, for the first time since I've met her–she has trouble making eye contact with me.
She licks her lips. "So. Does your affection for me extend to helping me kill Hamilton Vaughn?"
There is no hesitation. "Yes."
***
She doesn't look right with hair. With an evening gown. Neither do I, to be honest.
We are both the kind of woman that men like to say would clean up nicely if we only put some effort into our appearance. If I would show some skin, let my hair down from the bun. If she would wear makeup, put on some heels.
If we would just smile more often, Vaughn has said to every woman who has the misfortune of working for him, we might catch a man.
Maybe we would smile, if he gave us a reason to. As if having to quantify the humanity of his experiments so we know which ones to discard and which ones to continue refining until the process is perfected wasn't bad enough, we have to deal with him as well.
And anyway, I don't want to catch a man. Never have.
Amity looks absolutely ravishing. Long black wig styled to cover her gills, dark sunglasses, a cheap but shiny-as-hell red dress. It's just… not her any more than my black cocktail number and blond wig are me.
Hopefully no one will recognize us, I pray as we find seats in the back of the gold spangled auditorium where the award ceremony is being held. My identification got us in since all employees were invited, but if we are spotted, it's over.
Amity takes my hand, interlacing our fingers. I wonder if she's feeling my pulse, and how high it is. Neither of us have talked about what happened earlier; in all the rush buying thrift shop dresses and wigs and trying to do our makeup while planning how to take him down, there hasn't been much time.
Pre-recorded fanfare precedes the dimming of the lights, and the ceremony begins. There are no categories, no winners and losers. Just scientist after tuxedoed old white dude scientist being called to the podium to talk about himself and to be given an oversized check to fund further research.
Finally, it's Vaughn's turn, and Amity tightens her grip on my hand. It wasn't easy convincing her not to just rush the stage and rip his throat out. She wants his blood, and I don't blame her, but if there's one thing those terrible movies taught me, it's that it's not the shark that kills you, it's the obsessive quest for revenge.
I'm almost impressed at how Vaughn manages to spin his story, eliminating every reference to the hybrids in favor of calling it gene therapy.
Sharks, he explains, are immune to all disease. I wish I had a sign I could hold up that says "[citation needed]." So he added great white DNA to that of several volunteers.
They were volunteers, at first. But he doesn't mention the cages, or that his process wasn't as simple as giving them more resistance to cancer. He screwed with the building blocks of life so much, they didn't know what to build anymore. He made monsters.
I rest my head on Amity's shoulder. Beautiful monsters, but monsters who never consented to it.
He's up there now, extolling the virtues of a supposed cure that will still change people. Maybe not to the extent Amity changed, maybe just enough that the pharmaceutical companies will be able to fudge the numbers, call the aggression a side effect.
He's up there lying to them all. But I have to smile, because behind him is a giant screen that he thinks is showing stock photos of scientists and mysteriously colored liquids in vials and petri dishes.
It's not.
By the time he realizes the audience is horrified, everybody has seen the truth. Yeah, I think my makeup job was a little rushed, but I was busy hacking into his security system.
All the blood draining from his face, he stares down the lens of one of the many cameras transmitting this live to the Internet.
Beside me, Amity laughs. "Smile, you son of a bitch."
***
At the same time the news broke, security at the lab mysteriously failed and all of the experiments escaped. Luckily, I happen to know someone who can drive a boat, so we're going to go find them, bring them somewhere safe.
I pace the dock, checking the time and watching the sun dip closer to its reflection in the ocean. Where is she? Why did I let her out of my sight?
But there she is, walking down the beach in a hat and sunglasses. The knot in my stomach finally untwists itself.
I wrap my arms around Amity, my face lingering near hers.
"Why do you smell like toothpaste?" I ask gently.
She hesitates a moment before answering. "They let him out on bail."
For some reason, this makes me laugh. I press my forehead against her's. "What am I gonna do with you?"
In response, she takes off her sunglasses and kisses me. Just a quick little nip at first, testing the waters, but her electroreceptor cells must be going wild because it feels like my body is full of electricity.
I kiss her back, mindful of her gills when I put my hand on her neck. Her teeth gently pull on my lip, and I can feel her wanting to bite down harder but she doesn't.
When she finally pulls away, I'm left gasping for breath. Her gills are working overtime, too, and she smiles at me. "Back at the hotel, when I… pushed you into bed. When this is over, I would like to try that again. But maybe not in such a small bed."
I nod. "Yeah. We're gonna need a bigger bed."
~~~~
