What if the bonfire’s almost over? What if that damn boat left me? Not like no one’s ever coming back here. They’ll be back tomorrow. Another day, another group of dumb-fuck tourists.
My head throbs as I lope over the sand. The pale shore curves, and I pick up my pace. Be there. Fucking be there. Please! There’s no way they left me. Head counts. Lawsuits. Nah—it wouldn’t happen.
Finally…the moment of truth. Sweat rolls down my back as I round a grove of palm trees. Then I’ve got a straight-shot view down to the big hut where they had the open bar.
The stretch of beach is bare, the sparkling water out beside it empty. No boat. I turn a circle.
They left me!
I got fucking left here!
I think of Lana in her all-white sitting room back in Tribeca, glancing up from the glass of green tea she was holding the night she cut me loose.
“Just go on the trip alone, Van. You have a client to meet with. Have a great time. I would like you to.”
And I laugh.* * *Luke
It’s been too long since I kicked back with my favorite scotch. Good ole Bunnahabhain 25. Too pricey to drink in public—which works out just fine since the public doesn’t know I drink.
I take a tug straight from the bottle and fold one arm behind my head. I’m lying on my back on top of a towel. I could be chilling in the captain’s seat or lounging on the padded benches back in the yacht’s cockpit, but tonight, it’s the front deck for me. I don’t know why. I guess because I don’t want to be comfortable. Make it match up: miserable mind, miserable body.
Anyway, from up here on the bow, I can see everything—the whole sky. I have another swallow and look for the sea goat constellation. According to my office manager, I’m Capricorn—the zodiac’s ambitious control freak. But tonight, the sea goat is nowhere to be found.
I let my breath out…rub my eyes. The idea was to get away. This is my favorite secret: Sea-3PO. She’s a 65-foot sailing yacht. I like to keep her down here in the Caymans. Not as many people recognize me—usually.
Another swallow, and my head starts sort of drifting with the tide. My eyes feel heavy. That’s what I need, right? A little R&R so I can go back rested and ready. Time alone to make some headway on my new book. I’ve got twelve weeks till it’s due to my publisher.
Usually there’s something in me, something I can kind of juice—this thing I use to build thoughts and ideas. Books. Films. Lately I’m not myself…and I know why.
I lift my phone from where it’s resting face-down on my abs and tap in a web address. I’m already hard when I reach into my shorts and wrap my hand around my dick. I shut my eyes and work myself from tip to base. Then I squeeze there and stroke upward.
Something shifts—the yacht rocks—but my head’s spinning. Probably just a gust of wind. I breathe deeply, focus on the images on my phone’s screen. I need this—badly. Some release while I’m here and using an anon IP address.
I’m lost for some time—in fantasy, in pleasure. I must have needed this more than I thought. I’m panting, close to coming, when a drop of water hits my foot. I look up, and my heart stops. Someone’s standing over me. As horror pulses through me, I jump up. He darts back toward the rail, footfall rocking the yacht.
“Who are you?”
When he starts toward me, I react on instinct, lunging for my scotch bottle and hurling it. I watch in horror and sick satisfaction as it strikes his forehead, sends him staggering. He grabs the boat’s rail, then fumbles with a thick steel hook that’s hanging from the railing.
Before he can unfasten it and throw it at me, I rush him, head-butting his midsection so hard that he topples backward over the boat’s railing. He hits the water with a big splash, and I watch as he surfaces, gasping.
“HELP!” He makes a choking sound, accompanied by splashing. “There’s fucking sharks!”
What the what?
He’s flailing around—like someone who can’t swim. “I got left! By a cruise ship!”
I shift my gaze behind him, to the sandy little island maybe sixty yards out. I dropped my anchor near it for some shelter from the wind.
“I need water. Please!” His voice cracks. There’s a life preserver tacked onto the back of a nearby seat. I grab it off, step to the rail, and toss it to him. The guy swims a few strokes to it, throws an arm around it. His head bows for a second before tilting up at me. “Let me back up—please, man!”
I look around the inky water, then back to the island. Nothing looks amiss, but why should I trust this guy?