Page 64 of Pucking Billionaire

Oh, no.

Andrew leaps to his feet and runs out to the deck, with Martha after him.

Something they ate? Norovirus? Either way, I hope they’re not on our cruise.

But no.

I realize that I’ve been feeling progressively woozy myself. I just haven’t allowed myself to dwell on it… but it’s getting harder to ignore by the second.

It’s a feeling a lot like my post F-Day hangover. Only my world is spinning more right now, and the nausea is sharper. Not to mention, I have a desperate desire to be on dry land that wasn’t part of my post F-Day experience.

“Are you okay?” Mason asks, sounding worried.

“Sure.” I take a deep breath. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re looking kind of green.”

“I’m fine.” I make the mistake of looking out the window, and as soon as I see the ocean move, my seasickness intensifies.

I suck in a couple more deep breaths.

“You don’t look fine,” Mason says.

“I could use some fresh air.” Except I feel bad interrupting his nature-show-like fun.

“Great idea.” He helps me get up. “Let’s get you some.”

We walk out onto the deck, and at first, the fresh air seems to help, but then I overhear sounds from another part of the boat that remind me of the projectile-vomiting scene from The Exorcist.

“Fuck,” Mason growls. “You want to go back?”

I shake my head and swallow the drool pooling unpleasantly in my mouth.

“Here.” He takes off his shirt, wets it using the water from his bottle, and presses the cold compress against my forehead.

Okay. Between seeing shirtless Mason and the cold, I feel a tiny bit better, but then the sounds resume, ruining everything.

I can’t even tell who is making the sounds at this point: Martha, Andrew, or—most likely—Pazuzu, the demon antagonist from The Exorcist.

Mason looks at me worriedly as I feel Pazuzu slither into my own body and use his gnarly fingers to squeeze the nausea center in my brain. Heaving, I bend over the railing so fast Mason must think I want to fall overboard. He grabs me with a strong grip, but then Pazuzu’s possession takes hold and he switches to holding my hair.

Fuck me. I’m going to die. My insides are coming out of my mouth. It goes on and on until I feel like my spleen is swimming with the fishes.

When it’s over, I finally feel a little better. But I’m mortified, even more so than the time I reached into a sample box next to a doughnut shop, only to realize it wasn’t a sample box. The woman holding said box was a doughnut shop employee on her break, and the box was her lunch.

“Drink.” Mason extends his water bottle to me, his expression worried instead of grossed out.

“You’ll have to burn this bottle,” I mutter.

“Stop being silly and drink.” He thrusts the bottle into my hands.

Fine. I force myself to take a sip. Then another.

“Good job,” Mason says. “Now look toward the distant horizon.”

I do so, and that helps a little more.

“Stand here.” Mason moves me over a few feet, arranging me in such a way that I feel wind on my face.

---