Page 4 of Shark Bait

That’s all he got from my sob story? It’s a yacht and not a boat? I don’t ask him if he’s the mental one, mainly because I know men who are, and he’s not one of them. Even if he was, he makes me feel comfortable. I don’t give a shit if he offed ten more crews like Fis’s gang. This man did me a favor. “Let me feed you,” I tell him. “If you’re hungry. You hungry?”

He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the chemical spillage on the deck. “I’m still working.”

“You need a hand?” I ask him again.

He shakes his head.

“Okay, well, while you work, I’ll make pancakes. That’s all that stuck from when my mama tried to prepare me for college. You know, when I’d live on my own.” I linger for some reason, wondering if he’ll ask me about my mama or college or Nashville or growing up in a small Tennessee town. He doesn’t.

It’s refreshing how uninterested he is in me. I’d even call it normal for two strangers who met on another person’s yacht out in the middle of the sea. I’d say it’s normal but for the fact that Shark gets back to scrubbing blood and brains off the deck.

“Later, then,” I mumble, then descend the steps, making sure I hold on to the railing in case any of the guys feels like pushing me down. I pause mid-stairway, my grip on the rail so tight, my knuckles turn white.

Oh wait… There are no more guys. No more bullying. No more pranks or having to dress in whatever Fis wanted me to wear during the weekends. Just no more. Slowly, I relax my grip but keep holding the railing as I descend the stairs.

I emerge into the living room, with its white leather couch, love seat, and two chairs that surround a black glass table littered with guns, credit cards, knives, and the white powderthey started snorting a few months back when I started showing and it became obvious the bump in my belly wasn’t from gaining weight.

I remember hearing Fis telling one of his men “to get over it” when the guy mentioned he didn’t sign up for “this,” while pointing at my belly. But by then, it was too late.

By the time Fis figured out the only thing that would calm his restless and increasingly violent crew was news that my handover was scheduled in two weeks, they were already hooked on the powder.

I think he was lying. While I hid in the crawl spaces of the yacht, I overheard him speaking on the phone with someone. I’m pretty sure something fell through with the handover because right after the phone call, Fis summoned me and told me how I was a burden and how he’d doubled his fee for keeping me safe.

In the beginning, when I found out I was pregnant, the man who lured me overseas and Fis decided together that they’d move me onto the yacht to hide me from prying eyes. Meanwhile, I hoped the pregnancy was a false alarm, but with time, the baby grew, and since he’s now mine and God’s, carrying him helps me cope during hard times.

And times were hard down here under the deck. Sometimes when the crew got high and dangerously obnoxious, it got so scary, I’d hide in the engine room, hoping they’d forget about me. Most times, my wish came true, and they let me languish there.

That’s where I was when Shark Daddy showed up. Languishing in the engine room when I heard a man shouting about an intruder on the boat. A yacht. Shark said it was a yacht.

A phone rings, and I move toward the sound, wondering which of the guys left his stuff here. Then I realize they all left all their stuff here.

I’m pouring myself a glass of water when Shark descends from the deck. He’s athletic, tall, and lean, with a shaved head and even shaved arms. There are no noticeable tattoos on his body, unless they’re under his T-shirt. It’s kind of strange to look at plain skin after spending more than half a year with men with tattoos down to their knuckles.

“Is that your phone?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I don’t own a phone.” Or anything else.

Shark follows the sound, bends, then lifts the couch with one hand.

“Hot damn, you got some serious muscle.” I curve my arm up, making my biceps flex.

“You see the phone?” He points under the furniture.

I peek under the couch. “Yup.” I get on my hands and knees and retrieve it. When I emerge, I look it over. It’s a plastic black phone that looks like a toy.

Shark extends his palm, and I hand it over.

“Looks old,” I comment. “God knows how long’s been under the couch.”

Shark doesn’t reply on the way to the kitchenette, where he puts the phone on the counter. He sits on a chair at the small bar and starts to examine the device.

I move into the kitchenette to prepare the pancakes, but he asks, “Ever see any of them use this?”

I shake my head, now noticing his slightly accented English. “They use regular phones.”

“You sure?”

I bite my lip. “I think so. Why? Is it important? I could try to remember, but I really don’t want to have to recall the time I spent here with that much detail.”

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