Page 7 of Shark Bait

I blink, give myself a moment to switch back to business, and realize that I have to blink one more time to do that. She’s distracting, but luckily, my job here is ending soon. All that’s left to do is wait for the cavalry. They’ll take care of the yacht and my transport.

I point at the burner phone I left on the bar. “I’ve reprogramed the explosive. If you dial, it’ll blow.”

“Don’t dial. Got it.”

Satisfied with her quick uptake, I stand.

“You’re gonna think my next question is stupid,” she says.

“I doubt that.” She’s intelligent.

A small smile plays on her lips. “You’re really nice.”

“A professional hazard.” I’m an excellent shot, so my targets rarely suffer, and that’s nice.

She laughs again. I think I like making her laugh with my dry, sarcastic jokes. Most people dislike them because my jokes make me sound like a smartass. I’m not a smartass. I’m just smart. A fact. “What’s the question?”

“Does 911 work in these parts of the world? I mean, does calling 911 summon the police?”

I shake my head. “You’re sailing in the Euxine Sea.”

She shrugs. “I don’t know where that is.”

“We’re entering Turkish waters now.”

“I’m still in Europe, then.”

I’m avoiding attachment to her, so I don’t ask about her story. There could be at least a hundred reasons why she’s on the vessel at this time. I speculate Fis and his men might’ve grabbed her while she visited Europe. They could’ve lured her to a destination or just snatched her as they would any average, pretty, clueless tourist.

“My daddy’s a cop,” she states.

“I’m sorry.”

She laughs again. “Don’t be sorry, asshole. It’s great having a police officer at the house. If it weren’t for my daddy’s job, my five brothers would’ve ended up in jails all over the country.” Her gaze is on the threads she’s picking off the pillow, but now she looks up from under her eyelashes.

An image of her looking up at me like that while her lips stretch around my cock makes me scrub my face. I lean back and watch the TV, the wall, anywhere but at her while she tells me things I wish she wouldn’t. Like how she was raised by a dad who made sheriff the year before the youngest of her older brothers was born.

Her mom worked part-time, stayed at home most of the time, and raised all six of them until they could fend for themselves. Then she worked full-time as a veterinary nurse, helping everyone in town with their animals.

I listen until her voice becomes my music. I memorize the pitch and play it in my mind later that evening as I jerk off in the shower.

FOUR

WHEN THE SUSPICIOUS PHONE RINGS

WITNESS

It’s my first night on the yacht without the crew of men that have been my constant terror during the months I’ve spent with them. I feel liberated in ways I never thought I would, mostly because I didn’t dream of being pregnant on a yacht in the middle of some foreign sea where a professional assassin stepped in and freed me from my captors.

And I didn’t dream that dream because, back in October, when I boarded my international flight headed for Italy, I didn’t aspire to become the victim of a kidnapping.

I aspired to become the best song writer I could be. It’s why I enrolled in music school, and why I lied to my family during the first months I spent in Rome instead of living on the college campus in Nashville. The contracts with Fis’s boss, the man who promised me education and connections in music, were legit. The people I met with online were legit. Even the business-class airline ticket was legit.

During the first week in Rome, I was recovering from jet lag and sightseeing around the hotel. During the second week, the man who claimed to be a music executive with connections held parties every night, introducing me to countless, mostly intoxicated, people. The third week, I started wondering whenwe’d meet anyone for lunch or even dinner so we could talk about music.

Since partying like a rock star remains an industry standard, partying continued. One night, I met a nice-looking up-and-coming singer who charmed me into his bed after a few drinks. The morning after, I woke up and discovered he’d stolen the journal where I kept my songs.

Fis’s boss got really mad and kept looking for the guy, but the man skipped town with all my verses.

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