Page 198 of Dirty Damage

No. It can’t be. I must have heard that wrong.

But then I hear his name again and this time, there’s no disputing it. Feeling sick to my stomach, I end up with my cheekon the bathroom floor, staring at the patterned tiles, searching for answers in them.

My body is aching. My head is spinning. My eyes are getting heavier and heavier.

I’ll just rest them for a quick minute.

It couldn’t possibly hurt, right?

I’m woken by a painful gurgling.

It feels like all the ache in my body has been concentrated in my stomach. I can’t decide if I want to throw up or eat something.

Is this morning sickness?

The irony is that it looks like it’s the dead of the night. To make sure, I peer out the porthole. The waves are animated now, all streaming in one direction.

Almost to the point that it looks like we’re… moving?

Wait.

I clutch the edges of the porthole when I realize that I can no longer see the glittering lights of the harbor.

Which means we’re no longer docked.

Yes, now that I’m fully present, I can hear the steady thrum of the yacht’s engine.

We must’ve been sailing for hours now.

And I slept through it all.

My queasy stomach doesn’t allow much room for thinking. I end up crawling to the toilet, lifting up the lid and going all Jackson Pollock in the bowl.Blech.

Once I’m dry-heaving empty air, I flush and crawl over to the vanity. Not even a splash of cold water on my face makes me feel better.

What the hell am I supposed to do now? I don’t even know where this stupid yacht is headed.

And just like that, like an answered prayer, I hear voices. Crew members moving about the lower deck.

There’s no mention of Boris. But I do hear someone utter, “Nassau.”

Nassau? That’s in the Bahamas, isn’t it?

Well, I suppose there are worse places to be unwittingly dragged to. I can figure out something from there. Maybe convince Sydney to wire me some money so that I can figure out next steps.

I should be more concerned about being trapped in a foreign land with no money and only a passport to my name.

But the fact that I might be on this yacht with Boris is taking up all the worrying space in my head.

I end up back on my cozy little spot on the floor underneath the porthole. Another choppy bout of sleep later and I wake up ravenous.

I feel empty… literally and figuratively.

I need to get food inside me fast and at the moment, I don’t care if I have to wrestle Boris himself for it.

Sure, he might call the Coast Guard, have me arrested, maybe even throw me overboard as shark chum. But in the face of my hunger, that all seems worth it.

So, marshaling up all my strength, I rise shakily to my feet and approach the door. I unfasten the lock and clasp the door handle.

I have no idea what’s waiting for me on the other side of this door but, fuck it—time to act.

I pull the door open—and walk straight into a hard, warm wall.

Stars prickle the edge of my vision.

Then I collapse.

TO BE CONTINUED

The story continues in Book 2 of the Pavlov Bratva duet, DIRTY GROVEL.

---