Page 7 of Promise Not To Fall

“We go over here. I hook you up.” His hand is on my arm now, and the door handle, coaxing me. As tempting as it is, I notice the Bahamian police patrolling the streets, dressed in British tan and red uniforms, with berets and everything. They look official.

I look at the man with hard eyes and a smile as the car begins to creep forward. This seems illegal to me, and I think the moment I step outside this car, I might be kidnapped or, worse, thrown in jail and never heard from again. And on another note, this guy offering up drugs and a free pass to prison, he’s got dirty fingernails. It’s a rule of mine never to trust anyone with dirt under the nails. Unless it’s your mechanic. He has a valid excuse.

The driver finally notices the drug dealer trying to kidnap me—not really, I’m exaggerating—and speeds up, leaving dirty-nail guy to his next victim. “Oh, no you don’t, little lady. No local men. Don’t go to Nassau by yourself.”

That’s his only warning. And then he starts rambling off something else, but to be honest with you, I can’t understand a goddamn thing anyone here says. They have a tendency to drop the “H” when they speak, and I haven’t gotten used to that. Instead, I find myself staring at them and hoping to read their lips. Other times I just smile and nod, pretending I know what they’re saying.

Anyway, to save you the trouble, a good rule of thumb if you go to the Bahamas: drugsareillegal here.

To get over to Paradise Island, you cross a bridge, and then you are literallyinparadise, as far as I’m concerned. Keep in mind the most I’ve seen for the last month was my bedroom walls. Stepping into a grocery store probably would have been paradise.

The hotel is amazing. Everywhere I look there are tropical gardens, palm trees, and half-dressed people. It actually reminds me a lot of being back home, but it’s humid and my hair looks like I stuck my finger in a light socket.

We’re staying at Atlantis on Paradise Island in the Beach Tower. My room overlooks the ocean, while Rylee and Wesley’s room overlook the city. I’m not sure how I got lucky on the room picking, but I had a feeling they don’t care about the outside view. All that matters to them is the thread count on the sheets.

First thing I notice when I enter my room? It’s not cleaned. That irritates me. While reminded I’m on a strict “don’t be an asshole” order, I can’t help myself.

Immediately, I call down to the front desk and inform them of the problem. They say they’ll be right up, but I do one better and catch a maid outside my room.

I try to be as nice as possible and tap the girl on the shoulder. “There is only one towel in my room and the bed isn’t made,” I say to her.

She turns around, taking one of her earbuds out, her deep chocolate locks slipping from her bun with the motion. “What?”

It’s unprofessional that she’s listening to music, and annoying that I have to repeat myself. “You’re working,” I note. “Should you really be listening to music?”

“I can do whatever I want to do,” she clips, glaring at me. While her skin is dark, she looks American, with these sky blue eyes that kind of catch you off guard. She’s beautiful.

But I’ve pissed her off for sure. If this was a restaurant, this would be the point where I was sure spit was going into my food.

But it wasn’t a restaurant, and she has access to my room and my stuff.

Don’t be an asshole, Kendall.

“It seems my room is missing towels, and the bed isn’t made,” I say, as politely as I can. “Do you think maybe someone could service it?”

The girl sighs and glances down at her clipboard on the cart in front of her. After a moment, she speaks, and her tone certainly isn’t any nicer than before. “I show your room was serviced already.” Then she turns away without waiting for my reply.

I have to bite my tongue. People like this really piss me off. Her job is customer service, and she’s treating me like shit. “Okay.” I breathe calmly and let out a small laugh to cover my annoyance. “It’snotclean.” I reach forward and grab three towels from her cart, catching her name on her badge. “And I have no towels, Alicia. So are you going to do your job, or should I do it myself?”

That does it. She isn’t pleased at all. But neither am I. She can shove that clipboard up her skinny tanned ass for all I care.

Rylee chooses that moment to come out of her room. “Kendall? What are you doing?”

“Getting towels,” I tell her, as if it should be obvious. It looks obvious to me.

Rylee pushes her way between me and Alicia, looking over her shoulder at the maid as she ushers me back down the hall. “Don’t mind her.”

While Rylee escorts me back to my room, Alicia gives me a death stare. I do her one solid, pointing to my eyes and then at her, letting her know I’ll be watching her.

Can you guess what she does next? Flips me off and then makes a motion with her hand and tongue, as if I could suck a dick.

What the fuck?

Already I’ve met a drug dealer and a prostitute. I haven’t made any friends yet, and when you’re in another country, it’s not good to have this many enemies.

“You need to go down to the bar or something,” Rylee tells me, holding up one of my sundresses. She always feels the need to adjust my style and insist I wear certain dresses that show my assets.

This time she actually picks something good. I put it on as she sits on the edge of the bed, looking through menus. “Where are we going?”

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