Page 42 of Ship Happens
The song shifts from a current pop tune to something slow, and the people file off the dance floor and crowd the bar. Only a young couple remains beneath the glittering disco ball. They look into each other’s eyes, completely unaware that someone is likely being murdered on this ship at this very moment. I saw theSinners’ evening itinerary, and if I had to miss an event, I’m glad it was the one titled Conga Line.
My date slides against me, his hand wandering over my waist as he yells for the bartender to bring him a beer. The two women for Maverick and Ice crowd me on the other side.
“Where are our boys?” the brunette asks in her nasal voice. “I wanna meet the man of the hour!”
Because there were so many men and so few women, not every lady had the chance to meet every man in our allotted hour of speed dating. Rhonda here was very displeased about missing out on Maverick, so I figured I’d help her out.
“They said they’d be here. Maybe they want to show up fashionably late?” I shrug my shoulders.
“I’m not so sure about the fashionable part,” Rhonda says with a curl of her lip.
I follow her gaze to the doorway, where Maverick and Ice Pig step into the swirling laser lights. Ice hasn’t changed a thing. He still sports the same t-shirt and jeans he wore earlier, complete with an unknown stain just below his left nipple. Maverick, on the other hand, is a new man.
He strolls toward the bar with a confidence he has no business displaying while wearing such an atrocious ensemble. He seems to have taken my advice to heart, as he now sports a loud Hawaiian shirt that looks a couple sizes too small. He’s left it unbuttoned, revealing peeks of his toned chest and abs. The bright-pink board shorts and flip-flops with socks just seals the deal.
But the hair. The hair is like nothing I could have conjured in my wildest dreams. The perfect hard part has been cast aside for the most hideous and unbecoming pompadour I’ve ever witnessed. And is that a gold cross dangling from his left ear?
Maybe it’s the hideous outfit or maybe it’s the beer, but I start laughing and can’t stop. By the time they reach us, my mascarahas probably cut black tracks down my face from the tears, but the laughter pours out of me. He’ll be furious when he sees me losing it, and I don’t care.
But he isn’t. As he draws nearer, he spins and holds out his hand with a playful grin. I step forward to take it, but Rhonda gets between us. That’s when I remember he isn’t my date.
“I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting you at the event,” he says over the music. “The name’s Chester Copperbottom.”
“Copperpot,” I correct.
He nods and turns back to Rhonda. “That’s what I said. Copperpot.”
“I thought you got lost while looking for One-Eyed Willy’s treasure,” Rhonda says with a laugh, and that’s when the realization dawns in Maverick’s eyes.
He pins me with a look before embracing the chaos. “Yeah, my mom loved that movie.” He raises a fist. “Goonies never say die.”
I’m shocked he knows a movie that’s more from my era than his. Shocked, but not displeased. “You must do an excellent truffle shuffle,” I say. “Why don’t you get on the dance floor and show us?”
“With pleasure, but I never dance alone.” He reaches past Rhonda and offers his hand. When she huffs, he spares her a glance. “Sorry, but you aren’t my type. That guy looks interested, though.” He points to my date as he drags me onto the dance floor.
When he pulls me against him, I finally get a good look at his eyes. That’s when I realize something is very wrong.
Chapter Nineteen
Maverick
“Have you been takingdrugs?” Frankie whisper-screams as her hands rest on my shoulders. I hardly hear her over the music.
The music. It’s really good. I don’t know this song, but I like it. My hips rock to the beat as Frankie’s fingers brush over my skin. I’m so sensitive to her touch. It’s really good too. The hairs on my neck are like guitar strings, and Frankie strums them as we spin on the dance floor. Is that where the music comes from?
Her finger taps against my head, but it feels more like she reaches beneath my skull and taps my brain. “Hello? Anyone in there? What drugs have you taken?”
“I don’t take drugs. I don’t smoke. You won’t find a single tattoo or piercing on my body. Not my style, sweetheart.” I lower her into a dip and nearly drop her on the floor.
Frankie rights herself with a scowl and grips my hand, tugging me off the dance floor. That’s probably good. I’m fucking thirsty. I can’t remember the last time I wanted water so badly.
But instead of leading me toward the bar and the pretty lights and the music that’s trying to meld with my soul, she drags me to a dark, quiet(ish) corner. How very lame of her.
“Come on! Loosen up and have some fun!” I jump up and down and pump my fist to the beat.
Frankie grips my thrusting fist and lowers it as she glances around. “Dude, you’re currently party rocking to Hozier’s ‘Work Song’ like it’s your job. What the fuck did you take?”
I look at the dance floor. The figures are a little blurry, but they’re holding each other and swaying slowly. Why does the song sound so different to me? I hear the backfill, the hidden melody. It’s a fuckingbanger!
