Page 6 of Ship Happens
“Excuse me,” he says in the smoothest British accent I’ve ever heard. “The staff at the front are new, and it appears they forgot to remind you about your wristband. It’s very important that everyone wears them while on the ship.”
“Oh, right!” I lower my bag and dig around in a side pocket until I find the purple wristband. As I fasten the silicone strip around my arm, I realize it locks in place and can’t be removed. “Do I have to wear this for the entire cruise?”
He checks my band, then smiles. “Yes. My name is Ezra Carter, and if you’ll just come with me...” He turns and begins to walk away.
Gripping my bags once more, I follow the strange man further into the ship. His name doesn’t ring any alarm bells, but I still keep my wits about me as we travel down a brightly lit hallway and end up at an elevator.
“Hold your band against the sensor.” He motions toward the metal plate where the call buttons usually are. The plate is smooth and devoid of any buttons, depressions, or features at all.
I step forward and press my band to the metal, and a bell dings overhead. Seconds later, the elevator doors swing open.
“You’re a VIP. To travel to the less accessible areas of the ship, you’ll need that band.” The man—Ezra—steps inside the elevator, then motions for me to join him. Once I do, he leans forward and taps a button.
“Where are we headed?” I ask.
Ezra pushes his hands into his pockets and rocks on his heels, but he says nothing.
My stomach lurches as the elevator comes to a stop and spits us out in another hallway. The lights here are much dimmer,and the whites and silvers have been traded for dark woods and moody metals.
A bald man with a massive mustache wanders toward us. When he sees the man beside me, he smiles and raises his hand in a wave. When he sees me, he stops in his tracks and licks his lips.
“You got dibs on this one too?” the man asks.
Ezra shakes his head. “No, Ice. Kindra is the only one to lay claim to my heart, but that doesn’t mean you can sexually harass every beautiful woman who joins our court. Have you tried masturbation?”
“I’m Frankie. Nice to meet you.” I hold my hand toward him and offer a smile, then snatch back my hand when Ezra’s question registers. It doesn’t matter that I’ve used my real name. My birth certificate, social security card, and driver’s license all say something different. I’m actually less discoverable if I use my biologic information.
Plus, it’s easier to remember. You can’t fuck up the truth, right?
As the bald man steps closer and takes my hand, I realize I’ve already forgotten his name. “On shanty, I’m sure,” he says as he kisses my fingers.
“That’senchanté, you nit,” Ezra says. “Follow me, Frankie, and I’ll show you to your room.”
The bald man looks so dejected as Ezra plucks my hand from his and leads me down yet another hallway. I’m liable to get lost on this ship, what with all its twists, turns, and secret elevators.
My heart picks up speed as he stops in front of a cherry-stained door. He directs me to use my wristband on the door panel, so I do, and the door’s lock clicks open.
I step inside and look around. The room is large—far larger than any cruise I’ve ever been on—and one massive white bed takes up a good chunk of the space.
“Do I have a presidential suite all to myself?” I ask as I turn to Ezra, but he’s already gone. I step toward the doorway and look into the hall, but he’s no longer anywhere. I hurry to close the door before the strange man with the mustache sneaks inside. Ice...something.
When I place my bag on the bed, I spy an envelope on the pillow. I snatch up the rectangular slip of paper and rip it open.
Welcome to the Bruise Cruise!
Please dress in the provided attire in your closet and meet in the lounge (Deck C) at six p.m. sharp. If you do not attend, you will be removed from the ship before we sail tonight.
Accessories and refreshments will be provided. Please only bring yourselves.
I hurry to the closet and rip it open. Inside, two black garment bags hang from a rod. The name Maverick has been written across the tag on the first bag. I guess that’s my roommate, though I don’t know how I feel about rooming with a strange man who may also be a serial killer.
Not to mention sharing a fucking bed with him.
The second garment bag belongs to me, so I pull it from the rack and carry it to the bed. After unzipping the bag, I reveal what I can only describe as a shiny silver hazmat suit, complete with a military-grade gas mask.
“What in the world . . . ?”
I pull the silver material from the bag and study the strange getup. This clearly wasn’t manufactured by any official installation. None of the contractors we use would be caught dead crafting suits made from such a flashy material. Andare those fucking rhinestones around the mask’s blackened eye holes?
