Page 5 of Ship Happens
I slide my hand into my pocket and pretend I’m looking for something. What I’m actually doing is giving myself a dose of pain. I snag my thigh’s sensitive skin between my fingers and pinch as hard as I can. Water fills my eyes, but my dick refuses to listen. It’s not enough.
Frustrated, I pull my hand out of my pocket before one of the security guards thinks I’m trying to play pocket pool. The last thing I need before we go on this cruise is a Paul Reubens situation. God rest his soul.
“Hey, have you guys gotten your room assignments for the ship?” I ask the group.
“No, but Cat and I will be sharing a cabin. If not, someone will have hell to pay,” Bennett says.
The girls are too busy watching the woman dancing on the stage to respond.
“I asked Jim to put me in a room with Eve,” I say. “Nothing against Ice Pick, but he snores.”
Eve sits back and looks at me. “Jim didn’t tell you?”
Clearly not. I shake my head.
“Oh, honey. You need to talk to him. He didn’t room you with Ice Pick, but he won’t tell anyone who he roomed you with or why.” Eve sips her drink, then places it on the low table in front of us. “He said he has a job for you. Something about keeping tabs on a newbie.”
“And he told everyone but me? The person who’s supposed to be doing the job? I don’t even work for him. Why wouldn’t he task Bennett with this?”
Eve shrugs. “I don’t know, but he’s already on the ship. I guess you won’t find out until we board.”
I sit back and run my finger around the bottom of the glass. What does Jim Madigan have up his sleeve? And why don’t I feel good about it?
Chapter Three
Frankie
The luggage handle nearly slips from my sweaty grasp as I step onto the gangplank and board the cruise ship. This ship once bore the name Ice Princess Lenore, as it was commonly used in Alaskan cruises. Now she’s been refurbished and renamed to the Bruise Cruise.
My nerves kick into high gear as I haul a bag containing a gun and handcuffs—among other things—onto a ship full of criminals and killers. No matter what happens, however, my focus must remain on Jim.
And not getting caught.
I glide into the atrium between a row of staff on either side of me. They clap their hands and smile as I make my grand entrance. Something looks a bit off about them, though. The smiles are too fake, and I don’t mean the fake, sugary-sweet shit that normal cruise staff offer. These people look like they’re the killers.
Is that the game? Are the staff the actual killers and the unwitting guests are their victims?
I keep my eyes wide open as I look around the spacious entry. It’s your typical atrium, with grandiosity in every direction. The parquet floors gleam as sunlight pours through a wall of glass. A grand chandelier hangs above everything like some illuminated goddess. Luxury furniture in shades of pale blues and silvers dot the expensive paisley rugs.
An elderly couple stands beside one of the couches. The wiry man’s gray hair pokes out around his head, and despite being on a cruise in Florida, he’s wearing a gray suit. The woman, on the other hand, is dressed more casually. Her khaki shorts and loud Hawaiian shirt scream tourist. These people don’t look like killers at all.
But then again, they rarely do. That’s how they get away with it.
I approach the couple and offer them a smile, choosing to give my attention to the woman. Women find other women less intimidating when they steer their gaze away from the man they possess. It’s basic psychology.
“It’s a nice day for a cruise. Where have you two flown in from?” I ask.
The woman looks up at me and says nothing.
“I’m down from Ohio,” I offer, hoping she’ll open up if I do. Even though my cover story is a complete lie. “I just got out of a bad breakup and figured an adults-only cruise was just the way to break out of my shell again.”
The woman turns away from me, grabs the man’s hand, and looks into his eyes.
The man nods, then looks at me. “We are sorry for your breakup. Please do not speak to us again.”
With that, the pair turns and meanders toward the other end of the room, where they continue standing around. Serial killers are typically charismatic, which is how they disarm their victims. I can definitely scratch these two off the list.
A man approaches from my left. He’s tall, well-muscled, and a pair of black frames perch on his nose. There’s something hauntingly familiar about his face, but I can’t put my finger on it.
