Page 2 of Blind Devotion
This felt like an appropriate time for my life to flash before my eyes, ironic as that may be. There was nothing to flash, nothing to remember further than the events of the last few hours, and nothing since waking up on a boat that was burning to a crisp with fire that I could hear and smell but not see. Nothing but darkness except the tinge of orange behind my eyelids. Yet somehow, I knew that expression, “Life flashing before my eyes.”
I remembered waking to agony everywhere. My head. My eyes. My shoulder, wrist, and pelvis. It all hurt, so much so that one ache blended with the other as I focused on escape. I remembered the stench of burnt skin, wood lacquer, and smoke, the crackling and whoosh of the flames, the sweltering heat, and the burning pain as the flames licked at my skin.
It didn’t matter that every bit of me screamed in pain, that I had no clue where I was, or why, or that I tasted blood on my tongue. I crawled my way out of those rooms on that oversized boat, broken and aching, over still-warm bodies and crumpled pieces of ceiling and deck, and jumped overboard. Yet even the shock of cold water and the fear of drowning didn’t erase the feel of clambering over dead people on my way to freedom.
That felt like forever ago. It could have been minutes later or hours or days. But here I was, still bobbing up and down on the waves on a board that had smacked against my arm shortly after jumping off that boat. The heat from the sun no longer felt like a reprieve from the water’s chill. My skin was hot and taut yet clammy, and my injuries were catching up to me.
Gunshot or stabbing to my side—my best guess from the hole—a broken or sprained wrist, a horrible twinge where there should not be one between my thighs, burns from the fire, a gash on my forehead, bruising along my body that felt like I’d gone through a round or two with a boulder, searing pain in my left eye, and a protrusion in my right eye where a shard had been before jumping into the water dislodged it. I cataloged every laceration and wound easily, as if it were habit.
Each was going numb. The throb in my head was nothing but a weak pulse. I was heavier now than I had been waking up. My limbs took so much effort to move. I shivered violently, my teeth clacking over and over. I didn’t know much, but instinctively, I knew that was not a good sign. Neither was floating in salt water for hours on end. There was nothing out here, wherever herewas, but lapping waves, ever since the water gurgled the boat away into oblivion.
The cold water had long ago seeped into my bones. My lips were dry and cracked from the salt. My raw and burnt skin was wrinkled from how long I had been clinging to the long piece of floating wood. Maybe I should have been more panicked about the blankness of my memories or the fact that I couldn’t see, aside from a general glow through my left eyelid, or that I was in the middle of the ocean, soon to become fish chum. I couldn’t think about anything other than the thirst and the cold. It was so cold.
Fatigue called to me. It sang a lullaby that swept away the pain, the confusion, the loss. I just wanted to let go and sleep. Fighting against its pull became harder and harder, but there were no bird calls or voices to listen to over the slow slap of waves. There was nothing to feel except for the hardness of the raft, the pain, and the cold. There was nothing to taste or smell other than salt water.
I clung to hope for as long as I could, but in the end, the dreariness lulled me away.
The next time I woke, it was to music and laughter and voices, to the vibrations of a motor in the water, and finally to the feel of something solid and big grazing my fingertips as I stretched my arms out. My body perked up with sudden relief. This had to be the hull of another boat. I was saved.
I tried to yell for help. Barely a croak left my throat, it was so dry. I tried knocking against the hull, but it wasn’t nearly loud enough to overcome the sounds onboard, and each tap worked to create distance between my raft and the boat before a wave crashed us back together again.
I couldn’t give up. Not now. I wasn’t going to die here. I wouldn’t allow it. That meant it was up to me to do something. No one was going to save me but myself, just like on that boat.
My head swam, and for a moment I wondered if I was delirious, but I wasn’t going to let this chance pass me by. Even though I had no idea what or who I’d find, I slithered off my raft and swam through the icy cold to safety as best I could.
I spat out salt water as bow waves submerged me, then flowed away every few seconds. My hands, broken or not, grappled against the hull. I felt my way around in search of something to latch onto. The hull was smooth. No ladder. Not even a colony of barnacles to grasp onto. My limbs ached, and my burnt legs itched and stung in the salt water. Each kick sucked away a bit more strength. I was spending more time underwater than above. Maybe I had been better off on the raft. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was quite literally all the life I had to flash before my eyes.
The waves took me under once more. As I flailed to come back up for air, my good hand caught hold of an edge. That led to a flattened outcropping. A platform. With everything I had left, I pulled myself up and out, screaming breathlessly.
Chapter 2
“ToOcéaneDeVillier,my dearestmaman.” I raised my glass to the guest of honor of this event. “May your forty-seventh year bring you luck and a new taste of happiness.Santé.”
Each guest mirrored my action, repeating the last word of the toast. Their voices clamored together amidst the clinking of champagne glasses before the Louis Roederer Rosé flooded their mouths and senses.
A moment of blessed silence. The peace of the Mediterranean air settled around me and the crowd, and I exhaled at the abrupt relief from the attention. Too quickly, the chatter rose anew.
Servers continued their rounds, offering hors d’oeuvres on silver platters and more champagne. The crowd buzzed into huddled groups around the platters of canapés and trays of alcohol like piranhas to prey. My lip curled downward ever so slightly, the only crack to my bland facade. Their starved, sycophantic gazes dug into my skin. At least the dais and a line of my men separated us from the vultures.
I pecked my mother’s cheek and, with a forced smile, repeated a phrase my father had often used. “To the star of the show.”
Her lips quirked. A little ode to the love of her life and the man I never quite measured up to.
Her hand reached up toward my face, but I snatched her wrist before contact could be made. No one touched me unless I allowed it. She knew that, and yet she still tried to push my boundaries after all these years.
Maman returned my pinched expression with a quick one of her own—a blend of grief, disappointment, heartache—before her pleasant, almost regal composure settled back into place. Her eyes swept over the mass of people celebrating her on my yacht.
“You would look so handsome if you smiled more.”
“To what end?”
“Women, of course.”
I grunted. Not this again. Willing pussy was never the issue—the scar carved around my right eye down to my chin had yet to deter them—but my head and cock rarely got along with women unless certain conditions were met. Conditions that generally only the paid sort were willing to meet. No touching. No intimacy. No lingering moments.
“You cannot find a wife without searching the pool.”
“Small mercies.”
