Page 29 of The Vacation Mix-Up
“You okay?” Riley asks, his hand gentle as it squeezes my shoulder.
“Uh….” I step back and blink, the foyer tilting. “Um… no. I feel sick. It’s too… uh… rocky. I think I’ll go back to the room.”
Spinning on my heel, I don’t wait for him to respond.
I need to be alone.
I need to cry.
And I need my anti-nausea meds.
chapter six
OTHER RILEY
Riles stumbles off toward the elevators, and I feel the need to go with her, to find out what’s wrong and if she’s okay. We’re not exactly friends—we’ve only just met—but my mother taught me from a young age to be kind, understanding, and to help someone in need. And Riles sure looks like she needs some form of help, at the very least with walking.
My gut tells me to leave her be though. Not to mention if she is going to puke, I’m happy to stay well away. I can’t stand puke, especially someone else’s. Half-digested food and stomach acid should never see the light of day. When Poppy was a baby and regurgitated on my shoulder for the first time, I all but regurgitated too, much to Roni’s amusement. Thankfully, it was pretty easy to get used to baby spit-up. Puke though, another thing entirely.
Stifling a body shudder, I make my way outside for a night walk on deck, the ocean breeze fresh but pleasant. Waves lap at the side of the ship, nothing but darkness as far as the eye can see. I welcome the eerie peace and slide my hands into my pant pockets as I head toward the stern, weaving around lovey-dovey couples strolling in the opposite direction. It wasn’t long ago that I made up one half of a similar pair, fingers interlaced, not a care in the world as Krystal and I laughed over mundane things.
Comfortable.
In love.
Happy.
Drawing in a deep breath, I let it out again, expelling the memories into the passing wind, when I spot Ben up ahead, cigarette in hand as he leans against the railing in one of the few designated smoking sections on the ship. My feet fumble for a change of direction, but he raises his chin and makes eye contact, and it’s too late for me to sprint away or dive overboard.
Fuck.
“Riley!” he hollers.
I give him a curt nod. “Ben.”
“You smoke?” He offers me his packet.
“Nah, man. That shit’ll kill you.”
“Probably.” He pockets the cigarettes and waggles his eyebrows like he did at dinner.
“What?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder, expecting to see a runway model.
He chuckles, greedy-like. “You’re a lucky son of a bitch.”
“Why?”
“Being shacked up with that hottie.”
“Riley?”
“Damn straight! Have you seen her…?” He puffs out a fat cloud of smoke and fondles his chest. “What I wouldn’t give to be buried in those.”
I agree; I’m a man, after all, and her breasts are superb, especially in the tight dress she was wearing tonight. It took balls of steel not to stare at them, which I didn’t, because I do have balls of steel.
Clearly, Ben doesn’t.
“So—” He draws in a lungful of toxins, voice strained. “—you gonna do her?”
