Page 6 of His Curvy Castaway Obsession - A Man Who Knows What He Wants

Waitress, maybe. Oscar winning performance for most convincing I’m alright? Nope.

I feel like I’ve been stabbed, I want to pull over but figure I’ll see if she’ll even talk first.

“Look, if it’s something I said or what I did before…” I begin suddenly, my mind flooded with mild panic, my chest though, damn if it doesn’t hurt me to see her hurting like this.

“It’s not you,” she smiles feebly. “I just didn’t realize that Mr. Parker was the Mr. Parker. Like Parker Global, Parker?”

“Oh…” I murmur. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Just something happened to my dad is all, a long time ago now, but it cleaned us out… cleaned my dad out, I mean.”

There’s a red light coming up and I stop way before it, turning to her trying not to grab hold of her.

“What do you mean, cleaned him out?” I ask her forcefully, the thought of anyone wronging her, or even her dad, I guess… It makes me on the defensive straight away, like I’d like to meet the guy who…

“Parker’s investment gurus. Probably like those on this yacht thing today, they took dad’s money. His retirement too and they invested it. Then they just sent him a letter one day saying sorry, you’ll have to sell your house, your investments didn’t pan out like we thought.”

I wince at the memory, there was a thing a few years back. Lots of people lost a lot of money through Parker Global’s affiliates. There was a class action, but a company that size? There was no compensation, just a drawn out court hearing and a few executives who saw early retirement and a lot of people who rented instead of paid their mortgage from then on.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I tell her, meaning it. I’ve known financial strife plenty of times, but I’ve never had the trauma of having a family or kids to add to it.

“It’s alright,” she smiles, wiping the tears from her eyes and sniffling to herself almost cheerful again, “It’s not your problem.”

And nobody ‘takes’ an investor’s money. I tell myself.

But I also know that Parker is a dirty word for a lot of people, not just those whose investments soured. It’s a name shrouded in mystery, loads of fake news and just a hint of bullshit. The one thing everybody knows the name for is money. The name’s on half the damned buildings in the damned city, including the pier we’re headed towards.

Chapter Five

Zoe

I feel like I’ve blown my chances with Michael before I’ve even started.

Idiot! Bawling like that at the drop of a hat…

He probably thinks I’m some kind of psycho by now, but he doesn’t say anything to let on. He looks a little more serious as we approach the pier, but I figure, like me, he has to start putting his work face on.

I wonder if he does security in chinos and a polo shirt. Maybe that was his gun I saw before, maybe his nightstick? He can run it into me any time.

Stop it, Zoe. Work face, remember? This is serious now, don’t fuck it up.

Before Ranka called, I was going to comment on the salary of a security guard. By the looks of his truck, it must be right up there with the temp waitress/hostess rates. Although today’s job is the exception to that rule.

All that money, for just a few hours work. There must be a catch.

A whole day with Michael close by though? I’d do it for nothing, I know I would. In a heartbeat.

As we approach the piers, at the wharf, I notice more gates and fences, until finally there’s full security at checkpoints and a huge shape which nearly blocks out the morning sun.

Don’t tell me… It can’t be…

“Here we are,” Michael says, peering over the dash of the truck, looking up at the sky and murmuring something about the weather.

“That’s not the Parker boat… is it?” I ask sheepishly. The thing isn’t parked at the pier, it has the pier all to itself, a secluded, very private looking pier with a covered walkway attached to a large building. A helicopter flies over, having just taken off from somewhere aboard the huge ship.

“It’s called a yacht.” Michael sighs again, firmly. Giving me a stern look and then smiling, unable to contain his disapproval for my ignorance for very long.

“It’s a damned skyscraper!” I exclaim, but reason that it’s just a big boat in my mind, which is a good thing. I hate the water and had a horrible vision in my mind of a thin, narrow and flimsy boat to try and serve drinks and food on.

“It’s a hundred and fifty feet, give or take.” Michael informs me, swinging his truck behind the building joined to the covered walkway. I shield my eyes from the sun as it breaks over the yacht, sleek, sexy and blue with lots of white. That’s all I can say to myself about it.

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