Page 11 of Lair

She’s ready.

My crew radio whines at my hip. “Owner is arriving. Five minutes.”

Utter chaos. A crush of bodies pound down the gangways, and Thea suddenly grabs my arm. “Come on.”

We follow to the bow, where a crew of what must be forty people stand in a half-circle before a lit-up helipad. Thea pushes me into a gap at the end of the stews and I look about. Everyone is here. Mrs. Colding, Captain Redfearn in a black captain’s coat. Jason gives me a wink and I smile back.

Beside me, the second and third stews are giving me a look. “What?” I say, and they exchange glances.

“No one’s told you to bleach your hair yet?”

And that’s when I realize: All the stews are blonde. My hand instinctively goes up to my coal-black hair. “N-No. Why?”

The third stew smirks. “Mr. Voper? Guy’s a freak. Gives us all a hundred extra bucks a month so we can get our hair maintained. I’m a redhead.” She side-eyes me. “Good luck, brunette.”

I swallow and look over at Mrs. Colding, who’s already watching me with lips pursed in withering disdain. Did she set me up?

And that’s when everyone falls silent—for a distant whumping can be heard.

It’s the rotors of a helicopter. A faint light can be seen, a dark object gliding over the sea. The crew stand at stiff attention, in perfect symmetry. They know what’s expected.

The whumping soon becomes a roar, and before I know it a gleaming black shape descends out of the darkness in a hurricane of noise and alights on the helipad. My eyes instantly water and I try to stand erect as the blur of rotors threatens to knock me on my ass. Wouldn’t that be a great first impression.

A door swings open and a long female leg glides out. A gorgeous rucked dress, the neckline diving almost to the midriff. Then familiar puffy lips, a sleek sheet of blonde hair—Emmie Gallagher.

My jaw drops.

Another supermodel in a chic black dress descends, and then Italian leather shoes, a dark suit probably handmade by some European atelier. And then I see him, one arm around each of these two tall, glittering creatures with the easy hauteur of a king: Mr. Voper. His skin is unusually pale for a yacht owner, the clean bulk of his jaw tight and muscled from constant, irritated clenching, his lips full and lush. His hair is a slick-looking, contained black bramble. But the eyes I’ve been so dreading to judge me are hidden behind black designer glasses.

As the rotor blades wind down, I find I’ve been holding my breath.

“Mr. Voper,” Captain Redfearn says, tipping his hat. “Welcome aboard.”

“Arnold,” Mr. Voper grits, those cruel, lush lips pressed together as the glasses sweep the assembled crew. I shiver. “Ready to depart?”

“At your word, sir.” Even in the captain’s voice, there is the slightest tremble of fear. “I was thinking—”

But Mr. Voper lifts a hand; he’s staring at a nearby deckhand. “What is this?” he says with lethal quiet.

The air chills. The deckhand, a fresh-faced Australian lad, looks down at his shirt. One corner is untucked.

He pales. “Sorry, sir. I was in a hurry and—”

“Get off my boat.”

The order rings in the air with appalling clarity. The deckhand’s mouth hangs. He flies a look at the captain, but finds no help there. His teeth click together and he eels his way out of the lineup, head hung and ears red.

I find my heart is thudding in my chest.

When the deckhand’s gone, Mr. Voper lets out a cleansing “So.” He lifts his brows at the two women on his arms. “How does Corsica sound?”

They glance at each other, lips curled in smug smirks. “It’ll do.”

Mr. Voper turns to the captain. “It seems the vote is in.”

Another tip of the hat. “Right away, sir.” Captain Redfearn gestures, and the deck crew scurry to their positions, seamless as smoke. Mr. Voper strides on.

“Your staterooms are ready. Cocktails first, perhaps? The top deck?” Mrs. Colding has fallen in step with them like an old confidante.

---