Page 13 of Lair

“Yes, Mrs. Colding.”

Ten minutes of confused wandering later, I find my cabin and roll into my bunk, pulling the sheets up to my chin. I think of calling Cailee, but I can’t. I don’t know what I’m feeling.

The alarm on my phone goes off at some ungodly hour and I hit snooze twice before I remember what and where I am. A stewardess. On a superyacht in the Mediterranean. Who needs to get up at six a.m. Shit. I hop up to see Thea is already gone. I hastily wash my face, throw on some makeup and run upstairs. The chef has a quick breakfast waiting for me, and then it’s on to “heads and beds”—cleaning the staterooms. I’m on housekeeping duty today, and the guests are already up.

While the other stews serve breakfast on the bridge deck, I grab a cleaning caddy and get to work. Emmie’s room is a mess. Lacy panties on the floor, a bottle of lube on the bed, rose petals and anal beads among the rumpled sheets...

My face is hot, I suddenly can’t look anywhere long. What is wrong with me? Get it together, Aurora.

After making the bed, corners hospital perfect, I notice the Louis Vuitton luggage in the walk-in wardrobe—and a pair of diamond-encrusted Stuart Weitzman pumps. My jaw hangs. It wasn’t only two weeks ago that I was drooling over the same pair in a fashion magazine, knowing I’d never be able to have them. They cost more than I make in a month.

I glance at the door, biting my lip—and chicken out.

Professional, Aurora. Be a goddamn professional.

I’m gathering up fallen clothes worth a small fortune when I hear footsteps. I whirl, heart in throat—and Emmie Gallagher all but runs into me. “Oh, hello,” she says, taking a step back.

I’m all hot in the face again. “Excuse me, I—I’ll get out of your way—”

“You’re fine, keep doing your thing,” Emmie trills with a little toss of her wrist and disappears into the wardrobe. I’m frozen with indecision. Clothes still in my arms, I lean to the side and catch a glimpse of bare flesh, a sexy, Parisian-looking swimsuit getting thrown on. Why can’t I have legs like that?

This is what I have always done: envied other women’s bodies—compared my body to other women’s bodies—because Josh never seemed to take any interest in mine.

But isn’t that what all women do?

When Emmie sallies out again, I pluck up the nerve. “I don’t know if you remember me—Aurora, from high school?”

She looks me up and down, lash extensions fluttering. Then holds up a crop top. “I’ll need this stain out by tonight.” She adds it to the pile in my arms and saunters out, nose in the air.

It takes me a moment to register it, for the indignant rage to come.

What. A. Bitch.

I look over at the Stuart Weitzman pumps in the wardrobe, and my lip snarls. Screw it. I’m probably getting kicked off this boat, anyway. I drop the clothes, kick off my cheap Sperry deck shoes and jam my bare feet into the pumps, Cinderella reverence be damned. My heart is pounding, sweat beading my forehead. I don’t care. I’m drunk on disobedience, the sick, exquisite thrill of it. I’m so angry it takes a full minute before I realize the pumps are a perfect fit. I turn my ankle, admiring the sparkle of diamonds. I prance back and forth before the mirror, taking myself in. I’m exultant. I’ve never felt so adult, so glamorous. I envision myself on a runway. A man’s arm. Voper’s arm. Cameras are flashing, I’m radiant and full of significance. I am seen. I am—

Emmie Gallagher stands behind me, a delicious smirk on her face.

I let out a little shriek and stumble, grabbing onto the clothesline. In a flash the pumps are off and I’m smoothing down my skirt, hands fluttering. I can’t breathe. “Is there anything I can do for you?” I manage, not quite meeting her eyes.

It’s a game. An understanding between us. I pretend I wasn’t snooping, and she pretends she didn’t see me. She knows the rules instantly. She’s a woman, after all.

“Just forgot my hat,” she says with poisonous innocence, and I turn and see a big floppy sunhat on a shelf. I hand it to her. A subtle look, a lift of one finely plucked eyebrow, and she’s gone.

I clutch at the shelves, destroyed.

How’s the rest of this charter gonna go now?

SEVEN

By the time I’ve finished cleaning the cabins and main areas, it’s time to join Mrs. Colding for guest watch. Anxiety prickles through me. Tucking in my shirt and patting at my hair, I follow the shrieks of laughter to the stern and find we’re in no port.

All around me, needles of rock slant out of the clearest turquoise waters I’ve ever seen. We’re floating in a collection of low islets, the sun a warm, flaring delirium overhead, a snapshot of paradise. Beyond: the low, verdant cliffs of Corsica. As I descend one of the grand staircases flanking the swim deck, Emmie and Lucia jump shrieking and giggling into the water, tanned skin gleaming as they bob like mermaids and call out. “Come on, baby! Come join us!”

That’s when I see Mr. Voper lurking in the dark mouth of the tender garage, hands in pockets, Mrs. Colding at his elbow. He shakes his head and the girls poopoo him. “Oh, come on!” they cry, but he doesn’t move. They make pouty faces.

Mr. Voper’s mouth twitches in amusement. “How about Jason takes you out on the water for a while?” Jason and another deckhand are drifting up on Jet Skis, grinning. “We’ll have a snack and some fun inside later.”

This seems to mollify the models. They look at each other and smirk. “Okay.” They climb up behind Jason and the deckhand, and Emmie makes an admiring sound as she holds on to Jason’s muscular frame. He grins at her over his shoulder and they speed away in a flume of spray.

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