Page 4 of Lair

Cailee and Greg look at each other, and I feel my stomach twist.

“What?”

A big breath, and Cailee says, “Did you know anything about Lair Yachting when you sent them your résumé?”

I shake my head.

“They’re, like...” Another glance, and Greg takes over.

“They’re a crew agency who work exclusively for the biggest names in the yachting industry. Like, the mega-rich. It’s, I don’t know, a mysterious club or something.”

“Arie.” Cailee fixes me with her gaze. “You just won the yachting lottery.” And a huge, dazzling smile spreads across her face. “So go nail this interview already.”

Excitement buzzes in my chest like bees. I jump up and down, hands fluttering. “Oh my God, oh my God!”

Cailee laughs and points. “Go! Go!”

I hop onto the dock. “What do I do? What do I wear?”

Cailee talks me down like a paramedic. “Go back to the crew house. Get a fresh polo and your navy skirt—”

“What about the daywork here? I haven’t—”

“Are you kidding me?” Cailee snorts. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you want to throw it away for some fucking daywork?” She makes a shooing motion. “Go.”

Melting with gratitude, I whirl about... and bump right into a soft wall of flesh: Randy, our boss for the day, a garden-variety rich Florida redneck who lives alone in an empty Italianate marble mansion, eats fast food every day and wears shorts and a baseball cap. His eyes bug in his tanned oil rigger’s face. “Where do you think you’re goin’? These boats look done to you?”

I quail. “I—I’m sorry. I have an interview. I can’t pass it up—”

Randy turns puce. “You know you won’t get a red fucking dime if you leave now. You seriously walking out on me?”

I glance over my shoulder: Cailee and Greg shake their heads. Don’t you dare wuss out.

I turn back, my jaw hardening. “Yeah,” I say, trembling, and force my voice steady. “Yeah, I guess I am.” And pulling the spare rags out of my shorts pockets, I throw them down on the dock and brush past a shellshocked Randy.

I can’t help but grin as Cailee and Greg’s cheers echo in my ears.

Greg lets me borrow his Jeep for my drive back to Fort Lauderdale. More like my flight. The Jeep roars down the winding, elevated highways at a frenzied pace, and even so I’m barely within the two hours when I get there. I sit in the Jeep staring at the building for a long moment. It’s not like the other boxy, glossy-looking crew agencies lining Southeast 17th Street. This one seems old. Tucked away between other modern-looking storefronts, it reminds me of a toadstool shrinking from the heat, its modest terra cotta and stucco façade hailing from the days of Spanish colonialism. Above the door the words in Gothic typeface: LAIR YACHTING, INC.

How strange.

I inspect myself in the Jeep’s rearview mirror. My coal-black hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, my green-flecked hazel eyes only somewhat baggy from fatigue. I haven’t sweated through my crisp white polo, so that’s something. Hopping out, I smooth down the navy skirt I’ve hastily changed into. At least I look the part.

Let’s do this.

A bell tinkles as I slip through the door, and a stale dimness greets me. For a moment I stand there, eyes straining at the sharp contrast from the blazing sun outside. No lights are on in here, and the blinds of the large window fronting the street are fully drawn, casting the agency in a deep gloom. Have they moved? Are they even open? I squint to make out a waiting room with vintage posters of far-flung destinations on the walls. VISIT MOROCCO! VISIT ROMANIA! SEE THE CAVES OF SARDINIA! The last features an illustration of bats fluttering out into an evening sky.

I think, I have made a mistake here.

“Hello?” I hazard into the dark, forearms prickling.

“Miss Strand?”

I leap into the air, letting out a little shriek as I press a hand to the middle of my chest.

There’s a woman. A woman behind a receptionist’s desk, just sitting there in the dark. I let a gush of air out of my lungs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there—”

But heels are clicking toward me, and before I can gather myself Renata Sproule is smiling down at me, her platinum A-line bob gleaming like a helmet in the gloom. Her teeth and black skirt are flawless. It’s only the mole riding on one cheekbone and the shocking paleness of her skin which somehow communicate to me an air of immoral dealings, sinister intent.

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