Bad Cruz

by L.J. Shen

  “I just didn’t think it’d happen somewhere like this. Shame on all of you. This is completely unacceptable, and I’ll have you know I’ve already contacted a lawyer.”

  “Ma’am, I promise we’ll get to the bottom of this. I’m sure it can be explained.”

  “Nothing can be explained!” the woman shrieked, throwing her arms in the air. She was a solid woman, with bright red tresses and jewelry that looked heavy to carry. “I had fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of jewels in that suitcase. How could you just dump it in the hallway?”

  The two management representatives exchanged helpless looks, while the lady began to sob again, burying her head in her husband’s shoulder.

  “Well, ma’am, things like that don’t happen very often. If there was a mix-up—”

  Tennessee and I swapped frowns as we came to a stop in front of our door, which happened to be the one directly opposite to the couple’s. We both smiled politely as I slid our electronic card into its slot.

  “Maybe they have it,” the woman sniffled behind us.

  Tennessee froze, grabbing my wrist all of a sudden, like a little girl.

  “Ma’am, we cannot ask this couple to show us their room.”

  “Yes. I remember the blonde woman. She hung out around our room a lot yesterday, lookin’ like trouble and sin,” the woman’s voice grew louder, bolder.

  I turned around, giving her a frosty look.

  “Well, the blonde woman happens to have a room here.”

  “Hard to believe.” The woman swept a judgmental gaze over Tennessee, head-to-toe. “But she does, I guess, doesn’t she? What does it say about you?” She turned to look at me accusingly.

  “That I have a good taste.” I grinned nonchalantly.

  Her husband cackled, and she elbowed him.

  “That’s very subjective,” she huffed. “But as it stands, she is my prime suspect. She looks like a crook, a common girl, and she’s been loitering around the hallway. Now show us your room. It’s already open.”

  It was true. I’d pushed the door half-open at this point.

  “No!” Tennessee cried, turning bright red.

  She couldn’t look more suspicious if she tried, but I didn’t think she’d actually stolen anything. I’d been in the room briefly today after our conversation at the library, and everything seemed in perfect order.

  She’d carried both our suitcases in, but there wasn’t a third one anywhere to be seen.

  “You can’t go into our room,” Tennessee choked. “Just because I look suspicious to you doesn’t mean you can search me. This is America!”

  One of the representatives—a black woman—gave Tennessee a really, dude? glare, winning ten points for sarcasm and another ten for timing.

  Problem was, I was growing agitated with people giving Tennessee the wrong kind of attention everywhere we went.

  True, she was over-the-top with the makeup, skimpy clothes, and hair inspired by sixties’ vixens. But that was her prerogative, and she didn’t deserve to get shit for it.

  I didn’t know what made her want to ruin her good looks with war paint and lace, but that didn’t mean people had the right to call her a hooker to her face.

  In other news, my hard-on became a half-mast at best. Good news for my bladder, which was currently the home to about a gallon of piss.

  “We have nothing to hide.” I flashed her a good-natured smile.

  “Great!” The woman flung her arms in the air. “In that case, show us your room.”

  “No!” Tennessee insisted.

  “Actually,” one of the representatives interrupted, “it is perfectly possible that management would ask us to knock on the doors of the rooms nearby and ask to double-check, so if we could have a look now, that would be great.”

  “No problem.” I pushed the door open all the way, jerking my head to indicate they could come in.

  We had nothing to hide. We were innocent, and I wanted to see that woman’s face when she delivered a humble apology to Tennessee.

  Speaking of Tennessee, she bolted after me, heaving. The sobbing/rude woman trailed behind us, waltzing right inside.

  “There it is.” The woman pointed at my suitcase, crowing. Her face was sweaty and red, and she launched herself at my navy luggage as if it was her long-lost twin, bending down and hugging it. “That’s my suitcase. I knew she stole it. I knew it. What’d I tell you, Fred? I have a sense for these things.”

  “Lady,” I growled, “the only thing I sense is that you need to get your eyes checked. That’s my suitcase, and I’d appreciate it if you stop rubbing yourself against it.”

  “Don’t try to cover up for her.”

  The woman not only bared her teeth at me, she was also wheeling my still-zipped suitcase out of my room.

  I stepped in front of her, blocking the way. Meanwhile, Tennessee was rocking in a corner, enjoying a nice, leisurely mental breakdown for one. I didn’t know her to be so sensitive. Or a sucker for a con.

  This lady must’ve pushed one hell of a button.

  “Don’t,” I warned the woman in front of me, my jaw ticking in irritation. I’d never been less than a perfect gentleman to a woman before, and this, too, felt more liberating than alarming.

  Her eyes flared. “I’m leaving with my suitcase.”

  “It’s not yours. My companion already said she didn’t steal it.”

  “I don’t care what your whore said,” the woman enunciated extra slowly for impact. “I’m leaving with it. And, frankly, next time you take a sex worker on a cruise, at least get an expensive escort. You’re embarrassing yourself prancing around with her like we don’t know what she is. Now, if you excuse me, I’m leaving.”

  “Wanna roughhouse it?” I lifted an eyebrow.

  She almost fainted.

  “You deserve each other,” she spat.

  “I wish.”

  Riling her up was fun, and I couldn’t actually let her get out of here before making Tennessee feel better about the mix-up.

  At some point in all this mess, her husband—poor Fred—had the good sense to pry my suitcase out of her hands and unzip it, revealing some flowery gowns, high heels, and jewelry I definitely did not pack for the cruise.

  He crouched down, waving a handful of diamonds in the air in triumph.

  “See? This is hers. Says right here on the suitcase tag. Ramona Warren. That’s my wife.”

  For a second there, I was completely speechless. Probably because I’d never been in a situation like this before.

  No one had ever accused me of any wrongdoings, and I’d never been caught with my pants down (ironically, other than that time I was caught with my pants down, junior year of college with Felicia Ralph).

  Logically, I could tell that there was room for error—both suitcases were navy. Even I had mistaken it at first glance for mine.

  And I definitely should’ve unzipped my suitcase and checked its contents—which I would’ve, given the chance, which Tennessee took from me when she locked me out the night before.

  But then there were other things to consider. Such as—who the hell didn’t read the tag on a suitcase before bringing it into a room?—Tennessee Turner, that’s who.

  Also, why had Tennessee been so stressed about our room being searched before it was revealed the suitcase belonged to this woman? What did she have to hide? From what I could tell, there were no sex toys or human feces in plain sight to make a quick search in the room unbearably uncomfortable.

  I turned to look at my companion. Tennessee glanced away, out the window, at the blue ocean, her chin upturned, her eyes two shiny crystals.

  She was going to cry.

  I turned back to Mr. and Mrs. Warren.

  “My apologies.”

  The management women began blabbering about complimentary drink vouchers and a new point system that would allow Mr. and Mrs. Warren an upgraded room if they chose the same cruise again.

  “I bet you feel pretty stupid right now, don’t ya, Mr
. Hot Shot?” The lovely Mrs. Warren stomped over the carpeted floor with a vicious grin as she passed me, her shoulder brushing my arm purposefully.

  “All I feel is intense compassion for my companion, who made a human error, and had to pay for it with meeting with your sour face,” I maintained calmly.

  Mrs. Warren snorted, already out the door. “Keep her on a leash, pal.”

  “That’s a nice visual. I just might, if she’s into it.” I received the desired effect as Mrs. Warren paled to a shade reserved for the walls of mental institutions. “Does that mean you have my suitcase?” I asked, the practical prick that I was.

  “There’s a couple suitcases in the lost and found cabin. We’ll check,” one of the representatives said helpfully.

  And then, Tennessee and I were all alone.

  Her, me, and the elephant in the room.

  “It was an accident,” Tennessee blurted out before I even spun to look at her. Which turned out to be quite a task, now that I believed she might’ve stolen the suitcase.

  I could barely look at her face, I was so angry.

  There was a ninety-nine percent chance that it was an honest mistake, of course. She made a lot of honest mistakes. But that one percent margin bothered me.

  Tennessee proved to be obsessed with money. She’d asked me to buy her a dress earlier. Was she worried about fitting in? What if she’d thought she could steal a few items before returning the suitcase to its rightful owner?

  “I believe you,” I said, because it was the right thing to say.

  “No, you don’t.” She tossed herself over the bed with a heavy sigh, even though she was coated with sunscreen and sweat and a day full of sun. “I can see it in your face. You think I did it on purpose.”

  “Nope.”

  Maybe.

  She groaned into the pillow. “The look on your face was unbearable.”

  “You do seem to find my face generally punchable.”

  “I thought it was yours. I did. There were no other suitcases in the hallway. Someone must’ve taken yours. I thought it was a no-brainer. You have to believe me.”

  “I do,” I said, and because I wanted this awkward conversation to be over, I added, “You’re Messy Nessy. Things like that happen to you all the time.”

  She looked up from the pillow, and immediately, I knew I’d screwed it up. She looked so dejected, so goddamn unhappy, I wanted to…wanted to…

  Don’t complete that sentence, Dr. Costello. Not even in your head. She is not your problem. She doesn’t want to be your problem.

  “Tennessee…” I said instead.

  “Shotgun on the shower,” she said flatly, unplastering herself from the bed and making her way to the bathroom. “Make sure your valuables are out of sight by the time I get back. Wouldn’t want my sticky fingers all over them.”

  By the time my roommate got out of the bathroom (why did she have to turn on all three faucets? Weren’t there more practical ways to drown oneself on a cruise?), one of the representatives came into our room with my suitcase, explaining that it had been in the lost and found cabin.

  I tipped him well, wheeled it in, and decided that despite my sliver of doubt, stemming from Tennessee’s general unfounded bad reputation in Fairhope, I was going to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  We had a good thing going today, and by ‘good’, I mean no one had threatened to physically harm the other, and I wanted to keep it that way (although now I thought about it, I had told her I was going to bathe her in her own blood and throw her to the sharks if she locked me out again this morning).

  She got out of the bathroom looking like something out of a Victoria’s Secret catalog. Mrs. Warren was dead wrong. If Tennessee were a hooker, she would cost at least two grand a night.

  A lacy black mini dress clung to her curves with a pink satin ribbon crisscrossed diagonally on her back, tying the whole garment into place. Her big Marilyn Monroe hair looked impeccable, and her heels were tall enough for her to see the Empire State Building on a sunny day.

  She didn’t have any makeup on yet, and I had to admit, natural-looking Tennessee made my stomach flip like a teenage boy finding his father’s Playboy stash for the first time.

  She glanced at my suitcase without comment, passing by me over to what I assumed she claimed as her nightstand, producing a makeup bag from the drawer.

  “They found it,” I said, referring to the suitcase.

  She unzipped her makeup bag, flushing under the weight of my stare. “Oh, well, that’s good. Maybe if you manscape regularly, your penis won’t be so hard to locate next time.”

  We were back to being enemies.

  “I said I believe you.”

  “Oh, but I don’t believe you believe me,” she countered. “Anyway, it’s fine. You didn’t look like you were up to getting us a double portion of meat, anyhow.”

  We weren’t going to dinner together now?

  That was bull, but I wasn’t going to chase her. I had never chased a woman in my life, and I wasn’t about to start with Ms. Sulky Pants.

  I took out some clean clothes and trudged into the shower. What kind of water temperature did she shower with? The place looked like a sauna.

  When I got out, she was flung over the bed—our bed—FaceTiming with her family. A cheerful smile marred her face—I could tell she was faking it.

  There were a million things I wanted to say to her. Somewhere within them was also an apology for being a shithead. But before I could do any of those things, my own cell phone rang. It was Wyatt, my brother.

  I picked it up.

  “Hey.”

  “How’s it going over there?” Wyatt sounded like he was eating something crunchy. “Is the bimbo giving you trouble? You’re sharing a room with her, aren’t you?”

  I ground my teeth together. I didn’t like how Wyatt talked about Tennessee, but it wasn’t much different from how anyone else spoke about her.

  For years, I’d quietly accepted the verbal assaults because they were not directed at me or my close ones, but the truth of the matter was, Tennessee was a human being, and no human being should be subjected to this kind of treatment. Just because she was an adult didn’t make it right.

  I glanced at my roommate from my spot by the vanity, my phone pinned to my ear so she couldn’t hear anything. She was still lying on the bed, looking like a call girl.

  Why couldn’t she dress like a normal person?

  She’d have attracted so many suiters without all the crap covering her face. I was sure Tennessee thought the prejudice toward her was because of Bear.

  Matter of fact, from what I’d heard, Bear was a good kid. He never got into trouble and never found himself on my doctor’s bed with a fracture or broken bone he couldn’t explain.

  A lot of water (and scandals) passed under the small-town bridge since she’d had him. Mrs. Kimbrough had a plastic surgery gone wrong, Meghan Harris and John Smith left their spouses for one another, and we were pretty sure our newest resident was under witness protection.

  The real reason people looked down on her was because she added gasoline and thick eyeliner to every bad thing people had said about her.

  “It’s fine,” I said curtly. “She keeps a low profile.”

  About as low as Everest if we’re getting technical here.

  “Think you’re going to hit it?” Wyatt popped another crunchy item into his mouth. Nachos? Tacos? His fiancée’s dry p…ersonality?

  I dug the heels of my palms into my eye sockets. “Too messy.”

  “I was going to say—use two condoms. I don’t want any complications, especially so close to my wedding day. Mom and Dad are uptight as it is.”

  “Why do you think?”

  I started rummaging through all the crap she’d left on the vanity, which was a lot. Her imprint was all over the room. Her hairspray, stockings, cheap plastic accessories, and gum wrappers.

  Messy Nessy indeed.

  “They want to make sure it doesn’t end
up in a divorce, too,” Wyatt winced.

  My older brother was an engineer at a Wilmington-based company. A real catch in Fairhope. Or at least he had been, before he’d married his first wife Valerie.

  He’d met Valerie while she waited on him at a titty bar—his words, not mine—and thought it would be a good idea to bring her home and make an honest woman out of her.

  Three years, Valerie’s cocaine habit, and an emptied bank account later, Wyatt had been back on the market. This time, he hadn’t wanted stormy and electrifying.

  He wanted the dullest version of a woman the world could offer him. Someone who was tame and didn’t need to be constantly watched and entertained and pacified. Sweet, unassuming Trinity Turner was the human equivalent to the color beige.

  “I don’t think it will,” I said, putting the mouth of a hairspray bottle to my nose and sniffing. Smelled like an impending accidental fire and a Yankee candle.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Wyatt chuckled. “Anyway, Mom is having a heart attack thinking Messy Nessy is going to seduce you.”

  “She’s not my taste.”

  “She’s everyone’s taste when it comes to a one-night stand. But long-term?” Wyatt tsked. “Hard pass.”

  My older brother knew so little about me, about my life, sometimes it felt like I was conversing with a complete stranger.

  “Anything else I could help you with, bro?” I was done badmouthing Tennessee for one day.

  “Nope. Just work on that best man’s speech. You know I wanna read it and give you the OK beforehand.”

  “No problem.”

  “Oh, and Cruz?”

  “Hmm?”

  “If you happen to take a picture of her sleeping naked…well, you know my number.”

  I killed the call, catching the tail of the conversation between Tennessee and her sister Trinity.

  “I didn’t want to say anything next to Bear, but Rob’s been calling nonstop, Nessy. He said you were not picking up.”

  My roommate caught her lower lip with her teeth, releasing it slowly.

  “Yeah. I still haven’t told Bear Rob’s in town. He doesn’t know.”

  “He does now,” Trinity said apologetically. “Rob got his hands on Bear’s phone number somehow. And since Bear has been raiding the Costellos’ internet package…”