by Cassia Leo
“This boat is bigger than yours.”
I asked the waiter to get her a blanket from below deck as the rest of the crew prepared us for a midnight sail.
“That hurt my feelings,” I replied. “Anyway, how do you know it’s bigger than mine? Have you measured my boat?”
“Yes, once when you were asleep. I measured your boat.”
She grinned and I shook my head. I wouldn’t put it past her to measure my boat while I slept.
The waiter arrived with a folded wool blanket. I rose from my chair and took the blanket from him so I could wrap it around Brina’s shoulders. She pulled the edges tightly and I rubbed her arms to warm her up.
“Is that better?”
“Yes.”
The waiter uncorked the champagne and poured us each a glass. Brina held her blanket close as she raised her glass.
“What are we toasting to?” she asked, her teeth still chattering.
I had to get her out of that wet dress.
“We’re toasting to five years, two months, and nine days of marriage.”
“You were always good with numbers,” she replied. “How about this? Let’s toast to another seventy-five years and zero nannies.”
“Zero nannies? What about the foundation?”
Though the Kingston Foundation was Brina’s pride and joy, she had often fantasized about being a stay-at-home mom. She was never happier than when she was spending time with the children. But she had always struggled with maintaining her own identity and having enough time to be the kind of mother she felt the children deserved.
“I’m going to take a hands-off approach from now on. I’ll attend the monthly board meetings to make sure that Ben is adhering to my vision. But I have nothing to worry about. Ben runs the show better than I ever could.”
I downed the rest of my champagne and rose from my chair. “Let’s talk about this below deck, where it’s warmer.”
I pulled her chair out and wrapped my arm around her shoulders as I guided her down the steps into the cabin. This yacht was much nicer and more spacious than my sixteen-year-old Columbia, but it still brought back memories from the first time I ever brought Brina onto my boat. She admitted to me once that the reason she slept with me just an hour after her interview at Maxwell Computers six years ago had nothing to do with the assignment with her former employer, NeoSys. She wanted to feel close to someone who didn’t know she was responsible for taking her brother to the hospital where he killed himself.
Brina craved accomplishment, but even more than that, she craved unconditional love. When you bore the burden and sorrow of a loved one’s death, your life began to seem insignificant until someone else showed you how much you were still needed. The children—and I—needed Brina more than the foundation did.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, dropping the blanket to the floor as I took her hand in mine and pulled her farther into the cabin, past the sitting and dining area, and through a tight hallway.
We arrived in the bedroom and the room was awash in the creamy glow of candlelight. I closed the bedroom door and waited for her to notice the surprise in this room as she slowly walked toward the bed.
“This looks very familiar,” she said as she ran her fingers over the comforter on the bed.
“What looks familiar?” I asked as I approach her.
She looked over her shoulder and grinned at me. “The mirrors…on the ceiling.”
I chuckled as I reached up and slowly slid the strap of her dress off her shoulder. I pressed my lips to her smooth skin, and she still smelled like the artificial rain from the theater. I slid the zipper down the back of her dress and it quickly dropped at her feet. She wasn’t wearing a bra or panties.
“How is it possible for someone to be this beautiful?” I said as I traced my fingers lightly over her hips.
She leaned her head back and rested it on my shoulder as I kissed her neck. My hand slid forward, caressing her soft belly and luscious breasts. Her skin was cold from the dampness of the dress, but I was going to warm her up.
Sliding my hand between her legs, I quickly found her spot. She let out a soft, breathy gasp as I teased her gently. I kissed her earlobe as I stroke her and she whimpered, her hands reaching up to grab my hair, searching for something to hold onto. I slid my fingers inside her and she writhed against me, which only got me hotter. I gathered her moisture and stroke her lightly, easing off as soon as I felt her muscles begin to contract.
I knew her body better than I know my own.
Sliding my hand out from between her legs, I grabbed her hips and turned her around. She was already warmed up enough that tiny droplets of sweat had beaded on her chest. She untied my bowtie and I closed my eyes as she continued to undress me.
Once I was naked, I looked her in the eye. “Lie back.”
She smiled as she stretched out across the bed, and I grabbed a piece of ice from the bucket of champagne on the nightstand. Sitting down on the bed, I held the ice against her nipple. She gasped, but I didn’t remove it until she whimpered with discomfort. I tossed the ice over my shoulder and lean down to take her nipple into my mouth. Massaging it with my tongue, I slid my free hand between her legs again, caressing her until she began to buck against my fingers.
Pulling my hand away before she could come, I retrieved another piece of ice from the bucket and perform this same ritual on her other breast. She was soaking wet and about to explode, but I wouldn’t allow it. Not until I was inside her.
I settled myself between her legs and she panted heavily with anticipation. Sliding my hand beneath the small of her back, I lift her gently and groaned as I glided into her.
I leaned down to kiss her slowly as I bobbed in and out of her with the ease of the calm seas beneath this boat. This was where I belonged.
She grabbed my ears and pulled my head back, her eyebrows scrunched together as she looked me in the eye.
“I love you,” I whispered.
“I love you most.”
I leaned my forehead against hers, breathing heavily as we both found our release. We lied still for a moment before I turned onto my back next to her. We gazed at our reflections in the mirror above us and, suddenly, we both began to laugh.
“That was much better than the first time we had sex on a boat,” she mused.
“I guess it’s time to get a bigger boat.”
Chapter 14
Brina
Open barrels of coffee beans stood in the corner of Café Verlet in Paris. Next to the barrels were display bowls with mounds of crystallized fruits, individually wrapped nut cakes, and crispy thin cookies. The atmosphere was thick with the aroma of coffee and alive with chatter as patrons enjoyed their coffees and each other’s company. This was not the quiet atmosphere of Greene’s Coffee and Tea, but that was a good thing today.
A woman in a black sleeveless top and colorful scarf arrived at our table with our espressos. She set them down in front of us and smiled without uttering a word, aware that neither Luke nor I spoke French very well. Though, we were able to place our order easily enough. It seemed espresso was one of those universal words that almost everyone understood, like ‘Coke’ or ‘okay.’
While most Americans were fast asleep at nine o’clock, Paris time, Luke and I were enjoying the view from the balcony of our Presidential suite, while enjoying each other. Now, as I sat here with a steaming cup of espresso in front of me, I couldn’t help but recall my first trip to Greene’s Coffee and Tea with Luke. I gulped down my espresso on that date and Luke vowed he would get me to appreciate espresso the right way—slowly.
I brought the tiny porcelain cup to my mouth, and the moment it touched my lips, Lucas pulled down on my sleeve and whined. “Mommy, this cocoa is too hot.”
“You have to be patient, baby,” I said as I set down my cup and used a napkin to wipe the drops of espresso, which had spilled onto my jeans. “Just blow on your cocoa as you wait for it to cool.”
Luke grinned at m
e. Rhianne was sitting in his lap and she giggled softly as he planted a loud kiss on her cheek. No more nannies meant bringing the kids along on our second honeymoon, but I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
Maybe espresso was one of those universal words, because it was a little like life. You have to enjoy life slowly, savoring every single moment so you don’t miss anything important. Like your brother’s despair and your own self-destruction. Like surprise honeymoons and your kids growing up before your very eyes.
Slow down, pay attention, and drink it in. And don’t forget to share it with the ones you love.
KING
About King
It was too tempting to pass up.
A suitcase full of cash. A new identity already burning a hole in my wallet.
So I did it. I took the money and ran.
I had no idea the money belonged to a king of the Las Vegas underworld.
And I definitely wasn’t prepared for what he would do to get it back.
I knew I shouldn’t have let a drug addict ex-grunt pick up that suitcase, even if he was my best friend.
I should never have agreed to be the one to get the suitcase back.
Then I wouldn’t have met Izzy Lake and fallen for her bad fake accent, her beauty, and her raw vulnerability.
If I don’t get that suitcase back in eight days, I’ll be spending the rest of my life behind bars.
I need that suitcase. But I need her more.
1. King
Present Day
Do you know why you’re here?
This question is probably the most common way to start a police interrogation. Usually, a law enforcement officer will ask the suspect — or interviewee, as is my case — if they know why they’re sitting in a tiny interrogation room in this particular police station.
The room is quite plain, with white or gray walls, a cold steel table, and a few plastic chairs with steel legs. The legs on the suspect’s chair are usually slightly uneven. The temperature in the room is often a few degrees above or below comfortable, and the only sound is the hum of the air being forced through the vents. At least, until they ask that first question.
“Do you know why you’re here?” the overweight detective asks in his smooth country drawl.
He looks to be about mid-fifties, thick around the middle, but soft shoulders and legs too skinny for the rest of his body. Detective Harry Sooner of the Burke County Sheriff’s Criminal Investigations Department — or CID — is playing the part of Good Cop today. I look forward to seeing who CID sends in to play Bad Cop.
“Yes, sir,” I reply politely.
He flashes me a soft smile. “That’s right. You were in the service for five years. I don’t get too many polite people in this room.”
He wants me to laugh and get comfortable with him. I’m not falling for that. Instead, I flash him a tight smile as if to say, “Can we please move on?”
Picking up on my vibe, Sooner continues. “Why do you think you’re here today, Kingston? Can I call you Kingston, or do you prefer Mr. Jameson? Or maybe you go by something else?”
I try not to laugh at his blatant attempt to figure out how many names I use. Truthfully, I sometimes forget myself. The number of aliases I use has gone up lately. But I maintain my composure.
“King will do. Thanks for asking,” I reply, leaning back in my plastic chair.
He nods. “King it is. So why do you think you’re here today, King?”
I’m silent for a moment as I take a slow breath to maintain my poker face. “Izzy Lake.”
“Isabel Lake,” Sooner corrects me. “I’m assuming you are aware that Isabel is missing?”
This is a make-or-break question. Answer wrong and I might not make it out of this station today.
“That’s what I was told.”
“Who told you that?”
I look him in the eye for a second before I reply. “The police officer who brought me in. I don’t remember what his name was.”
I do remember. It was Officer Rasmussen, but I’ll keep that information tucked away in case I need it later.
Sooner presses his lips into a thin line, but he manages to hide his disappointment in his fellow officer as he continues in an even tone. “Did the officer mention anything else to you?”
I shake my head. “He said you guys wanted to talk to me about the disappearance of Isabel Lake. I asked if I was under arrest, and he said, ‘No.’ Am I being considered a person of interest in this case?”
“That’s a good question, King,” Officer Good Guy replies. “Unfortunately, it’s one I cannot answer at this stage. But we’ll have more information soon. And I promise we’ll keep you in the loop.”
I try not to roll my eyes. “So you’re saying you don’t know if I should get a lawyer? But you’ll let me know when it’s time to get one?” I can’t help but chuckle now.
Sooner looks taken aback by my cynicism. “Do you think you need a lawyer?”
“I think you think I need a lawyer, but I think you’re wrong.”
He looks confused now. “Wait, so… Do you want a lawyer or not? I’m not sure I understood that.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine for now, thanks. Let’s chat.”
Sooner heaves a deep sigh, exhaling slowly as he attempts to get his bearings. “Okay, back to Isabel Lake.”
“Izzy, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“She prefers Izzy,” I correct him, my stomach tightening into a ball as I recall the first time she heard me call her by her preferred name.
He doesn’t appear particularly amused by my attempt to set him right. “Okay, back to Izzy,” he continues. “Can you recall, when was the last time you saw her?”
I think about the last time I saw Izzy Lake. I think about the wood dust and gunpowder in the air… the blood on my hands… the ache in my chest.
“Yes, sir. The last time I saw her was when we went hunting a few days ago,” I reply, trying not to smile. “It was her first time out, but she took down a good-sized beaver.”
2. Izzy
June 10th
Tiff told me this would be easy. She didn't tell me someone would end up dead.
I should have left forty minutes ago when the jerk entered the room and ordered me to, “Stand your scrawny ass in the corner and don’t say a word until I come out of that bathroom.”
I had half a mind to make a snide comment about the burn scars covering the left side of his face and ear, or at least remind him I wasn’t his bitch to order around. I stopped myself when I realized I kind of am his bitch. At least, I was his bitch.
From eight p.m. tonight until eight a.m. tomorrow morning, I was supposed to be this guy’s “companion.”
Prostitution isn’t legal in Clark County, Nevada, which is where Las Vegas is located. But a little more than an hour’s drive outside of Vegas is one of Nevada’s most popular, and weirdest brothels: Area 69, a brothel with an alien twist. They actually have a menu with different packages and a la carte items for clients to choose from to design their ultimate alien abduction experience.
For $1,500, the Beam Me Up package includes a striptease and lap dance followed by either a hand-job or blowjob.
For $2,500, the UFO Exploration package includes everything in the Beam Me Up package plus vaginal penetration.
For $5,000, the Area 69 Full Investigation package includes the UFO Exploration package plus a full body massage, anal probing, and one kink from the a la carte kink menu, which includes stuff like light spanking, light bondage, and strap-ons.
I told my best friend Tiffany that I would only agree to be an alien prostitute if I didn’t have to provide my real name. She hooked me up with someone who got me a fake ID and social security number. According to Danny Hefner — the owner of Area 69 who is totally not related to Hugh Hefner — I’m Brianna Everly, a twenty-two-year-old recent college grad looking for a quick way to pay down the debt I owe my bookie, Sallie Mae.
It’s all true, ex
cept my real name is Izzy Lake; Isabel Lake if you’re not a friend, or you’re a student loan debt collector. And this jerk — who, according to his intake form, paid $10,000 to spend the night with me and wants to be called “Daddy” — is not my friend.
Now, I'm staring mouth agape as I stand in the doorway of the private bathroom of my suite at Area 69. Eight feet away from me, slumped over on the pink toilet, is a dollar-store Chris Pratt. He has sandy-brown hair and twenty-five extra pounds, concentrated mostly in his round, cherub-like face and fat gut protruding from a white T-shirt and light-blue boxers.
Apart from his bluish-gray skin, the shiny burn scars on the left side of his face, and the congealed yellow vomit in the corner of his mouth, he isn’t bad looking. If he lost a few pounds and tempered his woman-hating hostility, he probably wouldn’t need to pay for sex.
A piece of elastic tubing is tied around his left bicep, and a sticky, half-dried stream of blood oozes from the crook of his elbow, down his forearm, collecting in a four-inch-wide glistening red puddle on the linoleum floor. A spent hypodermic needle lies on the floor just below his dangling right hand.
Instinctively, I glance at the wall directly in front of the man. Sure enough, I see the characteristic blood spatter. It often happens when an intravenous drug user is sloppy with their injection technique, hence the pool of blood on the floor.
I’m familiar with this bloodstain pattern because I spent years cleaning it off the walls in our bathroom at home…when I used to live at home.
The reason I’m in this garish pink suite at Area 69 is that my mom kicked me out. And my best friend Tiffany’s new boyfriend wants me to pay half their rent just to sleep on their Goodwill couch. That’s never going to happen. I’m not going to pay $700 a month for a sore back and daily stomach-curdling remarks from her creepy boyfriend.
