Gillian's Island

by Natalie Vivien

My heart is still skipping in my chest—though I'm not certain if it's from my nearness to the water or my nearness to Ivy.

  Okay, that's a lie. It's all because of Ivy.

  I take a few deep breaths as I try not to think about the blonde-haired captain...

  And I'm a little startled when Charity grabs my elbow and tugs. “Earth to Gilly.”

  “What?” I ask, licking my lips, blinking. I look up to see Rusty carrying Charity's two largest suitcases along the gangplank. The rest of the suitcases are in a disarrayed pile at Charity's feet.

  She's watching me with a soft smirk. “You looked kind of lost in space, friend. Did that lady pirate get under your skin?”

  “Um—” Oh, God, my cheeks feel as if they're on fire.

  “Hey, don't let her bring you down,” says Charity, misjudging my thoughts entirely, thank God. “I know her type,” says Charity, again waving a dismissive hand.

  “Her...type?” I manage.

  “Yeah. All swords and swagger, but soft as an oyster inside. Besides, she's just met Brendan, and that's enough to turn anyone's milk sour.”

  I make a face. “Your mixed metaphors are making me dizzy, Chair.”

  Charity leans against me then, flapping her sailor's knot to wave air into her face as she rests the back of her hand against her forehead. “My goodness, that Rusty is making me dizzy. I mean, right? I've always wanted to have sex with a ship captain on the high seas.”

  I burst out laughing. “You have? Really?”

  “Well,” Charity says contritely, her bright red lips turning up at the corners, “as of two minutes ago, I did.” She glances at me with a raised brow. “Okay, seriously, what do you think of my chances?”

  Relaxing a little, I chuckle. “I'd say you've already hooked him, fisher of men. He was drooling all over your knot,” I tease her, with a meaningful glance at her chest.

  Smirking slyly, Charity tugs at one end of her knot and unties it, revealing a shocking expanse of cleavage. I raise a brow, but now her smile is one that a cat who ate the canary would proudly sport. “Never hurts to up the ante,” she explains, gesturing at her bared bosom. I'm laughing again as she hooks an arm through mine. “C'mon, BFF. Let's go sun ourselves on the deck—or whatever it is beautiful women do when they're on boats.”

  I draw in a deep breath. “Okay. Here goes.”

  When we step off of the gangway, a lump rises in my throat...but after walking around the expanse of Swan Song and testing its sturdiness with my feet, I start to feel a little safer. Granted, the paint job needs some work, but overall, it seems like a solid little vessel. It doesn't strike me as the type of boat to pull a Titanic (not that the Titanic was the type of boat to pull a Titanic...but then, there was an iceberg involved. We don't have many of those here in Florida).

  Rusty shows me where to put my backpack, down in the little hull of the ship, but I hold onto my camera bag.

  “It's lucky,” I tell him in explanation, with a small smile.

  “Well...good. Luck is always a good thing to have on a boat.” He nods, then glances from me to Charity, who's leaning on the railing—totally posing. I swallow my smile; seduction is a very serious matter for Charity. An art, really, and she's a true master.

  Suddenly, a car door slams not too far away.

  And a familiar, stomach-turning smell invades my nostrils.

  I close my eyes, sigh, and then glance to my side: Brendan strides up the gangplank and onto the front deck, his expensive shoes clicking on the worn wood. He smells so strongly of obnoxious, overpriced cologne, I think he might have bathed in it. And shampooed his hair with hair gel.

  That pretty much tells you everything you need to know about Brendan.

  He's wearing a three-piece suit (that I'm assuming cost more than my yearly salary) and shiny sunglasses that throw the sunlight back into your eyes and make you squint. His hair isn't moving at all in the wind, which I suppose is the intention of all of that greasy gel.

  Inwardly, I roll my eyes, but I force a pained smile as Brendan draws Charity and me into a tight, awkward, uncomfortable hug.

  “Ready to make history, ladies?” he asks us, voice dripping with smarm. When he steps back, he's ogling Charity's ass, and again, I suppress an eye-roll, choosing not to reply. Because, really, history? A major hotel chain scouting out a potential new island vacation retreat is hardly my definition of history.

  That's why we're all here today—to get the lay of the land that Brendan has, rather impulsively, purchased to build Coyne Hotels' next luxury resort upon. Provided he can garner board approval, that is.

  I'm tasked with taking photos of the island, with the objective of making the place appear enticing to the most stubborn board members. Charity is here to wrangle Brendan and Brendan's best friend/Coyne Hotels' vice president Brian, and she's going to gather statistical information to present to the board later. It's an easy trip, all things considered, and an exciting one when you consider we're sailing to a completely unpopulated island...

  But, you know, we're going with them: Brendan and Brian, the Peter Pans of corporate America.

  Actually, Peter Pan would probably be much more fun to work with than those two, now that I consider it.

  I grit my teeth. Honestly, I'm trying not to begin this trip with dread, already bracing myself for the drunken bonfires and sexual harassment to come. But Brendan excels in inappropriateness. And he kind of sucks at business. Which is yet another reason that I need to consider finding a new job.

  I'm busying myself by attaching my lens to my camera while Charity chats gamely with Brendan. Charity's always been much more skilled at small talk than me, and I'm so grateful that she's here to take that weight off of my shoulders.

  The fact of the matter is...my life right now is kind of messed up. I shouldn't feel apprehensive about going in to work; I shouldn't steel myself, praying for survival, every single day. Things were so different when Brendan's father owned the company, because Brendan's father treated women like actual human beings. Imagine that.

  Case in point, Brendan is currently talking to Charity's breasts as he asks her what kinds of bikinis she brought to wear on the island.

  I shudder and click the lens so hard into place that I have to check it over to make sure I didn't break anything.

  “Where's Brian?” Charity asks smoothly, rerouting the conversation.

  Brendan shrugs and glances down at his ugly, outrageously expensive watch, sighing. “The dude was supposed to meet me here an hour ago, when I unloaded my luggage, but then he texted me that he had to drop off his girl at The Sweet Spot.” Brendan smirks meaningfully at both of us. “So I figure the dude probably got distracted. If you know what I mean.”

  Oh, God, he's actually waggling his eyebrows. I wonder: did he learn all of his innuendo-laced, exaggerated facial expressions from cheesy '80s movies? This time, I don't even bother hiding my eye roll.

  The Sweet Spot is a massage parlor populated by female masseuses. I went there after I was rear-ended a few years ago, and it was a wonderful, relaxing experience. It's a women's-only place, but knowing Brian, he probably tried to weasel his way into his girlfriend's session so that he could ogle the staff and customers. And that's exactly what Brendan—Brian “the Dude's” best friend—is suggesting he's doing.

  What a catch.

  I take a deep breath and ungrit my teeth enough to allow me to say, “Don't we have a schedule to keep?” Irritated, I lift my chin, jaw tensing. “I mean, we've got a three-hour boat ride ahead of us to the island and—”

  “Relax, Scully. It's all under control.” And as Brendan lays on the smarm, using his pet nickname for me, I have to turn away so that he can't see my grimace. He's been calling me Scully ever since he took over his dad's job—because my name is Gillian, I assume, and because I have red hair.

  Normally, being referred to by the name of one of my favorite celebrity crushes—I've seen every episode of The X-Files twice—would be flattering. But Brendan a
lways licks his lips in this wet, gross, suggestive way when he says Scully, as if he's really saying, Yeah, baby, see how clever I am. You know you want me.

  I swallow down my gag reflex and fist my hands at my sides.

  Charity had to physically restrain me from reporting Brendan to Human Resources for an incident like this a few weeks ago. He called me Scully and then moved forward to smack my ass, his hand poised right over my rear. But I stepped out of the way just in time, as if we were engaged in a really awkward dance. Charity agreed with me that Brendan was way out of line, but she felt certain that he would fire me if I reported him.

  Frankly, I'm beginning to wonder if that would really be such a bad thing.

  Noting my agitation, Charity distracts Brendan again, and I sigh privately for a long moment. We were supposed to set sail five minutes ago, and the edge of the horizon is starting to look dark and vaguely ominous...

  Worry begins to flutter in my belly as I loop my camera strap around my neck. If I stand here worrying, I'm going to become even more panicked than I already am. I take a deep breath, fiddling with my camera lens cap, squeezing it off the camera and then squeezing it back on.

  And then I take off the cap for good, tossing it into my trusty camera bag.

  I lean over the side of the boat and begin snapping pictures.

  Whenever I'm photographing nature, I go into, well, the zone, and I hardly notice the passage of time or anything that's going on around me. It's a blissful kind of escapism. There are so many poignant things to take pictures of, from the seagull drifting overhead, wings stilled as he catches an updraft, to the flags flapping with bright clangs against the masts of the ships.

  The harbor is lovely, teeming with beauty, but I didn't notice that until I was viewing it through the lens. Now I can't help but notice everything.

  The sun is high and bright, so I adjust my settings, and then I'm getting these great angles, luminous shots. I'm especially excited about a photo of the prow of the ship with the waves softly blurred behind it...

  Still, as I worry at my lip, gazing through the lens at another seagull, I realize that I really want to take a picture of something in particular...

  Well...someone.

  It would be a challenge; I'm not as practiced at portraits as I am at macros and landscapes, but I think I could capture Ivy in a picture: the essence of an abrasive sea captain who, with a glance, turns me weak in the knees.

  As I click the shutter button, capturing the soaring seagull, a rise of voices draws me out of my thoughts and pulls my eye from the lens.

  I'm poised by the railing at the back of the boat, so I peek around the corner of the cabin and see Ivy and Brendan a few feet away—arguing.

  Ivy's hands are on her hips, and she's leaning forward onto the flats of her feet, command radiating off of her as she says, in a very low, controlled tone, her green eyes flashing with warning, “As you are highly aware, Brendan, we were supposed to leave shore half an hour ago. There's a storm coming, which I warned you about earlier today, and we were barely going to avoid the eye of it even if we stuck to our original schedule. Now we'll be lucky if we arrive at the island without—”

  “Hey, take a chill pill.” Characteristically, Brendan isn't paying attention in the slightest. Ivy is, after all, a woman and, therefore, undeserving of his time. He's glancing down at his phone, waving his hand at Ivy, as if shushing her is a valid response.

  “It'll all be fine,” he says dismissively. “Don't worry so much. God, you drive a boat. Seriously, it's not rocket science. I bet I could do it myself. If I wanted to.” He looks up, sliding his phone into his pants pocket. “I'm paying you enough, aren't I?” he asks, his eyes narrowed, sliding over Ivy's assets appreciatively. His lips draw up into a smirk. “Just do what you're paid to do, Cap'n.”

  Ivy closes her mouth into a thin, hard line. “It's on your head if anything happens to my boat due to your blatant disregard of my conditions. And you know I have that in writing.”

  “Stop freaking out. This isn't the Titanic,” he snorts, rolling his eyes.

  “That's exactly what they thought on the Titanic,” says Ivy mildly.

  Brendan stares at her for a long moment, like he doesn't get it—and he probably doesn't. I wouldn't be surprised if he thought Leonardo DiCaprio was actually a passenger on the ill-fated ship.

  He turns away distractedly, his smarmy face lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Hey, look, there he is! Dude!” Brendan waves his arm as Brian appears at the bottom of the gangplank with a duffle bag under his arm. He looks just as oily as his boss, his brown hair shiny with layers of gel.

  “Dude!” Brian calls, waving back with a huge, white-toothed grin. “You should have seen these babes at the massage parlor. I was like whoa...”

  “Oh, God,” Ivy mutters under her breath, shaking her head of long blonde hair. Then she turns a little and catches sight of me standing by the railing. She lifts one brow and casts me a conspiratorial, withering look. And I meet her gaze with my own small smile—I know, too well, how frustrating Brendan can be—but something flutters unexpectedly in my chest. I accidentally hit the button on my camera as I let its weight fall from my hand to the strap, and I can hear it take a picture...probably a very crooked picture of Ivy.

  “Sorry,” I murmur, replacing the cap on my lens and clearing my throat as Ivy prowls a little closer. I thought she was going to move past me, around me, but she doesn't. She stops right in front of me and, when I look at her, holds my gaze.

  For a moment, I'm confused. Why is she staring at me? I have no idea what she intends to do. She's poised as if she's about to embrace me, and I suppress the urge to pinch myself, to make certain that I'm still awake, not dreaming. Maybe I've fallen overboard, and this is my brain's last desperate wish...

  But then Ivy reaches around my back with one strong, tanned arm. Of course she's not embracing me; she's opening a storage chest attached to the back part of the boat's cabin, a storage chest that I was, unknowingly, leaning against.

  Ivy's arm brushes against my hip, and an electric thrill races through me. I'm so attuned to the place where she's touching me, every atom of my being focused on that one square inch. I breathe in and catch her scent: there's the raw, salty brilliance of the ocean, creamy coffee, and the golden, sweet scent of amber oil that she must dab at her pulse points.

  Within the space of a single heartbeat, she draws back and pulls away. As she straightens, my eyes register that Ivy is now holding several sun-bleached, orange life vests in her arms. She holds one out to me, pinning me in place with her sea-green gaze.

  For a moment, just a few seconds, really, time seems to stand still as the life jacket is exchanged between us, our fingers brushing, our eyes focused on one another. And then that connection breaks as she takes a step back, lifting her chin and bellowing out loudly enough for everyone on the boat to hear her, “Life vests on now, all of you!” She begins to stride away from me, heading toward the upper deck where the boat's controls are, but she stops first, handing life jackets to both Brendan and Brian. She pauses, green eyes flashing again as she puts her foot on the first step. She lifts a single finger.

  “Once more, with feeling,” she says, glancing at the sky with a grimace. “I want it on record that I was opposed to this trip, that I warned you about the storm—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Brendan says, making talking motions with his hand as he rolls his eyes and shakes his head, rendering him, in that moment, the world's biggest jerk. “Why don't you go put the pedal to the metal, sweetie? Let's burn some rubber! Or...rudder,” he chortles, slapping Brian a high-five.

  Ivy climbs the rest of the steps fuming, and I glance up, watching Rusty reach out and place a calming hand on her shoulder, steering her toward the controls of the ship and away from Brendan's line of sight.

  There's a nervous flutter in my stomach as I glance out to sea. The water has transformed from brilliant blue to an ominous greenish-gray color. As has the sk
y. And while I watch, far away, a flicker of lightning strikes the ocean's rough surface.

  I swallow, audibly gulping.

  Well, that can't be good.

  My gut attempts to twist into complicated sailors' knots as Rusty scuttles down the ladder and hops across to the dock, to begin unlooping the thick rope from around the mooring post.

  The boat's engine roars to life as Rusty removes the last loop; Swan Song drifts away from the shore. Rusty tosses the rope onto the boat's deck, and then he's leaping across the space between us, a wide distance now between the dock and the boat, and he lands on the deck with the grace of a cat.

  He smiles hugely at me. Or, at least, I think he's smiling hugely at me—until I realize that Charity is swaggering behind me, her hips moving with exaggerated sensuality.

  Charity, I notice, is not wearing her life jacket. I slip mine on around my shoulders, tugging it across my front as I raise an eyebrow at her pointedly, but she isn't even glancing in my direction.

  “That was pretty impressive, sailor,” she purrs to Rusty, who ducks his head, blushing as red as a sunburn.

  “You should really put on your life jacket, ma'am—er, Charity,” Rusty says then, but Charity chuckles softly, as if he just told her something ludicrous, like insisting that the moon is made of green cheese.

  “And spoil my outfit?” she asks, tilting her head and smirking as she waves her manicured fingers in front of her decolletage. “I mean, you are enjoying the outfit, aren't you, sailor?”

  I roll my eyes and grab her arm. “Come on, Charity. Let's make sure our boss hasn't fallen overboard.”

  “Ha, wishful thinking,” she tells me with a wry grin.

  But I'm not joking. Now that the boat is moving quickly out of the harbor, I wouldn't be surprised to find Brendan and Brian standing on the prow of the boat, Titanic-style, and daring one another to jump, given their shared lack of common sense. But as we make our way around the corner of the boat's cabin, there's Brendan, pouring champagne unsteadily into plastic champagne glasses.

  “To this endeavor!” he says mightily, shouting over the sound of the boat's engine as he shoves a champagne glass into my hand. “May it be very, very fruitful! And I'm not just talkin' about bananas, amigos.”