by Tara Sivec
Below Deck
Copyright © 2017 Tara Sivec
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
License Notice
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wish to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Disclaimer
This is a work of adult fiction. The author does not endorse or condone any of the behavior enclosed within. The subject matter may not be appropriate for minors. All trademarks and copyrighted items mentioned are the property of their respective owners.
Cover Design by Tara Sivec
Edits by Holly Malgieri from Holly’s Red Hot Reviews
www.hollysredhotreviews.com
Interior Design by Paul Salvette, BB eBooks
bbebooksthailand.com
DEDICATION
For Kelley Johnson. You’ll never read this since you’re a big Bravo TV star, but thanks for the inspiration anyway. I appreciate you for more than just being a lovely piece of eye candy. Probably. Maybe. Okay fine. Thanks for being really pretty and stuff.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Glossary of Terms
1. Declan
2. Mackenzie
3. Declan
4. Mackenzie
5. Declan
6. Mackenzie
7. Declan
8. Mackenzie
9. Declan
10. Mackenzie
11. Declan
12. Mackenzie
13. Declan
14. Mackenzie
15. Declan
16. Mackenzie
17. Declan
18. Mackenzie
19. Declan
20. Mackenzie
21. Declan
22. Mackenzie
23. Declan
24. Mackenzie
25. Declan
26. Mackenzie
27. Declan
Epilogue
Excerpt from The Story of Us
Acknowledgements
GLOSSARY OF TERMS
Bosun: Also known as a Petty Officer or a qualified member of the deck department, is the senior most member of the deck department and is responsible for the components of a ship’s hull and supervises the other members of the ship’s deck department.
Chief Steward/Chief Stew: The senior unlicensed crew member working in the steward’s department of a ship. The chief steward directs, instructs, and assigns personnel performing such functions as preparing and serving meals. Moreover, the steward oversees cleaning and maintaining officers’ quarters and steward department areas; and receiving, issuing, and inventorying stores.
Port: The left-hand side of or direction from a vessel, facing forward.
Starboard: The side of a ship that is on the right when one is facing forward.
Bridge: The room or platform from which the ship can be commanded.
Wheelhouse: The small enclosed parts of a bridge that historically held the ship’s wheel.
Main Salon: The main social area of a passenger ship.
Galley: The kitchen area of a ship.
Crew Mess: Located below deck, this is the area where crew members eat and socialize.
Crew Pantry: Typically, a small kitchenette off the galley where stews can make drinks, wash dishes, and conduct other small kitchen tasks separate from what the chef does in the galley.
Engine Room: A lower compartment for housing the propulsion system of a ship.
CHAPTER 1
Declan
“Declan, Declan.”
My name crackles over the radio attached to the belt of my cargo shorts, and I drop the rag I was using to wipe down the railings on the upper deck. Rolling my shoulders to work out the kinks from the grueling process of getting the 154-foot yacht, Helios, ready for its next clients, I close my eyes and tilt my head up towards the sun as I unclip the radio and bring it up to my mouth.
“Go for Declan,” I speak, depressing the talk button.
I enjoy a few peaceful seconds of having the Caribbean sun on my face while I’m standing still long enough to appreciate it, instead of racing all over this ship busting my ass. The smell of salt water on the light breeze cools my sweaty skin and the gentle lap of waves against the side of the ship makes me smile, even though I’m fucking exhausted after waking up at the ass crack of dawn this morning.
Working on a yacht is the hardest job I’ve ever had in my thirty-two years, and I’ve had many. Long hours, shitty pay, dealing with rich, and sometimes famous, assholes who treat you like dirt while you wait on them hand and foot. Putting up with a captain who expects nothing but the best from his crew and rips you a new asshole if you can’t read his mind and anticipate all of his needs for running a smooth ship. Being away from home for long stretches of time, sleeping in a bunk that’s smaller than my bathroom at home, suffering through all the high school drama and bullshit that goes on within the crew, then waking up and starting the process all over again when it’s time for a new group of clients.
Like I said, it’s the hardest job I’ve ever had, but it’s the best damn job there is. How many people can say they work on one of the largest luxury yachts and get to spend all their time floating through crystal clear water, island hopping, and seeing the world? Besides, it’s not like I plan on being a little whipping bitch for these rich dicks forever. I have a plan, and nothing is getting in the way of it.
“I need you, Ashley, and Marcel down in the crew mess in five,” Captain Michael barks through the radio, ending my few minutes of peace.
“Copy that,” I reply before clipping the radio back on my belt.
I take a minute to stare out over the railing at the island of St. Thomas from where we’re docked at the Crown Bay Marina, the view still amazing me even though I’ve been here a hundred times in the last four years that I’ve been a yachtie. With one last deep breath, I head inside the ship, through the formal dining room to the galley, and take the narrow staircase down to the crew quarters. Leaving the guest area of the ship and entering into the peasant, a.k.a. crew area is so pathetic you can’t help but laugh. Where up top is filled with dark, shiny mahogany wood, fancy couches, expensive artwork, bedrooms the size of a small home, and stone shower tile imported from fucking Egypt or something, we eat, sleep, shit, shower and shave in a tiny maze of hallways where you have to turn sideways to get through them. Our wood is fake laminate that a baby can punch through, and our artwork consists of hand-drawn dicks and tits that my co-worker and friend, Ben Lucas, decided to hang all around our table nook to brighten things up down here.
With an annoyed frown at all the opulence up top and the shit quarters the crew has, I vow for the hundredth time that when I’m the captain of my own yacht, I will make sure the crew is taken care of and not shit on all the time.
Lost in thought as I stare at my feet and rush through the tiny hallway taking me past the crew bunks and into the crew mess, I slam into someone quickly exiting their bunk. We both let out an “Oof” and a few choice curse words. Looking back and forth between the guy in front of me hastily zipping up his khaki cargo shorts while tucking in his navy blue polo, and the bunk he just exited, I sigh and run my hand through
the already messy spikes of hair on my head.
“Dude, how many times have I told you not to shit where you eat?”
Ben laughs softly, pulling the door to Jessica Miller, one of the three stewardess’ bunks, closed behind him before giving me a smirk.
“Do you really expect me to remain celibate the entire five months of this charter season? That’s just inhuman,” he explains with a slow shake of his head.
“No, I expect you to get your piece of ass off the ship, with locals or tourists, like a normal person. I’m not playing referee between you two when shit goes south and she turns into a psycho,” I tell him, lowering my voice so Jessica doesn’t hear me talking about her on the other side of the door.
It’s not like I know Jessica all that well since she’s new to the crew this season and we’ve only been at it for three weeks. She seems like a nice enough girl and eager to help wherever she’s needed—fresh out of college and wanting to see the world before she settles down with a landlocked career. But I made the mistake of getting off with a co-worker several drunken times over the years, and now I’m paying for it. They all seem nice enough until they have selective hearing, and when you say, “This is just sex because we’ve been at sea for four months and we’re both really horny,” she assumes you said, “I will love you forever and we’ll get married and have babies and live happily-ever-after.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault you fucked up when you were a newbie and screwed the Chief Stew. And then did it again and again the last few charters you worked with her. It’s also not my fault she’s excellent at her job and being a stage five clinger to your ass isn’t enough cause to get her fired. Besides, Jessica gives the most mind numbing blow—”
“Are you boys going to stand around gossiping all day? The captain is waiting for us,” Ashley Padgett, Chief Stew and the stage five clinger in question, huffs out irritably from behind me in the small hallway.
Ben snorts and I punch him in the arm before turning around to face her, refusing to return the seductive smile she tries to give me when our eyes meet.
As the Chief Stewardess, Ashley is in charge of the two other stewardesses that work beneath her—Jessica the new girl, and Zoe Ledford, a pretty cool chick I’ve worked with a few times on different charters. Ashley’s job entails everything that has to do with the interior of the ship from cleaning the guest quarters, to serving their food and drinks and waiting on them hand and foot. Me being the Bosun on the ship, and in charge of the deckhands and everything to do with the exterior, I’m forced to work closely with Ashley to make sure nothing falls through the cracks and the charter guests have nothing but a perfect experience when they’re on the Helios. A job that has become much more difficult ever since I slept with her one night four years ago during my first charter season after a few too many rum and cokes on our night off. And then I proceeded to make that same mistake a handful of times since then. I had been so busy learning my way around a boat that I didn’t have time to go off to the mainland and find a local to hook up with. My dick was about to explode from non-use, and Ashley was more than willing to ease my pain. One night of drunk fucking led to a few more nights of drunk fucking, which always led to me waking up the next morning, swearing I’d never do it again, which has resulted in several years of hell.
I finally told her at the end of last season’s charter that there would be no more hooking up between us. I didn’t need the hassle and I didn’t need the baggage, working with someone who thought me getting drunk and horny meant I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. To say she didn’t take it well would be putting it mildly. Three weeks and three different sets of charter guests into this season and I’ve almost jumped ship a few times.
“Let’s go, Decky,” Ashley practically purrs. The childish and stupid fucking nickname she won’t stop using makes me break out in a cold sweat, as does the way she closes the distance between us in the narrow hallway, wrapping her hand around my bicep and pressing her fake tits against me.
I hear another snort from Ben before I untangle my arm from her hold and move away from her, grinding my teeth together to stop myself from telling her to cut this shit out and stop calling me fucking Decky. I cannot afford to start an argument with this woman twenty-one-days into the charter season. Not just because we still have to work together day and night for seventeen more weeks, but because Captain Michael sees all and hears all. A screaming match between two of his chief crew members will not earn me any brownie points and will definitely make him change his mind about possibly mentoring me to become a captain. The one and only thing I give a shit about right now.
“Ben, radio Eddie and have him help you do a final check on all the water toys. Make sure everything is accounted for, clean, and in the right spot,” I tell him as we both turn sideways so I can squeeze past him and get to captain before he has a shit fit because I’m late.
“I radioed him four times a little bit ago and he didn’t answer. Dipshit probably left it on a counter somewhere again.”
I stop in my tracks, causing Ashley to run into the back of me and giving her yet another excuse to put her hands on me to stop herself from falling. I ignore her giggles and the patting of her hands as she smooths down the parts of my shirt she grabbed ahold of when I stopped suddenly, and look back over my shoulder at Ben.
Just like Jessica, Eddie Merrill is new to our crew this season and he, too, just graduated from college and wanted to see the world before he got a job on land. Unlike Jessica, Eddie is dumber than a box of rocks and you have to tell him something fifteen times before it finally sinks in. Like the fact that you never, ever go anywhere on this ship without your radio. You eat with it, you sleep with it, you fuck with it, and you shit with it.
“Don’t worry about it, get to your meeting,” Ben tells me with a wave of his hand. “I’ll find Eddie’s radio, find him, and then shove it up his ass so he doesn’t have a choice but to keep it with him at all times.”
Ben gives me a thumb’s up, I give him a nod, and then turn back around and move as quickly away from Ashley as possible.
Ben and I met four years ago when we were both hired to work on the Helios. It was my first time working on a boat this size, but Ben had been working on luxury yachts ever since he graduated high school and, like me, couldn’t afford college and couldn’t figure out what the fuck he wanted to do with his life. It took me ten years of bouncing between factory jobs and constructions jobs, each one more miserable than the last, before I finally figured out what my passion was. We’ve worked together on the Helios every charter season, and since we both live in Florida, we hang out when we’re not at sea as well. When I was promoted to Bosun two seasons ago, I was worried it would royally fuck up our friendship since Ben would be forced to take orders from me. Luckily, Ben is the most laid back guy you’d ever meet. He loves his job, does what he’s told, and gives zero fucks that I’m the one telling him what to do. He’s always been content as a deckhand and has no desire to move up the ranks or do anything else with his life. He’s known since day one that I want more and I’ll do whatever it takes to get there, and he was genuinely happy for me when I got the promotion.
When I make it into the crew mess, I see Marcel Petit, the chef on the Helios, already seated, tapping his fingers on the table and glaring at me in annoyance. He’s the same age as me, grew up in France, trained in Paris at the Cordon Bleu, understands English, but has never, in all the charters I’ve worked with him, ever uttered anything but French curse words. At least I’m assuming that’s what’s coming out of his mouth when he’s banging around the galley, slamming pots and pans and screaming words I don’t understand.
I squeeze behind the ten-person corner nook table, sliding across the bench seat and around to the back of the table next to Marcel just as Captain Michael enters from the stairs that lead up to the bridge. Ashley quickly scrambles into a chair across from us, immediately donning an air of professionalism with a lift of her chin and her hands cla
sped neatly in front of her on the table, knowing full well she has to be on her best behavior in front of the captain.
“The Armstrong family,” Captain Michael starts right in without a greeting, tossing each of us a stapled packet of computer printouts.
The packets fly across the smooth surface of the table and we all have to slap our hands down on top of them to stop the pages from falling into our laps. We quietly flip through the dossier on tomorrow’s charter guests as the captain takes a seat on the other side of me, pulling a pen out of the breast pocket of his white button down uniform shirt and jotting a few notes on his own packet before he continues.
“Our main charter guest is Mark Armstrong, early sixties, independent software developer who worked out of his basement until he made his first hundred million selling a dating app,” the captain continues as Ashley and I stare at the small square photo of Mark Armstrong next to his short bio.
Each guest for tomorrow’s charter has pretty much the same information—photo, relationship to the main charter guest (the one who booked it and paid for it), dietary restrictions, special requests for food and activities, and what they do for a living. Mostly, the main charter guest is the only one who actually makes money, all the rest are just along for the ride to act like entitled assholes and spend all of his or her money. Which seems to be the case, yet again, for tomorrow’s guests as I listen and read along with Captain Michael as he ticks off facts about the people Mark Armstrong is bringing with him to abuse us for the next ten days.
Allyson Drake-Swanson-Armstrong, early forties and Mark Armstrong’s new bride as of a few weeks ago.
Judging by the number of hyphens in her name, I’m going to assume Mark won’t be her last husband, and the poor schmucks she was married to before him are probably the ones responsible for all the plastic surgery she’s had on her face.
I listen half-assed to the captain explain the rest of the guests, flipping ahead to the last page. My jaw drops open at the photo staring back at me. I’ve seen my fill of hot women by working on a yacht for four years. And since they’re rich, hot women, they can afford to be nipped and tucked and lifted in all the right places to make sure their assets are top of the line. I’ve seen hot women in evening gowns, I’ve seen hot women in thong bikinis, I’ve seen hot women in sundresses with their tits practically falling out, and I’ve seen hot women lying on the upper sundeck with nothing but the Caribbean sun covering them.
