by Rachel Woods
“A favor?” she asked, eyes wide, as though she didn’t understand the meaning of the word. I realized that doing a favor for a guest might be strange to the staff. They had been trained to provide luxury and comfort and excellent customer service. At a hotel where every whim was catered to, guests didn’t need to ask for favors, and therefore, the request was met with hesitation.
“I need you to get a message to Joshua,” I said, wishing I knew the last name of the blue-eyed lothario who didn’t quite seal the deal during our terrace dinner my first night at the hotel. “Do you know him?”
“Yes, but ...”
“But?”
“I’m not sure I should,” she said. “We’re not supposed to have unauthorized contact with guests, and if I give him your message—”
“I know, but, please,” I implored her. “This is very important.”
Looking at her shoes, she said, “I could get in trouble.”
“I could pay you,” I said, desperate. “A hundred dollars. Two hundred.”
She glanced up, the trepidation replaced by a hint of larceny. “Five?”
After forking over five one-hundred-dollar bills to the maid, which she pocketed with a judicious smile void of any shame, I sent her off with a note for Joshua. He arrived twenty minutes later with the same initial hesitation the maid had displayed. No longer fooled by the staff’s contrite reluctance, I said, “I’ll give you a thousand dollars to do me a favor …”
Joshua agreed without going through the pretense of being worried about the no unauthorized contact with guests rule. I explained what I needed him to do, and we went over the plan several times.
After Joshua left, I took a deep breath and prepared myself to deliver the money.
I put on a bikini and then slipped on a sheer cover-up. With sunglasses covering my eyes and Chanel flip-flops on my feet, I grabbed the beach bag and left the suite, my heart pounding with each step I took. As I walked through the airy, opulent, marbled breezeways, I passed several members of the staff, each clad in the hotel’s signature aqua colors. Jumpy and paranoid, I did my best to avoid any gazes. There were lots of cheerful, smiling hellos, but I could barely mumble a reply. I could barely breathe, or put one foot in front of the other, my legs were shaking so bad.
All I could think was that I was being watched. The blackmailer’s note had warned I would be under constant surveillance as I went to deliver the money. Any attempt to contact the police, or any other person in a position of authority, and all bets would be off. The video would be immediately released to the Internet.
I hailed a cab and when the driver asked me where to in a cheerful, carefree St. Matean accent, I managed to tell him “Golden Lizard Beach” despite the roaring in my head and my racing heart. He engaged me in polite conversation, asking me the typical questions. Was this my first time to the island? How long was I staying? How was I enjoying myself so far?
It took every ounce of what little strength I had left not to tell him I wasn’t enjoying myself. I was being blackmailed by some asshole who planned to release a sex tape of me if I didn’t give him a hundred thousand dollars. I took a few deep breaths and tried to disassociate myself from my predicament. Pretending to be just an average tourist, I was able to converse without screaming or opening the door and jumping out of the moving car, which I was tempted to do.
At Golden Lizard Beach, I paid the driver and got out. Crossing the parking lot, I found the path leading to the little shack where they sold burgers, fries, and frozen drinks. I circled the burger shack, smiling at a couple sitting at the half-moon bar. Also at the bar was Joshua, and seeing him, I was flooded with a piercing relief that almost made my knees buckle. Our plan involved him sitting at the bar, having a drink, and looking at his cell phone, which he was doing, but he wasn’t really scrolling through his Facebook feed. Surreptitiously, Joshua was filming me, getting video of me as I walked around the bar and then went on to the family locker room, which was behind the restrooms. His instructions were to follow me into the locker room and continue filming me. After I left, Joshua would remain in the locker room to film whoever came to pick up the blackmail money.
After passing the restrooms, I went to the locker room and walked inside. It was cool but humid, and though it was clean, the cement floor was damp and the smell of sun and wet hair permeated the air. The thatched roof allowed a bit of a breeze as I walked past three changing stalls and two showers to the back of the room, where there was a wall of self-serve lockers.
I found the locker with the number seventeen stenciled on it and shoved the beach bag inside. Then I closed it and pressed the code the blackmailer had given me into the keypad.
Walking out of the locker room, I saw Joshua standing just outside the entryway, still looking at his phone. To his credit, he didn’t even look up as I walked straight toward him, making sure he had good footage of me before I left the shed.
Hesitating, I slowed my stride as I stepped on the path that snaked toward the bathrooms, pretending as though I was looking in my purse for something. Truthfully, I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stick around and make sure Joshua got video of the person who would come to pick up the money, but I’d been warned that the blackmailer had people watching me. I couldn’t take any chances. I had to trust that Joshua would earn that thousand dollars I’d given him and get the footage I needed.
Trembling, I paid the driver and got out of the cab, a hundred thousand dollars lighter.
The money in my bag had weighed me down, physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. I was glad it was no longer in my possession. It was now shoved into one of the self-serve lockers at Golden Lizard Beach, waiting to be removed by some bastard who thought nothing of terrorizing me. As much as I hated the extortionist, I knew he wasn’t solely to blame for making my life hell. I was complicit in his scheme. My actions had made it possible for him to blackmail me.
With a weary sigh, I walked through the luxurious open-air reception foyer, oblivious to the efficient, expedient staff and the smattering of eager, smiling, female guests. What I wanted most of all was a glass of wine and then a nap, one I wouldn’t wake up from for several hours.
“Ms. Miller! Ms. Miller …”
I turned. Liberada was hurrying toward me, slim and confident in her customary aqua dress shirt, white pencil skirt, and kitten heels.
“I was going to call you,” Liberada began with her usual cheerfulness. “But since I saw you, I figured I’d just stop you and let you know that James will be your chauffeur for today. So, if you want to leave the hotel—”
“James?” I cut her off, confused.
“Icarus called in sick,” said Liberada, rolling her eyes in derision. “So James—”
“Wait a minute, what?” I stopped her, my heart slamming. “Icarus called in sick?”
“He’s not working today.” Liberada shook her head. “Some kind of stomach bug, he claims.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, panicked. “Because I thought I saw him earlier.”
“He called about five this morning,” Liberada said. “I don’t think it was Icarus that you saw. Anyway, James will be available if you need him, sounds good?”
It sounded like my worst nightmare. But I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, didn’t want to think the worse. Still, my mind was reeling with paranoia and suspicion. Why had Icarus lied to me? Where was he? He’d told me he couldn’t film the money drop-off because he had to work. So, why would he call in sick with some lie about a stomach bug? I didn’t want to think about what I suspected, so I didn’t. I pushed the doubts away.
Back in my suite, I checked my cell phone. Joshua had sent me a text message. I was expecting the video of the money drop. Instead, the message read: Got the video but phone is dead. Texting from friends phone. Will send video as soon as phone charges.
Irritated and frustrated, I resisted the urge to hurl the phone across the room. Resigned, I called one of the housekeepers and told her to bring m
e a bottle of wine. “Would you like cheese and crackers with that?” she suggested. “Sure, fine,” I said and then replaced the phone on the receiver base.
With a shaky sigh, I trudged to the couch and plopped down on it, praying the wine would come soon and that the text would too …
DAY SEVEN
Chapter Sixteen
Around five p.m. the next day, I got the text from Joshua I’d been waiting for since yesterday.
The video of the money drop.
Dropping down onto the couch, I watched the video. My pulse jumping, I stared at the images, narrating them in my head.
I arrive at Golden Lizard Beach, carrying a large beach bag, with a haunted, nervous look on my face.
I walk past the bar and then head to the locker room.
I walk to the wall of lockers, open one, stuff the beach bag inside, close the locker, and then set the combination.
I leave Golden Lizard Beach.
For the next ten minutes, I watched a static shot on the screen, an image of the wall of lockers at the back of the changing shed. The image jumped several times, and I figured it was because Joshua was moving his phone ever so slightly, making sure that he appeared to be looking at the screen, should anyone see him.
Then, almost abruptly, a man walked into the shot but at an angle where I could only see the back of him. Carrying a medium-sized gym duffle bag, he was tall and very muscular, wearing jeans and a dark gray T-shirt, which seemed to cling to his well-built physique. The tall hunk walked to the wall of lockers at the back of the shed. Joshua used the camera’s zoom function to get a closer shot, and the image jerked and jumped, but seconds later, I could see that the man stood in front of locker seventeen. The tall guy punched in a code and opened locker seventeen—the locker where the one-hundred-thousand-dollar payoff was stashed.
My heart nearly exploded. I was looking at the blackmailer, I was sure of it. If not the blackmailer himself, then this was someone the blackmailer was working with, someone sent to pick up the money. Didn’t matter who it was, though. I’d given Joshua instructions to follow whoever came to retrieve the beach bag, so if this tall, well-built guy wasn’t the blackmailer, then I was sure he would lead me to the true culprit.
The tall guy reached inside the locker and pulled out the large beach bag I’d left behind. Closing the locker, he placed the beach bag into the duffle bag, and then he turned …
And when he turned, for several seconds, he was facing the camera phone.
His face was clearly shown, and then there was a shaky, jerky zoom into his face.
A scream stuck in my throat.
I knew the man who had removed the money from locker seventeen.
Icarus.
Chapter Seventeen
Glancing across the road, I stared at the house, a small, pale blue, one-story Colonial sitting in the midst of palms and frangipanis. The modest home, with its yellow door and security bars on the windows, was in a neighborhood on the east side of the island officially called Hilaire-Honoré, but which the locals referred to as “Double-H”, or “Dub-H.”
An hour earlier, when I’d given the cab driver the address, he’d looked shocked. From his dubious looks, I imagined he wondered why I was leaving the plush, luxurious, seven-star Heliconia to go to a disenfranchised neighborhood where tourists never ventured.
As the cab sped along, I stared out the window, oblivious to the tropical scenery rushing past. Towering palm trees and turquoise waters couldn’t compete with the images I couldn’t get out of my head. The video Joshua had filmed played over and over in my mind, as though on a loop.
Icarus removing the bag from the locker in the dressing shed at Golden Lizard Beach. Icarus getting into his Jeep and driving away from the beach parking lot. Joshua had continued to follow Icarus even after he’d left the beach, as per my instructions, and had captured Icarus navigating the narrow, twisting streets of the dense, raucous neighborhood. Eventually, the Jeep escaped the island squalor and made its way to a relatively quiet enclave of small but well-kept houses, most of them painted in creamy pastels, cocooned by tropical bushes, with oyster-shell driveways.
And there I was now, standing on the side of the road, dressed in shorts, a T-shirt, and deck shoes, clutching the strap of the small cross-body purse hanging from my shoulder. I had come to the “Double-H” to confront Icarus about his vicious blackmail scheme.
At seven in the evening, the sky was deep lavender with slashes of blue and pink and gold, a gorgeous St. Matean sunset. As a balmy breeze drifted past me, I realized I didn’t want to confront Icarus about the money. I didn’t care about the cash or even want it back. What I wanted was to know why? Why did Icarus blackmail me? Why did he dream up this elaborate scam against me?
Icarus’s lies hurt the most. He’d pretended to care about me, pretended he was on my side and eager to help me.
Thinking about his betrayal and how stupid I’d been to believe his lies, my blood boiled and my hesitation fled. Once again, I was adamant about confronting him. I wanted an explanation for his cold-blooded treachery and he was going it give it to me—or else.
“Icarus! Open the damn door!” I said, pounding my fist against the yellow painted wood, not caring who could see me or hear me, not caring if any neighbors were peeking out of their windows, trying to locate the source of the commotion.
“Open this damn door!” I demanded, continuing to pound my fists. “Let me in! Open the—”
The door swung back, abruptly, and I stumbled over the threshold, stopping just short of colliding with the island guy standing inches away, scowling at me.
“What the hell is your damn problem?” he demanded. “Beating on the door like some crazy woman! What the hell do you want?”
Confused, I stepped back, staring at him. Astonishment and bewilderment hit me, like a vicious right hook followed by a stinging left jab. I knew this guy who was standing in the doorway scowling at me, though I couldn’t remember his name. And even if I could, I knew he hadn’t given me his real name anyway. He’d given me a fake name. A fantasy name. He’d given me the name of the guy he played in my “Waterfall Fantasy.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Apollo,” he said.
Dumbfounded, I stared at the guy I’d met on the trail to the waterfalls, the one who pretended to be lost and yet was able to lead me to the waterfalls where he and his two friends—
“What do you want?” he asked, still scowling.
“Where is Icarus?” I asked. “I need to talk to him. It’s important. Is he here?”
Shrugging, the guy said, “Nope.” He started to close the door, but I put my hand out, stopping him.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I really need to talk to him. Do you know where he is? Do you know when he’s coming back?”
“Why the hell you think Icarus is coming back here?”
Confused, I asked, “Doesn’t he live here?”
“Icarus don’t stay here,” he said, scowling at me.
“But, I know he came to this house,” I said, remembering the video. “I saw him. Earlier, he came here.”
“I don’t know what you think you saw, but …” he trailed off, frowning. “You know what? You look familiar.”
“What?”
“Don’t I know you?”
“Um, no, I don’t think so,” I stammered, wary.
My indignation had fled the scene, leaving behind a paralyzing fear that told me it was time to get the hell out of the Double-H. Coming to this house to confront Icarus had been a mistake. A stupid, horrible mistake. What the hell had I been thinking? Who did I think I was? Some take no prisoners tough girl, kicking ass and taking names? True, I was not one to let people walk all over me or push me around, but make no mistake, I was not a badass.
“Yeah, I think I do know you,” he said, grabbing my wrist, pulling me toward him. “Can’t remember your name, but I never forget a face, especially a face as pretty as yours.”
&n
bsp; “Look, since Icarus isn’t here, or doesn’t live here rather,” I said, my tone casual despite the terror racing through me as I tried to extricate my wrist from his grip without calling too much attention to my actions. “Then I should just go. Sorry I bothered—”
“Actually, it’s no bother at all,” he said. Tightening his grip on my wrist, he pulled me into the house and shoved me toward a ratty threadbare love seat in a small living area, a space no bigger than a twelve-by-twelve square.
Stumbling, I took a few ungraceful side steps to avoid banging my leg on a mirrored coffee table and turned just as he slammed the door and faced me.
My heart kicked. I was trapped. Apollo was blocking my exit, standing in front of the door, arms crossed over his bare chest, smiling a predatory grin that turned my blood to ice.
“I should go,” I said, scarcely able to breathe, speak, or think. The panic flooding me was so intense I felt like I would drown in it. “I’ll just talk to Icarus later.”
“I thought you wanted to wait for Icarus to come back.”
“Well, I changed my mind,” I said. “I’ll try to call him later.”
“You’re the woman from the waterfalls, aren’t you? You’re the one who didn’t want to make love,” he said, leering at me as he caught his lower lip between his teeth and then slowly released it, looking as though he might be in the mood for hot, dirty sex. “We could’ve had a good time that day. We could have a good time now, just you and me. I didn’t want to share you with Hermes and Hercules. As soon as I saw you, I wanted to have you all to myself.”
“You know what, maybe I should just go,” I said, blood rushing to my head as I tried to walk around him, but he blocked me.
“Relax, okay,” he said, placing his hands on my shoulders as he looked down at me. “Don’t be nervous. We’re going to have a good time while we wait for Icarus to come back. And maybe when he comes, he can join us. We can screw you at the same time.”
