by Nina Hatch
Closing my eyes, I sink back into the mirrored corner, letting Jake’s face flood my memory. I already let out a soft moan thinking of his smug grin, how that single dimple adds just the right punctuation to his smile.
I dip my fingers further under the silky fabric as I palm my breast with my other hand, trying to imagine how Jake might do it.
I imagine his lips moving across my neck, caressing the curves of my collarbone, then diving lower to take my nipple in his mouth, his hungry tongue flicking over and over to keep it hard. I slide my hand deeper, fantasizing that I’m feeling Jake’s much larger fingers circling my clit.
I can almost taste him on my lips as I picture wrapping them around his thick cock. Moaning, I slide one finger into my slick pussy, and then another.
I need this. I need to come. I imagine Jake’s cock inside me, my hands digging into his muscled back and ass, pulling him in deeper as he thrusts inside me, harder and harder until I can’t hold on any longer.
“Come for me,” he demands, and I do, stronger and faster than I ever have. I collapse in a heap on the floor of the elevator.
But as the shapes and colors shift back into view, I’m still not satisfied. There’s a gnawing hunger inside of me, and I feel like I just made it worse.
I have no idea how to sate it, but I do know that walking through the door of that five-star hotel suite tonight will guarantee that I take this ache with me forever. Punching the lobby button on the panel, I feel the elevator lurch to descend.
I’m not sure where I’m going, but before I get there, I know I have to feel the wet sand beneath my feet.
I wake up needing scrambled eggs. And hot sauce, lots of hot sauce.
Lifting up my hand, I stare at it for a full minute as golden sand cascades out from between my fingers. I’m no stranger to hangovers — they were essentially a prerequisite to my Advanced Valuation and Investing course — but I’ve never had one quite this…gritty.
I see the Vincent from afar, the exterior lights just turning off as the rising sun breaks over the coast.
Good. At least I didn’t wander off too far.
Even though I’m covered by my green trench coat, I’m still confused as to why I didn’t wake up colder from the damp breeze off the ocean. Pushing myself up in the sand, I find my answer:
A brown tabby cat is curled up on my feet, his kitty snores coming out in soft whistles. We must have kept each other warm last night.
Sitting up more fully now, I start to shake the sand out of my hair, and the cat stirs as well, waking up with a wide yawn and a snap of his jaw before getting up for a proper stretch. He first extends his front legs, placing one paw and then the other deliberately in the sand and spreading his toes. He even seems to flex his pointed little ears. After arching his back, the cat finally seems content to start his day. I give him a scratch on his rump and he starts purring, brushing up against me before pacing away, presumably off to find some breakfast.
I stand up too — my back and joints stiff from sleeping on the cold sand — and I immediately regret not following the cat’s fastidious stretching routine. I know I have much larger issues to worry about — like remembering when my plane is supposed to leave today — but I may as well grab a quick pic of the cat for my Instagram before he stalks away. After all, I didn’t take any other pictures on this quick trip to Italy, and I don’t know when I’ll have time to get back to Europe.
I reach for my phone in the pocket of my coat and then remove my empty hand in a blind panic.
I. Don’t. Have. My. Phone.
Blurry bokeh memories come screaming back to me from last night. Memories of me standing on the beach, all alone in the moonlight, admiring the beautiful arc my phone took as it sailed, glittery with reflected light, deep into the sea as I launched it from my hand.
I inwardly curse whoever it was that invented champagne.
Champagne, and Jake fucking Rochester.
My life would be just fine right now without them. This is why I never let my guard down like that, I curse at myself.
Stiff, phoneless, and cold, I trudge back up a steep, sandy path to get to the hotel, noting that the distance is a lot longer than it looked from the beach. My first stop is to visit the concierge, where an old-fashioned telephone sits prominently on the desk. I call the automated service to check for any voicemails on my number, and, after listening to a rather strange message from the receptionist at Glendon & Howe, I decide I better dial work. Even though it’s late in the States, I know someone will be there. We have a few major global presentations coming up this month, and they’ve been keeping the doors open 24/7 to rotate shifts so we never stop working.
Lisa, Roger Glendon’s private secretary, seems surprised to hear my voice when she picks up. “Oh, Olivia. Did you get my message?”
“I did. What did you mean by, ‘I can pick up my stuff at my earliest convenience?’”
“I’m sorry, I thought you were pretty clear when you called yesterday.”
“What? I didn’t call the office. I was at my sister’s wedding.”
“Yes, I remember that. I also remember you calling in — twice — and telling me to let Roger and Gary know that they could take their market algorithm presentation and, I quote, ‘shove it up their freckled white assholes.’”
Oh my God.
What have I done? And why has that become my go-to insult lately? Maybe Jake was right, I do need to lighten up.
“Ummm, that wasn’t me?” I say, figuring it’s worth a try.
“It was you,” Lisa replies, deadpan.
“Okay, fine. But you didn’t give them the message, did you? Can I just say I’m sorry? What about a gift? Can I get you something to make this whole thing go away?”
“You also called your supervisor directly to tell him to give them the message, Olivia. And you know I make more money than you.” I roll my eyes at this. Lisa never hesitates to remind me that I’m the lowest paid associate on staff. “I packed up your things in a box and I’ll hold it here at the front.”
Even though her name isn’t on the building, Lisa is the most powerful person at Glendon & Howe, and if I can’t make any traction with her, I’m screwed.
“You know what? You can keep that box,” I say, aware of the fact that there was nothing in my desk except for Vogue Magazines, a couple of purse-flavored protein bars, and a crystallized bottle of Wite-Out from the man who held my position previously. I slam the receiver down before Lisa can do it to me.
Well, looks like I don’t need to worry about catching that plane.
I follow my nose to find my way to the Vincent Hotel’s caffé. I’m here so early, I’m able to snag a table with a view of the ocean, which is now glimmering a deep turquoise in the morning light.
Who even am I right now? I wonder, slumping down in a white iron bistro chair. I’ve never been one to shake things up like this for no reason. Even if I was unhappy at work, I like to fly under the radar and avoid confrontation at all costs. It’s not that I’m scared, I’m just — amenable.
Responsible.
Complacent.
Shit, maybe I have been scared.
But last night I was different. I don’t know if it was the grappa or the champagne or what, but I felt more fearless somehow.
Reckless is more like it. Whoever that Olivia was, she’s dangerous. Quitting my job was right on par with letting some fuckably charming guy pretend he was the love of my life last night. Now this is what I get for playing a game I had no chance of winning.
Focus, Olivia. I know I can get this anxiety under control if I just make my lists and control my next few steps.
By the time my cappuccino and egg white frittata arrive, I’ve already started mapping out a new five-year plan for myself on my napkin. A plan that I can show my father to prove I’m still serious. There are twelve major firms that compete with Glendon & Howe, and if I act fast, maybe I can get my name in before my previous employers have a chance to blackball me. I�
�m midway through listing the pros and cons of each company’s benefits package and the daily commute average when my pen runs out of ink.
I grab for a spare in my pocket and pull out the stalk of one of the yellow wildflowers Jake gave me last night. It’s pretty crushed, but the petals are still velvety soft, and I run them against my lips without thinking. Even mangled, the flower looks beautiful, so free and unkempt, and when I set it on top of my notes about 401(k)s, it gives me a sense of joy that I haven’t felt since, well, since last night when I was on the dance floor in Jake’s arms, but before then, it had been years.
I shove the napkin and the flower back in my pocket and stare out at the crystal blue water rolling in, just a hint of snow white froth peaking on every gentle wave. Closing my eyes, I tip my head back to feel the morning sun on my face, warm rays caressing the apples of my cheeks, sweeping across the bridge of my nose. The cappuccino is still warm in my hands and I raise it up to breathe in the smoky caramel aroma, hoping I never have to exhale again.
When I open my eyes, it’s as if I’m waking up in a panoramic postcard. Even though I’ve been here for three days now, this is the first time I’ve looked around and really seen where I am.
I’m in paradise, and I never even realized it.
The Vincent itself is perched on a steep slope overlooking the hotel’s private beach below, which is settled in a serenely curved cove surrounded by jagged rocks. I can still make out the place on the beach where I slept last night, just steps away from where the aquamarine water kisses the sandy golden shore. A bit further out, a string of brightly painted fishing boats all bob in a chorus.
I think I can even see dolphins leaping out of the indigo water in the distance — that’s how idyllic this place is.
Deep pink flowers bud out on the ropey vines covering the balcony of the outdoor caffé, seeming to follow no laws of order or pruning, free to bloom and grow by their own whim. There’s a massive church holding court over the town’s central square off to the right, and the early rays glint off the sparkling gold tile that covers the central dome and pediment.
When a sterling silver pastry cart rattles by my table, I reach out my hand to stop the attendant, peering over the tray to ogle the plated sweets. The young man recommends the sfogliatella with a knowing nod, placing a shell-shaped pastry on the white tablecloth in front of me. The pastry is almost embarrassing in its beauty, with a Sicilian lemon cream filling enrobed by dozens upon dozens upon dozens of layers of folded crisp pastry dough.
My mother would have a fit if she saw how quickly and fully I devour it, licking my finger to sop up every sticky sweet crumb. She raised my sister and me to fear sugar, cheese, carbs, and joy, but she’s almost 4,500 miles away right now. At least until I book another flight home.
What if I stayed instead? I think, lost in this moment of bliss. I’ve never been to Italy before, I could see some ruins, go to a few museums, maybe even get up to Milan to see the fashion district?
That tiny voice in my head has got to go. It’s given me nothing but trouble, and it doesn’t know anything about rent and monthly expenses, not to mention the constant pressure of moving up the corporate ladder.
Last night, I let my guard down for only a few hours and I managed to quit my job and set fire to all bridges, miss my flight, lose my phone, and gain a stiff neck.
And I’d never felt so alive.
Fine. I decide to forget about my list for a minute or two and just calm down enough to enjoy the final drops of creamy espresso in my cup.
That’s exactly the moment when I see three people come into the caffé. The two young women are laughing together — one small and brunette, the other taller with blazing cherry red hair — while the guy, blonde and tan, is snapping photos of the architecture with his phone. They’re adorable, and seem to be genuine friends, which is not something I’m used to witnessing.
All three of them are dressed in royal blue shorts and white polo shirts with a unique insignia on them, and I watch as they place their orders at the bar. I assume they must have come off a cruise ship or a mission trip or something, and I’m about to go back to my list when the tiny brunette pulls out a massive roll of euros, secured only with a thick rubber band.
Now that’s the kind of money that can pay the rent, I think. Even though I’d been slaving away in the corporate office of a major financial company, I was still low level, and for the number of hours I had to put in every month, I seriously doubted I made much more than minimum wage if I were to break it down into an actual hourly rate. I’m lucky that I don’t have student loans — my father was happy to pay for college once I switched to what he deemed a more sensible major — but it’s still important to me to make my own way. I could barely make the rent when I had a job, even though I was hardly ever even at my apartment.
In their matching preppy uniforms, I’m pretty sure these three aren’t strippers, but they have more cash than I’ve ever seen in person, and I’m feeling more and more curious. Finally, I go over and tap the brunette on the shoulder, her shiny chestnut curls blowing in the breeze.
“Excuse me, this is super rude, but — I noticed you have a lot of cash.” Her eyes gape open at me through a retro pair of black horn-rimmed glasses. Stellar intro, Olivia. Now she thinks you’re going to rob her. “I’m sorry, I’m not usually this forward, and I’m not trying to steal your money,” I explain quickly, “it’s just, oh, never mind. Forget I came over here.” I realize that I was about to ask a complete stranger to weigh in on my personal life crisis. This is what happens when you don’t have a phone to distract you at breakfast.
I start slinking back to my table when the blonde guy comes back holding three cappuccinos.
“Oh my God, is that a Wanda Vaux? I love how you’ve modified it,” he exclaims, reaching out to touch the ripped and stained silk of my bridesmaid dress. “And who did that cute trench?”
“I did, actually,” I say, my mood brightening. “I’m Olivia. Do you mind me asking what you guys are doing in Schiaro?”
“We’re just docked here to get some fresh fish and vegetables for the next charter,” says the redhead. “That is, if these two would ever get off their asses and get moving.” I can hear the Brooklyn in her voice, but only because I’m a New Yorker too. Otherwise, her accent is disguised by a more worldly cadence.
“Charter…” I say, starting to put the pieces together. I can read the insignia on their shirts now: Venus of the Sea. “So you must be —”
“Yachties!” the brunette woman and the blonde guy squeal in unison. “I’m Teddy, and this is Claire,” he points to the tiny brunette. “And that’s Lucy, she’s our head chef.”
“Wow. So what do you do, take care of famous movie stars who yacht?”
“Yup,” Claire chimes in proudly, “and CEOs and musicians and presidents and dignitaries too.”
“And you make that kind of money?” I say, nodding to the wad of cash Claire’s still holding. I had no idea this world even existed, but I want in. “How do I sign up?” Even I don’t know if I’m joking or asking a serious question. Inside, though, I’m deep in rapid planning mode, rationalizing this as a suitable compromise that wouldn’t set me back too much. Just a quick way to make some cash while I figure out my next corporate move.
“Well, we did have two crew members quit last week…” Lucy says quietly.
“That’s right! Oh, Lucy, please, can we keep her?” says Claire. “Our last stew was such a bitch, and I’m the one who has to room with her.”
“Hmm. You know it’s not up to me, but I can’t see why the Captain wouldn’t approve. We’re short on crewmembers already, and I know Mel was stressed about having to stop in Antibes just to pick up a new stew…”
“Yes, please can we bring her?” says Teddy. He’s still pawing at my clothes. “And can you teach me jacket construction? I can never place the darts right.”
“Check with Mel, but I’ll give my endorsement if it’s worth anything,” Lucy
says. “You did graduate from Stew Basic Safety, right?” she asks.
I try to keep my eyes averted. “Ummmm…”
“You know what, don’t answer that. Gives me plausible deniability. Claire, if you think you can teach her on the job and keep Mel off my sack for recommending her, then give it a try I suppose.”
This time, I join Teddy and Claire in squealing with glee.
Chapter Five
Olivia
“Another day, another dollar, amiright?” Claire chimes, squeezing behind me in the galley to get to the sink.
“Workin’ hard, or hardly workin’?” I reply as I polish the final crystal brandy snifter and place it on a silver tray to prepare for this afternoon’s digestif.
It had become one of our daily rituals, to speak in blue collar clichés as we scrubbed the dishes of the wealthy. I grew up around money, but the level of wealth I’m witnessing now as a junior yacht stew still boggles my mind.
The Venus of the Sea is not a boat, it’s a glistening palace of polished steel and glass on water, a megayacht capable of taking it’s guests to the most remote and exotic of locales across the Mediterranean. The yacht’s glitzy interior includes six luxury guest cabins outfitted with exotic wood paneling and gold fixtures, along with two wine cellars, a movie theater, a library, a state-of-the-art fitness center — and teeny tiny living quarters for the twelve crewmembers onboard that make it run.
The Venus cost $30 million to build and $300,000 to rent for a one week charter, meaning that the level of service we’re expected to provide is unparalleled and all-inclusive. I learned right away that the word “no” doesn’t exist here. My second night on the ship, we had to arrange for a specific brand of caviar to be helicoptered in from the mainland, just because none of the other four elite varieties we had onboard were to the guest’s liking.
Working on a megayacht has been nothing like what I expected, but I haven’t been let down by the tips. After stumbling through two charters — the first featuring two Silicon Valley billionaires trying to negotiate a secret alliance, and the second serving a sheik and his entourage — I already made $4,500, and that doesn’t even include my salary.
