Out Too Farr

by Stein, Andrea K.

  Moj hissed through his lips.

  “I’ll be there. Val is great. And it’s business as usual. I’m not going to let these motherfuckers scare me away from my cruise.”

  Manning narrowed his eyes. “Mark my words. They will strike again. Yes, they will strike again.”

  Moj’s mouth hung open. This guy was completely serious. It wasn’t like he was ironically acting like a super spy; the guy actually thought he was James fucking Bond.

  The pseudo-spy wasn’t finished.

  “But this time, I will be there to protect you and your musical genius.”

  Moj decided to play along and said in a dramatically clipped voice, “And I feel so very safe.”

  “Good,” Manning said. “I will leave. In five minutes, three men and two women will come into this room. It will be crowded and they will try to threaten you. Stay strong. Tell them the truth, and be sure to mention the foie gras. It is vital they know about the goose-liver paté.”

  “Yes,” Moj said, “I will.”

  “One more thing.” Manning stood. “I have to warn you. Rania Elsaeid is a powerful woman, and not because she is a weapon honed by years of training and experience. Her father is one of the leading entrepreneurs in Egypt, a rich man with many enemies, but none as great as Nassef Youssef Fayed.

  “Your Rania betrayed Fayed in some kind of business arrangement. Before you go any further with this woman, you need to know her past before it kills you. Your very life is on the line.”

  “Already used the ‘very life’ thing when you first came in,” Moj said lightly. He wasn’t going to believe anything Manning said, and Rania had already told him some of her past. He wasn’t going to push her.

  “Heed my warning,” Manning murmured. “Your very life depends on it.”

  Moj held up three fingers. “Third time. You need a new dramatic phrase.”

  Manning nodded and left the room, shutting the door. Not a second later, he stuck his head inside. “Don’t forget about the foie gras.”

  The door closed again.

  Moj sighed. What the hell?

  A couple of minutes later, a young woman in a hajib came in and handed Moj a small glass bottle of ice-cold Pellegrino.

  “A gift from Mr. Manning,” she said in accented English before leaving.

  Moj had to toast the super spy. He might not be completely crazy after all.

  * * *

  Rania was interviewed after Moj, and the interrogation went quickly.

  She was thankful to Devin Manning, not only for her own bottle of mineral water but for his vouching for both Moj and her.

  Rania knew of Manning from stories Lindsay and Alton told of the alleged international man of mystery. It was another danger of having too much money: You could pretend to be pretty much anything, and with a large enough Swiss bank account, you could make the fantasies reality.

  Rania had protected such people. Unfortunately, some had fantasies far darker than wanting to be James Bond. The rich are different, just as the author of The Great Gatsby said.

  Rania spent most of her interrogation needing to go to the bathroom. The minute she was released, she headed for the facilities down the hall. It was a typical Third World building: old, cracked linoleum under ceiling tiles turning yellow. The door to the toilet stood open.

  Rania hurried toward it, desperate to relieve herself.

  A severe-looking woman emerged from the bathroom. Her hair was pulled tight into a bun, not a wisp out of place. Her makeup was equally as precise and efficient. She wore a business suit that screamed Wall Street.

  And she seemed to know Rania.

  The no-nonsense woman stormed up to her and said, “So you’re Moj’s next tesoro. I need everything on you, and when I say everything, I mean everything. Who did you kiss in the third grade? What did you eat for breakfast in high school? How much did you experiment with other women in college? Those kinds of things.”

  Rania’s instincts screamed to take a defensive stance against the obviously deranged woman. She danced lightly on the balls of her feet, hands up. She didn’t think the stranger would hit her, but Rania was ready for a physical confrontation.

  She ignored the questions and instead insisted, “Excuse me. I need to go to the restroom, and you’re in my way.”

  The woman frowned, but it was really more of a glare than a frown.

  “I’m Bronwyn Hackshaw, the head of Moj’s PR team. I’m sure you can understand why your relationship with Moj has become the top line item on today’s agenda. I have nothing on you. I can’t have that.”

  “How do you know I have a relationship with Moj?” Rania asked, keeping her anger sealed tight, more for the sake of this Bronwyn woman than her own. Punching Moj’s public relations coordinator wouldn’t help anyone.

  Bronwyn gave her an oh-please look.

  “Really? You get off the plane, throw your arms around my client, and kiss him like you never want to let go? And the way you look at each other. Makes me want to take a shower.

  “So, once more, you need to give me your complete history so I can run damage control. When the trades get a load of you, you’ll thank me. They’ll rip all of your skeletons out of the closet, dust them off, and post the bones online. If I know it all first, I can manage the spin.

  “So you’re some sort of Arab? Please tell me you’re not Muslim.”

  “Why is that important?” Rania spat out the question like a gunshot.

  “Islam is such a hard ‘concept’ these days.” Bronwyn air-quoted the word. “Between us girls, I don’t care if you’re Hindu-Jewish, but there is a part of Moj’s demographic, young girls in the American Midwest mostly, where the whole Muslim thing will simply not play. Were you ever married? God, I hope not. Then I would have to deal with your exes. You’re bad enough.”

  Rania tried to push Bronwyn aside. She had to pee.

  The other woman stiffened and wouldn’t move. She took up the entire hall.

  “Get out of my way,” Rania said.

  Bronwyn’s phone buzzed. She raised a finger to Rania. “Put a pin in that a sec.” Bronwyn fished her sat phone out of her pocket and scrolled through some screens.

  “Rania Elsaeid. Okay, I think I have you. The big picture. God, my research team is good. I hardly need to ever actually talk to people, which is so less time-consuming.”

  Rania turned curious. “What do they say?”

  Bronwyn maneuvered around Rania and walked away, still reading her screen.

  Rania watched her go. What had just happened? Even being interrogated in a stinky little room under a bare light bulb had been less unnerving than five minutes facing down Moj’s PR woman. The Maldives government people, along with some men from India’s intelligence agency, had been far kinder.

  Rania used the toilet, but the minute she stepped out of the WC, Moj was there.

  He seized her arm. He was as keyed up as Bronwyn. “Okay, Rania, we did things your way on the island. Now we’re on my turf. We’re going to get hit by the press out front. Bronwyn has my regular security there, but you’re going to need to be next to me. You are going to say exactly what I tell you to, and you’re going to do everything you’re told. I can’t fuck around with this.”

  Rania seized Moj’s fingers in an old Krav Maga hold an Israeli instructor taught her early in the game. She bent two of his fingers back. He nearly dropped to his knees.

  “I’m not going out there with you,” Rania growled. “I asked about an alternative exit, and I’ll be using that to get back to the Bonnie Blue.”

  “You like hurting me, Cara Mia?” Moj asked in an even voice despite the pain.

  Rania remembered herself. She had turned her rage against this man. She should’ve taken apart Bronwyn. She let go of Moj, who stepped away from her.

  “I’m sorry,” Rania said, feeling guilty.

  “Apology accepted,” Moj said. “Bronwyn said she came at you hard, but you wouldn’t crack. That’s good. That’s really good, ’cau
se Bronwyn is a tough one.

  “Seriously, Rania, I need you by my side.”

  “By your side?” Rania examined his face closely. “You don’t mean romantically. You need me out there to manage the spin. Aren’t those the words your PR Nazi would use?”

  Moj let out a long breath and shook his head.

  “You got me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but it is what it is. Part of my career is how I appear. Trust me, if we don’t go out there together, you become a mystery, and mysteries we can’t control. If you’re with me, then we can tell the story we want.”

  “Which is what?” Rania asked. It all seemed so impossible, unfair, and fake. Which it was. A complete construct that had nothing to do with reality.

  Moj nodded. “Bronwyn thinks we go with a personal bodyguard turned personal angle. Like Whitney and Kevin Costner in the movie. You were assigned to protect me, and we fell in love. It’s the truth, right?”

  Rania felt her entire chest shrink. It was hard to breathe. Her heart felt small.

  “And my name is broadcast all over the world? Rania Elsaeid, Moj’s new girlfriend. No. I don’t want that. I can’t have that. Do they have my name now?”

  “No,” Moj said. “But it’s only a matter of time. The paparazzi will flash so much money around, one of these government people will crack. They’ll leak your name. Then it will only be worse. Please.”

  Rania weighed her options. If she went out with Moj, the world would definitely know who she was. If she exited in secret, there was a slim chance she might remain anonymous.

  “I’m not going out with you,” Rania said.

  “You have to,” Moj said firmly.

  The adrenaline hit, battle rage colored her vision red, and Rania let an evil smile spill out across her face.

  “Are you going to try grabbing me again, Moj? Do you really think you can make me?”

  “You’re being…you’re being…” Moj was stuttering. His cool was gone.

  “That’s what I thought,” Rania said. “If you want to be with me, you can’t talk about me to the press, understand?”

  “But…”

  It was clear he didn’t understand. She ducked under his arm, took the third door to the right and into a stairwell. Concrete steps led down into midnight. Hopefully there would be light at the end of that particular tunnel.

  “Rania,” Moj called to her through the open door.

  She didn’t turn. The door slammed behind her. Motion detectors caught her and emergency lights winked on.

  Yes, light, but Rania still felt a darkness inside her.

  She and Moj couldn’t be together, not when she would have to face that media circus. She couldn’t risk it.

  She ran down the stairs, two flights, and through a door and into sunlight.

  Alone, on the tarmac, with the ocean not a hundred meters away, Rania took a deep breath. She’d never felt so caged.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  April 19, Aboard the Bonnie Blue

  On Rhumb Line Northwest to Seychelles

  Back on the Bonnie Blue, Moj and Cloude sat in the bow lounge seats, chasing the horizon, while the sails above them creaked in the wind.

  They were on their way to the Seychelles, though he hadn’t seen Rania yet. Captain Lindsay confirmed she was in the engine room, and that made Moj feel better.

  Bronwyn had flown ahead to the Seychelles to set up the photo shoot on Anse Georgette, one of the world’s most beautiful beaches. The location was on Praslin Island, just one of the one-hundred-fifteen islands that made up the Seychelles.

  Cloude whipped out her iPhone to show him the fiasco with the press. Moj peered over her shoulder, watching himself deal with the media outside the airport.

  She sighed.

  “I’m counting how many times you said ‘she wishes to remain anonymous.’ I’m up to eight. They hate it when you won’t answer their questions and say the same thing over and over. You should’ve at least used different words. ‘She is a very private person.’ Or, ‘who she is doesn’t matter because I’m safe.’ Stuff like that.”

  Moj wanted to growl and punch something. Instead, he clenched his jaw and wondered how bad it would be once they got to the Seychelles. Or maybe the paparazzi would show some humanity this time. Maybe. Long shot.

  “I know,” Cloude said, “next time you should sing ‘Name’ by the Goo Goo Dolls. Released in September of 1995, right around my birthday, ‘Name’ was their third hit single. ‘Iris’ is the better song, though. You have to admit. And did you ever hear ‘Slide’? I mean, I can’t place it.”

  Moj put his face in his hands. “You don’t know a song?”

  “It happens,” Cloude protested. “It’s rare, I know, but it happens.”

  “I messed up big, Cloude.” Moj leaned back to watch the sails fill. They’d found a good wind and were making great time. Captain Lindsay said it was about a week to the Seychelles. Moj had seven days to fix things with Rania. If they hit the photo shoot and he and Rania weren’t strong, the media circus would surely destroy both of them.

  “Tell Cloude everything,” she said. “I’m sure I can help.”

  Before Moj could speak, three large men swathed in neoprene and scuba masks came racing up the companionway. They stripped out of their wetsuits right on the deck. Underneath they wore nothing but Speedos. All were heavily muscled and deadly handsome. They had a variety of skin colors, from pale to dark. Each checked their wristwatches as if they were completely synchronized.

  “Who the fucking hell—?” Moj blurted out.

  Then the barely clad commandos threw themselves overboard. They were whisked away in the current and soon left behind.

  Moj sat blinking. Cloude blushed.

  “Holy shit,” she said. “Did you see that? Oh my God. Talk about delicious specimens. It is raining men.”

  Moj waited for it.

  Cloude did not disappoint. “’It’s Raining Men,’ The Weather Girls, 1982.”

  Manning emerged from below decks. He had a tablet and he was scrolling through screens. He too wore a Speedo.

  Normally, Moj would’ve glanced away, but he had to admit, Manning kept in shape. Slim hips, nice deltoids, lean arms showing thick biceps and triceps.

  When Moj glanced at Cloude, she seemed enthralled. Manning drifted over, handed Cloude the tablet, and then leapt into the water after checking his wristwatch.

  No one onboard, other than Moj, seemed upset about any of the bizarre display.

  “Uh, so I have about three million questions,” Moj said.

  “Dev and the boys,” Cloude said. “Captain Lindsay wanted to beef up security after our recent adventures. Dev Man rounded up some ridiculously handsome cover-model mercs and brought them aboard, much to my complete enjoyment. Yummy yummy in Mommy’s tummy.”

  Moj grunted in disgust. “You did not just say that. You did not just refer to Manning as Dev Man, and I thought you were gay.”

  Cloude playfully slapped Moj’s arm.

  “I might not be straight, but I am definitely not narrow. Come on, those guys made you pause. There is nothing wrong with enjoying the natural beauty of scantily clad men.”

  “But Dev Man?” Moj asked.

  She smiled. “Devin and I understand each other.”

  Moj studied the smile.

  “No, it goes beyond that. There’s something between you two.”

  “Nothing yet. Nothing concrete, if you follow my meaning. Like I said, though, we get each other.”

  “How can you possibly ‘get’ that nutcase?” he asked. “He just threw himself off a perfectly good boat.”

  Cloude lifted the tablet. On a complicated-looking chart, four red dots blinked behind a racing triangle, which, Moj guessed, was the Bonnie Blue.

  “He and his men are training,” she explained. “Spike, Bones, and Javier want to be ready if we run into those pirates again.”

  “Spike, Bones, and Javier? The beefcake warriors?” Moj shook his head. “Not sure I feel any s
afer. I want to know more about you and Manning.”

  Cloude shrugged. “He totally makes sense. You and I both know our lives are pretend. It’s all so much glitter, smoke, and mirrors. Like the second album from Imagine Dragons, February of 2015. Smoke and Mirrors.

  “You’re a good music producer, sure, fine. That didn’t put you where you are today. You can thank Bronwyn, God bless the hole where her heart used to be. She helped you to become a celebrity. Which has nothing to do with talent.

  “And that’s the real reason you go to the Grammys year after year even though you aren’t nominated. It’s more smoke. It’s a good story. Get it? Story.” She elongated the word. “Stoooooooorrrry.”

  “I get it,” Moj said. “Talent doesn’t equal famous. Famous doesn’t equal talent. But a good story sells.”

  “Like me,” Cloude said. “My voice is okay. However, I got super lucky. I got in tight with a generation of tweens, and I saw if I wanted to keep a career, I had to create a story.

  “That’s where you and I came in. The wild girl from Wild Willamina wants to become a pop star and so she starts dating the infamous Moj, control freak and music genius. But we thought she was gay? So she’s bi? Is she on drugs? Is she going to go all Miley Cyrus ‘Wrecking Ball?’” She paused. “Off of Miley’s fourth studio album, Bangerz, 2013. And talk about story. Miley did it so well. She stayed in the spotlight because she stayed in the story.”

  “Risky,” Moj said. “It could’ve alienated her from her fans forever.”

  “Now she’s a regular judge on network talent shows, and still in the trades. I’d totally take her career. She can retire to being a headliner in Vegas and live happily ever after, swimming in paychecks. The end.”

  “So, Manning,” Moj said, trying to get them back on track.

  “Manning is rich enough to write his own story. He wants to be a spy. How cool is it that he is a spy? Do you really think we’re not going to see Dev and his boys again? They’ll be back onboard by nightfall if not sooner. I imagine helicopters will be involved.”

  “Isn’t it kind of pathetic, though?” Moj asked.

  “I’ve been called pathetic,” Cloude said. “A lot. Have you ever been called pathetic?”