Pleasure Cruise

by Yolanda Wallace

  It was easier not knowing. That way, she could tell herself she wasn’t doing anything wrong. She was simply doing her job while earning some much-needed extra money in the process. She knew it wasn’t true, but the lie helped her be able to sleep at night instead of being held hostage by a guilty conscience. If she wanted to run her own gym one day instead of spending her whole life working for someone else, she needed to come up with the cash for the down payment. Her credit wasn’t good enough for her to convince any reputable bank’s loan officer to lend her the money, and her salary from Centennial Cruises was enough to pay her bills, but it would never come close to being able to finance her dreams.

  Money wasn’t the reason she had said yes when Pilar Obregon asked her to sneak a few bottles of her favorite Scotch on board because none of the ship’s restaurants or bars featured it on the menu, and passengers weren’t allowed to bring bottles of hard liquor on the ship. Lust was. But the five hundred bucks Pilar had slipped her had proved to be more satisfying than the sex they’d never gotten around to having.

  Pilar, a former beauty queen from Mexico City now based in Cozumel, was involved with some rich dude who was always too tied up with work to accompany her on the cruise she took from Miami to Jamaica each fall. Jessica didn’t know whether Pilar was the man’s wife, girlfriend, or mistress because Pilar changed her story as often as she did her lavish wardrobe. Not that Jessica minded. She wasn’t big on details, especially when the subject was other people’s relationships. As far as she was concerned, ignorance was bliss. But that was before Pilar changed the rules without consulting with her first.

  Jessica had told Pilar time and again they needed to make sure their arrangement remained strictly hush-hush, but Pilar obviously didn’t get the memo because the next thing Jessica knew, people identifying themselves as Pilar’s friends started asking her to perform similar favors for them as well.

  Thanks to Pilar’s obvious popularity, granting favors was practically a full-time job. Jessica knew she should have said no the first time Pilar batted her big brown eyes and asked if she could help her out, but the amount of money Pilar offered her to perform a few minutes of work had simply been too good to turn down. That was three years and countless trips ago. Now Jessica was into something she wasn’t sure she could find her way out of. The price would be steep if she did manage to figure things out, but it was one she was more than willing to pay. Though freedom wasn’t free, it was definitely worth the expense.

  Even though her nest egg wasn’t large enough for her to start shopping for prime real estate, she couldn’t keep putting herself through this. The money was still tempting, but the risk no longer held the same appeal. Instead of wondering how much scratch she could earn by providing the means for adventurous passengers to chemically enhance their time at sea, she was starting to wonder what would happen if she got caught. Would she be able to explain her motives to her parents, or would they be too traumatized by seeing her behind bars to bring themselves to care why she had agreed to become a drug mule?

  Jessica sighed as she stepped into the body scanner. She felt like a puppet, but she had no idea who was pulling her strings. She communicated with only a handful of people about her extracurricular activities, and none of them had ever said who was ultimately responsible for forking over the cash and product she picked up before each trip. Pilar had gotten the ball rolling by providing her name to a friend of a friend of a friend, but—a few bottles of smuggled whiskey aside—Jessica doubted Pilar would ever do anything to get her manicured nails dirty. Beauty queens and prison clashed as badly as plaids and stripes.

  Jessica’s luck had held out so far, but she didn’t want to push it any further. Although she liked taking risks, she wasn’t willing to keep gambling on her freedom. But would walking away also mean risking her life? If so, it was a chance she had to take. It was time to start living the better life she had been working so hard to achieve.

  After she exited the body scanner, she waited for her bags to pop out of the X-ray machine. The screening process usually took only a few minutes. What was the holdup today?

  She glanced at Corey Holmes, the screener she had bribed, but he wouldn’t meet her eye. Corey frowned as he stared at the monitor displaying black-and-white images of the luggage being X-rayed.

  Jessica’s heart raced as Corey halted the conveyor belt and called for a supervisor. She was tempted to bolt for the nearest exit, but realizing running would only confirm her guilt, she somehow managed to convince herself to remain where she was. Perhaps she was overreacting. Perhaps she could still wiggle her way out of this mess. And perhaps getting caught was no longer an unwanted possibility but an unfortunate reality.

  “What’s going on?” Joseph Patterson, Corey’s supervisor, asked when he arrived.

  Corey pointed to the monitor. “Looks like we have some contraband in one of these bags.”

  “Yep, I see it.”

  Jessica tried not to panic when Joseph reached for the black duffel bag and began to unzip it, but she could already see a bright orange jumpsuit in her future and she was starting to imagine spending the next ten to twenty years of her life behind bars.

  “Not that bag,” Corey said quickly. “The one with Darth Vader’s face on it.”

  Jessica watched as Joseph unzipped her carry-on, rummaged through it, and removed two large bottles of mineral water.

  “You know the rules as well as I do, Jess,” Joseph said. “All guests and employees are limited to one unopened bottle of wine or champagne, and nonalcoholic beverages packaged in bottles are prohibited.”

  “Sorry.” Jessica struggled to keep her voice steady. “I forgot those were in there.”

  “No problem. I’ll hold on to them for you until you get back.” Joseph tucked the bottles under his arm. “Drop by my office when you’re ready to pick them up.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks.”

  “No problem. Have a good trip.”

  “Sure thing.” After Joseph walked away, Jessica grabbed her bags off the conveyor belt and caught Corey’s eye. “Thanks for the heart attack, asshole.”

  “If you turn that fifty into a hundred next time,” he said with an avaricious grin, “I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.”

  “If I have anything to say about it, there won’t be a next time.”

  “Tell me something I haven’t heard a thousand times before from other people in your line of work. Didn’t you see Godfather III?”

  “I’ve got news for you,” she said before Corey could trot out his terrible impression of Al Pacino. “Neither of us is Michael Corleone.”

  “If you don’t want to end up like Fredo,” Corey said, lowering his voice, “don’t rock the boat.”

  Jessica decided to ignore rather than heed Corey’s warning. After she exited the terminal, she handed the duffel bag to a steward who would be responsible for moving much more than luggage after they boarded the ship. “This is my last drop-off. Tell them I’m out.”

  “I don’t pass messages. I move weight.” Brandon Gould added the duffel to the pile of suitcases neatly stacked on the luggage cart he was leaning against. He took a drag on his cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke before he tossed the spent butt aside. The thick muscles in his forearm flexed as the discarded cigarette flew through the air. The oversized wristband on his left arm covered the tattoo he hid from passengers who might be less inclined to tip someone who was inked up. “If you want out,” he said as he began to push the heavy cart toward the long gangplank that led from the dock to the ship, “spread the news yourself.”

  As soon as the trip ended, Jessica intended to do just that. If, that was, she could figure out how. Neither a text nor an email would do. A breakup like this one required the personal touch. And she had eight days to find the courage to do it.

  Day One

  Spencer chose to take the stairs instead of the elevator in an effort to burn off some of her nervous energy. By the time she finally found her ro
om, she felt like she had been walking for hours instead of only a few minutes. She waved her key card in front of the reader affixed to her stateroom door, waited for the light to turn green, and let herself in after she heard the lock slide open.

  When her mother had expressed her excitement about snagging the ticket to a deluxe suite, Spencer had feigned the appropriate amount of enthusiasm. Now she didn’t have to pretend.

  By cruise ship standards, the room was huge. Almost six hundred square feet, by Spencer’s estimate. The high-end suite down the hall was more than twice that size, but it was probably more than twice the price, too. She was glad her parents had taken the time to buy her such a thoughtful gift, but she was glad they hadn’t gone all-out on the expense, especially when her chances of fulfilling the mission her mother had assigned her were somewhere between slim and none. She knew how badly her mother wanted her to be in a relationship—to find someone, settle down, and be happy—but she didn’t see how it was possible. It was incredibly difficult to say much more than hello and good-bye to someone when you and your partner were seldom if ever on the same schedule.

  Even though Spencer lived on the East Coast, the tech company she worked for was located in Seattle. She was able to work remotely, but thanks to the three-hour time difference, her workdays began and ended well after those of her family and friends. The time they spent together was limited to the weekends, when she tried to cram in all the experiences she wasn’t able to share with them during the week. If she ever met someone she connected with, they might be able to make a go of it for a while, but she suspected they would eventually drift apart as she lived one life and her partner lived another.

  “Have fun,” her father had said when he and Spencer’s mother had come to see her off before she began her drive to Fort Lauderdale.

  “You deserve this,” her mother had said, tears welling in her eyes. “Go and have the time of your life.”

  All she had to do was get out of her own way long enough to let it happen. Something that had thus far proven impossible to do. More often than not, she had turned out to be her own worst enemy. For her, software programs were far easier to create and maintain than relationships. Even the buggiest program could be saved if you applied the right patches. Some relationships couldn’t be saved no matter how many fixes you tried, especially if you weren’t sure you actually wanted them to work in the first place.

  Spencer wanted happily ever after and everything that went along with it. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t. She simply wasn’t sure she knew how to go about it—or had the energy to learn.

  She tossed her suitcase on the bed and looked around the room. The suite featured two divans that could be easily converted into one king-sized bed. She tested the mattress on one of them. It didn’t seem lumpy or hard, but she wouldn’t truly know how comfortable it was until she crawled under the covers and turned in for the night. She was tempted to do so now. The long drive from Pipkinville had worn her out, but she didn’t want to waste the first day of her vacation drooling on her pillow. There would be plenty of time for that in the days and nights to come.

  She had decided to proceed with this trip so she could let her hair down for the first time in years, and she was determined to do just that. Even if she had to fake her way through it.

  She walked over to the sofa bed, which looked roomy enough to accommodate two people. Not that she knew what that felt like anymore. She hadn’t shared a bed—or her life—with someone since college. When, for a few blissful years anyway, she had been able to slip the shackles that had always kept her from being fully, freely herself. Graduation had brought about much more than the end of school. It had also brought about the end of her first and only relationship. Would it also be her last?

  Every once in a while—usually when she’d had a few too many shots of whiskey—she missed having someone to hold. Sleeping with a pillow cradled in her arms wasn’t the same as spooning someone who could return the favor. If she wanted to move on—if she wanted to try again, for real this time—she needed to figure out how. And soon.

  Before she set out on the drive to Fort Lauderdale, she had almost managed to convince herself that a temporary hookup might be what she needed. The perfect elixir to make her feel like she was part of the world instead of hiding from it. It hadn’t taken long for reality to shoot that theory all to hell. The rollercoaster of emotions she had experienced during her brief conversation with Amy a few minutes earlier made her realize a shipboard romance wasn’t what she needed. In fact, it could end up doing more harm than good. It was painfully obvious she wasn’t ready to embark on a relationship, temporary or otherwise. Perhaps she should settle for making a few new friends instead.

  An itinerary of the day’s events lay on the nightstand next to the bed. Spencer picked it up and gave it the once-over. Reagan Carter’s kick-off concert was supposed to start in a few minutes. The rest of the schedule consisted of various meetings designed to welcome everyone on board. Those with dietary and/or special medical needs were supposed to meet in one room. First-time travelers with SOS Tours were supposed to meet in another.

  Spencer was used to eating whatever was placed in front of her, and she wasn’t in the mood to sit through either a loud concert or a boring orientation speech. The Happy Hour event scheduled to take place in one of the five bars on board piqued her interest. The itinerary said the event was limited to Indies, passengers who were traveling alone. She definitely fit into that category. She was even wearing the designated ball-and-chain necklace to prove it. Perhaps she could find a kindred spirit or two while she sipped on some distilled ones.

  She dug through her welcome packet, located a map of the ship, and charted her course to the appropriate bar. She was a couple of hours early, but it couldn’t hurt to get an early start.

  Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the hall and closed her stateroom door behind her.

  “Here goes nothing.”

  * * *

  As she waited to go onstage and address the crowd, Amy could feel the energy start to build. It happened before each trip—a goose bump-inducing surge of excitement, anticipation, and sisterhood—but the sensation was far more intense on a relatively small cruise ship than it was on a sprawling resort. Clients were in closer proximity on a ship, giving them more chances to interact with the staff and each other.

  Amy loved these moments, when hundreds of women realized they were free to be themselves for the duration of their trip and could openly show affection to their partners without having to check to see who might be watching. In far too many areas of the countries they called home, that option wasn’t available. For the next eight days and seven nights, the Majestic Dream would be a giant floating safe space.

  Amy loved being able to provide an opportunity for women to be able to be completely themselves. Sure, she had heard a few complaints about SOS Tours’ pricing. Even with discounts for booking early, the per person rates were higher than determined bargain-hunters could find on their own. Repeat travelers, however, seemed more than willing to accept the tradeoff, shelling out a few extra bucks in exchange for a week of feeling like a member of the majority instead of a pigeonholed minority. All-inclusive food and drinks didn’t hurt. Amy was already dreaming about the glass of champagne and large slice of strawberry cheesecake she was going to treat herself to after her day’s official duties were finally done.

  Check-in day was always hectic. Once guests started arriving, the onslaught didn’t stop until hours later. If you were blessed by the check-in gods, only a few guests showed up at the same time. More often than not, dozens came spilling out of the complimentary charter buses at once, testing staffers’ ability to keep guests happy without anyone losing their patience—or their tempers—in the process.

  The boat was scheduled to set sail in a little over an hour, so the check-in process for this trip was nearly complete. Amy had been fortunate to this point. She had been in close contact with her staff and the
ship’s crew all day, but with no reports of lost luggage or upset clients, she hadn’t been called into action.

  “So far, so good.”

  “Relax,” Breanna said, giving Amy’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. She pulled the velvet curtain aside and took a peek at the hundreds of women settling into their seats in the spacious performance venue. “There are only about a thousand women waiting to hang on to your every word. No pressure.”

  Pressure was Amy’s constant companion. She not only thrived on it, she practically needed it in order to survive. When she was in school, she had always waited until the last moment to complete her assignments because her creative juices didn’t start flowing until whatever deadline she was up against began to approach. Work was no different. The more hectic the situation became, the calmer she felt.

  “Is Reagan ready?” she asked.

  “Almost. She’s doing vocal exercises to warm up. I told her to expect to go on in five minutes. Or are you feeling especially chatty today? If so, I could go back to her dressing room and tell her to aim for ten.”

  “I plan to make this short and quick.” Amy jerked her thumb at the crowd on the other side of the curtain. “They’re waiting to see Reagan, not me.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Breanna arched an eyebrow as she looked Amy up and down. “Your legs look a mile long in those shorts. Every passenger on this boat would love to do you. If I didn’t know about the stash of gas station junk food in your desk, I might feel the same way. Have you finished those pork rinds yet, or are you saving them for the zombie apocalypse?”

  “We can’t all live on salad, tofu, and veggie burgers.”

  “Stuff that has some actual nutritional value and contains less sodium than a salt lick, you mean?”

  “Yeah, that.” Amy took the ribbing with the good nature with which it was intended. She knew Breanna was only trying to keep her from psyching herself out, and she loved her for it. “Now pass me the microphone so I can get this show on the road.”