Full Steam Ahead

by Valerie Chase

  “Feeling better?” he says, as if we’ve run into each other on Baxter’s sprawling campus.

  “Much better,” I lie. Truthfully? The lightheadedness has hit me again now that my stomach is empty, and the room tilts at a weird angle. I take a seat on the bed by the door and reach for my bag to unpack, but I have to blink away the spots in my eyes first.

  “So how many drinks did you have?” Jace fishes out a pair of cherry red swimming trunks. “A few gin and tonics? Or did you order the whole cart of booze?”

  I only groan, wishing he would go away. I reach for the complimentary bottle of water on top of our dresser, but my clumsy fingers knock it to the floor instead. Jace crosses the distance between us and picks it up for me.

  “You sure you’re okay?” The playfulness has retreated from his voice—surprisingly. Despite my weak protests, he presses a hand on my forehead. His touch is warm, damp, firm. With him so close, I inhale instinctively, and the scent of warm, clean guy mixes with a citrusy soapy note, probably from the free shampoo.

  The scent sends unwelcome shocks through my system—unwelcome because I don’t want to be attracted to Jace. He’s not someone I can ever consider dating. I know that sounds snobby and horrible, and I hate myself for thinking it. But with my mother in my ear all my life, I know perfectly well that I’m carrying the Cantwell legacy on my lone shoulders and our name needs to be allied with class and money. And Jace has neither. What he does have is a shady background—I heard that his parents are in jail—and a reputation of jumping into bed with any girl who wants him. Believe me, there have been a lot of those.

  “You don’t have a temperature,” Jace says, dropping his hand. Then his lips, which I can’t seem to look away from, twitch up into a smirk. “Looks like you’re going to live, Georgie.”

  “Don’t call me that.” My eyes snap away from his mouth. “Look, if we’re going to room together, we need to set some ground rules.”

  “Ground rules?”

  “Yeah, like: don’t call me Georgie.”

  “What’s wrong with Georgie?” he asks, grinning, and I start getting annoyed.

  “It’s not my name. My name is Georgia. Remember? Can’t you—”

  “Whoa.” Standing back up, he raises his hands. “Fine, Lady Cantwell. Have it your way. After all, the rest of us mere mortals live to serve you.”

  “Don’t call me Lady Cantwell either,” I grit out, ignoring his sarcasm. “Don’t call me any of your nicknames.” My headache has returned full force, and I rub my temple as Jace rolls his eyes.

  “All right. Is that all?”

  “No.” I’ve seen his mess of a room at the frat house, and since he’s asking … “Pick up after yourself. Knock before you use the bathroom. And—” I falter, then make myself add, “If you’re going to bring a girl back to the room, put a sock on the doorknob or something.”

  That grin of his returns. “What, you don’t want to join in on the fun?”

  My face boils hot, and I wish he’d put on a shirt. And pants. Maybe a parka too. He’s still wearing only a towel, and it’s … distracting. “That’s another rule. Don’t hit on me either.”

  His smile slips. “It was a joke—”

  “I know you, Jace.”

  “Know me how exactly?”

  “I’m not going to be another notch on your bedpost. I’m not your type.”

  His jewel-green eyes flash dark. “My type?”

  “You know what I mean,” I huff.

  “No, I’m not sure that I do.”

  Does he really want to play the innocent card now? “The type of girl who will jump in your bed for a one-night stand. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I add, because a few of my sorority sisters have whispered that they wouldn’t mind hooking up with Jace, “but it isn’t me. So if you’re hoping I’m on the rebound because Hunter and I broke up, I’m not.” Hearing my tone, I wince, because I sound a little harsh, but I’m exhausted and hungry and stressed. “I’m just trying to be honest,” I add. Ha. Honesty is probably the farthest thing from my forte as you can get.

  Except, I realize too late, for tact. Jace looks a little pissed now.

  “Honesty from the queen of denial? That’s rich,” he mutters as he shrugs on a navy blue t-shirt.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, even though I had thought the same thing.

  “Forget it.” Grabbing his swim trunks, Jace stalks to the bathroom to change into them. That’s for my sake, I’m sure. The muscles in his broad shoulders have tensed up, and before he shuts the door I notice the tightness in his jawline.

  Well, great.

  I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings, but frankly I’m kind of surprised that he has feelings to hurt. Half of his fraternity brothers joke that he’s a man-whore to his face, and Jace always seems to find it hilarious. With a sigh, I shuffle to the bathroom door. Man-whore or not, I don’t want to spend a week in this tiny room with a roommate giving me the stink eye. And I really didn’t phrase that well.

  “Jace?” I say softly.

  The door swings open. Jace has swapped his towel for his trunks. “Let me guess. More ground rules, Miss Morality?” Then he snaps his fingers. “Oh, I forgot. No nicknames. Sorry, Your Highness.”

  My flicker of guilt drains away. “I was trying to apologize. What’s your problem?”

  “What’s my problem?” He shakes his head and roots inside his suitcase for his flip-flops, tossing out socks and shirts onto the carpet. The increasing mess makes my hands curl into fists. “Let’s just drop this, okay? I want to have a good time this week, and I’m not in the mood to deal with Lady Georgia Cantwell, who claims she ‘knows’ me when all she really knows is how to look down her nose.”

  “Are you kidding me? We’ve known each other for a year and a half. And I do not look down my nose.”

  Jace straightens to his full six-foot-two stature. We’re standing only a foot apart, and even though he’s fully dressed now, heat from his shower emanates from his skin. I can’t help but think of the skin underneath his shirt, and those mouthwatering abs. What would it feel like, to run my hands across his torso, his …

  “Please,” Jace scoffs, interrupting my wandering thoughts. “Even some of your sorority sisters call you a snob.”

  They do? But I don’t even have time to process that stab of hurt before Jace continues, “And I bet you couldn’t answer one question about me.”

  “Try me.”

  “Okay. What am I planning to do this summer after graduation, before med school?”

  I bristle. I honestly have no idea but I won’t give him the satisfaction of being right. “Get a job. Obviously.”

  “Nope. Wrong.”

  “Fine,” I fire back. “Since you know me oh-so-well, what am I planning to do after graduation?”

  His gaze—so very green—locks onto mine, and he doesn’t even hesitate. “You have no idea what you’re doing now that you’re not getting your MRS degree.”

  My mouth hangs open. Is that what he thinks of me? A girl who only cares about getting married and getting taken care of? “Wrong. Very, very wrong.”

  A chime rings in the hallway before Jace can reply. He glances at the door.

  “We’re going to be late for that safety session,” he says.

  “I don’t care about some safety thing!”

  “It’s kind of mandatory.” He jerks his thumb at the door. “You coming?”

  “Later,” I mumble. There’s no way I’m leaving this room with him right now.

  “Suit yourself.”

  After he goes, I chuck my shoes at the door and flop onto the neatly made bed. I know I should unpack, but Jace’s stupid words keep replaying in my head. What an arrogant bastard, thinking he has me all figured out.

  And my sorority sisters think I’m a snob? I have been distant the last several months, I know—ever since the trouble started. I’ve had to take on more shifts at my J. Crew shopgirl job, and I haven’t had the energ
y or the stomach for as many of the Greek Life functions as I used to. So yeah, I’ve drawn away, but it’s not from snobbery—it’s from self-preservation.

  But though I hate to admit it, Jace is at least partially right. When I was a freshman, I dreamt about becoming an art curator. I had it all planned out. Go to grad school and work my butt off. Nab an internship at the MoMA or the Getty. Then find a job at a museum or a gallery, hopefully in New York but maybe even abroad. London or Paris.

  In the last two years though, that dream faded into the background. It had to, because of what happened before I transferred to Baxter. With my family in such a mess—both emotionally and financially—I couldn’t afford to attend a private school anymore, so I transferred to a college with in-state tuition. And that’s when I met Hunter with his floppy hair and southern gentlemanly charm, like a real Prince Charming.

  After I introduced Hunter to my parents, my mom pulled me aside and told me that I could never let him go. If I married Hunter, if I married into the wealthy Fairbanks family, then I could save my parents and myself from complete ruin. Like Kate Winslet in Titanic. Except in my case, I also got to marry for love.

  It’s funny how much can change in two years, from grad school and Paris to engagement rings and wedding plans. To nothing. My grades were good, but they took a nosedive this semester, and without Hunter’s family’s help there’s no way I’ll swing a prestigious gallery internship.

  The bell chimes again for the safety session, and I know I can’t keep putting it off. Despite the heaviness in my eyes, I force myself onto my feet and step over Jace’s splayed-open suitcase. The neat freak inside of me makes me toss his socks and shirts back inside before I reach into my own bag to grab my hairbrush.

  Our cabin really is a shoebox, without even a window, and I hardly fit in the room with our stuff everywhere. I decide to give Jace the bed by the door, since he’ll probably be coming in at night later than me. On the other bed rests a towel folded into the shape of a pig, which makes me smile. It reminds me of my old stuffed animal, Piggy Porkchops, which I dragged everywhere with me when I was little, so I set it on the dresser to keep it safe.

  After I brush the knots out of my hair and throw on a hoodie to fend off the air conditioning, I’m about to head out the door when my phone pings. I dig it out of my bag. One new email. It’s probably from my parents, checking in to make sure I made it to the ship, so I absentmindedly open my inbox, ready to type out a quick reply before we depart and I lose service in international waters. But my blood freezes at what I see. It’s not a message from my mom and dad.

  It’s a new message from him.

  Feeling numb, I tap to open it.

  January 15. Don’t be late with the money again. No excuses this time, Ms. Cantwell.

  The room slants sideways, and a sourness hits the back of my throat. I brace a hand against the wall, my breaths heavy, my head spinning. I want to delete the email and scrub his message from my brain but it doesn’t matter. He’ll keep sending more.

  My knees go weak, and I curl up into the ball right next to the door. The phone tumbles out of my hand, bouncing onto the carpet.

  “God, what am I going to do?” I whisper to no one.

  Even out on the ocean, there’s nowhere to hide.

  Chapter 3

  Jace

  Georgia barely makes it to the start of the safety session; if she were any later, the crew assigned to our “Safety muster group” would have had to go find her. Not super considerate, but then again, Georgia’s focus doesn’t usually extend beyond herself.

  The crew goes over safety procedures, and I fervently hope we won’t need to know any of this, because some of my fellow passengers can’t even seem to work a life vest. But eventually the session ends, and as the ship leaves the dock we’re officially invited to have the time of our lives on board the Radiant Star.

  Someone shouts out a rip-roaring, “So where’s the bar?” and the crowd breaks into laughter. No doubt that’s one of my Psi Alpha Psi brothers—and sure enough, I find them in a circle with some Kappa girls by the windows overlooking the ship’s stern. They’re all greeting each other and chatting about everyone’s flight down to Miami, and I join in as the other passengers head off towards the viewing deck, the pools, the buffet. I overhear one guy tell his wife she could find him at the casino. Who comes on a cruise to the Caribbean to play slot machines?

  Out of the corner of my eye I spot Georgia making for the other door, hands in her hoodie pockets and head down as if trying to slip out without any of us seeing her. What is her deal, anyway? Over the last semester she’s been acting strangely, snubbing our parties and hiding in her room as much as possible.

  Is she doing drugs or something? But I have unfortunate first-hand experience with how someone looks strung out—thanks, Dad—and my gut tells me she’s not using. Plus, I can’t imagine prim Georgia Cantwell snorting a line. The few times I was in the same room as her last semester, she seemed like her mind was elsewhere, and her brow was creased in a way that could have been worry but was probably just annoyance at having to hang out with the likes of me.

  Something about her face right now, though … she’s so pale, like she’s seen the ghost of Flipper or something. My eyes narrow, but then I turn away. She has made it perfectly clear that even though we’re roommates, she wants nothing to do with me. I should focus on having fun. Half the girls are already in bikinis and various filmy cover-ups, which makes me smile. With all the eye candy around, how could I help but have fun on this trip?

  Pete, one of my Alpha brothers, looks a little nervous. Leaning over, I grin at him.

  “When are you going to do it?” I ask, quietly enough that no one else hears. He shushes me anyway, then shrugs uncertainly.

  “Don’t know. Gotta find the right moment, you know?”

  I punch his shoulder in support. “Good luck, man.”

  “Look who I found!” I hear, and turn to see Parker, one of the Kappa girls. Her red curls bounce as she grins and loops her arm around Georgia’s shoulders. Guess my roomie didn’t manage to escape after all.

  Georgia aims a frozen smile at all of us, focusing on no one in particular. Everyone makes room for the two of them as we all make plans to stake out part of the deck surrounding the Sunshine pool, which has a swim-up bar.

  “You’re not in your bathing suit yet,” Parker says to Georgia. “Want me to come with you while you change?”

  “Actually, I thought I might take a nap,” Georgia says. Her voice is smooth like light honey, not sharp the way it was earlier with me. She seems composed, restrained as usual, except … I frown. Are her hands trembling?

  “No naps!” Parker threads her arm through Georgia’s. “You’re going to get changed and then hang out with Yas and me. End of discussion.”

  They head off towards the elevators with the other members of our group who haven’t changed yet. The rest of us troop out onto the Lido deck around the Sunshine pool. I claim a lounge chair by taking my shirt off and dropping it on the white slats, along with my towel and room key and such.

  The water looks amazing, and so far it’s relatively empty. I rectify that by jumping in. Pete follows, cannonballing into the pool and making his girlfriend Chloe and two other Kappa girls squeal in surprise at getting splashed.

  “Hey there,” I hear behind me, and turn in the water to see Samantha, a Kappa junior with legs a mile long. I can’t see those legs under the water, but I do see her sultry smile as she floats over. She’s already found a paddleboard.

  “Hey yourself,” I say easily, then start to turn away.

  “I’m so glad you came on this trip, Jace. I kept wanting to hang out more all semester, but it never seemed to happen.”

  It never happened because I’ve been avoiding her, hoping she’ll get the hint. Samantha is stunning, but she wants a boyfriend, and I don’t want to get involved. Hooking up would only make things more awkward at Greek functions, so I’ve been ducking her.
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  “I’m glad I came on the trip too. You know what? I need a drink.” With that, I dive to swim to the other side of the pool and climb the ladder, bypassing the swim-up bar for the one across the deck so that Samantha can’t corner me. By the time Georgia returns—and I hate to realize that I’m watching for her—I have a beer cup in hand and have met two attractive bikini-clad girls from Florida State University. They and their friends seem thrilled to meet me and the rest of the Alpha guys, and I start to relax under their appreciative glances and casual flirtations.

  Georgia looks good in a black two-piece, though seeing her in it makes me realize how much weight she’s lost. A year ago, she had the kind of curves that made a man unable to finish a sentence. I hate it when girls starve or vomit themselves thin—and in retrospect, that’s totally what she was doing earlier today—to fit some stupid ideal, and I wish she hadn’t. But girls like Georgia always care more about appearances than being real.

  Realizing I’m spending way too much time thinking about my snooty roommate, I remind myself that she’s no longer my type. Unfortunately, my body isn’t getting the memo.

  With her reddish-brown hair sleek again instead of fetchingly frazzled like it was earlier, Georgia appears as she usually does: prim, gorgeous, untouchable. There’s no hint of the miserable-looking girl puking in the plastic trash can in our stateroom an hour ago. Instead she’s all sun goddess, and I can’t help thinking about how we’re going to be sleeping in the same cabin for six nights. What does she sleep in? Please, let it be something slinky.

  Then again, this is Georgia I’m talking about. She probably has silk pajamas, so modest I’ll never see more than an ankle. I know I’ll still be imagining what’s under them.

  My skin feels warm, and though partly it’s from fantasizing about Georgia, I also realize I never put on any sunscreen. I grab a bottle from Dan, one of my frat brothers, and sit down on my lounge chair, which is a row behind and a couple over from Georgia’s. She doesn’t see me as she chats with Yasmin, who’s already stretched out on her lounger to make the most of the warm Florida sun.