by Julie Cannon
I hit the snooze button for the second time and rolled over. My head pounded, and I felt like I’d pulled the covers up just a few minutes ago, not several hours.
“Time to get up, Faith,” my alarm said again. I slept like the dead and didn’t hear a normal alarm clock, but if anyone said my name, I was instantly awake. I had found a clock that allowed me to record my own wake-up message and bought it immediately. When I knew it worked, I bought a second one for backup. It was out of my budget but well worth it.
My back hurt as I got out of bed. At twenty-six, I was too young to have back problems, so the fact that I’d been on my feet all day yesterday or needed a new mattress had caused them. Probably both, but unless I won the lottery, I couldn’t do anything about either reason. My chances were zero, because as they say, “You can’t win if you don’t play.” I work too damn hard for my money to piddle it away on a guaranteed loser. That, and it’s a little difficult to buy a Powerball ticket in the middle of international waters.
I shuffled the few feet to the small bathroom in my cabin. Even though I was on the largest luxury ship in the world, I was the hired help, and my room in the “room and board included” was about the size of one in a small hotel. That was okay. I didn’t need much—just a place to sleep, what little I did get. I have a bathroom and a small kitchenette, one matchbox closet, and a porthole just above the water line. Pictures of my mum and sister Angelica fill every surface, however few there are, and spill over onto the small fridge that usually contains Diet Coke and not much else. I eat most of my meals in the ship’s restaurants or in the small crew galley on deck four.
As I stood under the hot water, I thought about how grateful I was to be only five feet, two inches tall. The shower is miniscule. I have no idea how Jeff, my neighbor, keeps himself clean. He’s well over six feet tall and must weigh at least two hundred and forty pounds. I often hear him banging against our shared wall and, on more than one occasion, a few curse words.
I moved to cabin thirteen on deck five last year, when Jax, the crew member who had eight more days seniority than I did, quit. My previous one was smaller and didn’t have a porthole. In the eight years I’ve called the Escape home, I’ve made countless friends from all over the world and picked up a few trinkets that give the gray walls and drab, institutional furniture of my home some life.
Knowing exactly how much hot water I had, I quickly scrubbed from aft to stern, carefully around the sensitive spots in the middle. I’d had another steamy dream with my faceless lover and had woken more than a little aroused. My mystery woman had been keeping my subconscious company for months, which was my body’s way of telling me it needed a little attention. Judging by the aggressiveness and creativity of the woman in my head, I needed more than a little.
Dating residents was strictly forbidden, but we were all adults, and some could keep secrets better than others. However, I knew at least four crew members who’d been fired after their dallying with an owner was discovered. Each time somebody’s big mouth had caused the problem, and each time the employee was escorted off the ship at the next port. I guess they had to find their own way home.
Dating other workers was frowned upon, not because of fraternization, but because when it went bad, and it always went bad, both parties, and sometimes all three parties were stuck in the same multistoried, encapsulated neighborhood. This situation didn’t leave many opportunities to meet others or relieve pent-up sexual tension other than with locals in the ports we docked. Several of us take advantage of the friends-with-benefits solution, including myself once in a while, but I prefer to do my “unwinding” on shore. Unlike the staff on a traditional cruise ship, we had days off, and most of us departed the minute we docked. This life was not conducive to a relationship with anyone not on board.
When others with a similar economic hardship as mine may have joined the military as their way out and up, I boarded the Escape. The day after I turned eighteen, I’d excitedly hurried up the gang plank with just about everything I owned in my small suitcase and the bag slung across my back. What I didn’t need on board, I left at home with my mum. I’d lucked into the job while I was waiting tables at a restaurant in Tampa when the Escape was in port. I’d passed the psychological testing, on-site interview, and background check, which wasn’t hard to do because I had no life and no time to get into trouble.
Similar to a standard cruise-ship crew, we typically signed on for ten- to twelve-month assignments. Once we’d put in our time, we either renewed or we went home. I had chosen to re-sign every time. The job was good, mainly because I got to see places and meet people I never would otherwise.
We worked about fifty hours a week and had two days off. Rarely were they sequential, but that was all right with me. We weren’t paid much, and I sent most of my salary home, so I picked up any extra hours I could as often as I could. The crew members were from countries like Lithuania, Romania, the Philippines, Sweden, and the US. We were allowed to use the ship’s amenities and lived on decks three, four, and five. Decks six through fifteen contained resident apartments and places to eat, watch a movie, play cards, and various other activities to keep the residents occupied.
After tying my shoes, I checked myself in the mirror on the back of the door. My shorts were pressed, the logo of the Escape embroidered on my shirt just above my ample left breast. Along with unruly curly hair, I inherited my mother’s cup size. My boobs aren’t overly large, but my polo shirt pulled a little tight across them.
I hustled to The Club and clocked in just in time. It was quiet this morning, as it always was the day we docked. We were typically in country from one to four days, enabling the residents the opportunity to disembark and explore the local sites. They could always walk on the treadmill or work out in the gym while we were at sea.
To keep busy, I folded some towels and sanitized the equipment. Even though it was the evening shift’s responsibility to tidy up before they locked up, I always give everything a good dose of disinfectant before my shift. Germs spread like a nasty rumor in confined spaces, and you couldn’t get much more confined than on a ship in the middle of an ocean with no land in sight. If one person got a cold, it wasn’t long before everyone had the sniffles and the line at the medical center was out the door.
Halfway through my shift, Mr. Blackwell came in with his warm, wide smile and infectious good mood. Mr. B, as he requested I call him, is eighty-four, with a ruddy complexion, a head of white hair, and thick black glasses. Mrs. B had been a quiet woman whom I rarely saw. They’d been residents only a few months when she had a heart attack in her sleep and passed away the next day. Mr. B would often wander into The Club first thing in the morning, and considering he wasn’t much for using the equipment, I got the impression he was lonely. He’d bring his extra-large mug of coffee and we’d talk, or he’d just sit and gaze out the window, lost in his own thoughts.
“Good morning, Faith.” He beamed when he saw me.
“Back at you, Mr. B. How was the card game last night?” Yesterday he’d informed me proudly that he’d secured a seat at the bridge table for the evening session.
“Excellent,” he said excitedly. “I won fourteen dollars from the Graysons. My partner was Thomas Howard, and for a young guy, he was pretty good.” Mr. B’s idea of young was anyone under seventy.
“Better be careful, Mr. B. Don’t want you gambling away your Social Security check.”
With the cost of an apartment on the Escape, no one was living off their government stipend, no matter how much.
“Nonsense.” He waved, his hand brushing off my fake concern. “It’s all that funny money that goes to the charity.” Each month residents chose a charity to donate their winnings to.
“Did you watch your episode of Grace and Frankie?”
I’d introduced Mr. B to the Netflix series starring Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin a few weeks ago. He’d been lamenting about not having anything to watch on the tele, and I’d mentioned the series to him. Th
e show focused on two women, best friends in their seventies whose husbands became lovers and ultimately divorced them. I thought the show was hysterical, with a great cast. Mr. B was instantly hooked and binge-watched the first season that weekend. We were halfway through season two, with each of us watching an episode sometime during the week, then talking about it when we saw each other. Mr. B was warm and witty and an interesting man to talk with. But he was, first and foremost, a resident, and I was always careful to maintain a respectable distance with him.
We chatted for an hour before he left to attend the nondenominational church service on deck eight. Mr. B joked that the only way he could keep track of the days of the week was to go to the services on Sunday.
My relief was Joanne, a petite blonde with more energy in her four-foot, eleven-inches body than I would ever have. No wonder she was the aerobics, Pilates, and yoga instructor, and I simply stood behind the front desk. We chatted for a few minutes before I headed up to the main deck to help wherever I was needed. I was scheduled for the lunch shift at Remington’s so I had a few hours in between.
In our staff meeting last week we were told that the McConnells, Sturgeons, Cobalts, and the Carters would be having family joining them when we docked in Sydney. It was just like going to visit their grandma in Florida, except this grandma lived on a ship and could be in any country in the world.
I knew most of the regulars and family members, with the exception of the Carter children, who came to visit every year. Last year I’d had a bad case of the flu, the year before, my appendix removed, and the year before that I was on vacation. Barring any major catastrophe, I’d meet Lowe and Victoria this year. Mr. and Mrs. Carter didn’t talk much about their daughters, at least not to the staff, and I hadn’t heard anything from anyone else. The Carters were a bit stuffy, in my opinion, but that didn’t matter.
Leaving the club, I took the stairs to the main deck to help with the on and off boarding of residents and guests. Arrival and departure day was confusing, especially in a busy port like Sydney. People were coming and going, looking for their tour groups, residents and guests were boarding, and departing and extra hands were always welcome. As I approached the area, I saw that the tour group had already departed, and that area of the deck was clear. I caught the deck supervisor’s eye, and he waved me over.
The wood on the main deck reflected the light from its nightly polishing. I was always afraid I’d slip and fall and land ungracefully on my butt. Tall white columns jutted from the floor to support an open atrium, above where tables for cards and plenty of quiet, intimate areas for reading or conversation were available. Tasteful, yet safe, railings provided a stunning view of the main deck below. Brian, our pianist, was playing an unobtrusive, calming tune on the grand piano to my right. Fresh flowers filled tables. This deck, like all the resident decks, held all the amenities the ultra-rich had come to expect.
“Ian, need any help?” Ian Wick was barely five feet tall but commanded his deck like General George Patton. I admired his tenacity and work ethic, and he was fair and level-headed and clear in his expectations. Everyone liked working his deck.
“Thanks, Faith, but everything is running smoothly. For some reason, and I won’t question what, everyone knew what they were supposed to do and where they were supposed to go today. I think we’ve had only a dozen questions instead of the normal hundred.”
“You know you just cursed our departure,” I said, half joking.
“Probably.” Ian chuckled. “But I’m off duty at six.” He tilted his head and touched the earpiece in his left ear. “It’s Rob on deck twelve. He needs help in the Starbucks there.”
“Tell him I’m on the way.” What neighborhood wouldn’t be complete with at least one Starbucks? We had one on each resident deck.
As I headed back toward the stairwell, I rounded the corner too sharply and collided with a firm, solid body. I stepped back, catching my breath and apologizing.
“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry. I—” Whatever else I was going to say stopped somewhere between my brain and my mouth. This wasn’t a resident, but someone I’d never met before, and
she was absolutely gorgeous. I would have remembered meeting her.
My heart skipped ahead a couple of beats, and my pulse kicked up—a lot. I was completely focused on her and didn’t think I could form a coherent thought if I had to. She wasn’t thin or lean or any of the other model-body perfect adjectives but carried a few extra pounds in all the right places. I like women with something to hang on to, lots of skin to touch, and the self-confidence to bear it all. Her eyes were the color of the sky outside, and we were so close I could see a dark circle around her pupils. She had a few lines around her eyes and across her forehead, telling me she was older than me and not ashamed to admit it. A pair of sunglasses was perched on top of her head, covering some of her very, very short blond hair.
Our eyes met, and I couldn’t tear mine away, the spark of interest reciprocal. The deck shifted under my feet. Just as I was about to fall to my knees and beg this woman to have breakfast in bed with me, her expression changed, and one eyebrow quirked upward.
“Are you all right?” she asked, her voice husky and smooth.
The way she was looking me over with more than a little appreciation in her eyes wasn’t doing anything for my jumbled thoughts and overloaded senses. Oh my, I thought. This was going to be interesting. I reminded myself to breathe, blink, and swallow. Somehow, I managed to say, “Yes, are you? I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” I hoped I sounded coherent.
She gave me another once-over before stepping back and smiling. She had a dimple on her left cheek and a pale scar above the corner of her left eye.
“No, it was my fault. I was looking at this.” She waved the paper in her hand. “I was already planning what excursions I
want to take. I need to be more careful,” she said, appearing chagrined.
It was my turn to conduct an inventory of the woman in
front of me—purely for professional reasons, of course. If she were hurt, then the legal department of the Escape would have to get involved.
She was wearing shorts, and her tanned legs went all the way to the ground, as my Uncle Clark would say. They weren’t muscular, but they looked strong enough to walk more than a few miles. Her thighs looked good enough to straddle, and I forced myself to banish that thought before moving on in my inspection. Jesus, I really needed to get laid, and soon. Her V-neck T-shirt was thick and sparkling white, contrasting nicely with her equally tanned arms. She had an expensive-looking briefcase slung over one shoulder.
“Ms. Carter,” Ian said from behind me. “Welcome back.”
The woman’s eyes stayed on mine for a few seconds longer before she looked past me.
“Thank you, Ian. It’s good to see you again,” the woman said, her greeting warm.
This might be one of the mysterious Carter daughters. We had only one set of Carters on board, but it was a common name. Maybe this woman was married? If so, it would be to another woman.
“Excuse me again,” I murmured, practically stumbling over my feet in my haste to get some breathing room between me and this walking, talking sex appeal.
My legs were weak, and I had to hold on to the handrail as I carefully navigated down the stairs. What had just happened? I’d seen beautiful women before, even met a few, but I had never gone completely gaga stupid over one. It might take a few minutes to unscramble my brain, but I did have enough sense to know this woman could be trouble. I didn’t go looking for it and, because my job depended on it, stayed away from it. Something told me Ms. Carter might be my biggest challenge.
Chapter Three
As I waited for the elevator to take me to up to deck fifteen and my parents’ apartment, I thought about the woman who had almost knocked me off my feet a few minutes ago. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was about her, but I instantly found her extraordinary. Her hair was dark and secured at the nape of he
r neck. Her skin was tan, and not from the artificial light. Her eyes were dark, and she wore very little makeup. She looked to be in her early twenties, and who needed makeup at that age? She spoke with a British accent and was sexy in a modest, unassuming way.
Sure, my body reacted like it does when there’s a spark of mutual interest. My heartbeat quickened, which made my pulse run a little faster, and I had a small case of the excitement butterflies dancing in my nether regions. I’m not one for casual hookups, but I also don’t need to know the extensive details of someone’s life before I sleep with her. I admit that in college I had more than a few one-night flings, courtesy of Jack Daniels and no roommate. Now in my thirties, I think I’m somewhere between needing to know more than a woman’s first name and less than her political and socioeconomic views or her position on global warming. If that’s on the second date, great. If it’s after five or six or even a dozen, that’s fine too.
I’d occasionally had a vacation fling, which, when I thought about it, was some of the most enjoyable times I’d had both in and out of bed. It must have been something about never having to worry about running into her in the city, or, God forbid, she walked into one of my stores. The strong reaction I had to the woman on the main deck more than confirmed that I was more than a little behind in some individual attention and mind-blowing, roll-your-eyes-into-the-back-of-your-head sex. And I was going to be on the Escape for the next three weeks, which fit nicely into my middle ground.
I’d scope out the restaurant this evening, and if I didn’t see her, maybe I’d run into her on my before-bed walk. If not, I’d make it a point to find her in the next few days. The ship was large but didn’t have nearly as many passengers as a regular cruise ship, where finding one woman out of thousands would be difficult, if not impossible. This woman was either a resident or staff member, either one of which might be tricky in locating her. If she were visiting one of the residents, the likelihood of her spending any time away from her hosts to be with me was slim.
