Black Widow

by Kristi Belcamino

  I couldn’t look away.

  The Greek kissed my neck and stroked my thigh, his hand stretching higher by the second. I was ready to have sex right there, but. . . Natasha.

  I turned back toward the boy. “Yes. One minute.”

  When I looked back toward the booth in the corner, it was empty.

  Then I spotted them. Natasha had her hand on the woman’s waist, guiding her out a side door. At the last minute, she glanced over and our eyes met. She looked down at the floor and then turned and left.

  A few minutes later, the Greek and I were at my cabin.

  After I let us in, he kneeled on the floor before me. As soon as his mouth met my thigh, I knew I’d made a good call. My body melted under his touch. I turned my brain and thoughts off completely and let my need take over. And I can’t deny that images of Natasha and that woman fueled my lust into something undeniably primal.

  A few hours later, I woke with a crazy thirst only to find the spot in bed beside me empty. Good. I vaguely remembered telling him he couldn’t stay. He hadn’t argued.

  After downing two large glasses of water, I fell back to sleep.

  I woke later to a text from Natasha.

  “I’m so ashamed.”

  She should be.

  Fuck who you want—if you are single. She was married.

  In the cold light of day, her cheating didn’t sit well with me.

  I didn’t want to judge her, but it did make me question my new friend’s morals and values.

  In my opinion, loyalty was possibly the most important trait in a person. I knew it stemmed from my Italian side, was probably buried deep in my DNA. Without loyalty, my Sicilian ancestors probably would’ve been murdered by outsiders. Holding family above all had kept our bloodline rich.

  A wave of sadness and loneliness swept over me thinking about family. I had one relative left. An aunt. A rogue, badass, and knife-wielding Italian mob boss known as the Queen of Spades. I had her card, but it seemed weird to just call her. She didn’t seem like the motherly type. I had memorized her number to use in an emergency.

  Finally, I sat up in bed and texted Natasha back.

  “Let’s meet at the pool.” It was an at-sea day.

  Chapter Seven

  Morals of an Alley Cat

  “I was drunk.” It was the first thing she said to me poolside.

  “What does Henry say about all this?”

  “He doesn’t know. He takes sleeping pills. Once he pops a pill, it’s lights out until the next morning.”

  “Oh.”

  “You probably think I’m a monster, don’t you?” She wore dark sunglasses so I couldn’t see her eyes.

  I didn’t reply.

  “Do you still want to go into Cartagena with me tomorrow?”

  The one friend I’d made as an adult has the morals of an alley cat. Oh well. Not my problem. It’s not like we were going to hang out all the time once this vacation was over. Natasha had told me they split their time between homes in Cannes and London.

  But I had to admit my enthusiasm about our friendship had slightly waned.

  The first stop on our tapas tour in Cartagena was a dark Moorish restaurant where we each were allowed to order two glasses of wine and two tapas. The owner recommended chopitos, batter-fried baby squid, along with little toasts with goat’s cheese and Iberian jam, so, of course, I agreed.

  Natasha said in a dull voice, “I’ll have the same.”

  But she only took small nibbles of each. I wasn’t sure why she’d even wanted to go on this excursion. The same thing happened at the next restaurant, she picked at her food, taking maybe three bites and then ordered seconds on the wine. By that point, with four glasses of wine in her, she had loosened up a little. She turned to me with a smile.

  “You’re lucky. You don’t have to watch your figure.”

  I finished shoving a huge hunk of chorizo in my mouth before I answered.

  “I watch it just fine, but I’m not going to deprive myself. Especially around food like this on a trip like this. I’d rather eat delicious food than be size zero.”

  She scrunched up her face. “I’ve heard that before.”

  “Sophia Bush.”

  “Ah, yes. She’s Italian?”

  I pushed the plate of toast toward her. It was topped with caramelized onions and melted gorgonzola cheese.

  “Live a little.”

  She shook her head and rolled her eyes, lifting her hand for another drink.

  At the last stop, I discovered my favorite new drink ever: Asiático coffee, a heavenly mixture of liquor, coffee, cream, brandy, and cinnamon.

  “Oh my god,” I said. “You have to try this.”

  Since it was alcohol, she did.

  The owner told us that the drink had been around for hundreds of years. Cartagena fishermen used to carry poor quality coffee, milk and brandy to drink while fishing to keep them warm, he said.

  By the time, we got back to the ship, we were both drunk and giggling. Natasha had gotten over her glum mood, and I’d gotten over my judgmental nature.

  I realized I’d been acting like a Class-A hypocrite. After all, I knew people judged me constantly because I liked sex, booze, and drugs. And wearing leather pants to the grocery store. Who was I to make up this lame-ass standard and look down on Natasha? Stupid.

  On my deck, I stepped out of the elevator yawning. We’d agreed to nap in our respective cabins before dinner and made plans to return to the club that night after we ate. “But just to dance,” Natasha said, looping her arm through mine. “Nothing else.”

  After my shower, I threw on a clingy, navy silk dress with a deep scoop neck to wear to dinner. The dress fell to my ankles, and the sleeves reached to my wrists. I pulled my black hair back in a tight ponytail and slicked on red lipstick, foregoing any jewelry.

  When I walked in, I paused at the foot of the stairs to the dining room as the maître d' took my arm and escorted me to my table. A familiar face caught my attention. The Greek boy toy from last night. I gave a long, slow wink, but he pointedly ignored me with a blank face and turned toward a woman poured into a sequined, pink dress to his right.

  Of course.

  Everybody had somebody.

  Henry stood when I approached, pulling out my chair and greeting me with a kiss on the cheek. As he pushed in my chair, he leaned down and whispered. “Thanks for being a good friend to Natasha.”

  Once we’d settled in, I turned to him. “What did you do all day by your lonesome, Henry?” I asked.

  “He worked,” Natasha said, and rolled her eyes.

  Henry laughed. “Someone’s got to work to pay for all this.”

  Loud laughter erupted a few tables over and most people at our table turned to look, including me. I recognized the woman’s black bun immediately. Sharon Long. Natasha stared straight ahead. I didn’t blame her for not looking. Henry, God bless him, leaned in to Natasha and rubbed his thumb along her wrist. She brightened immediately.

  After dinner, Natasha and I skipped the club. Instead, we curled up on the deck by the swimming pool under thick cashmere blankets provide by the crew. We smoked and drank white wine.

  Natasha looked up at something above me, smiled, and raised her glass. I glanced up. The top level of the ship was where the quarter-million dollar penthouses were. I saw Henry standing on the penthouse balcony in a silk bathrobe. He held up a glass to us in a salute and then disappeared.

  “Is he spying on you?” I don’t know why I said it, but the words slipped out.

  “God, no. He’s just being sweet and saying goodnight.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’m very lucky. Henry trusts me implicitly.”

  I shot a look at her.

  “Yeah, well, I’m not fucking perfect. I’m young. I’ve slipped. But every time I do, I end up confessing. He knows I can’t keep anything from him.”

  I thought about that for a few seconds.

  “Does that
mean you’re going to tell him about last night?”

  She exhaled loudly and then shrugged.

  I let it go. What did I know about marriage? Nothing, that’s what.

  And Natasha obviously trusted him. Even with Henry’s ex-lover on board, she had no qualms about leaving him alone on the ship. I admired and respected that sort of trust.

  We smoked and sipped our Asiaticos. I’d taught the bartender on the Sun Deck how to make them. The waiter brought us each our last drinks at three in the morning, saying he was off for the night. We stayed talking and laughing until the sun rose.

  I hadn’t wanted to, but somewhere along the line during the night, I told her exactly how Bobby had died. And how I’d exacted my vengeance.

  She held my hand and cried.

  At first I felt stupid, but then I was relieved I’d told her.

  “Then you killed that man?”

  I nodded.

  We sat there in silence for a while.

  “I had no idea.” She rubbed my fingers with hers. “And you said you are an orphan like me? You have had a lot of loss for someone our age.”

  “Your parents are dead?” I sat up.

  “They were killed in a fire.” Her voice was quiet.

  I remembered her telling the captain about her fear of fire.

  “I’m so sorry.” For a second I’d been about to say my parents had also died in a fire, but that wasn’t true. That was what the murderers had wanted me to believe. The fire had been set to try to hide the bullets in their foreheads.

  “I didn’t think I wanted to live anymore,” she said. “But then I met Henry.”

  “It was recent?”

  She didn’t answer. With the sky lightening to a pale pink in the east, Natasha stood, wrapping the blanket around her small frame. “I’m the walking dead. I need to go to bed. We are going to have a busy day in Gibraltar. I need my beauty sleep.”

  Chapter Eight

  Trouble in Paradise

  The next evening, after spending the day in Gibraltar—exploring Michael’s caves and swimming with the dolphins—we said our goodbyes at the pool.

  As we did, a shadow passed over Natasha’s gorgeous features. I followed her gaze. Henry was standing on the balcony again, but instead of smiling or raising his glass he turned and went inside.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  Natasha burst into laughter. “Yes. He just wants to get laid. I know that look. I’ll have to leave in a few minutes. See you at eight for dinner.”

  I smiled back. My heart was full. I had a real friend. The shroud of loneliness that had been so constant I’d never even noticed it, was gone. In its place was a lightness and feeling of hope and renewal and possibility.

  I aimed smiles at my dining table companions as I took my seat at dinner. I’d worn a full-length gown that Dante had made me pack. It was exquisite: a spaghetti-strapped, ankle-length, white-beaded dress that I wore with dangling diamond earrings. I felt so glamorous. It was a far cry from my leather pants and ripped T-shirt uniform back home in San Francisco. Thank God Dante was my wardrobe consultant and buyer most of the time.

  Natasha and Henry hadn’t arrived yet. I made polite conversation with the couple to my left. They were from Canada, so, of course, they were extraordinarily pleasant.

  But I kept glancing anxiously at the staircase. Natasha had mentioned Henry’s health not being the best. I hoped everything was okay. But then I remembered she’d left earlier because Henry was horny.

  They were probably still in bed. Good for them.

  Our waiter brought out a platter of massive scallops in butter with a flourish. It wasn’t until I was halfway through the fish entrée that Natasha and Henry appeared.

  Her eyes were swollen and red. Definitely not sporting a freshly-fucked look. More of a spent-the-afternoon-arguing-with-the-man-I-love-and-crying look.

  Henry didn’t look so hot, either. He looked weary and shot me a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Maybe Henry found out about Natasha’s late night escapade the other night. She’d said she usually confessed to him after she strayed. But she didn’t mention that he took it badly.

  But, of course, he would. Even if he forgave her, he was justified in being pissed off.

  While he greeted the other members of the table, I shot Natasha a questioning glance, but she shook her head nearly imperceptibly and looked away.

  Dinner was tense. Natasha stabbed at her mahi-mahi with a steak knife, and the sound of the knife scraping the china grated. I noticed the woman across from me grimacing. Everybody at the table tried to ignore the awkward tension.

  I couldn’t help but stare at Henry. His easygoing manner had vanished. Usually, he indulged every little whim Natasha had. He didn’t care if she was rude or broke outside the boundaries of societal norms. He looked benevolently on her and let her do as she would.

  Now, he leaned down and scolded Natasha for something. I couldn’t make out what he said, but her cheeks grew red.

  I wondered if these three days together at sea were wearing on the couple. Although she doted on him, I noticed she also spent a lot of time away from him. Maybe that’s what worked for them. Who was I to judge?

  But their spat—or whatever it was—made the whole table uncomfortable. I tried to ignore them and turned to my seatmate to the left. He was a financier from Lyons, France, and the more we spoke, the sexier he became. I could definitely see the appeal of an older, powerful, successful man. He was there with his wife, an equally interesting person, who owned a skin care company that was hot with celebrities. She was in an animated discussion with the man on her other side.

  Every time I glanced over at Natasha, she looked like she was about to cry. She kept her eyes down on her plate, picking at her meal. Henry would occasionally say something in her ear, and she would nod, grim-faced.

  He knew about the blonde. That had to be it.

  She said she always ended up confessing to him.

  Maybe that other woman had said something, made a scene.

  I glanced around the dining room. I saw several blond heads but couldn’t tell where she was. Plus, there were two separate dinner hours. But then I spotted Sharon Long. She was staring right at me. I could feel the heat spread across my cheeks and I had no idea why. She winked at me and raised her wine glass to me in a toast. I quickly shot a glance at Natasha, but she wasn’t paying attention. I looked away and then next time I glanced over at the other table, Sharon Long was in an animated conversation with the man beside her.

  After dessert was served, without even glancing down at the elaborate chocolate mousse mountain placed in front of him, Henry abruptly stood and touched Natasha’s elbow. “Excuse us, we are going to skip after dinner drinks and retire to our room early tonight. It’s been a long day.”

  Natasha wouldn’t meet my eyes. Guess dancing was out. She turned and followed Henry out of the room.

  Soon, all my dining companions had excused themselves, and I was alone.

  It wasn’t long after that I was kicked out of the dining room and had my dalliance with Sal the bartender and the uptight fuck in the Star Bar. In the pre-dawn sky, I made my way to the Sun Deck and sidled up to the railing with my bourbon. Ten minutes later came the scream.

  Chapter Nine

  I Do What I Want

  It was Natasha.

  I don’t know how I knew, but I did.

  Racing to the elevator, I punched the up button. As the door slid open, two men in black uniforms with patches that said “Security” ran up and stepped through the open elevator doors.

  “Ma’am, we’re going to have to ask you to wait here.”

  “That was my friend who screamed. I’m coming, too.”

  Before they could protest, the elevator door slid closed.

  One man held his security badge up to a sensor and then punched the buttons for the penthouse level.

  When the doors skimmed open, we were in the foyer of the penthouse. Nightsticks at the
ready, the men ignored me and headed further inside the space. I followed them into a living room and then heard one of them say, “Ma’am, are you okay?”

  Natasha was slumped just inside the open doorway in a puddle of ivory silk. Her hands were covered in blood, and her red silken hair was over her face.

  She didn’t answer. One man leaned down and said in a low voice. “Are you injured?”

  Shaking her head, she stared at her hands. Standing, the man jutted his chin toward the far end of the suite. The guards spread off, searching the penthouse, nightsticks at the ready.

  I crouched down by Natasha and lifted her chin. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  She shook her head.

  “Are you hurt? Is this your blood?”

  Again, she shook her head. I didn’t see any obvious wounds on her.

  “Where is Henry?”

  She didn’t answer, just rotated her bloody hands in front of her, staring at them. I grabbed her chin and made her gaze meet mine.

  “Natasha,” I said firmly. “Where is Henry?”

  Finally, she answered. “I don’t know.”

  Soon, the security guards were back and on their radios, talking low. I’d managed to help Natasha up and was sitting with her on one of the couches in the penthouse.

  I had my arm around her and murmured soothing sounds in her ear.

  She was in shock.

  I looked over her head at one of the security guards. “Can you please call the ship doctor?”

  He was younger than the other with tightly shorn brown hair, bulky muscles, and a little rash on his jaw from shaving. I clocked him in a heartbeat. Four years in the military. Didn’t fit in. Probably booted out. Tried for a cop job, but nobody would have him because of his dishonorable discharge. Thought security on a cruise ship would be a kickback gig and an easy way to travel and meet women in bikinis. He never expected tonight.