Adrift

by Isabel Jolie

  “Will you take off your shirt?” I didn’t want to do that. Even back then, in high school, my belly wasn’t flat. I hadn’t worn anything but a one piece since, like, first grade. But I happened to be wearing a button-down shirt, and I unbuttoned it to below my breasts. My bra wasn’t sexy. It was more of a cotton sports bra from Wal-Mart. He pushed it down. He gazed up at me with a boyish wonder in his eyes, the same kind of expression when he launched one of his model rockets and it shot up forty feet in the air.

  He dipped down and sucked in my nipple. He sucked so hard it hurt, but I didn’t say anything. Yes, the first time his lips touched me, they touched my breast.

  He fumbled with his pants, and his erection sprung out. I’d never seen a penis before, not in person. He crawled forward on his knees while I stared. He pressed his exposed penis against my shirt and the flappy belly I didn’t want to reveal to him.

  “Do you mind?” Confusion blocked all thought processes. I must have said okay. He shoved his dick between my breasts.

  “Holy shit. You feel so good. Oh, my god. This is amazing. Fuck. Look at that.”

  The skin of his penis felt soft in my breasts. The hairs on his belly tickled my face as I sat, legs straight out, my shirt splayed open but pulled tight below my breasts.

  His body jerked hard, and I worried he might be spasming. Then a warm liquid shot below my chin and on my neck.

  “Oh, fuck. Penny.”

  He backed up and zipped his pants. I sat frozen.

  He leaned forward and pressed his lips flat against mine. “Thank you. Let me get you something to clean up.” He got a washcloth and tossed it to me. “You might want to go to the bathroom.”

  In the mirror, creamy cum dripped on a few strands of my hair. Somehow, I convinced myself that he liked me. Those kinds of scenes in his basement played out for the next four years.

  The phone in my hand vibrated. I couldn’t see the screen. I swiped both eyes and waited until the words came into focus. The boater’s melodic whistle as he hosed off his boat calmed me and served to remind me I no longer lived in Louisiana.

  After a good cry, because sometimes a girl needed a good cry, I blew my nose and emailed Suzette, the owner of Jules, to inquire if she had any bartending shifts open. I read the rent renewal contract and closed out of email. I couldn’t quite bring myself to decline to renew, even though I needed to. There was only so much I could do in one day.

  Chapter 11

  Gabe

  * * *

  On January 27, I should have been out for a run or exercising in my home gym. Instead, the absence of light combined with icy remnants etched along the corners of my bedroom window crushed my will to leave the warm confines of my bed. Thanks to the snowstorm that hit during the night and was forecast to continue dispersing snow periodically across the region for the rest of the day, the city outside slowed and guaranteed empty cubicles and offices.

  Checking the promotional folder on my personal email account belonged in the “hardly ever” category, but that slow, snowy morning, I clicked and scanned. An email from Haven Island Realty caught my attention. I clicked on the listing of an oceanfront home. I scrolled through the photos. I checked the map and discovered it was located a few houses down from Access 42, my favorite ocean access point. The newly listed house needed a fresh coat of exterior paint, but the inside appeared move-in ready. Six bedrooms and five baths, with stunning ocean views, listed for six million. On a whim, I replied to the realtor.

  Owning a place away from it all held appeal. A place to get away from the bone chilling winds that wrapped around each skyscraper and tore down avenues. A place where every TV didn’t display a stock ticker, and emergency sirens didn’t blare with regularity every single day. A place where I could lie down in bed, close my eyes, and sleep.

  A few hours later, after trudging down icy sidewalks and almost busting my ass more than once in my poorly chosen dress shoes, I stepped into the deserted Belman office tower. Back at my desk, I read the response from the Realtor. Without any additional research, I responded with an offer five percent below asking.

  Growing up, I’d had the best summers of my life on that island. Tate and I roamed free, checking in for lunch and dinner. Pedaling our bikes, we could go anywhere we wanted, and we never had to ask permission. Never had to ask to be driven somewhere. That island gave me my first taste of freedom.

  The memory of that sensation, the sun on my face, that natural high, it created a bittersweet nostalgia that pinched at my chest. I envisioned working remotely for periods of time. And in the evenings, I planned to walk barefoot. I could almost feel the sand filter through my toes.

  Both my personal lawyers and the firm’s lawyers all warned the Justice Department would soon announce a criminal investigation. They’d been sounding the alarm for months. If correct, and the Justice Department followed precedent, they would request to delay the civil suit on grounds of not revealing too much of their hand in the criminal prosecution. As one of the suited attorney’s so astutely said to me, “It’s gonna take years. You’ll be involved in this case for years.” Hell, yes, I needed a place to escape to.

  I made that initial investment almost five years ago. Sold three years ago. Digging up every piece of logic and information, going through emails, wracking my brain for details on every single interaction with not only Cyr Martin but also the managing director of my firm, and knowing any wrong recollection could be construed as a sign of guilt added a layer of untold stress. I found myself reconsidering everything—my career, my city, my future. And I loved my job. Before the scandal.

  Now, every time I sold a stock, I gathered data to ensure I had my rationale on hand should anyone ask. I second guessed every decision. Before, I studied the data, trusted my gut, and decided in seconds. My fund’s performance suffered. It ended 4Q barely above the S&P. Hedging had been my secret sauce, but now I found myself over-hedging—on everything.

  Cyr Martin eloped on his one-hundred-fifty-million-dollar yacht to avoid being brought in for prosecution. I didn’t plan on literally escaping. Becoming a fugitive held no appeal. Not to mention, I didn’t do anything wrong.

  I hadn’t heard from Cyr in over six months, and if he ever did call, I planned to let it go to voicemail. But he wouldn’t call. To my knowledge, the FBI wasn’t listening in on my conversations, but he’d suspect it.

  My blood pressure rose at the thought of this whirlwind of a guy ensconced on a boat on some aquamarine sea somewhere in the world. Basking on a lounge chair, with a staff to bring him drinks, without a thought to those he left behind to deal with the fallout of his recklessness. I could see it.

  In my life, at the end of the day, he’d been an inconvenience. But in Malaysia, families lost their entire savings. Companies lost money set aside for pension funds. Futures were destroyed. Here in the U.S., many a family took a hit. A billion dollars didn’t go up in smoke without a lot of someones getting burned.

  Meanwhile, Nigel, my trusty old boss, camped out in an extravagant Singapore hotel, gradually blowing any money he’d earned from what I was more frequently thinking of as the con. And me, the unlucky bastard who sold before the scandal exploded, sat here in meeting after meeting, attempting to prove my innocence by helping the Justice Department, all the while carefully walking the lines mapped out by Belman’s lawyers.

  The snow flurries outside my office window intensified. The blur of white slowly drowned out the cityscape. The scene struck me as beautiful and peaceful, with a layer of irony. By tomorrow, that beautiful white would turn a dingy gray, and the snowplows would leave behind enough remnant snow to ensure standing, soot-filled water remained at the corner of every single intersection.

  I wouldn’t be able to fly out tomorrow, but maybe I could on Sunday. The place wouldn’t be mine yet; no way could I close that quickly. But soon…

  It had been months since I’d visited. Thinking of that visit and my movie night, I picked up my phone and tapped out a quick text.<
br />
  * * *

  Just made an offer on a place on your island.

  * * *

  She responded instantly from Las Vegas, the site of her in-person component of the restaurant management training. She told me she’d been spending all her time in the hotel, but I knew Vegas. I found that hard to believe.

  * * *

  Might not be my island for much longer. Might move.

  * * *

  ???

  * * *

  Tell you later. Lease up February 28.

  * * *

  The island didn’t hold as much appeal without Poppy. Sure, I could hang with Tate, but being a third wheel all the time…no, thank you.

  * * *

  Where? Las Vegas?

  * * *

  Lol. Southport? Idk. TL8

  * * *

  I probably would have pushed for more information, except on that snowy day, in an office that felt like a ghost town, the human resources director tapped on my doorframe. She wore snow boots, jeans, and a fluffy sweater, a reminder that not only was it Friday, but there was about a foot of snow outside and more on the way.

  “I didn’t expect you’d be here. But then I saw you were one of the employees who arrived today.” ID cards were required for entry. I hadn’t realized she got a report of access times until that moment. She reached over my desk, delivering me a manila envelope. “Since you’re here, I thought I’d take advantage of it. We would like for you to take a leave of absence. Before you say anything, it will be paid. But we expect the criminal investigation to be intense, and it would be best if you can focus on the case before you.”

  The thin envelope didn’t weigh much. Whatever documents it held weren’t lengthy.

  “I did nothing wrong.”

  “This is not a declaration of wrongdoing. We believe this is the best course of action for you.”

  We both knew that was bullshit. The firm took action to protect itself. And I was being left out in the wind.

  Chapter 12

  Poppy

  * * *

  We’re narrowing down weekend dates for the bachelor party. How is the weekend of March 12 for you?

  * * *

  I deleted the text, exactly as I’d done for his however many prior texts. He’d get the message eventually. Back in high school, saying no to Ben ranked right up there with impossible events like me hauling it up Mount Everest. Now, I might not be strong enough to stand up to him and tell him exactly what I thought, but I could press delete with the unshakeable finesse of an eye liner pro.

  Fresh from my Vegas extravaganza, I plotted out my to-do list for the day. Finance management earned top spot. Well, that and laundry. Las Vegas had been fun, if fun equaled sitting in a convention room that might as well have been in Wilmington.

  A couple of nights, I ventured out with classmates. But for someone who didn’t gamble, Vegas didn’t offer much. If I’d had money to blow, I would’ve hit a few shows. Or a spa. The guide in my hotel showed photos of several stunning spas tucked away in ritzy hotels.

  But, as Mr. Kraken liked to point out, we were getting a degree for our efforts, and therefore he expected effort. And no, Kraken wasn’t his real name, but that was the name I assigned the grim, middle-aged taskmaster. Other than two nights out roaming casinos with my classmate Jolene, my wild time in Vegas consisted of traveling within the floors of the Courtyard by Marriott Las Vegas. All our classes were taught by Mr. Kraken in the same basement floor conference. Maroon tablecloths covered the round tops set about as if we were there for a conference and not a class. Along the back wall, they set out water pitchers, and after lunch each day one plastic silver tray of cookies.

  My chest tightened in a manner befitting painful gas when I unveiled the balance on my one credit card. Six thousand, yahoo. Lord, Mr. Kraken, my certificate from restaurant management school had better do me more good than wall decoration, because I don’t have a single Pinterest board with an inspirational room that required diplomas for wall art.

  The letter from Mrs. Rittenhouse formally notifying me of the upcoming end of my lease hung on my bulletin board. In two days I had to either continue my lease or provide my thirty-day notice.

  After going through my bills, I tackled my messages. BobCatStan wanted me to set my foot up on the toilet lid. I didn’t quite get it, but for a hundred bucks, fine by me. Photo sent. Another request came in for a photo of me in a cowboy hat, topless with a gun between my breasts. In less than five minutes I’d dug out one of my cowboy hats, a toy gun from an old Halloween costume, and another one hundred dollars earned. And, yes, I did go topless. Spring break girls did it and, hell, I had bills. I’d read that on the Riviera, everyone was topless. These were all the things I told myself as I sang a special Happy Birthday song with a plastic gun between my tits as an added bonus.

  A request from Mr.BigD gave me pause. A baby doll negligee with a pacifier in my mouth. No doubt Mr.BigD had some serious kink issues, but, when your credit card was maxed out, at the end of the day, it was just a photo. That was what I told myself. And twenty minutes later, Mr.BigD had a photo in his inbox that he could download the moment he paid via PayPal.

  Other than handling the special requests that had come in, I had to do some retouching on photos I’d taken on my trip, and then I scheduled a slew of new posts for my subscribers. I hoped the Vegas backdrop would appeal—and give some much-needed variety to my feed.

  * * *

  Are you home?

  * * *

  The text had me smiling. I pushed back from my desk and held the phone out to my lips, tapping the dictate option, talking as I descended the steps. “Got back last night. End of sentence. How’s island life. Question mark.”

  I double-checked Siri got it right and hit send. My empty refrigerator served as a reminder that I needed to go buy groceries—and I also needed more money. I huffed and debated my options. In January, Suzette probably wasn’t hiring at Jules. But when places started hiring for the next season, I planned to be in the applicant pool. Will, my bartending friend, had promised to keep an ear out for job openings.

  * * *

  Good. Come over. 569 East Beach Drive.

  * * *

  East Beach Drive? Renting one of those places for a week cost like, $15K. And he’d said he bought a place. Unreal.

  I set the phone aside without responding. Unlike Gabe, who could drop an insane amount of money on a second home, I had to get focused on my plans so I could ensure I covered rent. I opened my folder on bank loan options and read through Thad’s recommendations. First, he wanted me to create a business plan. In his I-am-a-very-smart-individual voice, he had informed me, “You have an outline of an idea. An idea I think you should reconsider.”

  One of his ideas had to do with bringing the Salty Dog over to the island. He was correct that the famous Salty Dog restaurant did well in other similar resort locations, but they didn’t have a franchise group. The best idea I had was to copy The Salty Dog and use the name Jake’s Watch. After all, that dog was an island legend. The story went that when the dog died, the owner walked along the beach as he always did, and a dolphin came along and joined him for the walk, back and forth. The man decided his dog had been reincarnated as the dolphin, and he’d come back to walk the familiar path with his owner one last time. And the story even got published in a local paper. Seafood plus dog-themed logo—it worked for The Salty Dog, maybe me?

  A knock on my door pulled me out of the competitive analysis Thad had completed on The Salty Dog, which included a full history of the restaurant. Given the amount of work he’d done for me, the favor Thad owed Gabe must’ve been a huge one.

  I swung the door open. Gabe stood on my front deck, a baseball cap pulled over his forehead, an off-white sweater and khaki shorts with a frayed hem, and brown leather flip flops. His casual smile said Saturday. All my insides did a foolish girl fluttery kick cheerleading combo routine.

  “Hey, there, stranger.”

  “You
didn’t return my text.” He angled his eyes and shook his index finger, but his grin joked.

  “I’m working. About to eat lunch.”

  “It’s almost three.”

  “It’s been one of those days.”

  He stepped into my kitchen and wrinkled his nose in disinterest at the one remaining ravioli in the black plastic microwave tray.

  “Come on. Take a break. It’s a gorgeous day, and I want to show you my place.” His gaze fell down my body. My wrapped silk robe showed him nothing at all, but his intensity had me tightening my sash. You’d think he had x-ray vision and could see through the Hawaiian flowers to the cheap negligee I didn’t change out of after fulfilling Mr.BigD’s message request.

  “Please?” He raised a singular thick eyebrow and grinned.

  “Fine. A short break. Let me get dressed.”

  Upstairs, I threw on a long dress and a cardigan sweater, then pulled on my Wal-Mart version of Ugg boots. My opened suitcase, filled with dirty laundry, threw accusations my way. As did my desk and laptop. I won’t be long.

  Guilt followed me down the stairs. Gabe sat at my kitchen counter, reading through my extremely thick restaurant folder. As I rounded the stairwell, Gabe tapped the pages.

  “Are you thinking about a franchise? That could be smart.”

  “One of the options.” A distant one, unless I found someone willing to take a chance on me. “Ready to go?” I asked, suppressing the urge to hide the folder away from Gabe. But I wouldn’t even have that folder if it wasn’t for him, so instead of snatching, I held the door open.