The man colored slightly, then shrugged. “I work out.”
“Ugh,” Jen said, then put her lips to her straw and took a noisy final slurp of her second drink. “I can’t stand working out. The sight of all those treadmills up in the gym gives me hives. If I’m gonna get sweaty it had better be worth my while, if you know what I mean.”
Her speech was slurred, but she managed that patented Jen fuck-me smile, and Beth wondered what had happened to her newfound lust for Julio.
“When I need to shed a few pounds,” Jen continued, “I just call the man with the magic wand.”
The newlywed’s face went beet red then and Jen laughed and shook her head.
“Not that kind of wand, dummy. My surgeon.”
“Surgeon?”
“You know. Liposuction?” She waved an imaginary lipo wand in the air, then turned in her chair, facing him, and leaned back slightly. It was a tricky maneuver for someone so drunk, but she managed to avoid falling on the floor. “Take a guess.”
“About what?”
She cupped her breasts through the black fabric of her cocktail dress. It was obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra. Not that she needed one.
“How much you think these babies cost me?”
Beth pushed her ice cream aside. “All right, Jennifer, that’s enough.”
Jen shot her a look, then turned again to the newlywed. “Well? How much?”
Despite his scowling wife, the man stared openly at Jen’s offering, and Beth knew there’d be storm clouds in the honeymoon suite tonight.
“I dunno. A couple grand?”
Jen laughed. “A couple grand? Where does your wife get her work done? JC Penney’s?”
Her voice-almost a screech now-rose above the din of the dining room. Not only were most of the people at the table gaping at her (forks held in suspended animation above their creme brulees and flourless chocolate cakes), but a few from the adjoining tables were staring as well.
“Jen, please, you’re drunk. Let’s go back to the cabin.”
Ignoring Beth, Jen turned to the elderly couple directly across from her and smiled at the silver-haired husband.
“Tell me the truth now. Do these look like they’re only worth a measly two grand?”
And with that, she unceremoniously yanked down the top of her dress, exposing herself to their small corner of the world.
6
She threw up halfway back to the stateroom. They were on the stairs leading up to Deck Seven when she gripped the rail.
“Are we swaying? Why are we swaying?”
Beth steadied her. “We’re on a ship, remember?”
“Uhhhh. I don’t feel so good. How many drinks did I have?”
“Before or during dinner?”
“It’s the rum. I swear to God, I should know better. Rum always knocks me on my ass.”
“I don’t think your ass is the problem.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” Beth said. “Let’s just get you into bed.”
They’d had plans to hit the casino after dinner, then maybe the dance club on the uppermost deck, but thanks to Jen’s overindulgence and sudden need to express herself, it now looked as if Beth would be curling up with a paperback book.
“What happened back there?” Jen said. “Am I dreaming, or did I flash my boobs again?”
Again?
Beth wasn’t aware of any previous boob flashing-unless you counted the teeny-weeny bikinis Jen favored-but then Jen had long been an exhibitionist. If she was drunk enough and some guy pointed a video camera in her direction, she’d surely be the first one to say, Why the hell not?
In fact, she probably wouldn’t even have to be drunk.
“Let’s put it this way,” Beth said. “I’m pretty sure you and your two new friends are the talk of the ship right now. And I can almost guarantee we’ll be getting a phone call from the purser tomorrow morning.”
Jen slumped against the wall. “I am such an idiot. Why do I always do this?”
“Let’s save the pity party for later, okay?”
“I promised myself I wouldn’t drink so much, and what’s the first thing I do?”
“It’s a little tough to say no when you’re surrounded by the stuff.”
Jen shook her head. “I am so fucking predictable. And I’ve ruined your vacation. I ruin everything for everybody.”
“Quit being dramatic,” Beth said, then tried a smile. “If they don’t throw us off the ship tomorrow, you’ve still got three days to make it up to-”
Jen clutched her stomach. “Uhhhhh. Tell it to stop. Make it freaking…ohhhh, shit.”
Then it came. Jen’s appetizer, dinner salad, three beers, and two Bahama Mamas, all over the standard-issue cruise ship blue and green carpet — and Beth’s brand-new Kenneth Cole sandals.
Her smile abruptly disappeared.
“Oh…my…fucking…Lord…,” she said, and nearly threw up herself.
7
He never thought he could be so easily creeped out in daylight, yet the moment Vargas climbed out of the truck and stood in front of the house something cold and dry crawled up his spine.
A sense of anticipation. And dread.
The place was fairly typical for this part of the country. A large crumbling rectangle of sun-dried clay that had undoubtedly once housed the family who ran the gas station near the highway.
Its walls were adorned with more graffiti. One of the newer additions read: CASA DE LA MUERTE.
House of Death.
Despite the missing chunks of tile roof that let in swathes of mottled sunlight, there was a darkness of spirit here. A malevolence. The entrance was a doorless hole that reminded Vargas of an open maw. And to step past its threshold was to risk being swallowed alive.
Apparently he wasn’t the only one who felt this way.
“I’m not goin’ in there again,” Junior said. He was still in the F-150, uncertainty in his eyes.
Ainsworth spat into the dirt, then squinted at him through the open driver’s door.
“What did I just tell you, boy?”
“I don’t like this place.”
“It’s a goddamn house. It’s not gonna bite you.” Ainsworth lowered his voice, but there was no softness or warmth this time. “Now you can sit in there like a friggin’ faggot, or you can paint that sorry butt white and start runnin’ with the antelope. Which is it gonna be?”
Junior was quiet for a moment, then finally wilted under the heat of his father’s gaze.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
“Okay what?”
