“Oh my god. I can’t believe it. Where are we?”
“Don’t worry about that. When you can function normally, we can talk. I’m gonna give you some Tylenol and you’re gonna sleep again.”
I took two pills with more water, but this time the water had a flavor to it. “What was that?” I tried to open my eyes—the brilliant sunlight hurt like hell, so I closed them again.
“Water with electrolytes. I’m trying to rehydrate you.”
“Didn’t taste like Gatorade.”
“Fuck that. That shit’s sugar water. This is some shit Jupiter uses, no sugar, no junk, just straight electrolytes and natural flavoring.”
“Oh.”
Except for the sound of seagulls and crashing waves, silence enveloped me, and I was drifting off to sleep.
“Myles?”
His hand on my cheek. “Yeah, darlin’?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
“This?” My attempt at a rueful laugh ended in a pained moan. “For me. For everything I’ve put you through.”
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
That made my eyes burn. “I don’t wanna be rid of you, either.”
“Coulda fooled me,” he said, and then sighed. “Quit worryin’ about it, Lex. Just rest. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
That wasn’t right either, but my faculties were still offline and I couldn’t figure out why.
I fell back asleep.
The next time I woke up, I was me again, but with a terrible headache and a cotton mouth and an oily, acidic stomach. I even opened my eyes.
Overhead were…leaves? The ceiling of the room was like straw, thick and woven together, coming to a point. Beams of hand-hewn tree branches supported the roof, and the walls were somehow different. Mostly I could see open space through which was impossibly blue water that went on forever. I realized I was in a hammock, which explained the swaying.
There wasn’t much in the room. A bed, a small three-drawer bureau. Bedside table. A partially ajar door leading to a bathroom. The room was open concept—bedroom, sitting room, and kitchen all in one. It was simple and rustic, in a tropical way.
There were sunglasses—my own—on the bedside table. A note: Put these on. And a smiley face. An arrow pointing toward the bureau. Look in there. Wear what you find. ––M
The letter of his initial was done with a swooping series of loops and flourishes.
I put the sunglasses on, because even in here, it was bright. I realized I was naked, which could be explained by me having barfed on myself at some point, but also it was Myles and he liked me naked, and knew I slept better nude.
I made it to my feet and found myself surprisingly steady. The bureau contained four bikinis in various colors and styles, all in my size; none of them actually mine, all with tags. A gauzy floral cover-up dress, what appeared to be a sarong of some sort, and…that was it. Four bathing suits, two cover-ups. Oh, and a pair of flip-flops on the floor by the bureau.
I saw no bags, neither mine nor his.
Nor did I see him.
I chose a bathing suit—royal blue and very small. Basically just a sliver of fabric just wide enough to cover my nipples and not much else, with ties that went around my neck and back. The bottom was a triangle that mostly covered my vagina, but if I wiggled wrong, my hoo-ha would swallow the fabric. I mean, damn. He was not sending any subtle messages with this, was he?
I could rock it, though. And look killer doing it—there was a full-length mirror, and despite gross, oily, tangled hair and smeared makeup and an overall haggard appearance, my body looked pretty damn fine.
Sunglasses, bikini, flip-flops…a fresh bottle of water from the fridge. Which, I noticed, contained whole, healthy, natural foods and no booze. Probably for the best.
I stepped outside onto the porch of the hut, which, I discovered, ran around the entire perimeter of the hut. I mean…where the hell was I? This was a tropical paradise for sure. Fiji? Bali? Somewhere like that. If the door facing the ocean was the front of the hut, an island was behind it, low and hilly and jungle covered. No walkway, no pier, no connection to the mainland. Just this one hut, on stilts, on the water.
And nothing else.
The seagulls were calling, and the ocean surf crashed against the island shore in the distance. There was a constant, gentle, warm breeze. The sun was hot and bright and invigorating.
I saw a ripple in the distance—I watched, and after a few minutes, I knew it was Myles, breast-stroking through the water straight toward me. There was a ladder descending into the water, and he swam to it and climbed up.
Naked as a jaybird.
“You were swimming out there, alone, naked, in broad daylight?” I asked.
He grinned, shook his head to fling the water off, wiped his face. “Yep.” He gestured around. “A producer friend of mine is friends with some billionaire tech dude. He owns this.” He gestured at the hut. “Meaning, the island as well. It’s one of the most solitary, remote places on earth. There’s a diesel generator on the island, which we can crank up if we need electricity, but we won’t. Plumbing is covered. Propane stove. Plenty of food and water.”
“And this is…where?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. We’re on an island in Indonesia. That’s all I can tell you. I asked my friend if we could crash here, and his friend gave our pilots the coordinates.”
“When did we get here?”
He chuckled. “Yesterday morning.”
“How did we get here?”
“Plane from…wherever the fuck we were in Europe, can’t remember right now—to an airport a few hours from here, and then we rented a seaplane and Callahan flew us here.”
“And we’re here…why?”
He shrugged. “To take the bull by the horns.”
I felt my heart skip. “What’s that mean?”
He was utterly serious, eyes burning and intense. “It means I postponed all my shows for the rest of the tour. Refunds to all who ask, vouchers
