Anyways, so I was onboard a yacht with a man that was supposed to be dead by now, chained to a deck lounger, and upon further assessment, realized I was wearing a skirt that didn't belong to me, and a silk blouse that was about three sizes too big. Unbuttoned, of course, but there was nothing I could do about it.
A sudden, abrupt silence, fell upon me as the engine cut off. I didn't even know this crate had an engine until I heard it stop running.
I shut my eyes, quickly, and heard the high-pitched whirrr! of a cable being released, and something heavy falling into the water.
I prayed to every God I could think of that Maddox threw himself overboard. Of course, that wasn’t the case. Captain Petersen was simply dropping the anchor.
I'll drop you, you heartless ass, I told myself. Just as soon as I figure out how.
Footsteps padded down the stairs. Was that him? Does a shit head like Maddox even know how to drive anything except a five iron? And while I thought about it, didn't these overpriced tubs come with a crew? Was he going to share me with a first mate, assorted deck hands? Pass me around like a cheap bottle of booze? A veritable gang bang at sea?
Panic is not an option, I insisted, as the footsteps stopped by the deck lounger. A hand laid against my face, and pulled my eyelid open. I didn't think it was possible to fake pupil dilation, but by God, I was going to give it a try.
It was Maddox. No captain hat. No pipe. No parrot.
No service, I mused, and wished I'd stop thinking about shit that had nothing to do with my current state of affairs. It was because I was hungry, that was why.
I got really really stupid when my blood sugar was less than zero. Other than a stale granola bar last night, and a jacked up smoothie this morning, I was operating on absolutely nothing.
Maddox took his hand away, and I heard him sigh. Then, what sounded like a little laugh.
The footsteps faded, and a moment later, sounds came from the galley. The clatter of silverware on china. China? What kind of pretentious class of one-percenters take fucking china on a boat? Excuse me. Yacht.
Then, what may or not be my undoing. The aroma of grilled salmon, coming from below deck. It filled the air with a delicious, light scent of lemon and chive. There was bread, too. Nothing like the smell of fresh, out-of-the-oven bread.
My stomach rolled over with an angry growl that I’m sure he could hear from wherever on this oversized beast he was. Out here in the middle of nowhere, it was twice as loud. I couldn't play opossum if my stomach was going to incessantly voice its demands. It can gurgle and bubble all it wants at any stage of consciousness, but one has to be awake in order for the hunger pangs to really be heard.
I was going to give myself away.
The silverware and china were getting louder, too. Coming up the stairs. Dinner for two, on its way.
Another rumble. Another growl.
I couldn't get away with it. Fool him once, shame on him. Fool him twice? Not going to happen.
With a great deal of honest effort, I pushed myself upright. Well, nearly upright. I was leaning heavily to one side, but what side I couldn't exactly say. I was also groggy as hell. Woozy. Dizzy, as if I had just spun a thousand circles.
“Hey, you're up. Awesome,” Maddox said, and put my plate on the table next to his, purposefully out of my reach. A beer was tucked beneath his arm, along with a bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap, and handed it to me. “Little sips, now,” he said.
My lips felt as though they were five times their normal size, and the back of my throat was like sandpaper. The water had condensed on the bottle, little drops of sweet, cold relief. I wished I didn't need it. I wished I didn't want it.
“It's clean,” Maddox said, taking a seat across from me.
I wanted to tell him he was full of shit, that I didn't believe him. But I couldn't form sentences at this point, let alone words. I was so arid, so parched, my lips were literally glued together.
I brought the bottle to my mouth and drank. And drank. And drank.
“What did I say about the little sips?”
I flipped him the bird.
He chuckled to himself, and shook his head. I was so amusing to him. His funny little plaything.
The water helped, though. A tiny amount of clarity through the fog that had wrapped around my head. He was setting his silverware oh-so-properly on either side of his plate – the steam from the fish and vegetables drifting up into the air – the smell of the food coating my mouth in a slick of saliva.
“Looks good, huh?” he leaned forward, waving the steam to his face. “Smells good, too. I can't cook for shit, but they've got a ton of pre-prepped stuff in the kitchen. Gourmet crapola that comes with instructions. Pictures, too. Like the IKEA for food,” he laughed at his own, stupid joke. It wasn't even halfway funny.
I glanced over at what I supposed was my plate. There was a big slice of fish seated beside a few stalks of asparagus. Next to them a huge chunk of bread dripped butter from the crust.
My stomach did the talking for me.
Maddox took a big, heaping forkful of salmon, and stuffed his wretched face with it. He chewed, nodded with approval, then dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin, even though there was nothing there.
“Oh, how thoughtless of me,” he put his hand on my plate. “I don't want to be rude. You must be starving,” he said, pushing the plate toward me, then
