After that, darkness. I'd had my fair share of binges in college, but never had a full on black out. Nothing like this. I figured I was going down the drain, too.
I’d woken up only once before we docked. My eyelids fluttered open, I heard the ocean slapping on the sides of the boat, and saw Maddox sitting beside me. For a second I thought that the past few days never happened, that there was no shipwreck, and we were back on the yacht. This was no yacht, though. It was barely a tug boat.
Later I'd learn it was an ancient lobster trawler by the name of Dicey, manned by two Cuban fishermen who hadn't seen the flare, but the wreck of the Insatiable. They'd anchored just offshore, rifled through the remains of the yacht, and thinking its passengers may be somewhere on the island with more stuff to rifle through, gave it a quick search.
We were in the captain's quarters – no more than a bathroom sized cabin with a rickety cot for a bed and a permeating smell of shaving cream – and I was covered by an Army issued canvas blanket. It was itchy, but warm.
Maddox had smiled, and took away the wet towel he'd been using to dab at my forehead.
“Hey,” he’d said. “How's your day so far?”
“Epic,” I’d managed, and cast my eyes to the side table. There was a bottle of water, a seashell overflowing with ground out cigarette butts, and half a bottle of whiskey. I’d pointed to the whiskey. “That,” I’d said.
Maddox picked it up, swirled the questionable amber liquid around, and unscrewed the cap. It stung my throat from here.
“Probably shouldn't have this on an empty stomach,” he said, and handed me the bottle.
“Shouldn't…. have this on any stomach,” I replied, and chugged down a shot. My esophagus instantly objected, wanted to close itself off because the owner of said esophagus was obviously an idiot, but I forced it down, feeling the whatever the fuck it was coat my throat, my rib cage, and splashing down on the aforementioned empty stomach. It was like drinking gasoline.
He watched as I threw another one back. It went down a little easier. It was also making the spin of my head a bit more livable. Taking my mind off the ache in my leg. My ribs kinda hurt, too. My head. I glanced out the porthole, watching the splash of the Atlantic spew against the cracked glass. The colors of sunset beginning to settle on the ocean surface.
“What,” I looked up at him. “The fuck?”
“We're on our way to Nassau. At least, that's what Captain Rogero said,” Maddox scratched his head. “I think. He doesn't speak Spanglish.”
“...who are they?”
“Cuban Coast Guard,” he chuckled. “You alright?”
I laid back on the cot. I'd get back to him on that.
Maddox put the whiskey back on the table, picked up his towel, and pressed it lightly on my forehead.
“You scared me back there,” he said. “I thought you were kicking off for good.”
Swallowing over the last of the whiskey's sting, I returned. “And you care because?”
“Because I like you. I don't want anything bad to happen to you, Ramona. Enough bullshit fuck has already happened to you, and...” he paused, distracted himself by pouring more water from the bottle onto the towel, and wringing it out. “And I'm still sorry. Even though it takes two to tango, Sanchez. Neither one of us is totally innocent in this.”
“You more than me.”
“Fair.”
He replaced the towel against my head. It was cool, and soothing. He ran it over my hair, behind my ears. It felt nice.
“So, Maddox… when you say you like me, does that mean you like me? Or like me like me?”
“Don't go there. You've been sucking down Cuban moonshine.”
“You started it.”
Maddox wiped my face, my neck. “Just… save your strength, okay?”
“Why? Do you want to tie me up and fuck me, Maddy? Is that what you want me to be strong for?”
“I'm glad to see you're feeling better,” he said, drawing the towel to my collar bone. “And, no.”
“Liar.”
His eyes were so green. Deep, ocean green. If he ever let his hair grow back, it would complement the shade of his irises. He smelled of the sea, too.
Cuban moonshine. Pain to the point of delirium. Dehydration, and starvation. There were five reasons why I did what I did next. The four rationals were easy to identify, but the elusive fifth reason… that would come later. The fifth reason was responsible for my actions, when I put my hand against his face, and pulled him toward me.
His lips were soft. And behind them, the slightest hint of whiskey. His mouth moved gently against mine with an untapped tenderness I didn't know he was capable of having. There was stubble on his jaw, too.
I ran my fingertips against it, finding it somewhat velvety – not the harsh prickle I'd expect of days’ worth of growth. Maybe it was an Irish thing.
I pulled away, and waited for him to open his eyes again. A moment later, he did. The deep green hue had gone moist, and as he reached out to touch me, to put his hand upon my cheek, the searing blare of an ocean cruiser blasted through the cabin. Like ten thousand air horns, all at once.
We'd arrived.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
RAMONA
Two weeks at Princess Margeret, and I had recovered enough to transfer to Doctors Hospital, located just a hop skip and a jump away from the aptly named Paradise Island.
Hopping, skipping, and
