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The first thing I did, however, was call Greta. Poor girl, I knew she must have been worried sick. I hadn’t told her I was going away. I couldn’t. It was too much of a risk that she’d tell my parents. I wasn’t convinced she’d forgiven herself for helping me sneak out to go to that party seven years ago. And the fact that I’d almost died, well, I could just hear her rationalizations: “I had to tell them, Bonita. It’s for your own good. I’m sorry, but it’s too dangerous.”
I’d simply sent her a text message from Boston Harbor: “By the time you read this, I’ll be gone.” Tacky and cliché, I know. But it seemed appropriate. My soul sister and I’d kept her out of the loop.
“Hello, Greta.”
“My goodness, Bonita! Are you okay? Where are you? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m fine. Everything’s all right.”
I had a million things to tell her, half of them she’d have a hard time believing. I was having a hard time believing them, myself, and I was actually living them.
She didn’t need me to tell her where I was. She had guessed. Apparently, my parents thought Noah and I had eloped. That one gave me a good laugh. Fortunately, my parents thought the world of Noah, so, according to Greta, they didn’t actually freak out as much as I had expected.
“Greta, I’ll call you later. Our ride’s here. I have to go.”
“Call me, Bonita.”
“I will. And, oh, by the way, I made out with Landon.”
“You what?”
“And, oh, by the way, I made out with Noah, too.”
“You what?”
“I have to go. Call you later.”
When you step off a private yacht and your host tells you she’ll send a car to pick you up, your expectation of “car” might be a bit distorted. Stretch limo? Caravan? A procession of black sedans with tinted windows?
What I wasn’t expecting was an unmarked, windowless van. I wasn’t the only one who thought it looked rather ominous. We all looked at each other with the same mistrustful expressions. “Allow me,” said Gunnar, our yacht captain, as he took my luggage. He flashed me a knowing smile. “Don’t be fooled by appearances.”
Inside, the van was decked out with plush sofas, leather-padded walls, and a fully stocked bar. “Ms. Snow wanted you to be comfortable,” said Magnus, our driver, who could have passed for Captain Gunnar’s younger brother and may very well have been. He motioned for Landon, the last of us, to get in then he took his place in the driver’s seat. He turned to us and added, “She said I am to keep you from the rays of the sun.”
“Oh, yes,” I said. Though the night was already falling and I was wearing long sleeves, long slacks, and hid my head under a wide-brimmed sun hat, I was touched by the attention. “That’s correct. I need to avoid the sun.”
“I am sorry you won’t be able to see the city as we drive through it,” said Magnus. “Reykjavik is beautiful. Maybe I will take you there one night.”
Before I could respond, he closed a curtain, separating us from the cab, started the engine, and drove off.
In Noah’s car, driving to Boston Harbor, I’d felt like a runaway; onboard Sasha Snow’s yacht, I’d felt like a queen. Here, in the pitch black of a van, riding to who-knew-where, I felt like I was being kidnapped.
I said as much to Ben.
He put his hand on mine and squeezed.
As we drove, the hum of the engine, the subtle vibrations of the chassis, the warmth of eight bodies packed in a small, leather-padded van lulled me into a half slumber. I leaned back in the plush cushion seat, slipped off my heels, and stretched out my legs. Of course, we were packed in there so tight, my feet brushed against a knee, then a calf. I didn’t know whose it was. It was dark, and my eyes were half shut anyway.
I ran my toes around the calf muscle—out of curiosity, I told myself—learning it, making a game of trying to guess who it belonged to. It clenched and relaxed in response to my touch.
I shifted in my seat and laid my head back, my mouth inches from Noah’s neck. I could smell the apple-scented shampoo he’d used that morning mixed with his natural man musk. It took me back, back to New York, watching him and my brother sparring. When I stepped up to him to hand him a towel, the scent of him, the sight of his glistening chest had me grip the towel with one hand while the other I slid into the front pocket of my jeans—whose pockets were too damn small! I so badly wanted to touch myself. Instead, all I could do at the moment was bite down on the inside of my cheek and clench the towel.
