AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Mondayafternoon,goldenhour.
The towering cliff face of Devil’s Dip looms over my shoulders, and in front of me, the orange sun sits low on the horizon, its rays reaching across the glittering sea to touch my face.
Despite the frosty weather burning the shells of my ears and turning my eyelashes crisp, I feel warm from the inside out, because today, I’m going straight. For real this time.
I spent the weekend in the hospital trapped under starchy bed sheets with nothing to do but glare at the white ceiling and eat Wren’s Hershey’s chocolate bars. It gave me the mental space to realize that when I’d returned on the Devil’s Coast last Thursday, I’d hopped off the bus on the wrong foot. Committing one last grift before going straight is like a crackhead saying they’ll have just one last hit before getting clean. I’d set myself up for a false start.
A second chance came in the form of the Ace of Spades and I’m grabbing it with both hands. I’ve even pinned that playing card to the door of my refrigerator, and every time I wander into the kitchen in search of a snack, I’m reminded of how lucky I am.
I’m, unfortunately, also reminded of Raphael Visconti’s thumb grazing over the pulse in my throat.
A gust of wind breaks over the nape of my neck and sends a shiver down my spine. With frozen fingers, I tug my cell from my pocket and glance at the time on the screen.
5.55pm.
Mild panic twists my stomach in a knot. Shit. All Raphael had said was to bring a resume, be on the fisherman’s docks at six pm, and not to be late. Well, I don’t need to check Google Maps for the umpteenth time to know that’s where I am; the stench of rotting fish and the blood staining the two wonky jetties protruding out into the water make that pretty clear. But there’s no swanky bar or restaurant in sight, or even any kind of establishment I could work in, for that matter. To double check, I turn in a slow circle, taking in the charred remains of the main port to my right, the craggy walls of the cliff behind me, and then come to a stop right where I started—staring out at the Pacific in confusion.
Have I been played? Christ, not once did the thought cross my mind.
Annoyance and the seeds of humiliation grow in my belly, and I mutter a curse under my breath.
Fuck him.
I hate being reliant on a man. And of all men, why did I choose to rely on the one with the most shark-like smile?
Grinding out an icy sigh, I slide my gaze to the only sign of life: an old man tying up a rusting bay boat at the end of a jetty. I suppose there’s no harm in asking him if he has any idea where I’m meant to be. As I teeter across slippery rocks and walk over the wobbly slats toward him, I make a new vow to myself. If Raphael Visconti has played me, I’ll go through with my fleeting plan: cut my losses, sell his watch, and fuck off over the border to Canada.
“Excuse me?” I pause for a response. Nothing. I clear my throat and ball my fists in my sleeves. “Um, random question, but do you know if there’s a bar or anything around here owned by Raphael Visconti? I’m trying to—”
“You’ve missed the boat.”
His voice is gruff and barely audible, thanks to the blistering wind.
“I’m sorry?”
His shoulders slump in annoyance, and his rope goes slack. “You’ve missed the boat,” he grunts again.
I frown at the back of his yellow raincoat. What does he mean, I’ve missed the boat? Like, I didn’t arrive early enough for Raphael’s liking and he’s snatched back the job opportunity?
“I don’t understand.”
Another grunt. This time, he jerks his head to the left. “The staff boat left five minutes ago.”
Oh. He means literally, not metaphorically. But—staff boat?I follow his gaze, and when I spot what he’s looking at, I’m even more confused.
A yacht. A big, shiny white one, the type you see in rap videos and documentaries about rich people living it up in the South of France. It’s merely a speck on the blue horizon, and impossible to spot from the mainland, thanks to the way the cliff juts out to the left. But from the end of the jetty, I can see it in all of its tacky, perplexing glory.
Slowly, it dawns on me that I never asked what job Raphael had for me. Because it was in Devil’s Dip, I’d foolishly assumed it’d be some sort of humble service job, but now that I’m staring at a mega yacht bobbing over the Pacific, I’m not so sure.
Am I a boat stew?
“How the fuck am I supposed to know?”
I blink and glance down at the fisherman. I hadn’t realized I’d said it aloud. Shaking my head, I glance at my cell screen again and panic. “Is there any chance you could take me over to it?”
The man stills. Swivels his head around like a fucking owl. He rakes a beady eye over my tights and dress and meets my gaze. Clearly, he likes what he sees, because he cocks a bushy brow and asks, “What do I get in return?”
I open my mouth but close it again, clamping down on the sarcastic retort on my tongue. Nope. I’ve been given a second chance to become a good, normal person, and that also means getting rid of my smart-ass mouth. So, instead of saying I won’t boot you into the water and pray you forget how to swim, I force a smile and bat my lashes. “You get the joy of helping out a pretty woman in a bind.” I clamp my fingers together and add. “Pretty please? With a big, fat, juicy cherry on top?”
