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Thethemeofplush cream floors and rich mahogany walls continues throughout the yacht, and between them, obscene wealth thrives like bacteria on a Petri dish. Italian sofas draped with cashmere throws dominate the lounge. The scent of tobacco and secrets hangs thick in the cigar room, which is cleverly hidden behind a false bookshelf in the library. The bar itself, with its marble surfaces and tawny leather stools, could be mistaken for the lobby of any five-star hotel, if it weren’t for the steam rising off the hot tub on the other side of the sliding French doors.
Below deck, a network of narrow corridors and oddly-shaped rooms make up the staff quarters, and a gleaming kitchen with enough pantry space and stove burners to feed a small country beats at the heart of it.
Laurie tells me there are two types of staff: service crew and ghost crew. We’re service, in charge of making sure anyone who comes onboard has a good time, while the ghost crew make sure the yacht runs smoothly. They’re the captain, engineers, and deckhands, and they all live onboard and, captain aside, way below deck.
“Pretty impressive, huh?” Laurie asks, flinging open a door and spilling light onto what appears to be yet anotherterrace. We step outside. Now, the night is dark and frosty and the coastline is nothing but an inky shadow peppered with twinkling lights.
Truthfully, I don’t think it’s so impressive. In fact, I think it’s pretty gross that, for more than seven-eighths of the year, this boat probably bobs unoccupied in some glitzy European port, while there are millions of people who can’t even secure a regular roof over their head. What’s worse is that this asshole apparently has two of these things.
But I bite my tongue and manage a nod. “Yeah, impressive.”
I follow Laurie as she dodges tables and heat lamps and heads toward a staircase in the shadows. I let out a small groan, because how the fuck is there yet anotherdeck above us? We climb the stairs up to another patio, and Laurie tugs a key from her pocket to open the set of sliding doors leading back inside.
“Final stop, I promise,” she says, rubbing the back of her hand over her mouth. “Thank god, because my stomach can’t handle all this walking about.”
Warmth and low jazz brush my face when we step inside. As I scan the room, an unwelcome sense of nostalgia and familiarity creeps over me.
Deep-seated chairs flanking green velvet tables. Black and red squares and the sensual purr of a spinning roulette wheel.
“There’s a casino onboard,” I say flatly, my eyes skimming up to the half-moon bar and the man cleaning glasses behind it.
“Of course there is; it’s Raphael Visconti,” Laurie replies in a blunt tone designed to squash any other questions. “We’ll be working in here tonight.”
My gaze slides to her, wide and flecked with mild panic. “In the casino?”
“No, in the toilets around the corner,” she deadpans. “Of course in the casino! I’m going to put you behind the bar because I’ve just looked at your resume, and you definitely have the most experience.” Mistaking my expression for nerves, she adds, “Don’t sweat it. Tonight will be just friends and family, so think of it as a trial run. The real opening night isn’t until the New Year, so there’s loads of time for you to learn the ropes. Come on, let me introduce you to Freddie.”
I converse with the bartender, asking and answering mundane questions that both float out of my mouth and over my head. I can’t concentrate on pleasantries, because I can’t shake the ominous feeling of dread looming over me.
My fresh start is taking the same shape of the life I left behind and I don’t like the look of it. Soon, this room will be filled with oversized watches and overstuffed wallets, and temptation, in all of its hot, itchy glory, will drip from the walls like condensation. As part of going straight, I vowed to never step foot inside a casino again. Not because I don’t want to—Christ, do I want to—but because the impulse to be bad is too great.
I swallow the lump clotting my throat. Force a smile when Freddie makes some shit joke about the Viscontis drinking the bar dry.
When the small talk finally fizzles out, Laurie checks her watch then leads me back down to the locker room—the first door on the left—to get ready for the shift.
As we enter, expensive perfume and laughter float over the tops of the wooden lockers. I turn the corner and find a gaggle of girls leaning against a row of marble sinks. I recognize some of them, including Anna, from the wedding, and others from childhood summers spent on Cove beach.
“What are we gossiping about, ladies?” Laurie drawls, sliding my bag off my shoulder and stuffing it into a locker with my name emblazoned on the front of it. Fancy. “And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because Katie’s face is as red as a tomato.”
I lock eyes with a pretty blond and smile. Laurie’s right; she’s flushed something rotten.
Another blond pushes off the sink, jumping as she tugs a pair of tights over her tiny waist. “We’re having a debate.”
Amusement tugs on Laurie’s lips. “Pray, tell.”
“We can’t agree on the type of girl Raphael goes for. Katie and I reckon he has the hots for blonds, but Anna thinks he only goes for brunettes.”
She pronounces Anna like Uh-Nah, and based on that alone, I stop feeling even the tiniest bit guilty about interrupting her chat with Raphael.
Anna leans over the sink, reapplying her blood-red lipstick in the mirror. “I don’t think; I know. My friend has worked as a shot girl in one of his Vegas casinos for over a year and she says he alwayshas a brunette on his arm.”
“Well, one thing is for sure. He goes for girls with at least half a brain, so that rules all of you out, anyway,” Laurie mutters. A beat passes, then she doubles over, gritting her teeth. “Great, back to the bathroom I go. Meet me in the lounge for the start-of-service briefing in fifteen.” Hurried footsteps thud on the tiles, then a door slams shut in the distance.
“Poor Laurie,” Katie says, before turning her attention back to Anna. “Anyway, it sounds like you just have a bad case of wishful thinking.”
“It is wishful thinking,” Anna snaps back, far too quickly. “I have my eye on him, so whether he goes for brunettes, blonds, or”—her gaze slides to mine in the mirror with a spark of disgust—“even gingers, you better back off, because I’m staking my claim right now.”
Soft laughter ripples between the girls. My cheeks burn and my tongue twitches with a nasty clap-back. Reminding myself of the Ace of Spades stuck to the refrigerator door, I busy myself with tugging my makeup bag out of the locker and rummaging around in it for my compact. Nice girls take back-handed compliments with a grain of salt, or bitch to their friends about it later. They don’t start pulling hair.
