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“Youokay,Pen?”
Laurie slides across the locker room bench and into view, her question cutting through the girlish chatter around us.
“Never better.”
“Hey.” Her elbow slams my locker shut. “Don’t give me that shit. What’s wrong?”
Oh, I don’t know, Laurie. Maybe it’s because the ghost of our boss’s hands squeezing my tits feels like a third-degree burn?
Of course, I don’t say that. Partly because I have no idea how Laurie would react to such a ridiculous claim, and partly because I’m not entirely convinced it wasn’t a fever dream.
He’d slunk out of the shadows like a black panther, steeling my spine and snatching my breath. By the daggers he’d been shooting me all night, I expected him to toss me overboard, or at the very least continue walking. I never expected him to stop and drape his jacket over my shoulders.
I don’t know what was more surprising: his chivalry or the fact his hands had…lingered.
Christ, who am I kidding? They did a whole lot more than linger, and a cold sweat coats my skin at the mere memory. His knuckles grazing my breasts could have been accidental, sure. Not that the possibility of it being innocent stopped my nipples from tightening. But when those large fists skimmed to just below my bust and gripped me there, I almost lost my fucking mind. His large palms burned like hot irons against my rib cage, and fuck, it was barely a squeeze, but just from that pressure alone, I know, I just know, that no girl could fall into that man’s bed and make it out alive.
A cold hand slides over my wrist. I look down and meet Laurie’s concerned gaze. “Are the girls being bitches?”
I choke out a laugh and slip my dress off over my head. “They’re fine. Don’t think Freddie likes me, though.”
“Doesn’t matter, Rafe just fired him.”
I fist the fabric in my hand. “What? Why?”
Laurie shrugs, already distracted by something behind me. “One thing I’ve learned working for the Viscontis is that they do whatever the fuck they want. Sometimes there’s no rhyme or reason; other times, it can be over something super petty. He probably added ice to a whiskey, and you know around here that’s practically sacrilege.”
I busy myself with folding my dress, but inside, my heart is pounding. Shit. The moment Freddie asked me to knock out a vodka martini and I responded with nothing but a blank stare, he knew my resume was a lie. He got increasingly more pissed with every cocktail I hadn’t heard of, and with every tumbler that slipped through my fingers, until he eventually demoted me to glass-collecting duties.
He’s a bit of a dick, sure, but he’s good at his job and picked up my slack all night. So, I wonder why Raphael fired him?
“You coming, Pen?”
I glance up and realize Laurie and the other girls have already changed into their regular clothes, with their bags and coats slung over their shoulders.
“To where?”
She jerks her chin toward the ceiling. “We’re having a few drinks in the sky lounge before the staff boat leaves.”
“Oh.” I glance down at my bra and tights. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
The girls filter out, and when left alone, I close my eyes and drop my forehead to the cold metal frame of my locker. It does nothing to extinguish the flames licking my skin.
What’s wrong with me? Anger twists a knot in my stomach but for all the wrong reasons. I should be angry he groped me without permission, and it’s crazy that I’m not, because when I was ten, I made a vow in the alleyway behind the casino that if a man ever groped me again, I’d bite down on his hand until I tasted blood.
But no, I’m angry because I liked it. Wanted it. Wanted more. Angry because the moment his pinky fingers skimmed under the band of my bra, I dropped the four beer glasses I was holding and my iron-clad wall fell with them.
His hands on my body made me vulnerable, and that’s what he wanted. He didn’t gloat but I felt it anyway, trickling over my shoulders, hot and sticky like syrup and just as hard to wash off my skin.
I sigh into the silence. Somewhere beyond my closed eyelids, a shower head drips onto marble tiles and muffled laughter floats down from the ceiling.
Jeez, the thought of conversing with Anna and Claudia—the not a fucking chance bitch—over a vodka soda without putting at least one of them in a headlock seems near impossible. I’m going to take as long as I can to get ready and hope nobody comes down to find me.
I push off the locker, head to the sink, and splash my face with ice-cold water. Some of the girls have left their toiletries by the mirror, so I rummage in Anna’s sparkly makeup bag and find a cleanser that appears to be more expensive than my rent. I squirt six pumps into my hand, another ten down the drain, and scrub my makeup off. As I dry my face with a towel, heavy footsteps cut through the sound of running water, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.
No shoes on deck.
Unless you’re a guest. Or, you know, the man who makes the rules.
