Chapter 15

FIFTEEN

After almost a month of living this new life, today’s my day, the day I’ve been waiting for all along. Bouncing on the balls of my bare feet, I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror as the shower and sink run to shield our conversation. Standing beside me, Dark frowns. It’s not the normal unhappy kind. This goes a step beyond that. This is worried Dark. This is the Dark that comes out when he is about to stick his foot in his mouth and cause huge issues for us both because his ego and protective nature are screaming at him to stop me.

If this is such a problem for him, he should have considered the risks, the genuine risks, when he roped me into this job in the first place.

I collect a razor blade from the marble vanity and lift it to my cheek.

Dark’s hand shoots out to stop me. “No.” He steps forward, ready to interfere.

“It has to be done,” I whisper, eyeing the conflicted man in the mirror. “Unless you want to backhand me yourself, I need to draw blood. I need a cut and a swollen cheek,” I remind him because I must put on an Oscar-winning performance to sell this charade.

“I don’t like this.” Dark’s jaw clenches—the muscles on either side of his face flex as the lines in his neck pop with tension.

“You don’t have a choice,” I also remind, in case he forgot.

“Babe. Please,” the interfering asshole begs with soft, puppy dog eyes.

Frustrated with him, I slam the razor onto the bathroom counter and spin to face him, both arms tucked across my chest. I cock my hip as I stare at the problem. Him.

“Hit me,” I challenge, turning my cheek to give him plenty of surface to smack. I had to smuggle that razor blade inside my vibrator. Now, he doesn’t want me to use it. Then he has to do something. If it’s not that, it’s a hand. He needs to pick.

Head rearing back as if I slapped him, Dark looks like he wants to throw up at the suggestion. “Fuck no.”

“Then shut the hell up and let me do my job,” I growl.

“I don’t like this.”

“I don’t care what you like right now. Got it?”

Turning around like a total pain in the ass, Dark presents me with his back. You know the men who wear form-fitting shirts that seem to cling to all their sculpted muscles? That’s him. So now I get a view of his incredible backside as I reclaim the stupid razor blade and get this over with. Slicing my cheek about an inch, I hiss as blood bubbles to the surface and trickles down my pale face. To add to my battered victim facade, I slap myself a few times and collect a bit of blood on the tip of my finger. I use it to coat the inside of one nostril to give the illusion I also had a nosebleed.

Not wanting to appear too obvious, I gather more blood and flick a few dots onto my blush-colored dress. You can’t see them from far away, but the specks are there, up close like a subtle misfortune. Whoopsie, I didn’t notice I bled on myself when my new owner beat me.

“You about done?” Dark grumbles, unable to stand still for even a second. I get it. He’s revved up. That makes two of us.

“Are you ready to fight?” I rinse the blade under the water and return it to my makeup bag to hide the evidence.

Dark huffs a slew of quiet curses before he finally answers me. “No.”

“Too bad.” I turn off the sink and shower before he protests further. On the way out the door, I grab his shirt sleeve and drag the pain in the ass into the main cabin where the bugs are planted.

“Please don’t make me,” I fake sob, standing in front of my ex. “I’m sore.” My voice wobbles for effect.

Glaring at me, his cheeks flushed with anger, Dark punches the air. “I’m not giving you a choice, bitch!” he roars, then winces in shame as he paces the room.

If he wants to sell this, he’ll have to do a lot better than that. We have a story to sell here.

Not letting him get away, I shove him hard from behind to turn up his adrenaline and get him into fucking character. We don’t have time to waste.

Spinning on me, Dark grabs me by the throat and slams my body into the closest wall. A picture on the wall rattles as I scream in horror, trying like hell not to be turned on by this because I love being manhandled by him, especially the growly, super sexy, pissed-off version of him. The one that oozes strength and sex appeal. The one that could crush my larynx with a squeeze. It does something to my insides. Please don’t ask me why. I’m fucked up.

“I said, I’m gonna fuck your ass, you whiny bitch.” He punches the wall beside my head hard enough to make a dent, and I gasp, not in shock, but on the cusp of pulling my dress up and letting him do what we both want.

“No. Please! I don’t want this!” I cry in fake terror.

Pressing his body against mine, a ripple of pleasure travels through Dark into me. “Bend the fuck over, slut,” he growls in that low bass that has the air seizing in my lungs.

The dirty part of me wants to do it. Bend over. Submit. To give him my ass. I’m not sore from last night. I could go another round or twenty. When I woke up this morning, wrapped in a warm blanket of Dark, with his morning wood digging into my backside, I was happy, and I hate myself for it. It’s not even about him. It’s about me. The intimacy. The trust. Being the other woman. Where I may never trust Dark with my heart or emotions like I once did, I will always trust him with my body because he knows every inch. Concurring with my sentiment, my pussy pulses as if she is entirely on board with getting fucked another dozen times today, but that’s not why we’re here.

Focusing on the mission, I grapple with Dark. Shoving him in the chest as he pushes me back. Smacking him across the face with my open palm. Redness blooms across his cheek, and we’re left panting as we fight. When he slams me against the wall for a second time, I nearly come. He’s too fucking much, too sexy, too… everything.

Playing into our scene, I pull up my dress, exposing the top of my thigh, to give him something to smack that won’t hurt me for real. With my eyes, I beg him to do it.

“Fuck you!” I spit at him. Well, at the floor, but whoever’s listening won’t know the difference.

Straightening his shoulders and adjusting the erection in his fancy suit pants, Dark nods once, as if he’s resolved to put in a little physical effort. I offer my thigh with a little wiggle, and he doesn’t disappoint when he snarls, “Don’t fuckin’ push me, bitch, or I will kill you!” His palm comes down painfully hard on my thigh. I yelp and stagger to the side to stay upright.

My eyes water, as does my nose, and I breathe through the onslaught of genuine agony. Dark’s there, holding me up, looking like he’s really gonna throw up this time. I know he wants to ask if I’m okay, but we can’t break character. I have to go with it. So, I do. I think of all the awful things he did to break my heart. The first day I saw Abby. The day he ruined us. Using that pain aids a genuine cry. Fat tears roll down my cheeks, and Dark can’t take my distress when he threads both hands behind his head and paces the room as he continues to spew fake bullshit to sell the narrative.

“The next time I tell you to take my dick, and you act like this, it will be your last. Do you fuckin’ understand? I own you.” Taking his jacket off the hook on the wall with a vicious growl, Dark pulls our door open and slams it shut as he departs, rattling the room. Expelling a breath, I set my palm over my pounding heart, close my eyes, and will myself to calm down enough to limp into the bathroom and get a good look at myself in the mirror.

I look amazing.

Red cheeks, swollen, tear-stained eyes, a dried cut, little bits of blood here or there. My hair’s purposely mussed, but it looks more like a disheveled mess. In my makeup bag, I extract the most important item of the day—my loose-setting powder.

Inside the front of my dress, between my boobs, I hide it there for later. This dress and bra conceal it well. Not wanting to go today without proper protection, I add three important boob rocks to the underside of my breasts—black onyx for intuition, jade for luck, and blue aventurine for courage and security.

It’s showtime.

Before I leave our room, I slip on a pair of blush patent leather flats. Two of Darmond’s goons keep a lookout in the hall when I exit, likely doing their rounds. They did that on his personal yacht, so I can only assume they do that here.

Smoothing down both sides of my dress, I swipe the tears from my eyes so they witness me doing it. Then, I steel my shoulders and approach the closest one.

“Has everyone already had breakfast?” I sniffle.

Staring down at me from his substantial height, the goon’s brutish face shows no emotion when he replies a simple, “No.”

I nod thanks and find my way to the kitchen, where Romeo and his sous chefs are busy preparing breakfast.

Looking up from a plate he’s sliding eggs onto, Romeo gasps at the sight of me and rushes to my side. The sweet man drags me to a stool and forces me to sit.

“What the hell happened?” He looks around suspiciously, likely waiting for my owner to claim his property.

Combing a hand through my messy hair, I don’t say a word, knowing damn well we are being recorded, and I don’t want to cause any trouble.

The back of Romeo’s finger caresses my cheek, and I suck in a sharp, pained breath because it hurts. The cut’s raised and swollen, skin tender.

Not pleased, Romeo curses and leaves me long enough to scoop ice into a baggy and wrap it in a towel before he presses it gently to my cheek.

Again, I hiss, this time because it’s cold.

“Sorry. Sorry,” he apologizes. “You take it.”

Following his instruction, I hold the pack to my face as he moves fluidly through the space, finishing breakfast. Outside the kitchen windows is a vast blue sea of gentle waves and a cloudless sky. It’s gorgeous out there. Too bad my day had to start like this—with pain and a fight. What’s even sadder is these rich bastards get to live like this anytime they want. They wake up on luxury yachts with attractive women by their side. They’re fed by some of the best chefs. Yet, they always want more money, more power, more influence, and never stop to appreciate the things that ordinary folks would give their left tit for. Money is wasted on the rich.

“Have you fed the employees?” I ask, knowing Romeo always makes breakfast sandwiches with the option of coffee or bottles of Gatorade. There were mornings when he was busy feeding Darmond’s guests so I delivered the employee’s food instead of him.

“Not yet. We’re running behind.” He winces and massages the bridge of his nose before washing his hands and returning to the stove to finish the sausage. It’s relaxing watching them work. The flow, the efficiency, the talent.

When Romeo finishes the meat, he sets it on the center island for the sous chefs to work their magic while he sets a cup of orange juice on the counter before me. “It’s a mimosa,” he explains. “Go slow.”

I hum in appreciation.

Orange juice and expensive champagne… I won’t say no to that.

Sipping bubbly from a standard glass, I smile politely, ice my cheek, and continue to appreciate their unique dance.

Romeo sets out multiple champagne flutes on a tray, but more is needed for all those being served. Wanting to be of use, I leave my stool and put myself to work. I open another bottle of champagne and fill the bottom half of each glass.

“Hannah. Go sit down. I’ve got it.” Romeo tries to shoo me away with a white kitchen towel.

Head shaking, a soft laugh bubbles out of my throat as I ignore his directive. “Why aren’t there more flutes?” I ask.

“The… women aren’t allowed to drink alcohol,” he answers, whisking something in a steel bowl.

“Oh.” The, but I am ? is somehow communicated without being communicated. Now that I think about it, there wasn’t a single woman drinking more than water. No wine. Not even a cocktail. Interesting. Perhaps it’s an age thing? I don’t know, nor does it matter, I suppose.

Next comes the orange juice, but clumsy ole me accidentally spills it all over the tray—the entire container.

“Dammit.” I grab whatever I can to sop up the mess. Ever the valiant man, Romeo’s there in a flash, helping me wipe down flutes and transfer them to another tray.

“I’m so sorry.” I toss a sodden rag into the sink and collect another to wipe the mess from the side of the cupboard where the juice spilled down, creating a little puddle on the floor.

“It was an accident,” Romeo reassures.

Walking over to the sink, I set my orange-stained cloth with its equally stained cousin. “I’ll get another orange juice. We have another, don’t we?”

“Yes. In the walk-in.” He flicks his chin at the closed steel door, lifts the old tray, and dumps what’s left of the juice into the sink.

Nodding like a frazzled bobblehead doll, I hurry to the walk-in fridge, where an entire shelf of unopened orange juice cartons sit on a wire shelf. With my back to the door, to shield what I’m about to do, I extract the loose powder from the confines of my dress, unscrew the lid, and set it on the shelf. I open the orange juice and scoop two, okay, three scoops of the powder with the small spoon hidden inside the container. Wasting little time, I return the powder to my dress and turn to leave with the contaminated orange juice just as a sous chef joins me in the walk-in. I sniffle as if I’ve been crying, and I shuffle past him, head down, hugging the carton of OJ against my chest. He doesn’t seem to suspect anything, nor does Romeo when I pour the contents into the flutes. Then, they deliver them to the guests awaiting food in the dining room.

Still pretending to hide from Dark, I don’t join the rest of the men and women for breakfast. I need to execute another part of the plan in the next twenty minutes, or all hell will break loose if those carrying the big guns are still conscious. We can’t have that, can we?

Once the sous chefs return and resume preparing the employee breakfasts, I collect the bag Romeo uses to transport the sandwiches to the men. Then, I take it upon myself to gather the sports drinks from the walk-in. I perform a little magic as I’m in there, you know, more cap unscrewing, powder dumping, and a little shaky, shaky, so the men will be none the wiser. Collecting the dozen colorful drinks, I stuff them into another tote, and when I return to the kitchen, everyone’s almost done.

“Can I help?” I set the bag of contaminated drinks on the island.

“No,” Romeo replies, wrapping the sausage, egg, and cheese biscuits with foil to keep them warm. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

Chewing my bottom lip for show, I gesture to the door that leads to the dining room. “Should I leave?”

Romeo’s brows pinch together, and his nose wrinkles as if he sucked a sour grape. “No. Of course not.”

Eyes cast downward, I slide my fingers across the smooth edge of the island. “Will you get in trouble? I don’t want you to get in trouble. Perhaps I should go back to my room… Or…” I tremble. “I could join him ,” I whisper, as if I’m scared of Dark and what he’ll do to me if I return to his side.

“No. You’ll have breakfast here.” Romeo motions to my vacated stool.

“And you won’t get in trouble, right?” Wanting to be useful, I collect a stack of napkins by the window and fold them around the foil-wrapped sandwiches before carefully setting them in their bag.

“I’ll handle it,” Romeo reassures.

“T-thank you.”

The kind chef nods as if no thanks are needed, but his lips thin into a grim line, like he knows this isn’t going to end well. Little does he know how right he is—only not in the way he’s thinking.

A sous chef pours hot coffee into cups and shoves them into a stackable carrier, and I collect the packets of sugar and creamer.

Naked as the day she was born, Jasmin races into the kitchen, panic written across her face. “We need water and the seasick medication!”

Shit.

The mimosas are working too quickly.

Both sous chefs gather armfuls of water bottles from the walk-in and deliver them to the dining room as Romeo collects the emergency stash of medications. Taking advantage of the distraction, I run with it, shoulder the bag of drinks, sandwiches, and the stack of coffees, and race from the kitchen before Romeo can stop me. In the hall, I pretend to reconfigure everything I’m transporting to make it easier. Huddled in a corner, I pull the powder from my dress, contaminate as many coffees as possible, and set out to deliver the food.

Each goon reaches into the bag, and I hold it for him to grab whatever he’d like. Most men claim at least two sandwiches, a coffee, and a sports drink. Then I’m onto the next, smiling like the polite, submissive worker they think I am.

The wind whips my hair as I climb the outdoor stairs to the wheelhouse, where the captain and co-captain run this giant vessel. I knock on the door before going inside, where I’m met with smiles.

“Hannah, how lovely to see you again,” the co-captain greets as I pull two coffees from the stack and set them along with sandwiches and sports drinks on what looks to be a small snack station, complete with jerky, nuts, and other healthier options.

“Enjoy, gentlemen.” I half bow like an idiot before I escape the chamber and slowly descend the stairs, a giddiness now churning in my gut. My job is done. The main part, anyhow. The poison I’ve made will run its course, and soon, the ship will be ours. These rich assholes will be dead, and I can go home.

Death by poison is a little bland compared to a major shoot-out, I get it, but it’s efficient and puts far fewer people at risk. Saving this many women and offing this number of men to hurt Remy’s operation couldn’t be accomplished any other way. If they had stab wounds or bullet holes, when their dive teams come to retrieve the bodies, they’ll see there was foul play and not assume they died from a fire on the water and couldn’t escape. It’s not perfect, but it’s what I was taught to do. My mother was a crazy plant lady and shared much of her knowledge with her only daughter. Where my mother learned her nefarious ways, I’ll never know.

Still carrying the empty totes and coffee holders, I return to my stateroom. In the bathroom, I set my items on the counter and pull the small bottle of liquid makeup remover from my makeup bag. In the sewing kit I brought, I slide out three needles that look nothing like a sewing needle because they’re not, and finally, I peel back the tabs on three tampon sleeves and remove the syringes I stowed inside. Screwing the needles into place, I use them to suck the liquid from my makeup remover. These are my insurance policies if someone doesn’t ingest what I contaminated. It has happened before.

To keep from stabbing myself, I cap the needles and set them inside the bag where the sandwiches were before heading back to the kitchen, where all hell is currently breaking loose.

“Hannah!” Romeo gasps. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Why?” I set the coffee holders on the kitchen island.

“Everyone’s sick.”

“Everyone?” I grimace.

“ Si . I-I don’t know what happened.” Romeo fills a bucket of water at the kitchen sink, shaking as he looks at me over his shoulder. His eyes are round with worry as sweat beads on his dark brow.

Wanting to comfort him or appear to, I round the island to offer my support. He’s so preoccupied with the water and the sous chefs as they race in and out that he doesn’t notice my hand slide into the bag hooked over my shoulder or hear my thumb pop a cap off the needle. Sliding up to the man who has been kind to me, far more than I deserve, given my reason for being here, I pull the syringe from my bag and rest my head on his shoulder.

He hums in contentment as if I’m soothing his woes.

I wait for the guilt of what I’m about to do to surface, but I feel nothing as I swiftly jab the needle into the back of his thigh, through the cotton of his pants and express the plunger.

Romeo jerks away like you would a painful bug bite, and the needle flies, skittering across the kitchen floor. Moaning in agony, he grasps the back of his leg as the poison spreads—burning like acid in his veins.

“Hannah.” He falls into the island, barely catching himself with his hands. His eyes are glassy, his face twisted in torment as foam bubbles from his lips. He gasps once, twice, as the pulse at his throat pounds. This is how it happens. Having to battle with the digestive system, the powder is slower. It takes longer, much like swallowing a pill versus getting medicine through an IV. The liquid is quicker, much quicker, but it’s not painless.

Succumbing to the fire burning through every cell in his body, Romeo crashes to his knees on the sleek tiled floor and claws at his throat before collapsing onto his side, where he contorts like a man in need of an exorcism. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, gasping for breath that doesn’t come. I do nothing but stand there, inches from his feet, and watch him die. There is no comfort from me. No apologies. As kind as he was, he was complicit in the atrocities his employer enacted, and for that, I have nothing to give. No remorse. No twinge of sadness.

Eyes locked on me in fear, he reaches out with a trembling hand as if I’ll comfort him.

I give him nothing.

Not a prayer.

Not even a smile.

I feel nothing as I watch life fade and his muscles cease lurching. Wide, vacant eyes stare at the ceiling as sweat trails down his forehead and foam settles like bubbles around his lips.

Romeo’s death is a quick mercy, far quicker than the rest on board. That’s my gift, as small as it may be.

When a sous chef races back into the kitchen and witnesses the evidence on the floor, his shrill scream echoes through the space, and still, I show no emotion. This is what I was taught. If you choose to take a life, you accept it, you own it. There is no looking back, there is no what-if, there is no sorrow. You are forever branded a killer, and that I can live with, in this moment and the hundreds of moments before. I can live with knowing these men, these scum, will never walk the face of the earth again. I did that… I freed these women. I gave them a chance at a real life, and I could never be sorry for that.

Once more, I feel nothing more than a niggle of triumph as I plunge the second needle into the shoulder of the sous chef, on his knees, trying to perform CPR on Romeo. Then, I walk away. I don’t wait for him to die. I enter the dining hall, where the floor is littered with male corpses, including Romeo’s plaything, and search for the one male who had better be breathing.

Helping the group of frantic women calm down, Dark corrals them to the far side of the dining room, away from the death, and makes them sit in the same chairs the men bought them from.

When he sees me, Dark swoops in for a giant hug, pulling me right off my feet. “Thank fuck you’re okay.” He squeezes me fiercely and kisses one of the many hickeys he bestowed upon my flesh.

Wrapping my arms around his thick neck, I half giggle at the ridiculousness of his excitement. “I’m fine.”

My ex pulls back enough to assess I’m not lying as he suspends me in the air like I weigh nothing. “You need to wash your face.” He frowns, eyeing the cut and crusty nose. I can only imagine how crappy I look, but it worked, didn’t it?

“It’s fine.” I tickle the soft hairs at the base of his head.

“No. There’s still too much blood.”

Ignoring his concern, I ask, “What’s next?”

Grumbling at my brush-off, Dark lowers me to the ground, dragging my body down his front until I’m back on two feet. He cups the side of my face, careful not to touch the slight injury. “The brothers are hooking up now. As soon as they started dropping,” he motions to the corpses, “I sent the signal.”

As if on cue, men clad in all black enter the dining room, laden with duffle bags of clothes for the women, as…

“Sunshine?!” I screech when that gray-haired, bearded man comes into view, wearing the biggest damn smile.

Waiting in the middle of the space between the entrance and Dark, Sunshine puts his arms out, and I run to him, jump, and wrap my legs around his waist. He catches me with an audible “Oof” but bears the brunt of my delight as his hands get a solid hold on my ass cheeks.

“Hey, Sweets,” he greets, all smiles.

“I didn’t think you were coming.” I play slap his shoulder in reprimand for not telling me. It wouldn’t have been hard to drop a line.

Sunshine clucks his tongue. “You know me better than that. Since when have I missed cleaning up your jobs?”

“Hmmm.” I think on it a beat, trying to recall a time he wouldn’t have been there. When I come up short, my face scrunches in surprised disbelief. “Huh. I guess you haven’t.”

“Exactly. You make the messes, I clean ‘em up.” He winks and squeezes my cheeks to cement his point.

I tug on the tip of his beard. “That’s true. But you don’t have any bodies to wrap up.” Usually, when he cleans, it entails his van, a couple brothers, plastic, sometimes bleach, and, occasionally, a well-thought-out fire. I poison, and they come in and clean up after me like maids but for dead bodies. They are cleaners, after all. They not only clean up my messes, but they clean up any messes the Sacred Sinners need. That’s why Sunshine’s a nomad. Patching into a chapter would mean roots. You can’t put down deep enough roots if you’re busy traveling all over the country, disposing of corpses in whatever creative means necessary.

Oh, I’m sure you’re wondering why he does it and how he got into the job in the first place. It’s not like someone is filling out job applications for an occupation like this. The biggest question of them all is how does he dispose of the bodies? Well, sorry to tell you, but you’ll have to keep wondering because I don't even know the full backstory, and I won’t ask what he does with my kills. In my mind, there’s a vat somewhere where he dumps the remains, and they liquefy after a month. I think I saw something like that online when my morbid curiosity piqued. Then again, he could know someone who owns a crematorium and go that route, burning the bodies. That’s probably a smarter scenario, or he could use the old-fashioned method and bury them somewhere nobody could find them. Perhaps it’s a bit of both. Your guess is as good as mine.

“No,” Sunshine remarks, pulling me back into the present. “But we have a boat to sink.” Much like his son, Sunshine slides me down his front and resets me on my feet, but he doesn’t let me go far as he grips my chin and turns my face up to get a good look at me. “Don’t like seein’ blood on you. You cut your face.” He thumbs the underside of the wound, and I pull away, not wanting it to ache any more than it already does.

“Babe, Pops has work to do. Let’s get these women on the boat,” Dark calls.

“He’s right,” Sunshine replies. “We can catch up when I’m through.” Pecking my forehead, his lips linger for half a beat before he steers me toward his son.

Needing to be helpful, I hand basic sweatshirts, sweatpants, and rubber prison-style slides to the women. They’ll have better clothes when they’re taken to their safe house. The Sacred Sinners have them scattered all over the country. Seemingly regular people who own regular houses in regular neighborhoods house the rescues and bikers alike until they can get them into an S.S.-affiliated rehabilitation center for trafficked women, like the place most of my sisters hail from.

Two smaller boats wait for the rescues at the stern of the yacht, at the swimming platform. I lead the women down the steps, and Dark brings up the rear. Once we reach the bottom, I step to the side as men from the boats offer their hands to help the women aboard to charter them to their larger vessel floating nearby.

“Is that for everyone?” I ask Dark, making a visor with my hand and squinting to see the boat off in the distance.

“No. They’ll leave as soon as they get all the women on board. Our ride is there.” Dark taps my shoulder and points in the opposite direction to a white fishing boat rocking in the water.

Nodding my understanding, I turn to address the men loading the second boat as the first speeds away. “Take good care of them,” I order a burly man with face tattoos and gnarled scars slashed across his cheeks.

He snickers, and Dark pulls me to his side. “They’ve got this, babe.”

“They’d better,” I announce loud enough for everyone to hear.

With his palm held out to help another woman aboard, the scarred man snickers again. “You and Sunshine have got your hands full with that one,” he comments, and I glower at him for such a ridiculous remark.

Squeezing my side in reassurance, Dark joins his brother in an unspoken manly chuckle, as if he agrees with him but won’t say aloud out of fear for his life.

Ugh.

Men.

No. Not men.

Bikers.

On the boat's swimming platform, where shallow waves lick the edge, Dark and I watch the women loaded into the far-off vessel. Once they speed away, our fishing boat deploys a yellow inflatable that putters across the water faster than I expect. The single biker onboard tosses Dark the tether, and he ties it to a cleat on the yacht.

“Coal,” Dark greets, clasping his brother’s hand and pulling him from a boat that could be taken down with a prick of a needle. That’s not reassuring, but I take it in stride as Coal, Pixie’s brother, and Dark fall into easy conversation and climb the stairs back to the main part of the yacht, leaving me to bring up the rear. And boy, as much as I shouldn’t, I watch them go, their butts shifting and doing all the sexy things hot men with nice asses can do in fitted bottoms. Not that I would ever say that aloud, and neither should you. This is our secret.

To bide my time before we escape this lap of luxury, I leave the men to do whatever they gotta do and lounge by the saltwater pool, soaking up the rays in my blood-speckled dress and flats. My job is done. There’s nothing I can do here besides get in the way. So, I soak up the life of a rich man, imagining what it must be like to live as they do until I grow thirsty, and pour myself a glass of red at the outdoor bar before retaking the padded lounger, a hop, skip, and a jump away from the spot Dark fingered me yesterday. Man, that feels like ages ago now. Time has a way of going both slow and fast when working a job. Days drag on while moments, like yesterday, speed by, giving you whiplash in the process.

It doesn’t take long for me to empty my bottle of red as my mind drifts to life and how much I’ll be deconstructing the past few days for months to come.

I had sex with Dark—my ex.

Good sex.

No, incredible sex.

He cheated on his woman with me, and that didn’t seem to faze him a bit.

Given our circumstances, it might have been necessary, but what if it wasn’t?

What if, when he cheated on me with Abby, it didn’t faze him either?

My stomach sours at the thought.

What would our sons think if they knew?

What will Sunshine think?

Did he know this would happen? And if so, why didn’t he warn me?

Lost in ponderous thought, I sip the last drops of wine and stare into the pool's shimmery blue water.

Dark and I need to talk…

I have so many questions…

And I know I won’t like the answers.