To Ruin a Rogue:

by Heather C. Myers

  Especially with the number of creeps in this place.

  Seriously. I’m dressed like any female pirate would be—tunic, pantaloons, boots, big hat that makes me look both fashionable and mysterious—but the men still leer like I’m prancing around in the dress I had on when I first got here. A shiver runs down my spine, and I pretend not to notice the unwanted attention. If they smell a whiff of fear, they’ll pounce, and while I know Matt likes looking at me, I’m not sure what kind of code is upheld among the men here. I don’t want to risk Matt fighting for me on my account or giving me up to any man who claims me or is willing to pay for me.

  I wish I had paid more attention in Mr. Jarrett’s World History class, but I can’t help it if he was distracting.

  Matt stops at a corner table and everyone—the four remaining crew members, Matt, and myself—takes a seat. There are a couple of wooden chairs left over, but judging by the prostitutes who have narrowed in on us—and by us, I mean Matt and a couple of the better-looking men—I doubt the seats will be empty for long.

  My hypothesis is correct, and when they saunter over, I notice Matt and the men do nothing to push them away. The women—prostitutes—occupy laps and legs, flip their hair and flash what may be charming smiles, though their teeth don’t gleam, aren’t straight, and a couple are missing. Hair is curled and pinned, dresses are cut low, cleavage is pressed high—so high their nipples creep up over the cut of the dress on a couple of them—not that they care.

  I pretend like this is a totally normal occurrence, like I’m not bothered by this whatsoever, but, in truth, I am. I thought I was a young woman with an open mind who didn’t really care about much, especially when it came to guys and other girls and relationships. I thought the messy stuff didn’t bug me, because I was at the point where I didn’t care about messy stuff.

  I realize, however, I’m wrong. One hundred percent wrong. This does bother me, and, quite frankly, I’m disappointed that this loose behavior seems to work on Matt.

  Suddenly, I’m hit with an epiphany, so hard and fast it reminds me of being taken down by a wave in the ocean. Was this how I used to be with guys? Obviously, my family invested in good dental care and I never wore anything that low cut. But I would sit in laps and I would smile and laugh at jokes that weren’t funny and ignore bad body odor and dumb my IQ down to get attention and approval. It’s a game I’m good at, and I used to be proud of that fact.

  Now, I’m ashamed. I don’t want to be that girl anymore. I don’t want to be part of meaningless sex and friends with benefits but without the friendship. I don’t want to get a text in the middle of the night or groped at a party and laugh it off like a joke.

  I want more than that.

  I can’t fault the girls for seeing a catch and going after it. I can’t fault them for wearing revealing clothes—why be ashamed of something you’re born with? Why hide it, like it’s your fault men sexualize your ass or breasts or your ankles?—and using their assets to attract attention. They know how to play the game in order to get what they want. It’s strategy, and it used to be the first play in my book. But now, I’m throwing everything out the window. I have no idea what I’ll replace it with, but I know I will.

  Despite this understanding, however, I can’t say I’m not bugged when the whore—and I use that term because that’s her job, not in a derogatory way—starts playing with Matt’s hair. Matt leans back in his chair and watches her do it, and the way he looks at her makes my insides retch. I can only imagine what my face looks like; I know it’s not pretty, but I continue to watch the scene unfold blatantly with a jealous frown on my face.

  I can admit it. I’m jealous. It’s not healthy, I know, but it’s what I’m feeling right now, and I hate it.

  One of the crew—Sova—nudges me with his big arm—the guy is the size of a baby whale and I guarantee he would take that description as a compliment—into my small one and tilts his head down so he can whisper something into my ear. He’s one of the few men without a whore on his lap, even though he’s one of the few pirates who actually saves his treasure and has a nice fortune stowed away somewhere on the island only he knows about. Well, him and Sarah. Sova tells me a lot about the crew as a way to educate me on who’s who, so I don’t come across like a complete idiot.

  “Why are you frowning?” he asks. I know he tries to whisper, but it comes out rougher than a whisper calls for. Luckily—or unluckily, depending on how you look at it—no one pays us any mind because they are otherwise distracted.

  “I’m frowning,” I reply, deciding to tell him, because what have I got to lose? And if Sova can keep a secret about his treasure, then I’m positive he’ll keep my secret, if he even remembers it by morning. “Because whores are sitting on everyone.”

  “Not sitting on me,” Sova points out. His hand cups his mug of ale, and he makes the mug look miniature in his hand. “Not sitting on you.”

  “Well, yes,” I start to say, but he interrupts me.

  “You want them to sit on you?” he asks, furrowing one brow and quirking the other.

  I giggle despite myself. It comes out the same way someone unexpected shows up; it’s a surprise and I have to let them in because they know I’m home.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head to emphasize my point. “Of course not.”

  Sova shrugs. "I don't want them sitting on me, either," he says. "Don't know where they've been."

  I giggle some more and decide I like Sova. If I have to deal with whores canoeing over the better part of the crew, at least I'm not alone.

  A few hours later, I decide I've had my fill for the night. It doesn't appear as though we're going to discuss more details of Sarah's rescue, not with the amount of drinks ordered and whores that surround the table like flies on shit. Even though I'm curious to see what alcohol from the 1700s tastes like and what sort of effect it has on me, I refrain from trying even the tiniest of sips. I want to stay sober and clear-headed; the men seem focused on their own brand of fun, so I don't expect them to keep an eye out for me. Not even Matt. Not even Sova. Because I can't throw a punch to save my life, I decide it's my responsibility to look after myself. So, I nibble at the food and I drink water and I keep my body tense just in case. I pointedly ignore Matt and the women he's adorning with his attention, and instead, I chat with Sova.

  When I start to get tired, I decide to head up to my room to sleep. I know I need to be sharp if tomorrow's rescue is to go well, and as such, recharging my batteries is exactly what I need. I quietly excuse myself and bid goodnight to Sova. I glance over at Matt, but he seems terribly occupied by what's in front of him, so I don't say anything to him at all. Which, to be honest, feels weird.

  I shake my head, internally lecturing myself for the feelings that have cropped up since meeting Matt and how inconvenient they are. When I reach the top of the stairs, I reach into my pocket and pull out the lone key Matt gave me at check-in, and I walk down the long hallway, looking at room numbers and trying to remember which one is mine for tonight. Moaning and grunting and squeaky beds can be heard clearly from my position outside, but no one seems to care how loud their sex is.

  When I finally get to room 113, I slide the key in the lock and let myself in. Without looking, I reach behind me to close the door when I'm suddenly thrust forward, my head knocking into the wall in front of me. I see stars—big, bright, shiny stars, most gold, some magenta—and my head bursts into a sharp, searing pain. I hear words mumbled by an inarticulate, unfamiliar voice and some pieces merge together; I think some man has followed me upstairs. I smell a strong scent of alcohol from him, so strong I nearly gag, but I can't do much if anything, not after the head injury, and I hope I haven't concussed unknowingly.

  You need to do something, a voice reminds myself. You'll be done for if you just stand there looking at the stars.

  It's then that I feel him grabbing at my arm, so I yank it away and try and dash farther in the room.

  "No, you don't," he says, and it sou
nds strained, as though speaking three words consecutively requires a lot of effort, and manages to grab me in both of his hands. The force propels us both forward and I'm worried he's going to crush me when a blood-curdling scream rips through my throat. I'm not surprised when he punches me in the back of the head and I see even more stars—these ones white and sea green.

  I know I need to struggle. I know I need to move. But above all else, my priority is keeping myself conscious just in case I have concussed. I refuse to die with this man—this stranger I haven't even put a face to—on top of me. I'm certain he's ugly and I won't let myself die with an ugly asshole on top of me, trying to rape my corpse.

  So, I blink hard, opening my eyes wide, trying to focus, trying to get my head on straight.

  I can't let that happen. I refuse to let that happen. I start to move. Right now, it's just me shifting from side to side. He laughs because it's pathetic. I know it's pathetic, but it's something, I'm doing something, and that's important to me. It also helps my senses get sharp, get focused. I blink again, and now I can make the guy out. Clearly he's big, with beady eyes and crooked teeth. He could have been gentle-looking, like a gentle giant, but he's not. His vicious and cruel. He doesn't care how much smaller I am, doesn't care that he has his full weight on me and how I'm being crushed underneath him. He doesn't care that I'm some woman who doesn't want this. It doesn't matter what I'm wearing and who I'm hanging out with, I don't want this, and he knows that.

  However, I look up at him and I tell him, "No."

  I'm not sure how loud my voice is or if he can even hear me, but it doesn't matter because just vocalizing my desire, my choice, is liberating, so I say it again, this time louder. He narrows his eyes at me but doesn't seem too concerned and his big clumsy hands are starting to try and sort out the intricacies of the tunic I'm wearing. I'm not sure why he just doesn't rip it off me because I'm sure he's strong enough to do so, but I take advantage of the fact that he doesn't and let out another blood-curdling scream. This grabs his attention and I can barely lift my lips up into a smirk before he punches me in the face. I see stars once again, but I don't care because I'm moving and I'm screaming and I'm doing something. I'm doing something. I'm fighting for myself and my life and my body and it feels good to have something to fight for.

  At some point, I start laughing. He stops what he's doing—the tunic is open now, but I have a makeshift bra on so he's clawing at that—and looks at me like I've lost my mind. And I think I have, because how can any person—any woman—be sane in this type of circumstance? He looks unsure, like he's deciding if he should hit me again or keep trying to take off my bra, but at that point, the door to my room is kicked open—or something, I'm not sure how it's opened, but someone bursts through it—and a gunshot goes off. Then, the body of my would-be rapist falls to the side and air suddenly invades my lungs and I can breathe again. I cough because breathing isn't easy, but it's there, and by the time I'm done, I see Matt standing over me with cold eyes, pooling with concern.

  Matt saved me. Matt saved me.

  I'm not quite sure how this makes me feel. Grateful. Appreciative. Inside I'm crying and thanking God. Outside, my hands shake, even as Matt helps me up. He's talking to me, but I can't make out what I'm seeing. My eyes are focused on the man's body and I'm hit with the realization that he's not moving.

  "He's dead," I say. My voice comes out normal but detached. It sounds like me, but it doesn't.

  "Yes," Matt replies with a nod. Then he's standing in front of me, blocking my view so I can only see him. Just Matt and nothing else.

  I nod because I'm not sure what else I'm expected to do. Matt takes my hand and I flinch. He immediately releases me and looks at me with obvious concern.

  "I'm sorry"—I start to say, but he places his finger over my lips and then drops his hands to my shoulders.

  "I'm sorry," he says. "I should never have let you go upstairs alone, knowing the risk that you'd be followed. You're young, you're beautiful—"

  Now it's my turn to cut him off. "It doesn't matter how young and how beautiful I am," I say. "It doesn't matter if I were one of the working girls here who get paid to have sex. It's not my responsibility to prevent rape from happening." I clench my jaw and realize he probably has no idea what I'm talking about. He doesn't understand, he's just trying to protect me and he's upset that this happened to me. I am, too. "I'm sorry."

  "Stop apologizing," he tells me. There's an edge to his tone but I know it doesn't have to do with me. It's his issue. "You did nothing wrong. I should have escorted you. Maybe such a thing isn't necessary where you're from, but I know better. It's different here. I promised you protection if you trusted me and at the first opportunity, I let you down. I promise you that will never happen again. Do you believe me?"

  I give Matt a look. I know what he's saying, and I appreciate his sincerity. Really, I do. But all I want is to crawl into bed and sleep and forget this whole thing ever happened. I don't want him to make promises. I want him to stay with me and wrap his arms around me and tell me it will be okay.

  "I'm sorry," Matt says after looking at me. "I'm making this about my feelings and not yours. What can I do for you? How can I make you feel better?"

  "Sleep," I tell him honestly. I can feel my eyes dropping as I say the word. "I just want to sleep."

  He nods. "Right," he says. "Come with me. You can have my bed."

  "But the girls—"

  He holds up his hand. "My pleasure is not as important as your safety," he tells me and the intensity is too much that my knees go weak and if he hadn’t wrapped his arm around me as quickly as he did and kept me from falling, I would have fallen flat on my face.

  "Come now," he says into my hair. "Let's get to bed."

  Chapter 6

  On the one hand, I can appreciate the fact that Matt sprang for a room just for me. I get my own privacy. I don’t have to worry about the lecherous looks I sometimes get from particular members of his crew when they think I’m not looking, and no one can accidentally or purposefully touch me in inappropriate places while I sleep.

  Not that I’ve had any experience with that just yet. As weird as it is to say, I’m lucky Matt insisted I share a room—and a bed—with him while aboard his ship. For some reason, I trust him, and I feel safe with him. The fact that he also let his crew know I am off-limits also helped ease my worry—but only a bit. Men are men, and especially if they’re sex-starved men out at sea for a long duration of time, not even loyalty to their captain will inhibit their desires of the flesh. Somehow, though, Matt has kept me safe, and for that, I truly am grateful.

  After what happened the night before, I’m wary of being by myself. However, I don’t want to let Matt know that, so when he offers to stay with me, I shoo him away with a grateful smile. I don’t sleep well, and when I cautiously open the door the next morning, the look on Matt’s face shows that he knows I didn’t sleep well.

  “If you wanted my company,” he says with arrogance he has even early in the morning, “all you had to do was ask.”

  “And make you give up a night of well-earned debauchery?” I tease, though my heart isn’t in it because today is an important day and I’m tired. “I think not.” His lips curl up at my terrible impression of his accent, and I appreciate the fact that he’s humoring me. “Anyway, do you have the dress?”

  “Malachite is on his way to retrieve it from my sister’s home,” Matt says, and walks in without any indication he heard me invite him in. “As I said before, the two of you are roughly the same size everywhere except the bust, so I hope everything fits correctly.”

  “And you know how to dress me in it?” I say, furrowing my brow. I press my lips together, trying to hide my doubt, but one thing that stuck with me while watching any and all historical pieces is how complicated women’s fashion is. To think that a pirate such as Matt is skilled in such things would be surprising to say the least.

  He grins as though he knows what I’m thinking, a
nd with the way he’s been studying me since I got here, maybe he’s finally figured me out.

  “I’m familiar in the art of undressing,” he explains. “Certainly dressing is simply the reverse of undressing. It shouldn’t be too difficult to figure out.”

  His words do nothing to ease my doubts.

  “How do you like it here?” he asks, and before I realize what’s happening, his fingers are sweeping a stray strand of hair from my face, curling it behind my ear. I swallow, needing to moisten my mouth, my throat. I have to clear my throat to get a handle on my voice, which is kind of embarrassing.

  “I, uh…” Honestly? I have no idea how to respond.

  He gives me a small smile. It’s not boyish or charming or mischievous. It’s not calculating or arrogant or smug. “I suppose that’s not an easy question, after everything you’ve been through,” he says, and I give him a weak grin in return. He’s right. His fingers move from behind my ear to my chin, and he uses his fingertips to tilt my face up. There he goes again, his eyes fixed on me, penetrating and paralyzing. I don’t think in my entire time of existing, I’ve ever been seen the way Matt sees me. The thought scares the shit out of me—it has ever since I met him—and I don’t know what to do with myself about it.

  “You’re either incredibly brave or incredibly stubborn,” he continues, and his eyes drop from mine to my nose, to my mouth, my lips, and he stops and I can see him thinking, I can see his brown irises like they’re words in a book, and I know he wants to kiss me, and I want him to kiss me—really kiss me—because I know, I just know, it will mean more than any other previous kiss did. “What I’ve found is a select group of people are both.”