Going Nowhere

by Kimberly Lauren

  “Have fun, kids,” Sam suddenly said from behind us, his words loud, even though they were garbled by the cigar in the corner of his mouth. “Don’t forget to use a condom!”

  Chapter Nine

  SAM’S EMBARRASSING WORDS put a damper on the rest of the evening, putting ideas in my head that hadn’t existed before‌—‌I swear! After not being unable to meet each other’s eyes for a whole ten minutes, Max and I decided to forego the shakes. It was just as well, because before I left, Max asked me to spend the next day with Sam and himself in St. Thomas.

  I got out of bed early and immediately hopped into the shower. I wasn’t going to be late this time, especially after making so much progress the day before. In one short day, Sam’s awareness of me had gone from ‘get out of my way’ to ‘nice to see you again.’

  I finished showering and rooted through my bag for a pair of cropped linen pants and a fitted tee. I quickly put them on over a plain black bikini. Then I ran back to the bathroom and dabbed on some concealer. Once blended, I put powder on top, a quick sweep of amber eye shadow on my lids, a few brushes of mascara on my lashes, and a touch of bronzer on my cheeks, temples, and jawline. Finally, I smoothed on a neutral lipstick with a hint of shimmer. I was going for the difficult, not-trying-too-hard look.

  I grabbed some essentials and threw it all into a straw beach bag. I slipped on some leather sandals and ran out the door even though I wasn’t yet late.

  Truth be told, we were meeting in the casino, so I wasn’t concerned about being bored while I waited. Not that I thought I’d be that interested in playing. I mean, I’d never even been to Vegas. That sort of thing didn’t appeal to me.

  Five minutes later, I stood in front of a slot machine with a cup full of quarters. What can I say? The sparkly lights and jingly sounds were too persuasive to resist.

  I tried to get started, but pulling the arm was harder than I’d thought it would be. I fed my coins into the slot then heaved on it with all of my weight. The slots started to spin, but they stopped on three different symbols. I tried again. This time, when I pulled the arm, I realized that I could swing from it and it would still go down at the same slow rate. Sure, I didn’t work out that often, but I got my exercise. Whenever I went to Lincoln Road for ice cream, I walked the mall twice.

  An elderly woman approached the slot machine beside me and sat down on the vinyl-covered stool. She was four inches shorter than me, wearing a sequined jacket and shiny polyester pants. I covertly watched her take a quarter out of her cup and feed the machine. Then, without even breaking a sweat, she smoothly pulled down the arm. She watched the symbols until they stopped, then pulled again.

  Maybe I didn’t have the right position. I was standing up and she was sitting down. Maybe my center of gravity was off. I sat down on the stool and put another quarter in my machine. When I tried to pull the arm, it was out of reach. With my toes touching the floor, I managed to grab and pull as hard as I could. My hand slipped and I chipped my nail when it hit the machine.

  Super Granny laughed.

  Darn. I sucked my finger where the nail had broken off. I ought to quit while I was ahead. Just as I was about to stand up, taking my cup of quarters with me to use in a soda machine somewhere, Super Granny gave a whoop signifying that the symbols had lined up in her favor.

  I watched the coins tumble out of her machine, and then I looked back at my own machine in disgust. Sigh. Since I’d already broken a nail I might as well try to win something. I wouldn’t want my nail to have died in vain.

  Sticking three quarters into the slot one after another‌—‌I was increasing my payout if I won‌—‌I pulled the arm. Three different colored bars came up. The light on the top of the machine went on. A small handful of quarters came out of the machine.

  After literally jumping for joy, I counted my winnings. Four quarters. A dollar. That wouldn’t even buy one shoe at K-Mart. A half-hour later, I’d spent fifty dollars, won ten, and then lost it all.

  I was on my way to the ATM when I ran into Sam and Max.

  Max looked at my cup. “Doing some gambling?”

  I shrugged, trying to shield the evidence. “Oh, a little. I was bored.”

  “How much did you lose?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Pocket change.” I dropped the cup onto a table, next to a couple empty glasses. “Ready to have some fun?”

  Sam grinned broadly. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Hmm, what would you like me to suggest?”

  Max stepped between us. “Can we go?”

  I winked at Sam behind Max’s back before leaving the casino, and he gave me a secretive smile in return.

  We made our way down to deck two along with many other passengers. Then we got in a quick moving line to leave the ship. St. Thomas was one of the ports of call where you could walk right off the ship and onto the dock.

  Sam immediately started to loudly greet passersby, saying many unintelligible things, thinking he was speaking Spanish.

  “Try ‘hola,’ Sam. It means hello.”

  “Hola!” he said to a provocative olive-skinned girl. “Your beauty transcends all languages!”

  The girl kept walking, now faster.

  “Are you sure that means hello?”

  I laughed. “You speak even less Spanish than I do.”

  “Sì. Ooh!” he said, spying another victim and racing off the dock. He offered his hand to a pretty young woman. “It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Gam. Gam Soldblum.”

  The woman smiled politely and shook his hand.

  I turned to Max. “Gam Soldblum?”

  “He does that when he gets nervous. It’s called a spoonerism.”

  “I see.”

  Sam’s eyebrows were bobbing up and down like two bouncing caterpillars. “I love your country. It’s so beautiful.”

  “Gracias.”

  “Maybe you give me a lour tater?”

  “De nada,” she replied, smiling.

  I covered my mouth with my hand. Max looked away.

  Sam shook his head. “I said, ‘Do you want to give me a tour?’”

  Max stepped forward. “Come on, Sam. Let’s go.”

  “But‌—‌”

  Without even looking at the teenager, Max reached back and dragged Sam away. Sam, like a petulant child, pouted but allowed himself to be forced.

  We approached an enormous marketplace, much of it duty-free‌—‌or so I’d been told. Max looked at it, shrugged, and asked, “Want to go shopping?”

  “Is the Pope Catholic?”

  Max laughed. “Come on, then.”

  “What about Sam? Does he mind?” I realized that I was losing my prey way too early in the hunt.

  “Don’t worry about him,” he said, gesturing behind me.

  I turned and looked at our companion.

  Sam was following a long-legged beauty with his gaze, tongue hanging out of his mouth like a cartoon dog. I could only assume that he didn’t care what we did, as long as he could girl-watch while we did it. In fact, maybe that was his version of shopping.

  Mentally counting how much cash I had on me, I followed Max down the street. There were many stands with a hundred different things to buy. Everything was so colorful and inviting. I immediately saw a sarong I could buy for April, a hat I could get for my mother, and small store with exotic jewelry that was too tempting for me to pass up for myself. I quickly made some purchases, then caught up to Max. “Great stuff, huh?”

  “Yeah, I found a few nice things.”

  “Something for your girlfriend?”

  He slowed his pace. “No girlfriend, I’m afraid. And you?”

  “No girlfriend here, either.”

  A mischievous smile was playing about his lips. “Now that’s something I’d like to see.”

  “Charming.”

  Sam was still lagging behind us, not seeming to pay any attention to where we were going.

  I continued to stay close to Max. “What did you buy?”


  “You might consider it a little dumb.”

  “Tell me.”

  He hesitated, then said, “I collect ashtrays.”

  My nose wrinkled of its own volition. “You smoke?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. That’s why you’ll probably think it’s stupid.”

  “I don’t think it’s stupid.” I started scanning the tables for ashtrays.

  “No?”

  “I think it’s adorable,” I said, with a little hop in my step. “Not many men have collections, unless it consists of vintage Playboys.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “No, really. I think it’s great. What kinds of ashtrays do you look for?”

  “Unique ones that don’t look like anything I already have.” He stopped at a table and examined the wares. “I like them to be artistic, rather than functional.”

  “Do you keep them in a curio cabinet?”

  He glared at me. “No.”

  “Then where do you put them?”

  He went into a store, a bell on the door tinkling welcome. “They’re scattered about everywhere. On the coffee table, in the kitchen, on my desk at work.”

  “What about you? Do you collect anything?”

  “No. I have a life.”

  He gave me a playful push and I went careening toward a display of blown glass ornaments. I caught myself in time, preventing an embarrassing and expensive catastrophe. “As soon as we leave this store, you are so dead.”

  “You’ll have to catch me first.”

  I poked him in his surprisingly hard stomach. “You don’t look like you could run very fast.”

  Gripping my upper arms, he spun me away from the door. “Oh yeah? You don’t look like you can run at all, especially not in those shoes.”

  We both looked down at my stylish‌—‌but impractical‌—‌leather-heeled sandals. I looked up at him again. “What I lack in practical footwear, I make up for in psychotic rage.”

  He took a step backwards. “I don’t doubt it.”

  “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll take off one of those heels and fling it at me.”

  “Don’t tempt me.” I rested my hands on my hips. “If you’re not afraid, why do you keep backing away from me? Huh? Chicken?”

  He smiled. “Faster getaway.”

  And before I could close the distance between us, he’d slipped out the door. I hurried after him, ignoring the giggles of the woman manning the shop.

  When I got outside, Max was only about six yards away.

  He laughed. “You’re so slow that to make things fair, I’ve been standing here waiting for you.”

  I chased him down the path, past more shops, outdoor bars, and live chickens. Regardless of how cute my shoes looked, they were no match for his Nikes. Then, to compound the humiliation, he stopped again so I could catch up. I made a long reaching grab and caught the end of his shirt.

  He squirmed a little, glaring at me over his shoulder. “Let go.”

  “Never!”

  Laughing, he quickly spun around and pulled me into his chest. “You’re an awful competitor.”

  “I caught you, didn’t I?” I asked breathlessly, still gripping a wad of cotton jersey in my small hand.

  “Only because I let you.”

  “And why would you do that?”

  He grinned. “You were looking a little out of breath and I didn’t want you to have a stroke.”

  I released his shirt and sighed. “I do need more exercise.”

  He bent his head, his face mere inches away from mine. “I know a form of exercise you would like.”

  My breath caught in my throat. “And are you an expert at this form of exercise?”

  “I sure am. Would you like a free lesson?”

  “Do you usually charge?”

  A lecherous laugh broke the moment. “Hola! I’m Sam Goldblum. You senoritas are muy bonitá.”

  I jumped back. God, he had bad timing. Or good timing. I wasn’t sure. The tingling in the pit of my stomach seemed to indicate one side more than the other.

  Max sighed. “I think the ship’s leaving the next half-hour. Are you through shopping?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on, Sam. Let’s go.”

  “Fine.” He walked backwards, trying to get one last glimpse of all the attractive island women. “I’m making the plans for tonight and everyone’s invited. We’re going to do karaoke!”

  My eyes widened. “You like to sing karaoke?”

  “Who doesn’t? Anyone who doesn’t like it is a vain, uptight Victorian.” He looked at me carefully. “You’ll be there, right?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said quickly, not knowing what else I could say.

  Max snickered and I avoided meeting his eyes. That didn’t stop him from wondering aloud whether I would sing a Mary J. Blige hit or a Whitney Houston number.

  Sam, being Sam, had started to sing a rousing rendition of “I Will Survive” to the delight‌—‌and horror‌—‌of everyone else traversing the gangplank.

  This was the guy I was trying to schmooze? He was equal parts chauvinistic, offensive, and stupid.

  I must be nucking futs.

  Chapter Ten

  FOR A PERSON who didn’t even sing Happy Birthday at parties‌—‌I usually mouthed the words enthusiastically‌—‌doing karaoke was asking a lot. I debated saying that I had come down with some awful, contagious illness that kept me confined to my cabin, but that wasn’t in keeping with the spirit of my trip. Besides, April was pretty excited to go, so I don’t think she would have allowed me to blow it off. I had decided to play it cool with her and not ask about her late night excursion to visit Max. I wanted her to want to tell me what she had been doing. It was the only way I’d believe her explanation.

  I’d agreed to meet Sam at the lounge by eight o’clock, which meant I left my cabin alone when April still wasn’t ready at seven forty-five. Considering how I was trying to get Sam to see me as partner material, I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t punctual.

  I made it to the bar and found Sam sitting in a corner booth by himself. He had two empty glasses in front of him and a third one full of an icy, rainbow-colored beverage. Sam picked up the glass and drank quickly, half of it disappearing before he put it down. Then he leaned back and laughed heartily at the guy on the stage, a handsome young man singing a song by Christina Aguilera.

  “Hey, Sam. How’s it going?”

  He nodded, bloodshot eyes bobbing disconcertedly. “Fantastic.”

  I slid into the booth and signaled a waitress. “I’d better start drinking if I want to get my karaoke on.”

  Head tilted towards me, Sam gave me an appraising look. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Um, to lubricate the old vocal cords?” I ordered a mojito from the waitress and turned back to Sam. “Been here long?”

  He counted his empty glasses. “I don’t know. About fifteen minutes.”

  I took a deep breath. “Can’t wait to hear you sing. I bet you’re a spectacular performer.”

  With a leering smile, he replied, “Oh, I am.”

  “On stage,” I said, weary of the overt sexual innuendos. I should be able to suck up in a more dignified manner.

  Fortunately, Sam was still smiling. “You think so?”

  “I can tell that you have a wonderful singing voice by listening to you speak.”

  “Thank you, Kate. You have a good ear. Many have told me I have the voice of a young Sinatra.”

  “It’s really too bad that American Idol has an age limit, because you’d win for sure.” I nodded with satisfaction. “You even have the right look.”

  Sam adjusted the collar on his designer shirt and straightened his tie. “I’ve heard that before.”

  Probably from the last person he made partner. “What are you going to sing?”

  “Haven’t decided yet. What are you going to sing?”

  “Me?” The waitress who w
as gently placing a mojito on a cocktail napkin in front of me jumped at my outburst, nearly sloshing the drink into my lap. “I think... nothing?”

  Sam put down his drink. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those vain, uptight Victorians?”

  Shoot. I sipped before answering. “Not at all. I can’t wait to get up there and sing my heart out!”

  He shook his head. “Then why did you say you wanted to sing nothing?”

  “Oh!” I laughed loudly. “You thought I meant... how funny!”

  His forehead was wrinkled like a sharpei’s. “I don’t get it.”

  “I meant that I was going to sing a song called ‘Nothing!’”

  “That is funny.”

  “Isn’t it?” I asked, inserting more fake laughs. “The song is called ‘Nothing,’ but you thought I meant I wasn’t going to sing anything. Ha ha ha!”

  Sam laughed with me, then stopped suddenly. “Wait a minute. I’ve never heard of that song.”

  “No?”

  “Who’s it by?”

  I dug my nails into the imitation leather banquet cushion. “Who is it by?”

  “Yes. Who... is... it... by?”

  “Metallica.” I exhaled with relief, having landing on something fairly accurate-sounding. “The full title is actually ‘Nothing Else Matters.’”

  His head jerked up. “I wouldn’t have taken you for metalhead.”

  I downed the rest of my mojito. “Who isn’t a closet headbanger?”

  “Indeed.”

  The current singer looked like a jailbait teenager, wearing cut-offs and a belly-baring shirt, but since the club was limited to cruise guests twenty-one and over, her looks were obviously deceiving. She was singing Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot,” and was actually pretty good. I guess karaoke wasn’t such a bad thing if you actually had a nice voice. Unfortunately, some people’s screams were more pleasant than my vocal attempts.

  “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

  I swiveled my head to look up at Max, an unintentional smile coming to my lips. “Long time, no see.”

  He was wearing a light blue shirt with a long-sleeved dark blue Oxford buttoned over it and khaki carpenter pants. His dark hair was slightly mussed, as though he’d taken a nap or gone to bed with someone. I let my gaze fall to the table and tried not to imagine myself in that predicament.