At least he had managed to make it to his bedroom instead of passing out on the couch—or worse, the bathroom floor. The corner of his silk pillowcase stuck to the five-o-clock shadow of his jaw, cemented there by a night’s worth of drool. He pulled it away, wincing as it tugged at his skin.
“God, Davis,” he muttered to the empty room. “You really are getting too old for this.”
He squinted his eyes just-barely-open to look at the clock on his night stand. Its digital readout was blurred and doubled. 9:45 a.m. He never woke up this early, not even when he’d remained boringly sober the night before. Something must have wakened him… but what? He lay still, listening for a honking horn, a barking dog, the ring of his phone—any sound that might account for this ungodly early rising.
Then his condo’s door intercom buzzed, harsh and nasal, grating over the murmur of the city outside. Somebody had come to see him.
“Shit,” Davis muttered, rolling out of bed, groaning at the ache in his stomach. Was he hungry? Or was that dull pain from all the puking he’d done last night? He didn’t remember puking, but since he’d woken up with a colossal hangover, a wise man would bet on the barf.
He stumbled over rumpled clothes discarded on his floor and into the bathroom, where the shining white tiles of floor and walls reflected the overhead light with cruel brilliance. He splashed water on his face, rinsed his mouth, then crammed a toothbrush in it and brushed hastily while he peed. He gave himself one last look in the mirror before he went to buzz in the visitor. His hair was a disheveled mess, but that was acceptable in his line of work. The worn, white undershirt he slept in almost had a hip appeal, if he kind of squinted, but the threadbare boxers were definitely unacceptable. He grabbed a pair of jeans from his bedroom floor and wrestled them on as he stumbled across his condo, still disoriented from his night of drinking.
Davis jabbed the intercom button. “Who is it?”
The brisk, efficient voice of his manager answered. “It’s Tyler. Let me in.”
Davis leaned his forehead against the wall and muttered, “Fuck.”
“I heard that,” Tyler said. “Your finger’s still on the button.”
Biting back another curse, he jammed the “Door Open” button and held it down longer than was necessary, relishing its angry buzz. He popped a pod of grounds into his coffee maker and stared at the dark stream of liquid salvation as it poured down, steaming, into his mug. The mug wasn’t even full when Tyler’s knock sounded on Davis’s door.
He braced himself with a deep, calming breath, then swung the door open, trying his damndest to look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. “Tyler. Hi. What a lovely surprise.”
“Can it, Davis.” Tyler brushed past him into the condo. “We need to talk.”
Tyler stared around the living area, his hard eyes coolly assessing behind the lenses of his fashionable, thick-rimmed glasses. Davis could practically read his manager’s thoughts as he evaluated the scattering of clothes and guitars, the couch cushion that had been kicked halfway out of its place, the glass pipe and baggie of weed that had been left out on the coffee table atop a wrinkled newspaper and a stack of unread books. Davis’s life had become as much a mess as his home was. The clutter made an ugly picture set against the ordered backdrop of Seattle’s skyline.
He’s thinking I’m a wreck, Davis told himself as he retrieved his coffee mug from the brewing machine. And he’s not wrong, either.
Tyler ran a hand through his blond curls and turned to face Davis squarely. The Space Needle loomed behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows, like a monument to achievement and success. The Needle and Tyler together—Tyler, who was only twenty-eight but had his shit together in ways Davis could only dream about—seemed to mock him where he stood, barefoot in his faded jeans, his undershirt hanging limply from his frame.
“I’ll cut right to the chase,” Tyler said. “You’re going away for a while.”
“What? Where? What do you mean?”
“You’re taking a vacation, Davis. I’ve booked you for a little cruise around the San Juan Islands—just you, alone, on a nice, comfy sailboat for ten whole days.”
Davis set his untasted coffee down on the granite countertop and gaped at Tyler in disbelief.
“Don’t worry,” Tyler added. “You’re not paying. It’s on the label’s tab.”
“I hope so. I’ve never been on a damn boat in my life. And… alone? What’s this all about, Ty?”
“Well, in short, it’s about… this.” Tyler spread his hands wide, indicating the strewn refuse of Davis’s life. “You’ve got to get it together, man. You need to do some serious thinking about where your future is heading and how you’re going to get there. I thought some R&R could help you out.”
Alone. Drifting through the islands, alone. The last thing Davis wanted was to be alone. Wasn’t he alone enough these days? Living alone, drinking alone… as the frontman of the Local Youths, who’d enjoyed one hit after another a few years back, he was just famous enough that he couldn’t go out for a night on the town without being bombarded by demanding fans. The only time he got together with other people anymore was when the band rehearsed—or when they toured, which hadn’t happened in almost two years. They were still struggling to come back after losing their old drummer, Mark.
Well… they didn’t so much lose Mark. It was more like Davis forcibly evicted him from the band. But what else should he have done, once he finally realized that Mark and Christine had been sleeping together behind his back?
Hell no, Davis didn’t want to be alone, and he didn’t want any R&R. For him, peace and quiet were crowded with painful thoughts of Christine—how much he had adored her, how her body had driven all the sense right out of his head—and how badly it had hurt when he’d walked in on her and Mark in bed. Those awful memories could only be chased away with loud music and booze. That was what Davis did best: loud music and booze. And he’d keep on doing it until all thoughts of Christine were driven out of his heart.
Of course, there were other reasons to fear peace and quiet and all that damn thinking Tyler wanted him to do. Davis didn’t relish the idea of sitting on some damn boat, pondering where his life was going—because he was afraid it was going nowhere. After tasting unimaginable fame, his career was on a slow but undeniable slide into obscurity. That hurt almost as badly as the mess with Mark and Christine. Maybe it hurt worse. Most days, Davis couldn’t decide. But he knew one thing for sure: he didn’t want to dwell on the grim future. He just wanted to live in the here-and-now, because he was pretty sure the here-and-now wouldn’t last much longer.
“No way,” Davis said. “This sounds like a pointless waste of time, when we could be working on better promo for the band. We’ve got to launch our next album much more strongly than the last one. I—”
“I’m afraid it’s not optional.” Tyler turned his back on Davis to stare out at the Space Needle. “You’re going to go on this little sea voyage and figure yourself out. You’re going to come back to Seattle and tell me exactly who Davis Steen is and where his career is going next. You’re going to get your shit together, Davis, or Sky Records will drop you.”
Davis’s heart lurched. “What?”
“You heard me, man.” Tyler faced him again, and his eyes had softened with sympathy. “We love you at Sky, Davis. You know that. The Local Youths really put us on the map. But the band isn’t what it used to be. We need more from you—we need a reinvention, a revival. Of the band, of you—I don’t care which. But it has to happen, and soon. Or we’ll have no choice but to drop you from the label.”
Davis jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stared down at the floor. Damn. So it had come to this, and so soon. Fame really was fickle. He should have known this was coming—wasn’t everything in his life fickle? Christine, leaping into Mark’s bed the second she’d grown tired of Davis. Mark, jetting off with Christine to form a brand-new band… one that was currently tearing up the charts while the Youths flo
undered around for their next hit. And now Sky Records was ready to drop him. Davis had felt so secure with Sky, ever since they first signed the Youths six years ago. And now even that partnership was ready to fall apart.
Nobody sticks with anything anymore. Everybody just goes wherever the wind blows them. And the wind is blowing me straight into ruin.
The other members of the Youths would be just fine if Sky Records cut them from the roster. Even their new drummer had side projects with promising futures. But Davis had nothing—nothing but this band.
“You’re thirty-two,” Tyler said gently. “Maybe it’s just time to move on from the Youths, Davis. I mean… the band’s name—”
“Ha. You’ll see when you’re a grizzled old thirty-two-year-old like me that your thirties are hardly old age.”
But despite his bravado, he felt old. Old and used up… and already forgotten. Davis very much feared that if he spent ten days all alone on a boat, with no one but his own dark thoughts for company, he’d feel even older. Even more useless.
“You leave at one o’clock this afternoon,” Tyler said, tugging his sport jacket lapels in a business-like manner, in a way that said, that’s that, and my work here is through. He stepped toward the door, but Davis stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Listen, Tyler… I don’t think I can really—”
At that moment, the morning alarm went off in his bedroom. A die-hard devotee of the days before phones did everything except wipe your ass—the days when real rock ruled the airwaves—Davis used his old-school clock radio, and kept its alarm set to the radio function. But now he wished for the obnoxious, pulsating buzz of a regular alarm. The radio blasted Two-Timer at an ungodly volume, so in-your-face that Davis could feel the chords vibrating in his teeth. It was the latest hit song from Can’t Never… the band Mark and Christine had formed together. It seemed every station in the area played Can’t Never every hour, on the hour. And whenever Davis turned off the radio, pictures of the band kept popping up on news sites and his friends’ Facebook feeds. He couldn’t escape Can’t Never—and all the dark thoughts Christine’s smile brought to his head.
“Fuck,” Davis said, pinching the bridge of his nose. At least on a boat he would be free from Can’t Never for ten blissful days. He wouldn’t have to see any pictures of Mark and Christine, either, looking so cool and arrogantly in love as they held hands for the paparazzi’s cameras. “All right, Ty. I’ll do it. If you really want me to.”
Tyler slapped him good-naturedly on the back. “That’s my star. Pack your bags; I’ll have a car here to pick you up at one o’clock sharp.”
3
Emily stepped down from the ladder onto the dock and brushed her hands together with a brisk, satisfied, finishing-up gesture. The Coriolis bobbed against its moorings as if eager to be off.
“Food’s all stowed in the galley,” Emily said to Jordan, “and I stashed your gear in your berthing locker. Storm’s got his stuff all packed up, too. He’s checking the engine now. The cabin is spic and span, ready for Mr. Moneybags’ dream vacation.”
“Thanks,” Jordan said. She checked her waterproof watch. “Hopefully he gets here soon. It’s already 3:30; we were supposed to cast off about fifteen minutes ago, but he’s nowhere in sight.”
“You know how what those wealthy clients are like. The world has to function according to their schedules, not vice-versa.”
Jordan rolled her eyes. “Don’t remind me. At least this is the last charter client we’ll ever take aboard.”
“Maybe,” Emily said with a sly smile.
“Don’t hang your hopes on Sea Wolf. I’m serious about quitting. You know I only agreed to this trip because of the paycheck. It’ll tide you and Storm over until next summer and pay my moorage for the next nine months. And it’ll give me enough time to figure out what I want to do with my life.” At least, I hope it will give me enough time for that… “I just want to survive this trip and make it back to the pier without losing my mind. Then I can figure out how to move on with my life.”
“Sheesh, you make it sound like we’re going to sail into a white squall. ‘Survive this trip!’ What are you so worried about, Jordy?”
Jordan sighed, shoving her sunglasses up so she could rub her eyelids. Her eyes felt gritty and sore, as if she’d been crying for hours, though in fact she hadn’t shed a tear. “I’m worried about this client. What kind of person offers ten times the normal charter rate? He has to be the most demanding, high-maintenance person we’ve ever taken on board. If I hadn’t already been thinking about giving up the business, I’m sure this guy would push me to that point. I have a feeling I’m going to want to throw myself overboard before we’ve even made it to Lopez Island.”
Emily laughed, a high, musical sound. Emily’s laughter had always cheered Jordan, always coaxed her out of the worst funks. The cute blonde’s bright, optimistic nature was just one of many reasons why Jordan had considered Emily her best friend for all these years. But now, as she waited for the client from Hell to arrive—as she prepared herself to let this pushy, high-dollar creep onto the Coriolis, her sacred sanctuary—Jordan only felt herself sliding deeper into anxiety and despair. She groaned and leaned her head on Emily’s shoulder, seeking the comfort only her best friend could give.
“Aw, Jordy.” Emily wrapped her arms tight around Jordan’s middle and squeezed. “Don’t be such a bummer. You’ve got to loosen up and learn how to have fun.”
“I have plenty of fun!”
Emily snorted. “You know I love you, but come on. Spontaneity is not exactly your middle name. I’m not trying to make you feel badly. You should be really proud of everything you’ve achieved. How many twenty-four-year-olds can say they run their own business? Especially one as successful as Sea Wolf Charters?”
“I’m hardly the most successful charter captain in the world,” Jordan said. But she couldn’t keep a tiny smile from her face. She was proud of all she’d accomplished. She struggled through that first season to prove her worth to some of the most demanding, judgmental clients in the world. And she did it. She built her reputation, against all odds.
“Everything you have—the business, your reputation, this beautiful boat—you have because you stayed focused on your goal. I can never tell you how much I admire you for that drive. You know what you want out of life, and you make your dreams come true, come Hell or high water.”
Yeah, right. Jordan had always thought she knew what she wanted. But she had no idea what she ought to do once Sea Wolf Charters closed. “This is the first time in my life I’ve been without a purpose, without some target to shoot for. There’s no clear destination on the horizon, and that makes me feel…”
“Lost?” Emily suggested. “Anxious? Scared? Freaked out? Perhaps a little grumpy?”
Jordan laughed softly. “All of the above.”
“That’s just what I’m talking about. It’s okay to feel those things. You don’t always have to be laser-focused. You don’t need a perfectly defined future. You don’t need to have everything figured out.”
The very thought of drifting aimlessly through life made Jordan’s stomach churn with nausea.
“It’s okay to just let go sometimes,” Emily continued. “It’s okay to take risks… be crazy and wild. Sometimes we all need that. In moderation.”
“That’s never been me.”
“But there’s no reason why it can’t be you. What’s the worst that could happen if you went all spur-of-the-moment, just once?”
Jordan threw up her hands. “Anything! Everything! People who don’t plan and focus make stupid decisions. They do things they regret later. They do things that make them miserable!”
“And you… you planned and focused and made your longest-held dream come true. And now… you’re miserable.”
“Okay, you got me there.” Jordan stuffed her fists in the pockets of her quick-dry sailing pants. “But I just can’t imagine myself cutting loose and going wild… or being c
omfortable with an unknown future. It’s just not me.”
Emily tipped her head to one side. Her golden ponytail swung across her shoulder. “Maybe you should imagine a little harder. I bet this trip won’t be nearly as bad as you think.”
“Oh, yeah? I bet it’ll be worse.”
Emily stuck out her tongue.
“The worst. Ever,” Jordan said. “The. Worst.”
The sky resonated with the tinny hum of a prop plane. Jordan and Emily turned to gaze southeast, past the masts of the marina and the nearby, hunched green back of Brown Island. A float plane appeared over the island’s trees, skimming low, heading for its landing on the smooth water of the harbor. It wasn’t one of the usual yellow-and-white planes that carried passengers from Seattle and Bellingham. This one was deep red with silver-gray floats.
“I’ve never seen a plane like that before,” Emily said.
Jordan nodded and drew herself up, bracing her hands on her hips. “It’s a private plane. Looks like Mr. Moneybags has arrived.” She could consider cutting loose and going wild later—after her last charter trip was finished. She would need all the self-possession and laser focus she could muster if she was going to make it through the next ten days.
The whine of the plane’s engine filled the bowl of the harbor as it touched down on the water. Storm emerged from below decks and shaded his eyes to watch it coast toward the float-plane pier. Jordan, too, eyed the plane in wary silence as Emily shuffled eagerly beside her. Two of the marina’s teenage staff hurried down the dock to help secure the plane to its temporary moorings, and before the propeller had stopped spinning the door opened, revealing Jordan’s last client as he emerged from the plane’s narrow interior.
Jordan’t first thought was that he didn’t look like a typical charter sailor. Even at a distance, she could tell he was much younger than her average client. Dressed in a simple white t-shirt and dark jeans that hugged his legs and crotch just enough to emphasize his fit physique, he didn’t even look particularly wealthy. Big aviator shades covered his eyes, but she could see the blue shadow of stubble on his jaw. Artfully mussed hair, so dark it was almost black, tossed and ruffled in the wind. The two teenage boys on the dock drew back as if in awe. The man in the white t-shirt hoisted a duffel bag from within the plane and slung it on one shoulder. Then he took a long, black guitar case from the pilot and set off down the dock, brushing past the gawking boys, moving with an easy, unhurried stride that spoke of supreme confidence.
Hearts on Fire: Romance Multi-Author Box Set Anthology Page 98