Love and Chaos: A Brooklyn Girls Novel

by Burgess, Gemma

  The yacht is rocking gently, the bed is soft and clean and … I’ll just close my eyes.

  CHAPTER 6

  I wake up alone to the sound of happy shrieks outside my cabin window (porthole, whatever). I can see a speedboat going around, trailing two of the girls in one of those blow-up donut things.

  Man, I am going to get seriously sick of hearing those chicks squeal.

  It’s just past 3:00 P.M. I should let Pia know where I am … but I don’t have cell reception out here on the goddamn ocean. And she probably doesn’t want to talk to me after my behavior last night. She’s at work right now anyway. And I’m all the way down here in the Caribbean. Weird. The world is so big. It’s easy to get lost.

  I drink one of the Coca-Colas, take a long shower, French braid my hair and tie a red ribbon on the end just for fun, and throw on my white bikini, sunglasses, and my white sundress. I forgot to bring sunscreen, which is a drag. (My skin is so white it’s nearly translucent. I swear to God, I can’t even fake tan, it’s like my epidermis rejects it.) I have a little blister from wearing my Converse for too long without socks, and I have a feeling that heels are not appropriate on deck, so I go barefoot.

  I look at myself in the mirror one last time before I leave my cabin.

  “No drugs, and no meds,” I say sternly to my reflection. Angie in the mirror nods back obediently.

  When I get upstairs, the party is in full swing. Beecher is making out with one of the girls, Lars is drinking margaritas with another, and the squealers are back from their donut excitement, self-consciously wringing out their hair in the sunshine so they can dry off their personal-trainer-and-surgeon-sculpted bodies without resorting to something as unsexy as a towel. Stef isn’t here. No one even looks up when I arrive.

  “Could I get a margarita, please?” I say to the guy manning the bar. “Where is the host?” I ask. “Hal, isn’t it?”

  “I’m right here,” says a voice. I turn around and am greeted by the sight of a swarthy dude wearing huge wraparound shades, white pants, and a white linen shirt (undone to midchest, ha, I knew it!). He’s hotter than I imagined. “Angie, right? Finally, we meet. I’m so glad we both dressed to match.”

  I flash him my best smile. “Virginal white. That’s totally my thing.”

  “I’ll bet it is.” Hal looks around. “Lars! Take it easy, my friend! Beecher, whoa there, big fella. Get a cabin.”

  He’s normal! Well, rich-kid normal.

  I can relax. It’s just a bored, insecure rich kid’s party. I can play this scene like a fucking guitar. (Well, okay, I can’t play a guitar. Like a harmonica. Whatever.)

  My margarita and I follow Hal down to a shaded lounging area where mellow trance music is softly playing.

  “This music is seriously annoying,” I say.

  “What do you want to hear, Angie?” Hal grins lazily at me. He’s definitely cute.

  “I’m going through a nineties electro dance phase.” I look him straight in the eye and play with my hair in the unaffected-yet-sexy-I-hope way that I always do when I like a guy.

  “The Prodigy okay? Hey! Carlos!” Hal shouts up to the drug-dealing goatee boat boy. “Put The Prodigy on! And can we get a couple more drinks? What is this, island time, mon?”

  Two for two.

  We both light cigarettes, lie back, and look at the view. It’s stunning: the calming blue of the sky and sea meeting in a perfect line far, far into the horizon, and sunshine that floods your brain with feel-good endorphins. I’m glad I came to this party. I pick up my margarita, smiling. Cheers to me.

  “I love being by the ocean,” Hal says. “When I’m away from it too long, I physically crave it. I have no idea how those people in the Midwest survive. Like farmers and cowboys.”

  “Yeah, I bet farmers and cowboys wake up every day and crave the ocean.”

  “The prettiest girl on the yacht is funny, too, huh?”

  “I’m the whole package.”

  Gradually, everyone else from the party, except Stef, comes and sits around us. We’re the center of attention for some reason. Even the girls who ignored me the entire flight are suddenly trying to start conversations. All of their sentences end in exclamation marks. Including the questions.

  “How do you French braid your own hair!” asks one excitedly. “I find it, like, totally hard to see the back of my head!”

  “I just close my eyes and feel my way around it,” I say.

  “That’s totally my motto in life,” says Hal, stretching out one arm behind my neck.

  I turn my head to make eye contact with him, and we smirk at each other for a moment. Boo and ya. It is in the bag, baby. (Isn’t that the most awesomely arrogant thing to say about a dude? Pia and I used to say it a lot as teenagers, and then normally had way too much fun just being with each other to bother with said dude. Damn, she was fun to be around. I miss her.)

  Hal is lightly stroking one finger up and down the top of my arm. I think he’s trying to be sexy, but it’s just making me shiver uncomfortably.… Maybe we could go out for dinner or something, back in New York. Or maybe we’ll make out later. Nothing more than that though, I’ve had enough meaningless-sex remorse for one week. (Urgh, don’t think about it.)

  I love kissing. Actually, no, you know what I really love? I love that moment right before you kiss, when the guy looks into your eyes, you know, and you feel that spark. That funny tingle, all over your body, when you know you’re just seconds away from touching lips. It’s so romantic, so mind-blowingly perfect.…

  It’s the prekiss. The moment when you know you’re really, truly connecting with the guy. And it’s almost always better than the kiss itself.

  “What’s your sign, Angie?” asks one of the girls, a sweet-faced brunette wearing last season’s DVF.

  “Aries,” I say.

  “Fire sign,” says Hal. I find it weird when guys are into horoscopes, don’t you? “And it’s your birthday soon. How old are you turning?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “You don’t look it!” chorus two of the other girls in unison.

  “Wow, thanks,” I say. “I’m going for the preteen look right now. Like a tween, you know, but stacked.”

  The girls are not sure if I’m joking.

  Ignoring their confused looks, I take a cigarette out and Hal lights it for me. I stare up at him while he does it. Ah, flirting.

  “Another margarita?” asks the goateed bartender a few minutes later. It’s the same one who offered me cocaine. He’s been bringing the drinks out fast, potent as hell. I should probably eat something. Then, as if someone’s reading my mind, great platters of food arrive, and a giant jug of iced water.

  “Conch fritters, a local speciality.” It’s that pain-in-the-ass clean-cut boat boy again. “And snapper sandwiches.”

  “Thank you! I am starving!” I grab a plate. The conch is kind of weird, but the sandwiches are amazing: soft bread, salty butter, and hot, crispy fish. None of the other girls are eating. I always wonder if girls like them don’t eat in front of guys so that they’ll think they don’t have a digestive system and never poop or something. Not me. I’m an eater. And I poop. Deal with it.

  I look up, halfway through my third sandwich, and catch the clean-cut boat boy’s eye again. He’s staring at me intensely, kind of disapprovingly. Unused to seeing girls eat, I bet.

  So I take the rest of the sandwich and jam it into my mouth, all at once, edging it past my molars on either side, and look back at the boat boy, my cheeks stuffed with sandwich, my face bulging like a cartoon. Then I blink a few times like Bambi. His entire face lights up with an ear-to-ear grin. Ha! I snort with laughter, crumbs blowing out of my mouth, and the boat boy ducks his head and turns away to hide the fact that he’s cracking up.

  “Wow, that is attractive,” says Hal, looking at me. Like the others, he’s barely picked at a couple of conch fritters. He’s on coke, I suddenly realize, chewing through the half-sandwich in my mouth. They all are. That’s why t
hey’re not eating. And actually, Beecher and two of the girls have disappeared belowdecks. Oh, well. All the more food for me.

  When my mouth is finally clear of sandwich, I take a slug of water and smile at Hal. “I have an appetite. Is that a problem?”

  He grins. “Absogoddamnlutely not.”

  Another margarita or two and more Euro trance music later, and the sun begins to set. Lars and another one of the girls disappear, and the other girl passes out on one of the daybeds. They’re all kind of strange, and I’m used to Stef’s freak-show friends. I can’t even figure out how everyone knows one another.

  Hal turns to me. “You should come check out my cabin. It’s ridiculous. There’s a bar and everything.”

  “Really,” I deadpan. Wow, is he really going to be that obvious? It’s so transparent, it’s almost adorable. “Are you going to make me a cocktail?”

  “Yes,” he says, grinning at me. “Yes, I am.”

  We get down to his cabin, the blast of the air-conditioning assaulting my sun-warmed skin. As you’d expect on a megayacht, it’s ridiculously big and glossily immaculate, with a gigantic bed, a full sofa area with a bar, and even a diving terrace.

  “Wow,” I say. “What a dump.”

  Immediately, Hal disappears into the en suite. You know, I don’t think I will make out with him after all. He’s clearly more interested in taking drugs than talking to me.

  Maybe I’ll wake Stef and find out when we’re leaving tomorrow. Brooklyn suddenly seems really far away, and not in a good way. This whole yacht scene feels a little … I don’t know, creepy. And I really do want to make up with Julia. And everyone else, too. Now that I’ve relaxed a bit, the situation at Rookhaven doesn’t seem so dire. Everything will be fine. It has to be. Right?

  Hal shuffles out of the bathroom, wiping under his nostrils.

  “How was the powder room, dear?”

  “You want?” he says, pointing his thumb in the direction of the en suite.

  I shake my head. “I’m gonna go find Stef.”

  “Make me a martini first? Stef tells me you do a great dirty martini.”

  “Um, sure. Why not.”

  I walk over to the bar and am reaching up to get the martini glasses from the top shelf when WHAM, I’m slammed up hard against the counter, Hal nuzzling the back of my neck.

  “Whoa, dude, slow down,” I say, trying to push him off me. I hate it when guys mistake force for passion. “Stop it. I mean it.”

  “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he whispers, slowly turning me around so I’m facing him.

  I look down.

  Hal’s penis.

  Is out.

  In his hand.

  Small, pink, and erect.

  Oh. My. God.

  Hal smiles at me, and then at his penis. “Do you want to touch him? He likes you.”

  I laugh out loud. “No!”

  “No?”

  “No … thank you?” How do you refuse an erect penis politely? “Sweet of you to offer, but, uh, no. Let’s get back to the party.”

  Hal tucks his penis back into his pants, thank fuck, but as I go to push past him he grabs me, hoists me up so I’m sitting on the bar, pushes my knees apart, and pulls up my dress.

  “Stop,” I snap, but he’s pinning me down, kissing my neck, his hands grabbing at my thighs and this isn’t funny anymore, but he’s not even looking me in the eye, he’s just dryhumping like a fucking crazed teenager. “Hal, stop. Now. Stop it!”

  I shove him away, get down from the bar, and push past him. I’m out of here.

  “Sorry!” he says. “Listen, Angie, I’m sorry, I really am.”

  I pause in the middle of the room. “You should be. Jesus.”

  Hal sniffs. “Listen, let’s just be totally open, okay? We’re grown-ups. Maybe I went about it the wrong way. You’re different.”

  I frown at him. What does he mean? Different from what?

  “Let’s set the boundaries now, and open a bottle of Veuve, go to the diving terrace, and figure it out from there.”

  “What boundaries?”

  “Three thousand, right? Full sex, and I want head first.”

  I stare at him. If I was a cartoon, there would be a little exclamation mark above my head.

  “What?” Hal looks surprised at my reaction. “Fuck, do I have that wrong? Is it four thousand? Stef said—”

  In that moment, everything becomes crystal clear.

  I’m suddenly sober.

  And.

  I.

  Am.

  Angry.

  CHAPTER 7

  I turn around, stalk out of Hal’s cabin, and storm through the yacht. I’m so furious, I feel like sparks are exploding from my body.

  “STEF!” I scream. “STEF, YOU PREPPY PIECE OF SHIT! WAKE THE FUCK UP!”

  I get to the first sleeping cabin and kick it open. Lars and another girl, doing coke.

  “STEF! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?”

  I kick in the next cabin door. Beecher and two girls, naked.

  “STEF! SHOW YOURSELF!”

  I kick open the next cabin door. Empty. But I can see Stef’s ridiculous little hat. This was his room. Which means he’s up.

  My fists are clenched so hard that my nails are cutting into my palms. On my way up the last set of stairs I run into that clean-cut boat boy again.

  He frowns at me. “Are you okay?”

  “No. I am not okay!” I push past him angrily.

  “Can I do anything?”

  “Yes. Stay the fuck away from me.”

  I stomp above deck, look around wildly, and see him. Stef. Sitting at the bar, looking completely normal, the goateed drug-dealing boat boy serving him a chilled glass of rosé. I walk right up to him.

  “Why the fuck did you bring me here?” My voice is suddenly shaking. “Hal thinks I’m a fucking hooker, Stef!”

  “Labels are very ugly, Angie.” Stef’s drawl is even more pronounced than usual.

  “You told him I’m a hooker?”

  “You need cash. Hal needs a girl. Maybe he upset you by being too up-front, but c’mon. You must have been expecting it.”

  “I was not fucking expecting it,” I hiss. “How dare you. I asked you what we were doing here, you said, ‘Just good fun, babe.’ You LIAR! I thought—”

  “Mani took you shopping, right?” Stef interrupts. My ex? Why is he bringing him up? Stef introduced us, but—“Did you get an extra-nice present after the first time you fucked him? I bet you did. How about Jessop? A weekend in Aspen and a charge card for a couple of grand at Bergdorf Goodman, right?”

  “That was … he said it was a freebie from his work, he said—” I’m stuttering now.

  “Sex in exchange for what you want.”

  “No.” Suddenly I can’t breathe. “That’s different.”

  “Is it? And does it even matter?”

  “It matters to me. They were just … generous…” My voice trails off as I realize how ridiculous I sound.

  “And you woke up yesterday morning in some hotel room with a stack of cash next to the bed, I’m guessing.” Stef’s voice grows eerily controlled. “Come on, tough girl. You’re smart. You really think you’re here for your conversational skills? Hal needs a girlfriend for the weekend. You told me you needed to make some money. Everybody wins.”

  “No—” My voice is a whisper.

  Stef’s eyes are glinting with controlled fury, and he’s talking superlow, through gritted teeth. “Just sit the fuck down and play nice. I went to a lot of effort to make this party happen for my friend Hal. You’re embarrassing me.”

  Total silence.

  We stare at each other.

  Suddenly, I’m very, very scared.

  I don’t know Stef, not really. I don’t know what he’s capable of doing to me. And I’m alone. Completely alone.

  Panic rises like bile in my stomach. I stumble backward away from Stef and look around wildly.

  The sun is setting, and the other yachts that surro
unded us earlier have left. They’re just gone, swoosh, vamoosed. I didn’t even notice! Or did we sail somewhere? I wasn’t paying attention, have we been sailing into the middle of the fucking ocean? I turn again, desperately trying to see land.

  It’s there. Thank God. Off the stern, I can see the long white beach of Grace Bay, and, in the soft dusk light, the twinkling lights of all the hotels. How far is it? A mile? Half a mile?

  I look back at Stef for a second. He stands up and opens his mouth to say something.

  Before he can speak, I look him in the eye. “Go fuck yourself, Stef.”

  Then I turn around, run toward the back of the yacht, take a deep breath, and dive.

  CHAPTER 8

  The moment the water hits my head, I have a weird flashback to my wish the other day. When I thought I was so miserable, back in freezing gray Brooklyn, and all I craved was the blissed-out feeling of diving into seawater.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  My dress is wrapping around my legs, making it hard to swim, so I quickly remove it. Then, wearing nothing but my bikini, I start swimming toward the shore.

  “Angie!” I can hear Stef screaming at me from the yacht. “Get the fuck back here, you crazy bitch!”

  There’s no point in shouting back—I need to save my breath—so I tread water for a moment, and without turning around, raise my arms out of the water to give him the finger from both hands.

  Then I keep swimming.

  Fuck you, Stef, I think, with every single stroke. I’m going to pay you back for this.

  I’m not exactly the running-around-the-soccer-field type, and the years of compulsory team sports in school just stressed me out because I was really uncoordinated and dreamy and forgot things like which direction to run if I ever actually got the ball. Swimming, however, is the perfect exercise for creative loners. And I’m pretty good at it.

  Every few breaths I look up to make sure I’m still heading in the right direction. I think I am, but it’s hard to tell. The land is a lot farther away than I thought. All I want is to get back on land, and then somehow I’ll find my way to Brooklyn. I want my home.