LaClaire Night

by Dori Lavelle

  “I work in administration.” I cover the naked lie with a smirk that comes so easily to my lips. “Nothing special. Boring paperwork all day. I hope your job is more exciting.”

  She tucks a curly strand of hair behind her ear before I’m tempted to go and do it for her, an excuse to get close to her again, to touch her smooth, pale skin, to steal another whiff of her intoxicating perfume. I want to wrap my hands around the thick braid and unravel it, freeing her lush hair. I long to mess up her locks, to pollute her innocent mind and body.

  “I’m a masseuse.” She leans against the stack of yoga mats. “The spa will be my second home, I guess.”

  “Mind a visit from me sometime?” I inject a little sex to my tone and watch in appreciation as her pale skin colors.

  She peels her eyes from mine but not before I see something in them, something resembling pain. My suspicions are confirmed by the cloud on her features when she looks back at me. Someone did a number on her. She brought a heart filled with hurt on my ship.

  “Sure.” She smiles. “Anyone is allowed to stop by.”

  Shit. Getting her in the sack might not be a great idea after all. She might be looking for someone to love her again, someone romantic and upstanding to piece her back together. That’s not my specialty. My intentions are of the impure kind. If she’s looking for someone to fuck her for more than a few nights, I’m not the guy. Fun with no strings attached is all I’m interested in. I’m neither ashamed nor secretive about it. My conquests always know what to expect before I bury myself into their pussies.

  I can’t toy with this one. I like taking what I want but I do have a conscience.

  Grace turns away, heading for one of the treadmills on the far end of the room. She knows we’d be a bad idea. She has read my body language. Now she’s running, looking for an escape, a distraction.

  “Maybe I will.” I return to my workout, my cock pulsing with disappointment.

  Before I can start lifting again I look at her for what I hope to be the last time today, only to find her having trouble with programming the treadmill, which is racing way too fast even before she gets up on it. Her panting is audible all the way to where I’m standing as she pushes buttons in a flurry.

  The girl has no clue how to work a treadmill. She must be new to exercising and I’m a pro. It would be cruel to watch her make a fool of herself without doing something about it. Helping a girl in need doesn’t have to mean anything. Just one colleague assisting another. According to her, I’m one of them. Surely I can help her without expecting anything in return, right?

  “Hang on there.” I approach her. “Let me give you a hand. That monster can be tricky sometimes.”

  “Thanks.” She smiles and steps back, dots of color on her cheeks.

  Ignoring the scent of her perfume, I brief her on the buttons and other features of the machine. She nods and does what I tell her. The only negative is our arms which keep getting tangled, our hands brushing.

  Every freaking time our skins touch, I burn up inside. How the hell am I supposed to keep my promise to myself? I can’t stay away from her. I want to, but I also don’t. The girl is driving me insane, even with her clothes on.

  “Thank you again.” Her voice is a husky whisper. She feels it too—the electric spark.

  Now what the fuck do I do? If she were any other girl, I’d take her to one of the empty changing rooms and fuck her brains out. Or even right there on her yoga mat. But she makes me pause. I seriously doubt she’s that type of girl.

  “Sure, no problem.” I fold my arms in front of my chest to restrain my hands before they reach out to touch her breast or something equally enticing. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need help with. I’m well acquainted with all these guys.” I wave a hand at the other machines.

  She smiles and steps onto the treadmill. As she raises a leg, her baggy yoga pants strain against her ass.

  Damn. Just what I need. “Well, I better go finish up. Have fun.” I hurry away before she can form a response.

  It’s a struggle continuing to pump weights with a damn erection between my legs, and the sound of her breathing filling the room, driving me all kinds of crazy. She tempts me to think about everything I want to do to her, the things I want to teach her. She looks like she needs more than a lesson in handling machines. My mind refuses to stop seeing her naked.

  The weights drop to the floor with a thud.

  Time to subtract myself from the equation. Doing something stupid is not in my plans.

  I head for the door but the moment I fill the doorway, I stop. I can’t walk away. Who knows, maybe after whatever bad experience she’s had, right now she might be on the search for pleasure with no strings attached. There’s a chance we both want the same thing. My dick tells me it would be a mistake to leave without finding out. The woman is one hell of a magnet.

  I’m tempted to go ask for a way to contact her. Sure, it would be simple to look up her room number and show up later, but I’m no stalker. I wouldn’t want to bring things to a screeching halt before they get started. Asking a woman for her number had never been a problem before. So, why am I hesitating? Why the fuck am I hovering in the doorway like an idiot?

  She might reject me and I don’t have much experience on how to handle that. The past few years, when I desired a woman, I got her, no questions asked. Many times there was no need for the exchange of numbers. Looks like with Grace, though, I have to do things the old fashioned way.

  I tighten my hands around both ends of the towel hanging from my neck. “How about a drink sometime?”

  Was that all I could come up with? I sounded like a high school kid asking the popular girl in class out on a date. “I mean, you know, we’re stuck on this ship for six weeks. We might as well be friends. Friends share drinks sometimes.” What the fuck? Well, too late now.

  She chews the corner of her lip for a few seconds before she nods. “I’d like that.”

  “Can I have your number? This is a large ship, after all.”

  She steps off the treadmill, sweeps a towel across her forehead and tells me the most beautiful set of numbers.

  “Right, thanks.” I turn to leave but she calls my name.

  “Don’t you need to write the number down or something?”

  “No.” I wink. “I have a good memory. I’ll give you a call.”

  “All right then.” She frowns and lifts her chin a fraction. She wants to look like a confident, unbruised woman though she fails miserably. But at least she looks damn cute trying. Once I get her in my bed she’ll forget all her insecurities.

  “Have a great evening.” I disappear through the door.

  When I’m a safe distance from the gym, I mop the sweat from my forehead and head to the employee dining hall.

  Every time one of my ships embarks on a new journey and I’m present, I always make a speech to the staff, a way to get them motivated. Happy employees, happy guests, happy Bryant. Nothing wrong with me acting like everyone’s friend, unless the shit hits the fan. Either way, my employees reflect the reputation of my businesses. The ship’s captain addresses the guests and I take care of the crew’s egos.

  It’s a little disappointing that Grace is not present. She must have missed the memo. But it’s fine. The less she knows about me at the beginning, the better. Sooner or later she will find out but that’s okay. She didn’t look like a gold-digger.

  The dining room goes quiet the moment I enter and everyone looks up to stare at the boss in workout gear. Some might think it’s not professional, but I don’t give a damn tonight. Tonight I want to be relaxed. Tomorrow I’ll get back into one of my charcoal, designer tailored suits.

  I step up onto the small stage area and give them a grin, making eye contact with everyone from the highest to the lowest rank. My father taught me well. People need to know they’re seen and appreciated to do their best work.

  “Good evening, everybody. It’s nice to see you all here. For those of you who don
’t know me, I’m Bryant LaClaire, but go ahead and call me Bryant.” I meet the eye of one of the employees, a tall, dark-haired waitress with high cheekbones. Normally, she would be one of my targets, one of the ladies to please me on this long journey. I turn away from her and look at everyone as a whole. The usual thrill is missing from my veins.

  As I wrap up my speech, I try to imagine some of them naked, but the only face I see, the only body that comes to mind is that of the woman with the long braid and Bambi eyes.

  I tell myself it means nothing. I’m only more excited about her because she’s a bit of a challenge. Once I get her into my bed, I’ll move on to others with no problem. Maybe I’ll even come back to the raven-haired beauty.

  Applause breaks out once I conclude my speech, I get off the stage and head to the bar. I need a drink. Normally, that’s where I meet the first lady of the night, one of the women who had been fawning over me during the speech. But tonight, all I need is a stiff drink to screw my head on straight.

  Several of the ladies get in my face, vying for my attention, but I talk to them as a boss would and they skulk away in surprise. My employees know I love beautiful women and I’ve slept with most of them. It’s my ship and I can do what I like.

  I exchange words with several of them—both men and women—then I finish my vodka martini and say goodnight. For the first time on a ship’s maiden voyage, I go to bed alone.

  3

  Grace

  After three days at sea, I barely even notice the rocking of the ship anymore. Putting distance between me and my hometown is the best decision I’ve ever made. I feel at home on the water and free to do what I like without anyone judging me. Doing what’s expected of me all the time is so exhausting. But on the LaClaire, I can let loose and be myself. The people around me accept me as an individual, with my own ideas and a sense of humor I didn’t even know I had.

  I can choose to be one person today and another tomorrow. It doesn’t matter. Whatever makes me happy is my business. I see my colleagues becoming friends even after my job on this cruise is done. At twenty-six, I’m the youngest massage therapist on the ship, but the others consider me an equal, never treating me like a child or bossing me around.

  Lynn Hu, a beautiful Asian-American with long, straight raven hair, is in her early thirties, and like me, she’s divorced. Unlike me, her marriage lasted three years before her husband started chasing other women.

  Ginger-haired Jillian Faucher is in her forties. A true romantic at heart, she believes there’s a soulmate out there for everyone, including me and Lynn. She’s fallen in and out of love more times than she can count, but heartbreak has not changed her belief in happily-ever-after.

  The two women are helping me see the world through a different set of glasses and I like what I see. It’s almost as though, before now, I’ve been hidden from all the good the world has to offer, sheltered and made to believe that fun is a sin. After all the lessons my mother has drilled into me over the years, none of them have brought me happiness, or protected me from heartbreak.

  They say, learn from someone else’s mistakes, but right now I’m ready to learn from my own. I’ve tried it my mother’s way. Now I’m ready to branch out on my own and do things my way.

  “Your two o’clock appointment has just walked in.” Jillian pops her head around the door, chewing gum. The few days I’ve known Jillian, I’ve never seen her without a piece of spearmint gum in her mouth, constantly working her jaw. “I’m sorry, love, but I’m glad he’s not one of my appointments.” That sentence is delivered in a whisper.

  I follow her into the waiting room, wondering what she means, when I spot the client, wearing tiny, orange shorts with a large pot belly hanging over the waistband. A sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead and the balding part of his head. I peg him to be no older than fifty at the most.

  He flashes a toothless grin. “I booked a deep tissue massage with Ms. Anderson.” His breathing is labored as though he’d climbed dozens of stairs to get to us, which he couldn’t have done since the spa is below deck.

  “I’m Ms. Anderson.” I smile at him. “Please come in.”

  He swipes a palm across his forehead and extends the same hand toward me for a handshake.

  As I squeeze his hand, I try not to cringe at the transfer of sweat between his palm and mine.

  I glance at Jillian, who winks at me and turns to arranging towels on the shelf.

  I shoot her a disapproving look and turn to my client. “Please follow me, sir.”

  I take him to a different room, one where the candles are already lit, and the air smells of comforting lavender.

  Less than five minutes later, my client is lying flat on the massage table and my hands are sweeping across his back, ignoring the angry pimples covering every inch of skin, the sour smell of the sweat rising from his skin.

  You’re a professional, Grace. You can do this.

  This is my job. I’m getting paid to do this. But I distract myself anyway, thinking about something else.

  An image of Bryant’s smiling face flashes in my mind, as it had the last three days each time my mind was idle. I don’t know how many times I imagined him naked, my hands on his smooth, solid chest. I’ve never thought about a guy in a sexual way like this before, not even Dustin. Bryant completely consumes my mind.

  Sometimes my thoughts of him are so vivid, I fool myself into thinking his hands are on my body, his lips on mine, his orange blossom, lemon, and bergamot scent refreshing my lungs. He smells like summer to me.

  Every time my thoughts of Bryant are polluted by those of Dustin. The look he gave me on our wedding night always brings all my fantasies crashing. The poison of his memories kill the butterflies in my stomach and eats at my stomach lining. Why had I ever agreed to become more than friends? Why had I accepted his proposal, given that I didn’t feel for him as I should?

  I regret listening to my mother who told me that love didn’t make a marriage. I regret listening to everyone who thought we made a great couple. I regret not having listened to my heart in the first place. But the one thing I regret the most is giving my virginity to him. If I had not had sex with him, I would never have found out that I wasn’t good at it. If only I could turn back the clock and erase all memories of that night so they wouldn’t poison the present.

  Maybe it’s a good thing that Bryant hasn’t called me as he said he would. I’d not be able to handle seeing another disappointed face when I’m unable to perform in bed. What was I even thinking giving him my number? He was so persuasive, so smooth that saying no didn’t cross my mind. For a moment, when he’d looked into my eyes, I’d forgotten the past, that I’m way out of his league—sexually at least. The way he moved, the way he talked told me everything I needed to know. He’s experienced and I’m a beginner. Sometimes fantasy is so much safer than reality.

  I’m here to work anyway, to find myself, not love. My sexy thoughts of Bryant are better kept locked away.

  My hands glide across my client’s back, my fingers kneading into his flesh the way they used to when I kneaded bread dough as a child in my mother’s kitchen. His groans fill the room, making me wish I could plug something into my ears. It’s awkward for me to listen to the sounds people make when being massaged, wondering whether those are the same noises they make during sex. I definitely do not want to imagine my client having sex.

  “Am I hurting you?” I ask when the sounds get louder and ricochet off the walls.

  “No. Don’t stop. It’s perfect.” He gives a low grunt that vibrates through his whole back.

  Gritting my teeth, I continue loosening the knots in his back and shoulders while focusing on the low classical music coming from the hidden speakers. Instead of Bryant or Dustin, I think of the exotic stopovers planned for our journey. A bubble of joy rises up my chest at the thought of my feet sinking into warm, damp beach sand, while the sea breeze invigorates me. Even though I have to work, this is as close as it gets to a paid holiday.<
br />
  I never planned for Bryant to show up in my daydream, but he does. He’s on the beach with me, touching my body, kissing me, making me feel alive. This time Dustin does not show up to ruin the moment. So, I let myself go emotionally, allowing the sensual side of me to surface. I do not emerge from my daydream until I’m done massaging my client.

  When I glance down at him, he’s fast asleep and snoring. Instead of waking him immediately, I wash my hands and clean up. Before doing anything else, I pull my phone from my purse. Since it’s on silent mode, I wouldn’t have heard if someone had tried to reach me.

  I have a lot of missed calls. My heart shrivels when I notice none of them are from Bryant, despite telling myself I no longer want him to call.

  My mother called four times and Dustin called twice. Why does he keep calling me? Shouldn’t he be occupying himself with searching for his future porn star wife?

  Without checking the number, I listen to one of the voice messages. I expect it to be my mother, who I haven’t spoken to since I left home. Avoiding her for too long will be impossible.

  The voice message is from Dustin.

  “Jesus, Grace, why won’t you return my calls? I know you are on a cruise ship in the Caribbean, doing whatever, but we need to talk. Call me back immediately when you get this. Your mom told me to leave you a message, so here it is. Call me.”

  My temples are throbbing with anger by the time his message comes to an end. Who does he think he is to butt into my life when he didn’t want to be in it in the first place? It rubs me the wrong way that he’s still in touch with my mother, trying to pull her to his side. I owe him nothing, not even a phone call. I drop the phone back into my purse. I won’t call either of them back. No one will ruin my mood. As far as I’m concerned they can both go to Hell.

  Even as I do my best not to be affected by Dustin’s message, I can’t lift the cloud that’s pressing me into the nearby chair, where I sit, massaging my temples. I can’t help thinking about what everyone is saying about me back home.