“It's broken,” I wanted to tear it off. Pop it out of the joint and throw it into the ocean. Fuck my leg. The sharks could have it. I didn't want it anymore. It hurt too much. “Make it stop,” I said.
“I can't,” he replied, and put his arm around me.
I buried my face against his chest. His skin was gritty, smelled like musk and salt, and was so very soft. Like a pillow. I wanted my pillow. I wanted to be back home, in bed, curled under the covers after binging on rum raisin ice cream.
His heartbeat was rhythmic. Funny, that. Who knew he had one? A heart, that is. And I tried to focus on nothing but its cadence. I drifted in and out of consciousness at that point, and every time I came back around the pain was still there. Magnified, as if it was pissed off that I'd fallen asleep and it was getting back at me. But Maddox's heartbeat was there, too, and it gave me a strange, merciful distraction. I honestly thought – almost wished – that the next time I'd fade away, that would be it. Ironic, as for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to die.
“Ramona?”
I didn't have the strength to speak. He’d sounded excited, though. Elated? Or was it concern? Panic? Because having someone die in your arms is the most fucked up thing that could ever happen to a person. Ever.
Then, from somewhere, I heard a voice proclaim, “Ahoy!”
What a weird thing for God to say. Or would that be Saint Peter? While we were at it, where were the pearly gates? The tunnel with the light, and loved ones waving me through?
“Over here!”
That was Maddox. Also weird. He wasn't dying, so why was he telling God where we were? And, really, wouldn't God know?
That's where my mind was at. Unable to process anything. It was having an out of body experience while still firmly embedded in my being. No wonder it was confused.
“Que es?” another voice asked. Masculine, older. And Spanish.
God was Spanish?
So there.
“She's hurt,” Maddox replied. “Muy… muy mala...”
He got the feminine form of 'bad' correct. Five points to the shit head.
The rest of that day was pretty much a blur. I had a vague recollection of male voices, most of them Cuban, all meshing together into one continuous buzz. Once in a while Maddox's attempts at Spanglish would chime in, mostly saying 'careful por favor', 'gracias', and 'she es mi amiga.”
I was going to object, naturally. I didn't consider us friends. But my leg had throbbed in relentless waves of pulsating, merciless heat, and the only thing that was keeping me from passing out was biting my tongue, and counting the surges of hurt that flowed from my hip to my foot and back again.
I remembered Maddox asking me if I was ready. He said that if everything worked out, he'd take me out for rum raisin ice cream, if I wanted. Then proceeded to tell me that rum raisin ice cream was more offensive to the pallet than a frozen pile of dog shit, and on the count of three, lifted me up off the sand.
I remembered screaming. A veil of black fog enveloping my head. The last conscious thought I had was wondering if my life would flash before my eyes. Like it had done when I slammed the Insatiable into the shore, full speed ahead.
My flash was a commercial. There was this ad, a long time ago, where happy soapy bubbles just finished scrubbing the ring off a tub, and looked merry and gay as they got sucked down the drain. I always hated that commercial. I felt sorry for the bubbles. Becca would laugh her ass off when I would cover my eyes as those joyful little dudes spiraled down to their death.
After that, darkness. I'd had my fair share of binges in college, but never had a full on black out. Nothing like this. I figured I was going down the drain, too.
I’d woken up only once before we docked. My eyelids fluttered open, I heard the ocean slapping on the sides of the boat, and saw Maddox sitting beside me. For a second I thought that the past few days never happened, that there was no shipwreck, and we were back on the yacht. This was no yacht, though. It was barely a tug boat.
Later I'd learn it was an ancient lobster trawler by the name of Dicey, manned by two Cuban fishermen who hadn't seen the flare, but the wreck of the Insatiable. They'd anchored just offshore, rifled through the remains of the yacht, and thinking its passengers may be somewhere on the island with more stuff to rifle through, gave it a quick search.
We were in the captain's quarters – no more than a bathroom sized cabin with a rickety cot for a bed and a permeating smell of shaving cream – and I was covered by an Army issued canvas blanket. It was itchy, but warm.
Maddox had smiled, and took away the wet towel he'd been using to dab at my forehead.
“Hey,” he’d said. “How's your day so far?”
“Epic,” I’d managed, and cast my eyes to the side table. There was a bottle of water, a seashell overflowing with ground out cigarette butts, and half a bottle of whiskey. I’d pointed to the whiskey. “That,” I’d said.
Maddox picked it up, swirled the questionable amber liquid around, and unscrewed the cap. It stung my throat from here.
“Probably shouldn't have this on an empty stomach,” he said, and handed me the bottle.
“Shouldn't…. have this on any stomach,” I replied, and chugged down a shot. My esophagus instantly objected, wanted to close itself off because the owner of said esophagus was obviously an idiot, but I forced it down, feeling the whatever the fuck it was coat my throat, my rib cage, and splashing down on the aforementioned empty stomach. It was like drinking gasoline.
He watched as I threw another one back. It went down a little easier. It was also making the spin of my head a bit more livable. Taking my mind off the ache in my leg. My ribs kinda hurt, too. My head. I glanced out the porthole, watching the splash of the Atlantic spew against the cracked glass. The colors of sunset beginning to settle on the ocean surface.
“What,” I looked up at him. “The fuck?”
“We're on our way to Nassau. At least, that's what Captain Rogero said,” Maddox scratched his head. “I think. He doesn't speak Spanglish.”
“...who are they?”
“Cuban Coast Guard,” he chuckled. “You alright?”
I laid back on the cot. I'd get back to him on that.
Maddox put the whiskey back on the table, picked up his towel, and pressed it lightly on my forehead.
“You scared me back there,” he said. “I thought you were kicking off for good.”
Swallowing over the last of the whiskey's sting, I returned. “And you care because?”
“Because I like you. I don't want anything bad to happen to you, Ramona. Enough bullshit fuck has already happened to you, and...” he paused, distracted himself by pouring more water from the bottle onto the towel, and wringing it out. “And I'm still sorry. Even though it takes two to tango, Sanchez. Neither one of us is totally innocent in this.”
“You more than me.”
“Fair.”
He replaced the towel against my head. It was cool, and soothing. He ran it over my hair, behind my ears. It felt nice.
“So, Maddox… when you say you like me, does that mean you like me? Or like me like me?”
“Don't go there. You've been sucking down Cuban moonshine.”
“You started it.”
Maddox wiped my face, my neck. “Just… save your strength, okay?”
“Why? Do you want to tie me up and fuck me, Maddy? Is that what you want me to be strong for?”
“I'm glad to see you're feeling better,” he said, drawing the towel to my collar bone. “And, no.”
“Liar.”
His eyes were so green. Deep, ocean green. If he ever let his hair grow back, it would complement the shade of his irises. He smelled of the sea, too.
Cuban moonshine. Pain to the point of delirium. Dehydration, and starvation. There were five reasons why I did what I did next. The four rationals were easy to identify, but the elusive fifth reason… that would come later. The fifth reason was responsible for my actions, when I put my hand
against his face, and pulled him toward me.
His lips were soft. And behind them, the slightest hint of whiskey. His mouth moved gently against mine with an untapped tenderness I didn't know he was capable of having. There was stubble on his jaw, too.
I ran my fingertips against it, finding it somewhat velvety – not the harsh prickle I'd expect of days’ worth of growth. Maybe it was an Irish thing.
I pulled away, and waited for him to open his eyes again. A moment later, he did. The deep green hue had gone moist, and as he reached out to touch me, to put his hand upon my cheek, the searing blare of an ocean cruiser blasted through the cabin. Like ten thousand air horns, all at once.
We'd arrived.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
RAMONA
Two weeks at Princess Margeret, and I had recovered enough to transfer to Doctors Hospital, located just a hop skip and a jump away from the aptly named Paradise Island.
Hopping, skipping, and jumping were months away for me and the three pins in my leg, but the prognosis was optimistic.
Doctor Orizaga assured me he'd come and check on my progress, and that Doctors Hospital was renowned for the best physical therapy department this side of Miami. It was also one of the most expensive medical facilities in the northern hemisphere, but as he'd said before, cost was not a concern.
Of course I knew who my benefactor was. Why he never came to visit was another matter, and one I spent a great deal of time speculating on. All my expenses were paid, fresh flowers would appear each morning in my private room, and according to my nurse, I had a private supply of rum raisin ice cream in the community fridge.
She assured me there was no reason to put a special label on it, as no one in their right mind would touch rum raisin ice cream.
Days melded into weeks. I'd graduated from the chair cycle to leg presses sooner than they'd expected, played around on the rowing machine for my own amusement, and had gone from a walker to a cane in half the time Orizaga predicted.
I hit my one and only snag the day the wanted to put rehab weights on my ankles. They were colorful, nylon bands, secured to one's legs via industrial strips of Velcro. I told my PT fuck those very much, and find something else to use. No one was securing anything to my ankles, wrists, or other body parts as long as I lived.
Which brought me back to thoughts of Maddox. I didn't know if I should thank him or tell him to go fuck himself again. At this current juncture in time, I couldn't do either. He'd quite literally disappeared off the face of the earth.
I had spent more hours than I cared to admit in the hospital common room, searching the internet from one end to the other, and couldn't find shit. The only item I did stumble across was an article in the Wall Street Journal, dated a few days after our rescue by Cuban lobster trawlers. There were no external links, nothing else to click on, just a rather blasé piece that announced the unexpected disbanding of Petersen & Stiller. Other than that, nada.
There were the usual speculations and fan-theories ranging from alien abduction to psychological collapse (as per normal of rich bastards with too much responsibility on their plates) but unfortunately, these were all conjectures and suppositions. Nothing of substance. All that was clear to me was his disappearing act pissed me off. And the more I thought about it, the angrier I became.
What kind of a son-of-a-bitch lays down hundreds of thousands of dollars for someone's medicinal care, then vanishes without a trace? What, was this his half-baked attempt at painting himself as some kind of asshole Robinhood? Did he think he was some kind of benevolent, mysterious hero? Riding off into the sunset with a tip of the hat, never to be seen again?
I stabbed my spoon in the last of my rum raisin ice cream. I'd plowed my way through the entire five gallons during my month and a half in Nassau. Good thing Orizaga put his doctor's blessing on my release tomorrow. Another week here and I'd end up weighing two hundred pounds.
According to the exit staff, I'd be flying back first class, with a brand new team of nurses and therapists to oversee my continued rehab in the States All paid in full by, you guessed it, Anonymous.
So, was Anonymous going to meet me at the airport? Or was I really supposed to never see him again? And why the fuck did I give a shit either way?
Because he moved something inside me, that's why. As fucked up as it was, there was something between us. Building a relationship on the foundation of a common tragedy (not to mention felony kidnapping) could not possibly be healthy by any stretch of the imagination. Some may even call it sick, and toxic. Completely and totally unnatural.
And for some reason, that really appealed to me. He appealed to me.
I licked the last of the ice cream from the spoon, and checked my slightly foggy reflection in the back of it. It was hazy, like the porthole on the Dicey. Where I'd pulled Maddox down to me, and kissed him.
Oh, dear Lord. I'd kissed him. And it was the most fantastic kiss of my life. His touch, his body, close to mine. The way the boat rocked against the gentle sea…
So strange and unexpected, the tenderness in that kiss. Maddox Petersen was nothing more than a monster. A heartless, soulless, corporate killing machine, and now, alone in the community room of a Bahamian hospital, I knew otherwise.
I found myself wondering, on the fifth floor of the physical therapy department of all places, whether or not he was capable of making love to someone without the accessories and scenarios – the physical representations of his psyche's manifesto.
I stood up from my chair, slowly, allowing the muscles in my hip and leg to catch up with my intention. That maneuver was going to be key to my recovery – leaning into the pain instead of retracting from it – and it promised to hurt like the ultimate bitch for months.
I took my cane from the side of the table, and made my way toward the bay window. The moon rise promised to be beautiful tonight, and I wanted to catch at least a glimpse of it before I left for the States. The moon was different in Nassau. Brighter, somehow. It rather reminded me of a flashlight, a divine flashlight, beaming down from the darkness.
There was a sign in the corner of the pane, reminding patients to Please Do Not Open Window! It was next to an old-fashioned crank, which squeaked when I turned it. Letting the musty air out, and the fresh breeze of the ocean in.
I sighed, quietly, feeling the gentle wind blowing back my hair like a lover's fingers, and thought of what I'd do once I was back home. There really was only one option.
Go to the police. File reports, press charges, and begin civil lawsuit proceedings. Put Petersen away for years, and let him be someone's cell bitch. Watch his bank account transfuse into mine, and wait for the networks to call. Good Morning America, Today, Bloomberg, Doctor Phil, all of them, vying for my attentions.
Someone would write a book, and someone else would make the movie. Hell, it could be a two parter. A series, even, and I would be rich beyond my wildest dreams.
That's what a normal person would do.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
MADDOX
Highway 95 ran all the way up the Florida coast. It was an eight hour drive to Sandfly – an affluent little burg southeast of Savannah.
My phone's navigation system bitched and moaned about the toll roads, delays, and construction zones, but I didn't give a shit. I wanted to keep the ocean in my sights as I drove. I would have shut the damn thing off altogether if I'd happened to remember how to get to my parent's house. But I didn't know how to read a map.
I rolled my eyes at myself, leaned my elbow out the window, and kept my right hand draped over the steering wheel. Kicked back and truckin'. One cool dude just rockin' down the highway.
If I smoked, I'd have a Camel hanging out of the corner of my mouth to complete the profile. I was going for a James Dean kind of thing, I suppose. A real rebel without a cause. Were there any redheaded bad boys? Other than dead pirates or serial killers?
I didn't think so.
Taking a quick glimpse in the rear-view mirror, I r
an my hand over my head. I wasn't used to seeing myself anything but bald. It'd been a long time since I had hair.
A tiny grin curled just one side of my mouth. Martin almost shat himself when he saw me.
I'd wanted to slip in and out of the office undetected, a ship in the night, but I knew that would be impossible. Especially since it was mid-afternoon when I finally showed back up at Petersen & Stiller. I couldn't rightly blame me. My interior clock was all messed up. A few hours sailing sailing over the bounding waves in the cabin of a lobster trawler will do that to you. To say nothing of the days previous, being held sexual captive on a tropical island by a hostile Latina.
My cock twitched.
I shifted in the bucket seat, and pulled at the crotch of my pants. Some things never change, God bless them. Some things do, however, and when I tried to explain that to Martin, he just looked at me like I was some strange, new species recently uncovered by a group of rogue paleontologists.
I certainly looked the part. I didn't exactly bother sprucing up after the Dicey docked at New Providence.Captain Rogero had radioed ahead, and the ambulance was waiting when we pulled into port.
Ramona's rich brown eyes looked like glassy, chocolate marbles when they put her on the gurney. She was six ways from out of it as I kissed her forehead, told her everything was going to be alright, and would later blame a loss in translation when the EMT suggested I get into the ambulance, too.
Martin was literally beside himself when I waltzed into his office, appearing not unlike a castawayed zombie, and told him I quit. He followed me to my suite, asking me a shitload of questions I wasn't about to answer. Poor bastard.
“Dude,” he said, watching me take a pair of needle-nose pliers out of my desk drawer and head toward the bedroom. “What in the ever-loving fuck?”
“You can be more articulate than that,” I said, crawled onto the mattress, and began unscrewing the metal ring from the headboard.
Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance Page 24