by Ellie Rowe
The Jerk Who Saved Me
A Romantic Comedy
Ellie Rowe
Ellie Rowe Writes
Copyright © 2019 by Ellie Rowe
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
1. Veronica
2. Hank
3. Veronica
4. Hank
5. Veronica
6. Hank
7. Veronica
8. Hank
9. Veronica
10. Hank
11. Veronica
12. Hank
13. Veronica
14. Hank
15. Veronica
16. Hank
17. Veronica
18. Hank
19. Veronica
20. Hank
21. Veronica
22. Hank
23. Veronica
24. Hank
25. Veronica
26. Hank
27. Veronica
28. Hank
29. Veronica
30. Hank
31. Veronica
32. Hank
33. Veronica
34. Hank
35. Veronica
36. Hank
37. Veronica
38. Hank
39. Veronica
40. Veronica
One
Veronica
The seas were calm. No. Placid? Too writerly. Let’s go with calm.
It was the morning of the fourth day, and the sun glistened down on the glassy green of a gentle sea. I came up from my cabin, and spent the better part of my morning checking the rigging and leaning over my maps to chart the day’s progress.
Goddamnit.
Okay, fuck it. You wanna know the truth? It was damn near eleven-thirty before I even woke up. And a cabin? That’s a laugh. My little sailboat has, what would better be described as, a worthless fucking cubbyhole. But, that’s not what the readers want.
Sailing solo from LA to Honolulu hadn’t sounded like the craziest thing I’d done since finally wresting my freedom from Ross Fucking Yeates, but so far it’s proving to be a full-tilt pain in the ass. Almost as bad as he was.
Enough about my ex-husband. I’m gonna do what I can to keep from bringing him up. Prick. Okay. Let’s get back to this. Maybe more practical is the tone? That worked for my Kilimanjaro climb.
Day Four:
It’s hot. You don’t expect the heat until you’re out in it. When we think about sailing, it’s all cool breezes, but when the sun bakes down out of the cloudless sky, even the most menial tasks take on a sweaty fervor.
Fervor? Really?
Ugh. Were I using a typewriter, I’d rip the page out and toss it into the fucking ocean. Given how the article has been coming so far, you’d be able to follow my trail all the way back to my condo. Crumpled up balls of paper like those proverbial breadcrumbs. Or whatever.
As it is, it’s been a bona-fide struggle not to pitch my laptop into the drink and lay down and die. Or, you know, turn back. Whichever took less work.
That said, being dead seems like a happy alternative to LA. It’s been my home base since the divorce (praise his name), but it was a move of convenience more than anything. My editor is based there, and getting close to her only seemed practical. Had I known then how much I would hate it, I would have done myself a favor and moved somewhere cleaner and less congested.
Like Calcutta.
Shit. The power is down again. You know what? Maybe that’s a blessing. The truth as to why it took me so long to get my day started has surprisingly little to do with rigging or any other sailing mumbo-jumbo. My goddamn solar power system keeps going down. Well, it’s either going down, or I don’t have the know-how to finagle it into working.
I’m choosing to blame the equipment. The radio is working, but it’s operating on a battery system that came with the craft, so maybe I should have asked the company to beef it all up so I could run my computer at the same time. It’s on the company dime, after all. Why not live a little.
Speaking of living, I’m just under a quarter of the way through this trip, and I’m dying to eat something that doesn’t come from a can. Franks and beans are a shitty breakfast, but I’m saving the chicken corn chowder for dinner. You know. As a treat.
Maybe I should have learned how to fish before coming out? Nah, fuck it. Hot plate haddock isn’t my speed – not that I’d have the juice to run the plate at this juncture. And, I’m not ready to go caveman style and just rip into a fish with my teeth. I love sushi, but only when somebody cuts it up for me.
Actually, I don’t know why I’m complaining so much. The second I lost sight of the skyline on the horizon, I felt freer than I ever have before. Climbing a mountain is one thing, and living on the Serengeti is something else again – but this? If I didn’t have to force an article out of it (to pay for the trip and all), I could get used to this.
All the shit I did to get ready for this solo journey has left me in great stead. I’ve been eating right for the first time since I got back from the desert, so I feel healthy as all hell. Which is kinda rad.
Plus, sailing on your own skills is a strenuous activity, and after the hard learning curve, I’m feeling ropey and strong. This isn’t a sucker’s game, which is good, because I’ve never been a sucker. Okay, maybe when I said “I do,” but that wasn’t really my fault. Shit. I was gonna try to stop talking about him.
The best part of a journey like this is independence. In a world that can swallow a person whole, it’s nice to be able to stand on your own two feet. Under the best of conditions, it’s a fourteen day sail. With three under my belt, it was beginning to feel like I was coming into my own.
That’s more like it.
To embark alone on any adventure is a holy experience. Traveling with someone else is a matter of continued compromise, even if you love that person beyond measure agree on most things. But, to truly know yourself – to find the essential part of you – solo voyages are the only way. They are not only a rejuvenation. They are a test.
It’s an empowering experience to live at the edges of your capacity. To stretch yourself into the new, whole you. When you can look in every direction without the hope of seeing another living soul, you learn who you really are.
Okay, so maybe that’s a bit thick, but Sheila is going to love it. The ‘empowerment’ side of these articles has always been key for her, and who am I to argue? I’ve used my excursions as a way of self-actualizing, sure, but it seems weirdly spiritual to write about them that way. Maybe I’m just being self-conscious.
That first one – the one about Kilimanjaro – was far more action/adventure, but then I almost died, so. If you haven’t seen it, you should totally go back and read it. It’s worth it.
Those early articles were all about getting the demons out. Super forceful, reclaiming myself kinda shit. But, if I get my wish, this trip is gonna be a bit more low-key. I’m not exactly feeling death-defying adventure at the moment. Besides, sailing is something old people do, right?
The good news is, I’m managing to move at a fairly good clip, and all my charting tells me I’m heading in the right direction. Keeping things moving is a full contact sport, so I probably won’t be able to get much more writing done until I fold up shop for the night.
Actually, I’m going to be folding up a lot sooner than that.
It was
early afternoon when thunderheads darkened the sky ahead of me. I’d been so busy maintaining the rigging that I hadn’t seen the storm until it was nearly on top of me. The insistent rumble snapped me out of my seaborne reverie, and told me that this trip was going to become another Veronica Swift adventure.
Too much to coin that for myself? Well, I’ll have to worry about rewrites later, because rain is already starting to patter down on the deck. The way the wind is picking up, I’m gonna need to yank the sails in before I get blown right the fuck over.
Okay. So. Problem number one with all of this – I can’t really wrap everything up and radio for help at the same time. It’d be great to say ‘I should have thought of that,’ but I wasn’t really counting on a natural disaster. There were no hurricanes forecast out here, but that doesn’t mean that the sky isn’t promising one fucker of a downpour.
A bolt of lightning sears down just a few hundred yards away, and the crack of it nearly sends me tumbling like an idiot into the drink. Can electricity travel through seawater? If I had any internet, I’d look that up.
Anyway, the long and the short of it is – I’m gonna radio now. Send out the SOS, then finish battening down the hatches. Or whatever.
“SOS.” It sounds so weird to say that out loud. “SOS. Sailing vessel Triumph is entering a severe storm. Does anyone read me?”
Static. Fuck.
“SOS! SOS! Does anyone copy this signal.”
There’s a crackle, and a voice pipes up.
“Yeah, I read you – what’s the deal?” Laughter in the background and a little slur in this guy’s speech doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, but what are you gonna do? The saying is literally: ‘Any port in a storm.’
“Yes! This is Sailing Vessel Triumph. I’m being overtaken by a severe storm.”
“Wow, lady,” the voice chuckles. “You’d better get some help!”
Is this motherfucker serious? If it were actually a thing, I’d reach through the radio waves and strangle the cheeky bastard. But, the gentle rain has started to pound everything to pieces, so I just need to grin and bear this.
“I’m sending my coordinates. Please hurry – I’m not sure if I’m gonna be able to handle this!”
Looking out at the churning waves and the hateful sky pelting down on me, that feels terrifyingly true. So much for reefing the sails. The best I can hope for right now is just to hang on.
Two
Hank
“Hey, Hank!” Jeremy Wood has his cell phone pressed to his shirt, and I can tell from the look on his face that he’s up to no good. “I’ve got West on the phone over here, and he’s wondering why you didn’t invite him?” Everyone on deck has a good chuckle at me, the bastards.
“Because fuck him, that’s why. He knows better than to call, anyway.” Striding over to Jeremy, he gets all cute and tries to play a bit of keep away. Still, it’s not too much to pluck the phone away and confirm that he’s just dicking around.
“Cute.” I may be laughing as hard as the rest of them, but I’m working double time to keep from winging his precious phone off into the sea. Let him swim for it. “Anybody need a freshen up,” I call, wagging my glass in the air.
“I do.”
Yvonne D’Mica. She knows how good she looks in a bikini. That’s why there’s so little of it.
“Follow me.” There are folks around, so I want to calibrate just the right amount of invitation. No sense looking like the lecherous old man with the hot, new 20-something starlet.
“Anywhere.” Well, she’s a lot less subtle. Another chorus of laughs go up, and I can’t help but wonder when it became so damn fashionable to roast the founder of the feast? Everybody aboard the Let’s Do This is in the movie industry, but nobody’s making the money to buy what I’m pouring.
The cocaine isn’t cheap either. Not that I’m really into it, but never let it be said that Hank Wilder isn’t the host with the most. And, if little miss D’Mica isn’t careful, she’s gonna find out exactly what I’ve got the most of.
“Scram,” I grunt under my breath. My manager Gary looks up from the powdery mound with a white mustache and gets the picture immediately. “You got a little something here,” I quip. He dusts under his nose, rubs his finger over his gums, and scampers off to keep the others at bay for a moment.
“What are you drinking?” I’m doing banner work keeping my eyes on hers. The soul of fucking chivalry over here. The way her fingertips are dancing at her sternum, she’d be more than a little forgiving if my gaze strayed lower.
“Oh…” She leans over the bar and squeezes her boobs between her arms, doing more to show them off than to read the labels. It’s an unsubtle move, but I’m not complaining. They make a world-class set of tits look even better. Gotta hand it to her, Yvonne knows how to go after what she wants. That’s a major assist in this business.
“Maybe just some tequila?”
“Azul or Llorona?”
“Which would you drink?” Looking over the rim of her sunglasses, there’s so much invitation in her eyes, I wonder where the envelope is. Not really anywhere for her to hide it at the moment.
Offering my best, ‘I got this’ smirk, I pull out the Llorona. Not that I can tell the difference, frankly. But since the Extra Anejo I stock is about $100 more per bottle, it seems like the move. As I pop the cork, it’s clear that she doesn’t know the difference either. Shit, I could probably pour her Cuervo and she’d get all round heeled over it.
It’s not the tequila she’s after anyway.
The rest of the party is staying studiously on the other side of the deck, but I can feel every single pair of Hollywood eyes just waiting for a good bit to sell to the papers. Ah, showbiz friends. They’re the best.
“Listen.” Yvonne reaches up and runs a finger under the lapel of my white, linen jacket. Yeah, I’m wearing a white linen suit. No shoes, too. Fuck you, it’s my yacht. Anyway, what is she saying?
“I’m going to go downstairs and find a cabin to get comfortable in.” Is the swimsuit not comfortable enough? “When those are poured, why don’t you come down and join me? I’d love it if you showed me your trophy.” Subtle. But, hey – she’s young. It takes a while to get your chops up.
The trophy’s not on the yacht anyway. That little gold bastard stays at home. It’s only as part of a producing team, so it’s not even one of the super fancy ones. But, I suppose everybody can say that if they’ve got one. The only people who give a shit about the Oscars are the folks who haven’t won yet.
As she heads for the gangway, it’s clear that she’s putting extra swing in her step. Not that she needs it. Her entire body is made for mortal sin, but that’s what being 24 is all about. As great as it all is, at my age, it almost feels a little embarrassing to keep getting caught up with young things.
Not that I’m that old, mind you. Let’s just leave it at saying, I’m in the territory of double her. And, I’m gonna double her up, alright. She’s got no idea what’s coming.
With two fresh glasses, I’m just about to step from behind the bar when I pull up short. I don’t want to go down there. That kinda game is for kids. The ogling clutch of partiers isn’t that much more appetizing, but I’m just not feeling banging starlets today. Is that wrong? Frankly, it’s been a while since I felt like it, but my publicist says I’ve got an image to maintain.
You know what that means? Limo rides at three in the morning, sneaking out of bungalows and all that shit. Hell, most nights, we’ve just been drinking and playing poker. I like poker. No, poker, not poke-her, you dick. Get your mind out of the gutter.
The more I think about Yvonne snuggling under my covers down there, the emptier it makes me feel. Better put some booze on that! Knocking back a full tumbler of tequila, I can’t help wondering if I’m paying too much for this shit. I mean, who am I to judge Yvonne? I’d probably prefer Cuervo myself.
“What’s doing over there, Hank?” Doc Page. He’s shot every picture I’ve made since shifting into pr
oducing/directing. Yup. All three of them. Best director of photography in the business, and the only guy on the yacht I wouldn’t shoot with a harpoon gun, given the chance.
“Hey, Doc? Give me a hand over here, will ya?”
He extricates himself and pads his way over to the bar. On a deck full of twenty and thirty something move types, it’s nice to have another silverback on board. Better still, he’s got me by about a decade, and is great about being ‘The Old Man’ around here. Takes some of the heat off of me.
“What’s the word?”
“Lemme top you up.” The guy knows how to read a tone, and settles immediately into companionship mode. “What’re you drinking?”
“Oh, I switched to beer an hour ago.”
“Trying to slow down? We’re out here to party.”
“Eh,” he shrugs. “Cheaper.” I could kiss the guy. Knocking the top off a couple of bottles, we clink and ease back. “I’m gonna be honest,” Doc says. “We all figured you were heading below decks for an hour or two.”
“Not feeling it.” I take a solid sip of beer, and Doc’s eyebrows shoot up.
“You’re not? That’s only because you’re up here. If you were down there right now, you’d be feeling plenty.”
“Knock it off, man, you know what I mean.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He looks over at the laughing cabal of millionaires and prostitutes. “You ever get the feeling that all this fast living is for the birds?”