The Jerk Who Saved Me: A Romantic Comedy

by Ellie Rowe

  Oh nonono…!

  My feet slap against the deck as I run to the rear of the ship. Veronica stirs. She gives a confused “mmm?” that I’d probably find adorable if I wasn’t currently concerned about our immediate survival. “Hank? What’s up?”

  “Damn,” is my answer. The motor is completely dead. I attempt to restart it. Nothing. It’s not damaged in any way that I can see. Which means… I race to the controls at the front of the boat.

  “Hank!” Veronica hurriedly dresses herself. She looks from me to the motor to me again. “Is something wrong?”

  “Damn,” I answer again. I stare at the controls stupidly. Maybe if I look long enough, what I’m seeing will magically change for the better.

  “What is it?” Veronica asks. She comes up beside me, fully clothed. She lays a caring hand on my shoulder. She follows my gaze to a specific gauge located on the control panel. She sees what I see. Her grip on my shoulder changes. Less caring. More like a holding-on-for-dear-life and edge-of-despair kind of grip. “Does that say ‘empty’?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say slowly.

  She considers a moment. “Am I right that I’m looking at the ship gas gauge?”

  “It’s not the ship’s email inbox.”

  “So…”

  “Yeah,” I say even more slowly. “We’re out of gas.” Because it’s all I can think of, I give her what I hope is a boyish grin. Life’s taught me that there’s a funny side to every situation.

  Life clearly did not teach that to Veronica, yet. The hand resting on my shoulder now hauls back and punches my arm. Damn, she’s strong. “What is wrong with you?” she screams.

  Here we go. “Me?” I ask, incredulous.

  “Yes! How could you fall asleep without thinking to turn the motor off?”

  “Why is this my fault? It was your harebrained plan. I was just along for the ride.”

  “Trust me, ‘just along for the ride’ is exactly how I’d describe what you are.”

  “You wanna tell me what you mean by that?”

  “I mean that of course you forgot to check the motor, because we both know that you always only ever have one thing on your mind!”

  “We also both know that the last thing you were concerned about last night was my ‘mind’.”

  “So my potent sexual powers just blew away with your common sense?”

  “Why not? You were more than happy to blow everything else.”

  She swings at me again. I duck. The momentum of her punch nearly takes her overboard. Lucky for her, I grab hold and pull her back into me.

  For a second, I think we actually might fuck again, the intensity of emotion is that strong.

  Instead, she stomps as far away from me as she is able. Which isn’t far on this cramped boat. Did I do something wrong in my life that the universe keeps punishing me by plopping me in tight spaces with this lady? Hard to believe a few minutes ago I was looking forward to being cooped up here beside her.

  I guess she’s thinking the same thing, because she screams at the sky, “Why do I always fall for these men?” She shouts at me, “Why do I have to be stuck here with you?”

  “Please, you were pretty OK with it last night.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “I’m not. Ask the fish. They heard how much you liked it.”

  She almost growls at me as she says, “Why couldn’t I have gotten stuck on a boat in the middle of the ocean with someone else? Someone like – like – I don’t know –”

  She searches for a name. She better not say it.

  “—like West Joliet?”

  She said it.

  OK. That does it. She’s going overboard.

  No, Hank, don’t. I force myself to take a few deep breaths. Try to calm down. Turn away from Veronica and take in the expanse of ocean around us. Some people might look at this immense predicament and consider the spat Veronica and I are having to be somewhat petty. They are wrong. However, we are smart enough to realize we need to start making a new plan.

  “What do we do now?” she asks.

  “Don’t ask me.” Alright, I’m feeling a little petulant. I earned a little petulance. I do consider the question, however. “We could always try the old Veronica Swift go-to.”

  She stares blankly at me. Then, “The radio!”

  We move simultaneously for the controls. Our shoulders touch. She flinches, scowls at me. I hold up my hands and back off, then watch as she explores the control panel. “Where is it? Where is it?” She turns back to me, throwing her hands up in defeat. “There’s no radio!”

  Are you kidding me?

  I join her at the controls. A quick glance tells me she’s right. There’s no goddamn radio. Another quick glance reveals something else that is just as disheartening. “Boy,” I mumble, “these fellas who kidnapped you were really operating on a shoestring budget.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I tap the ship’s compass. The glass that should be protecting it is cracked. The compass needle spins haphazardly, stuttering now and then. It seems more eager to point everywhere at once than land for even a second on “True Noth”.

  I break the news to Veronica by saying, “Unless you know the exact positioning of the sun this time of year, or somewhere in your adventures you learned to navigate by starlight… we’re gonna have a hard time orienting ourselves without a compass. Which means even if we started rowing, I have no idea if we’d be headed in the right direction to get us to land.”

  Veronica’s eyes tear up as she sits in the captain’s chair. I don’t blame her. Part of me wants to cry, too. She takes a deep breath and fights the tears back. Atta girl.

  I lift my hand to shield my eyes from the sun, look back in the direction I think we came from.

  “What’re you looking for?” she asks.

  “My yacht.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe we can make our way back to it.”

  “Are you nuts? Remember the pirates?”

  “Yeah, I do. I also remember the stockpiles of food and supplies.” I drop my hand, blinking several times in the blinding white light. “Not to mention shade. Unless catching a third-degree sunburn is supposed to be part of the article you’re writing?”

  Her turn to squint at the sun and process just how exposed we are. The look of hopelessness she gets kind of breaks my heart, despite how annoyed I am.

  I’d like to say something to perk her up, give her some confidence. Truth is, I feel as hopeless as she looks. This plan is turning out to be a bad idea. Really bad. We definitely aren’t going to be enjoying a few romantic days at sea together, making carefree love as we motor to shore.

  We’re more likely gonna die out here.

  Twenty-Five

  Veronica

  How did we go from late night aquatic ecstasy to this? I feel like I’ve got whiplash from how hot and cold this—if you can even call it a—relationship is. And fine, maybe I can take some of the credit for it. Maybe just this once. This distance between us…it fucking sucks.

  But hey, our relationship may have gone cold for the time being, but the sun is ready to balance that. It’s beating down on us like we’re trapped in some fucking sea witch’s ocean air fryer. Maybe she’s southern and trying to watch her figure? How should I know?

  All I know is I’m melting out here like a fried egg on the LA pavement in the middle of June.

  I pace once again to the other side of my narrow strip of deck I’ve silently claimed as mine. Hank has not so silently claimed the other half for himself. Can’t say the amenities are much different. There’s no beating the heat anywhere.

  Hank is silent, brooding as he looks out to the blank horizon. He’s annoyingly dashing when he broods. His jaw gets set and the way he clenches and unclenches his jaw draws attention to his fantastic bone structure. I may be getting a little too observant but fuck me there’s nothing else to look at.

  I shift uncomfortably and pace back to the other side. I hat
e that he’s not talking to me. It’s enough to make me feel sick. Which is maybe a blessing considering there’s no food or water here. I look over to Hank again (like I said, nothing else to do). Still brooding.

  I know what pissed him off more than anything was the Wes Joliet comment, but I was so pissed I just wanted to get under his skin for a second. Truth be told, I don’t give a flying fuck about Wes Joliet. Hank’s a better actor and definitely has a superior ass.

  I want to tell him so, maybe get a smile out of him or something. But I think I’ve lost those privileges. Shit. I really fucked this up huh? Is this what my therapist meant by ‘sabotaging every decent relationship since Ross Yeats’?

  I slump down against the rusty side of the ship and sigh audibly. It’s a childish move, but I’m kind of desperate here. Anything to get him to look at me. To connect with me for a second and let me know we’ll be alright. I mean we’re going to die. But us. Are we going to be alright? You know, for the afterlife.

  I rest my sweaty forehead in my hands. Fuck. Hank was right. This whole stupid plan was my idea. Sure, adventure travel writer, steal the boat, save the guy, write the best article that’s ever been written… And how’s that working out you stubborn asshole. I’ve marooned us on a rusty deathtrap. And this fucking sun!

  “Veronica.” I look up like it’s goddamn Christmas. He’s talking to me. We’re okay. I stride over to him, crossing the invisible boundary and I see him wrinkle his nose in annoyance. So maybe we’re not okay.

  “Look.” He says. Guess he’s a caveman now. Simple words. Look-woman, me-fire, you-berries. Maybe he is from the stone age. That would explain the primal fucking. I can’t believe I even implied last night was anything short of phenomenal. I follow his arm to a growing speck on the horizon.

  “It’s a sail!” I say brightly and he nods. Why doesn’t he look happy? I shade my eyes with my hands and squint to get a better look. Holy shit it’s a small boat! Oh my god we’re getting off this rust bucket.

  Hank starts to wave his arms coolly, not too desperate. Showoff. I wiggle around like a mad woman trying to flag them down. “Hey we’re over here!” I shout and Hank winces from the sound. “Well we’ve got to get their attention, don’t we?” I huff.

  Why does he make me so crazy? All day I’ve been sitting over there feeling miserable about him and the second we start to talk to one another, I get all pissed. I’m starting to think maybe I’m shit at making up.

  Maybe if I could show him how sorry I was instead of talking to him he’d get the picture. How long until the boat gets here? Ten minutes? Twenty? It’s got the wind at its back so it’s cruising along but there still may be time while we’re still alone.

  I lower my arms for a second and watch him stretch his burly frame to signal out to sea. I take a small step towards him, testing the waters so to speak. He watches me come closer and doesn’t throw me overboard or anything so I take that as a good sign.

  Scooching one more step I slowly stretched a finger out to the side seam of his linen pants. I can feel his thigh tense up underneath my featherlight touch. He clears his throat loudly.

  “I’ll bet they’ve seen us by now.” He casts his eyes down, watching my fingers.

  “Yeah.” It’s not Shakespeare or anything but at least we’re agreeing. I slide my hands up to his waist and he takes a deep breath. I consider telling him he’s got a much better ass than Wes Joliet but somehow this doesn’t seem the time. His expression finally softens and he looks up at me.

  Christ what a view. That rugged charming face I’ve come to quite like. He’s still got a bit of a bruise from the run in with the pirates, and without access to any Hollywood pampering the five-o’clock shadow is full-on stubble. It looks great on him. I’d love to be reminded what it feels like against my skin.

  Hank seems to feel the tension in the air change and gives me a playful eyebrow. He reaches down to grab my hand and a zoo of butterflies is released inside my stomach. The nausea is gone and suddenly I’m hungry. Very hungry.

  He slips his eyes down my body and back out to the sea. Suddenly his expression darkens.

  “Fuck.” I look out, startled, expecting to see the boat overrun by sharks or the country loving sea witch I’d created in my heat daze.

  “Fuck.” I echo. The small boat, our lifeline to freedom is actually a lifeboat. A lifeboat from Hank’s yacht. Riding that lifeboat, armed to the teeth are some of the only gentlemen I loathe to see even more passionately than Ross Yeats.

  You guessed it. It’s Captain Green Scarf, wearing his namesake and a couple unidentified henchmen. Sure, he didn’t bring the cavalry, but who needs it when there’s automatic weapons involved. The nausea’s back in an instant as my stomach plummets to the floor.

  “What are we gonna do?” I hate how small my voice is and work to remedy it immediately. But I’m at a loss. They’re almost upon us and as soon as they make eye contact green scarf orders scar, of course it’s scar, to train their guns right at our heads. Hank squeezes my hand then releases it.

  I’ve never felt so hopeless in my life. We both raise our arms in surrender. It’s that or dive overboard. And we’d have to come up for air eventually. Maybe we should be flattered they ferried all this way to take us prisoner again. Though I have a feeling it has more to do with their ship and less to do with a world-renowned travel writer and her well hung thespian.

  Soon enough we’re able to make out the sounds of captain Green Scarf shouting orders to the crew. They lash onto the side of the boat and scurry up the ladder like spiders. Welcome aboard boys. Did you miss us? I half expect Hank to say something of the sort but he’s silent.

  That’s a bad sign. Hank’s never silent, not with these guys. He’s always schmoozing, calculating his way out of this shit. We know I’m not getting us out anytime soon. The only thing I have that they want, neither of us is too keen to give up.

  The thought comforts me for a moment. Hank went through hell for me. I’d make sure to even the score before the end of this. The bastards climb aboard with tanks of gas and my swell of hope bursts immediately. I can feel the angry heat radiating off of Hank, though it’s quite possibly sunburn. Or a combination of the two.

  I should have thought of bringing gas, we should have thought to bring gas. But hey. Someone remembered. We’re not going to die from heat on this pirate ship. Just from whatever host of torture they’ve got lined up for us back on the yacht. Peachy.

  Green Scarf shakes his head like a disappointed father as he approaches Hank and I.

  “You try to steal what is mine.” Captain says. His voice is eerily calm. I don’t like it one bit. “You will come back with us now. No more party.” His words sound like a death wish, and frankly I’m about to volunteer. Crawling in a hole to die sounds just fucking delightful right about now.

  All of this. All of it: Hank getting us safely past the pirate party, getting to the ship, sailing away and tasting freedom. All if it was for nothing. I peek over to where Scar has taken hold of the wheel and images from last night fill me in more ways than one.

  Well. Maybe not all of it.

  Twenty-Six

  Hank

  When the Let’s Do This comes back into view, we all see that she’s not alone. For a moment, our hopes rise.

  “Navy?” Veronica asks me.

  “Maybe Coast Guard,” I shrug.

  “Shut up!” Green Scarf commands.

  As we get closer, my hopes dip once again. The second ship is a commercial fishing boat.

  That calms Green Scarf a little, but he’s still clearly nervous. Which makes me nervous. The last few hundred yards to the yacht are tense as we all wonder what’s going on.

  We rejoin the yacht and the pirates drag Veronica and I back on board. Green Scarf consults with the men he left behind.

  I check out the fishing vessel. She’s as big as my ship. I’m guessing with a crew of eight or nine. Do they know what they’ve stumbled into? Could they come to our aid? The three who
have made it on board the yacht look burly enough.

  Veronica and I hang back. A pirate lurks nearby to make sure we don’t make another break for it. I watch as Green Scarf speaks now to one of the fishermen. The guy he’s speaking to is probably the captain. The man is barrel chested and sports a skipper’s cap and khaki-colored waders. He’s got an impressive Santa Claus-worthy grey beard. If I were casting the role of ‘fishing boat captain’, that’s the guy I’d go with.

  “What do you think is going on?” Veronica whispers to me. Before I can answer, our guard hisses at us to be quiet.

  The fishing captain and Green Scarf exchange what appear to be rather stern words. Then Green Scarf comes over to us. He glares at Veronica. “They heard your SOS.” He glares at me. “Apparently, she was not rehearsing a scene. They refuse to leave until the lady tells them she is OK.” His eyes flit downward a moment. I look. His pistol is in his hand. He walks around behind Veronica and discreetly puts the muzzle of the gun in her back. “You will tell them you are OK,” Green Scarf says in her ear.

  “Hello there!” Veronica quickly calls out to the captain. “We’re all good.”

  “Ya sure?” he calls back.

  Veronica stumbles forward half a step as Green Scarf presses the gun deeper into her back. “Uh, yep!”

  Veronica grins and waves. She puts on an air of good cheer. I can tell the fisherman’s not buying it, though. A part of me is proud of him for having some decent instincts.

  Another part of me knows if the fisherman starts doubting any further, Green Scarf will blow Veronica in half. So…

  Here-I-fucking-go-again.

  “OK!” I call out to everyone, turning on my bellowing director’s voice. “Let’s hold there a second. Not bad, not bad.” I turn to Green Scarf. “We’re holding, so you can go ahead and lower the gun,” I order, smiling.