Chlöe wanted to be famous. And, to the extent that her name was in the news and her face was plastered on magazines and websites, she was. She had become the person they were selling: the daring adventurer taking on the world, the woman who’d lost her mother to breast cancer. She made sure she looked the part—strong and sexy and feminine as fuck.
But the problem with selling yourself as an adventurer was that you actually had to put in the long, lonely, physically punishing hours of adventuring. Right now it didn’t look like she’d be going anywhere soon. The weather report wasn’t encouraging. No wind in the forecast for at least twenty-four hours. Melbourne advised her to get some sleep, to let the boat drift with the current until the situation changed. The plan was for her to sail down the coast of South America, stopping in Rio and Montevideo for some press interviews, then turning east and crossing the Atlantic to Cape Town.
Chlöe lay down on her bed. Sleep was the biggest problem with solo sailing. Fatigue caused by sleep deprivation could lead you to do something stupid, like misread the water and end up dead. Oversleep and you could drift into the shipping lanes and get run over by a supertanker. Not to mention getting caught in a fast-moving storm or swamped by large swells. And then there were pirates. Not the Disney version of pirates; these were real steal-everything-yougot-and-dump-your-gang-raped-body-into-the-sea type of pirates.
Chlöe slept when she could, but unless she’d dropped anchor somewhere, she couldn’t afford more than an hour at a time.
She looked out the cabin door and watched Neal contorting his body to piss in the bucket. He had his penis out, but it was a difficult angle and he was getting more urine on his clothes than in the bucket.
She was pretty sure he was a drug dealer. That much money in cash? It stood out like a dog’s balls. What she’d do with him, well, she would have to sleep on it. She set her alarm for forty-five minutes and closed her eyes.
“My scalp is broiling. Do you have a hat or something?”
Chlöe shook her head.
Neal could feel the blisters sprouting. He tried to turn his head, anything to cast some shade on the side of his face, but the sky was cloudless, the sun directly above. It felt as if a waffle iron had been placed on his scalp.
She was standing, looking up at the sail, which was slapping lazily in the non-wind. “Looks like we’re gonna sit here for a while.”
“Which is why I need some kind of protection. I’m roasting. I could get skin cancer, you know.”
Chlöe nodded. “It is hot. You’re not lying about that.”
There was something in her voice, an edge that stung Neal. “I’m not a liar. I’m not lying about anything.”
He was going to continue to deny whatever accusations she might have concocted in her head, but the look on her face made him stop in midsentence. He sounded shrill, like someone who was over-denying it, who really was a big fat liar. Why didn’t she believe him? Maybe he had omitted some details, but he was telling the truth about the money.
“Don’t you have a business card or something? Some proof?”
Neal hung his head. Why had he used his last card to send a hopeless message? “One phone call to New York and you’d know I’m telling the truth.”
“One phone call to New York and then the whole world knows I’m not traveling solo anymore.”
“So I’m just going to sit here and cook?”
She nodded. “Looks that way.”
He was about to say something else when she stripped off her shirt and stepped out of her shorts and underwear. She stood there for a moment, totally naked, and then dove off the boat into the water.
Neal felt an involuntary shudder rumble up his spine. His anxiety suddenly shifted into overdrive: the fear that a shark might devour her or she could get swept away, leaving him lashed to the rail. The nightmare vision of seagulls returned, swooping down on him, pecking out his eyes as he lay helpless, their beaks flashing red with his blood. He wondered where this fear came from. Birds, when they’re not feeding on eyeballs, seemed nice enough. They flitted around and chirped. Some of them were beautiful. Bart would’ve said it was probably because he’d had his eyes pecked out by seagulls in a past life. Bart was spiritual like that.
Chlöe resurfaced, stroking calmly in the water a few yards from the boat.
“Are you sure it’s safe?”
She whipped around, treading water by the boat. “What?”
“Aren’t there sharks?”
She laughed. “I haven’t seen any.”
“It’s the ones you don’t see that are the problem.”
She pulled herself onto the deck and reached for a towel. “You really aren’t much of a sailor.”
“I told you. First time on a boat and the big pole thing breaks.”
“You were de-masted.”
“That’s the word.”
She stood there drying her hair, water streaming off her skin. Neal couldn’t help staring; the way the sunlight glinted off her breasts and the way the water dripped off her wild bush of pubic hair mesmerized him. Chlöe laughed. “You gonna crack a fat?”
Neal blinked and looked up at her face.
She translated: “Get a boner.”
“No.” Neal realized he said it too quickly. What if she took that as an insult? “I mean, you’re very attractive, but I’m not that kind of guy.”
She sat down opposite him, continuing to dry herself. “What kind of guy are you?”
“The kind that likes his own kind.”
She smiled. “I see.”
Neal wondered if this was some kind of game to her, if all this being tied up and questioned was her idea of foreplay. Maybe she was just kinky.
“So you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not particularly worried.”
“Then why don’t you untie me?”
“That”—she indicated the strap holding his wrist to the rail—“is what makes me not particularly worried.”
He watched her slip back into her clothes, twist the cap off a bottle of water, and take a deep drink. Neal watched and realized that his throat was dry.
“Can I have a drink?”
She looked at him. “Why don’t you give me a million dollars?”
“I can’t. I told you. It’s not my money.”
“Right. And it’s not your water, is it? That’s how these things work. I would think a banker like yourself would understand the exchange of goods and services for money.”
“I’ll write an IOU.”
She shook her head. “Cash only. No credit.”
Neal sighed and slumped down against the rail. What was the point? Why not just pay her the money? Surely his boss would understand. Wouldn’t he do the same thing if he were in Neal’s shoes?
Chlöe looked at his scalp. “You’re getting burned pretty badly. That’s a shame. We’ve got a lot of skin cancer down under. Bad way to go.”
Neal shook his head in anger. “Why are you doing this? Why can’t you be nice?”
She smirked. “I see. You’re one of those. Girls should be nice, is it?”
“People should help each other. Not fucking torture them.” Neal realized he sounded angry. He didn’t mean to, but he was miserable and he didn’t know what else to do.
She studied him. “Is that what your investment bank does? Helps people? Helps people out of their homes, out of their pensions. Helps the fat cats get fatter.”
“Why does everyone hate banks?”
She scoffed. “Are you serious?”
Why was everyone so quick to criticize? What would people do without banks to protect their savings? Give them loans? What would people do without a network of ATMs scattered around the world? Neal was sick and tired of people blaming all the problems in the world on Wall Street.
“We’re the helping company, goddamn it. That’s our motto.” Neal thrashed against the strap, yanking on it until he cut his wrist. “We’re motherfucking helpful. We’re here to help motherf
uckers.”
She looked at him and laughed. “Oh, don’t go off like a frog in a sock.”
Neal stopped thrashing and took a deep breath. Yelling at her wasn’t the way to show his gratitude. “I’m sorry. My brain is getting cooked.”
For the first time since he’d been rescued, Chlöe looked sympathetic. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll sell you a hat for a million dollars and throw in a small bottle of water. What do you say?”
“Do you really think I stole the money? Do I look like a thief?”
She shrugged. Neal sighed. He didn’t really have a choice. He could feel his skin being destroyed. Would it ever heal? Would he have to go on dates with a hat covering scar tissue?
“One hundred thousand for a hat and some water.”
She laughed. “Really? You’re going to bargain?”
“How big is the hat?”
She demonstrated with her hands. “It’s a cap. An American baseball cap. It’s got a nice visor, might be worth two million just for that.”
Neal’s head drooped. “Okay. Fine. A million dollars for some water and a hat.”
Chlöe smiled. “Good choice.” She came back with a pink baseball cap emblazoned with the words AROUND THE WORLD and stuck it on his head.
Chlöe went into the cabin and unzipped one of the duffel bags. Even though she’d sold him the hat and water for a million dollars, she decided that she’d take a million euros instead. She wasn’t headed to the United States; it made more sense to take something easily converted. She figured he wouldn’t discover the difference until she was long gone, and then what was he going to do? She’d saved his life.
She pulled out bundles of one-hundred-euro notes all banded together. Each bundle held ten thousand euros. She counted one hundred bundles and stowed them in the back of a cabinet, stacking boxes of Fantastic instant noodles in front of them. Fantastic was nice enough to be one of her sponsors and it had donated a year’s supply of cup noodles in every flavor it made. She preferred the chicken flavor, so she pushed those to the front.
When she was done she took a coconut water out of the fridge and cracked it. Another sponsor. Cruelty-free coconut water. As if other companies picked coconuts that dropped off trees and conked people on the head. Chlöe couldn’t have gotten this far without her sponsors, and they gave her a taste of the life she wanted.
Sponsors helped pay for the boat, they paid the salaries of her support team back in Melbourne. She thought she wanted to live like a movie star. If a movie star needed some new shoes, her shoe sponsor would deliver a crate. Same with cars, clothes, wine, whiskey, whatever you wanted. Of course she’d now learned that, from the outside, you think it’s all free. Nobody tells you about the hidden costs, the responsibilities that come with being sponsored. It was nice at first, but lately, Chlöe felt it was just turning into a big fucking drag. It would be so much more fun to have a boatload of money and sponsor herself.
The unmistakable funk of thick urine stung his nostrils. Why had she made him piss in a bucket? You try hitting the target with one hand while you’re lashed to a rail.
Neal shifted, trying to keep the wet part of his pants from sticking to his skin. In some small way he was glad that he’d pissed all over the place. She was the one who’d tied him up; she could enjoy the smell too. Besides, what had he done to deserve any of this? He gave her a million bucks for a trucker hat. What more could she want?
He tugged on the plastic tie holding his hand to the boat rail, jerking it up and down, trying to create some slack. The more he pulled the angrier he got, until he was yanking on it as hard as he could, hoping to snap the plastic or the boat rail or even his wrist bone. He stopped when he felt the plastic bite deep into his skin. He winced as the salt air settled in the cut, stinging him back to his senses.
Resistance is futile. Isn’t that what they said on Star Trek?
He watched as Chlöe emerged from the cabin. She’d obviously taken one of the many short naps he’d seen her take, but instead of looking refreshed, she looked even more exhausted. Neal wondered if she might fall asleep on the deck. She kept a folding knife clipped to her shorts; would it be that difficult to knock her down, take the knife, and cut himself free? But then what? Tie her up and convince her he was a good guy?
Chlöe stood over him and wrinkled her nose. “Christ, you stink.”
“Well, if you’d just let me use your toilet …”
Before he could finish his thought, she dipped the plastic bucket into the sea and hurled water at him.
Neal spluttered. “What the fuck?”
“You should be thanking me.”
Neal blinked his eyes, trying to keep the salt water from burning them. “Thanks.”
Chlöe smiled. “Sarcasm is the last refuge of scoundrels.”
Neal glowered. “I’m not a scoundrel.”
“We’ll see about that. Because if you ask me, a man floating around the ocean with all this cash looks like he might be a scoundrel. Maybe a pirate. A rogue at the very least.”
Neal shook his head. “I told you I work for an investment firm.”
Chlöe laughed. “And this is some new version of offshore banking.”
Neal felt his face flush in frustration. “One of my colleagues died trying to get this money. Or at least I think she died.” As he said the words he was overcome with a feeling of real sadness. He assumed Seo-yun was dead and he felt terrible about it.
“You’re just going to take the money back to the bank?”
“It’s their money.”
Chlöe shook her head. “Seems like a waste to me.”
Neal didn’t say anything.
“Is there a reward?”
Neal blinked. “Reward for what?”
“For getting you and this money safely back on land.”
“I don’t think so.”
“A finder’s fee? Maybe twenty percent.”
Neal shook his head. “I can’t authorize anything like that.”
Chlöe looked at him for a long time without saying anything. Then she said, “That’s too bad.”
When did the idea sneak up on her? Was it when she first opened the duffel bags? Was it when she decided that he was probably telling the truth, or some version of the truth, and wasn’t a drug dealer or an international criminal? He was probably what he said he was. A guy who worked for a bank. The same bank that helped tank the global economy. Chlöe laughed to herself. What was she trying to do? Justify what she was thinking? Australia skated through the financial meltdown. She wasn’t affected by it. Besides, were the actions of a corporation, no matter how crook, justification for murder?
Chlöe put the kettle on. She ripped the lids off two cups of Fantastic noodles and waited for the water to boil. She wished she’d rescued a handsome big wave surfer, a sun-kissed ocean god, someone with long hair and an incredible body, someone who would fuck the loneliness right out of her. But no, instead of Eddie Aikau or John John Florence, she rescued gay Neal from accounting.
She carefully poured hot water into the cups of noodles and then closed the lids. She sat back and waited for the noodle magic to happen. There were so many things she could do with that money. The life she could make for herself. It was wrong, of course, completely wrong. But if, for the sake of argument, this bloke were to vanish on the high seas, it’s not as if anyone would ever know.
Chlöe carried the noodle cups out onto the deck and handed one to Neal. He took it with one hand. “This smells delicious.”
“Be careful, it’s hot.”
“It’d be easier to eat with both hands.” Neal looked at her. Chlöe stared back at him, considering various possible comebacks, but if she were being honest with herself, she was too fucking tired to think of anything. He must’ve sensed it, because he squirmed and said, “Not that I’m complaining. Thank you for sharing your food with me.”
“Well, we can’t have you starving to death. Wouldn’t be good for the brand.”
With that, Chlö
e pointed up at the sail and all the corporate logos.
Neal slurped his soup, taking in a big ball of noodles, his face twisting as he attempted to keep from burning the inside of his mouth. Chlöe watched him. A normal person would’ve spit the hot soup out, but a starving man will suffer second-degree burns for a mouthful of delicious ramen. She realized that if he started choking, she wouldn’t apply the Heimlich or try to save him. She’d just go down in the galley and make a cup of tea while he asphyxiated.
Chlöe scooped up a tangle of noodles with her chopsticks and blew on them. Perhaps that was the way to do it. An accident. He choked. He drowned. He was leaning over the side of the boat washing his hair when a great white came up and decapitated him.
Chlöe chewed on her noodles. Turning the banker into shark biscuit made the most sense.
And that’s when she knew what she was going to do.
“When I get back to New York, I think I’ll start over.” Neal looked up at Chlöe. She didn’t seem that interested; she seemed preoccupied. “I’ll start dating again.”
Chlöe nodded. “That’s nice.”
“Do you have someone?”
“What? Like a boyfriend?”
“Yeah. A significant other.”
“Does someone with a boyfriend decide to spend a year on a boat?”
Neal had to admit that someone who was spending a year alone at sea probably didn’t have a boyfriend. He followed her gaze up to some streamers on top of the mast. They were starting to twitch a little. “Looks like wind.”
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