by Megyn Ward
We finally make it to the dock and Cap’n Mike, as he likes to be called in front of clients, catches the rope Blake tosses and ties us off. I jump off to help secure the boat and to assist the divers with their equipment.
Blake teases the honeymooners as the woman holds her hand out to Mike. He pulls her onto the cement dock and quickly catches her husband’s hand to do the same. The couple takes hold of each other’s hands immediately, as if they need contact to keep breathing.
“Thanks for choosing Dive Love,” I say.
The woman looks directly into my eyes. “That was one of the best dives I’ve ever been on. You showed us some very cool sights.” The husband hands me a Benjamin.
A hundred bucks is a very generous tip and I grin. “Any day underwater is a good one, huh?”
The husband pats my shoulder and lowers his voice. “You didn’t deserve that.”
Fake secures her sarong and hefts her dive bags over her shoulders. She waltzes by me without offering a tip or even a fuck-you. I’d like to give her a lovely parting gift but kept my face neutral.
I watch while Scruff-face helps his girlfriend stand, shouldering his bag and hers before leading her to the side of the boat.
As soon as the girl is on the dock, Pudge shoves Scruff-face from behind as Mike yanks him onto the dock. Standing next to him, she sways a little, before taking several lurching steps to the other side of the dock and ralphs into the water. Huge silver tarpon reflecting the afternoon sun as they surge to the delicacy hitting the water with an unappetizing splat.
“Fuck,” Scruff-face mutters, dropping the dive bags he’s carrying. He shoots Pudge a quick glare before making his way to his girlfriend who is still feeding the fish.
Letting out a heavy sigh, I walk over to where Scruff-face kneels on the edge of the dock next to the girl who, is retching so violently, I’m sure she’s about to puke up her own spleen. “Okay.” I hear him murmur to her. “Let’s get you a taxi and get you back to the hotel.”
Looking up at me over Chunk’s head, he has the decency to look embarrassed. “I’m really sorry. Let me talk to that asshat, see if I can get him to see reason.”
“I think you’ve done enough for me.” I reach down and fit my hand under his girlfriend’s clammy armpit. “You should probably get your girlfriend back the hotel.”
Standing he reaches for her and pulls her out of my grip. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he says, fitting his arm around her waist in an effort to hold her up. “I don’t even know her name.”
“Kate,” Chunks mumbles, and hand pressed to her stomach. “M’name’s Kate.”
“Nice to meet you, Kate.” Scruff-face gives her the dimples. “Let’s get you into that taxi.”
Watching them go, I see Pudge and Fake hurry up the dock like they’re fleeing the scene of a crime. Maybe they finally remember me from last night. I’m not about to let them get away again. Handing Chunks off to Scruff-face, I ran after them.
We share a parking lot with a resort and when I catch up to Pudge and his girl they’d snagged a taxi letting off guests. The girl slid into the back seat. I grab Pudge’s doughy arm before he climbs into the cab. I narrow my eyes and lean into him. “You owe me sixty-five bucks.”
Pudge yanks his arm away. “We paid at the shop. I don’t owe you a tip.”
I step aggressively toward him. “I’m not talking about a tip, you fucking cheapskate. You ran out on your tab at The Green Frog last night.”
He squints at me, and a second later, a grin spreads across his face. “Your Sex on the Beach wasn’t that good.”
I seize a wad of his tank top in my fist. “I had to pay that tab, asshole. I want my money.”
He yanks my hand away. “I don’t have cash. I’ll catch you next time.” He shoves me backward and I stumble.
He throws himself into the cab and shuts the door. Through the open window I hear him give the driver the name of their resort, a posh place off Seven Mile Beach, of course. If I shout and curse like I feel like doing, it won’t get me my $65 or salvage the dive trip. All I have left to do is swallow another injustice and get on with my life.
This shit is getting stale.
Oh, yeah? So, quit taking it and get on with why you really came to Cayman.
Jonas Knightly.
I hurry past the office to get back to the boat to help Blake and Richard get the equipment unloaded and cleaned and set everything up for the next day. My flip flops barely left the sandy beach when I spot my gear bag resting against the outside of the office. Why would someone have brought it from the boat for me? Part of my job was cleaning up after every dive.
At the edge of the dock, Scruff-face and Dadbod stood face to face, deep in conversation. It doesn’t look like they’re fighting. Why would they be? Two guys from the same side of the tracks, probably comparing golf scores, the trouble they caused me already forgotten.
Even though I’m disgusted by both of them, I hesitate a moment to take in the sight of Scruff-face. It’s like I can’t help myself, which is seriously nuts. I’m surrounded by shirtless men all day long. Blake is definitely drool-worthy and almost never wears a shirt and I barely give him more than a passing glance. So, what is it about this guy that I can’t seem to get enough of?
Like he can hear me thinking, he laughs, t-shirt clasped in his hands. Boardshorts draping from narrow hips, his shoulders straight and broad chest high. Dark hair teased by the ocean breeze, I get a glimpse of one of his dimples as he grins at Dadbod.
Yep.
Definitely scrumptious.
Definitely out of my league.
Definitely bad news.
Richard steps out of the dive shop, his dark face drooping. He speaks with a thick Jamaican accent. “Mike say he want to see you.”
Damn it. Dadbod hadn’t let it drop. Vacant Mom and Chip don’t hold much sway with him, apparently. Mike knows what tourists can be like. Sometimes they demand their money back if the between-dive snacks aren’t to their taste. They can blow a gasket if their rental BC doesn’t have big enough pockets. They’ll pitch a fit when we explain that, no, they can’t carry knives in their super-cool Navy SEAL calf holsters.
We all work hard to make their experience a good one. They pay a lot of money and they expect the best. But that doesn’t mean they get to disregard rules and laws and safety. It’s a balancing act and Mike hires dive masters he trusts to keep that in mind. He expects us to live by his standards and in return, he usually backs us up.
With his sun-bleached, white hair and three-day growth of Mike reminds me of a Jack Russell terrier, all wriggly energy, ready to jump and run. I know he doesn’t do drugs but he seems like a coked-up elf half the time. I like being Mike’s employee. He works as hard as he expects us to work and he treats us fairly.
I figure I’m in for a lecture about coming close to losing my temper. I hate having to admit I’m wrong and I hate apologizing even more, but I know better than to make excuses about hung-over entitlement kids and asshole rich dads. I’ll take my lumps and admit I was wrong, even though I’m not.
With heavy steps I retreat from the beach and enter the shop. Compared to the dazzling sun and heat of the outside, the shop feels cool and dark.
Maureen, Mike’s fifty-something cousin from Minnesota who’s recovering from a bad divorce and spending a few months in Cayman, sits behind the counter on a stool. She sucks hard on a Marlboro, holds it for a second and exhales out the window behind her. She taps the ash into a half clamshell. “Fucker.” Her voice sounds like she’s strained it through gravel. I want to ask who the fucker is. Scruff-face? Mike? Me? Maybe it has nothing to do with me and it’s a commentary on her ex and the constant battle over alimony.
Mike’s office sits at the back of the shop, behind the racks of rash guards, swimsuits, t-shirts and wetsuits. I hesitate at the display of sunscreen and mask de-fogger. Voices float from Mike’s office. It sounds like Blake talking to Mike but I can’t make out the words. The tone isn’t th
e usual banter.
The beads blocking the office from the shop are swept aside and Blake stomps out. He looks like a raging bear. He swings his head back and shouts at Mike. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”
He starts striding toward the front door before he looks where he was going and nearly plows into me. I put my hand on his bare chest to stop him. “Hey.” I glance at the swinging beads. “What’s going on?”
Blake draws in a breath of surprise. “Oh shit, Kylie.” He whips his head toward Mike’s office then back to me. “I tried to tell him but…”
“Kylie,” Mike says. All the happy-puppy is gone from his voice. “In my office.”
I give Blake one last glance.
“It’s bullshit,” he whispers.
Shit. This doesn’t sound good. Not good at all.
Mike holds back the beads and waits for me to make my way into his office. It’s even darker than the shop. The small space is big enough for a desk and a couple of folding chairs. Dive equipment, samples, shop inventory, and loose papers cover the desk, the floor, and all but one chair. He’s nailed bare boards on the walls for shelves and they’re overflowing with a chaos of papers, books, and odds and ends. How Mike actually ran a business baffles me. But he seem to have some system because Dive Love is successful enough to own six boats and employ over two dozen people.
He motions me to sit in the one empty chair. He sounds grave. “We’ve got a situation.”
I perch on the edge of the folding chair and don’t say anything. That’s the trick Mom taught me. Don’t justify, don’t argue, don’t offer.
Mike lowers himself to his chair behind the desk. “This guy on the boat. Says you lost his son.”
“Everyone came back safe and sound.” I hope I don’t sound as defensive as I feel.
“Yep. I see that.” Mike nods and focuses on a paperclip sitting on top of a stack of invoices. “But this guy, he’s pretty upset.”
Despite Mom’s advice, I speak up. “He should be. The asshole forgot to keep track of his son. He’s embarrassed and wants to pin it on me.”
“I figured.” Mike picks up the paperclip and bends it, making a fish hook. “But I’ve got to make a gesture to him.”
“I suppose he wants a refund.” I feel my insides heat up. “Probably has more money than God and he is angling for a free dive.”
Mike pulls the paperclip straight on one side. “I can’t afford…”
I hate that Mike will have to take a hit for this. The guy probably paid about five hundred bucks for the four of them to dive. That’s a big chunk of my salary. I’d been saving for a few months and five hundred bucks would eat it up. But even if I didn’t do anything wrong, I need to make this right for Mike. “Okay, look. I don’t think I did anything wrong. I mean, I had to take care of Scruff-face and his girlfriend and the dad should have taken care of his son. But I’ll pay you back for their refund.”
The paperclip stretched out straight, Mike leans back in his chair, the springs squeaking. “That’s a nice offer, Kylie.” He gives me a look like he means it. Like my offering to pay for that asshole’s dive was the last thing he expected. “Even if I thought you were at fault I wouldn’t take you up on it.”
I feel a but coming on.
I‘m not wrong. “But this is a difficult situation and I hate what’s got to happen next.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about but I’m pretty sure I’ll hate it too. “If you hate it, then don’t do it.”
He shakes his head and tosses the wire onto his desk. “That guy is Charlie Davenport.”
I raise my eyebrows in a so what? expression.
He sighs like he’s about to say something he’d rather not say out loud. “Charlie is the guy who fronted the money for Dive Love.”
My stomach lurches up into my mouth. “I thought you own Dive Love.”
He chuckled. “Yeah. Well. I run it. It’s mine as far as Charlie’s concerned and he only comes down once or twice a year to dive. But he’s my mother’s cousin and he bought the whole operation for cash. I’m paying him back. Pretty much he’s a silent partner. Every now and then, he sticks his nose into it. Like, Maureen. She’s his second cousin or something removed. Anyway, he told her to stop smoking in the shop and when she didn’t, he told me to fire her.”
I’m floored. “And you’re going to?”
He looks pale. “Well, yeah. I don’t have any choice.”
At least now I know who she meant. In the middle of feeling like shit for Maureen, it suddenly dawns on me what Mike is trying to tell me.
I gape at him. “And?”
Mike closes his eyes and sits still, as if hoping he might disappear.
“Mike?”
His shoulders fall and he opens his eyes. “God, Kylie, I’m sorry about this.”
My blood starts to boil and I clench my teeth. “Sorry about what, Mike?”
He purses his lips and sucks on his teeth. “I’m going to have to let you go.”
I don’t yell at Mike. I don’t throw anything across the room. I don’t sweep the beads from the doorway and stomp outside. At least, I don’t think I did. I can’t be sure because I don’t know how I got into the sunshine.
I stand disoriented for a moment. Fired? My dream job. No more diving. No more ocean air, ruffling through my hair on the boat. How will I afford to stay on Cayman now? I haven’t even made a plan for my mission, yet.
The two people responsible for this fiasco stand at the edge of the dock. They seem like fast friends now. Without thinking, I barrel down the dock toward them.
Scruff-face hears me coming and looks up at me. He smiles, all cute dimples and welcoming warmth. Dadbod assesses me like the shit he is, eyes traveling down my clingy rash guard to take in my legs stretching from my bikini bottom.
Richard must have read the look on my face. From his place on the boat, he hollers at me. “Hey, Kylie. I t’ink you need to come here.”
Sorry, Richard.
Too late.
I’m committed.
My flip-flops slap my heels. A boat’s wake crashes against the pillars of the dock and Scruff-face’s smile wavers. Dadbod doesn’t have the brains to be worried.
I never slow my steps. Like a bulldozer, I charge on and at the last minute, raise my arms, planting my hands on Dadbod’s soft man breasts and give him the slightest shove. I’ll treasure the surprised look on his face for the rest of my life. He yells and topples backward into the surf.
Scruff-face takes a little more effort since he knows what was coming. But he’s no match for my momentum and rage. He tumbles back, executing a twist before ending in a pretty good dive.
Chapter 8
Kylie
I don’t stop to watch either of the douche bags flounder in the water. I stride back up the dock, pick up my dive bag, sling it on my back and storm to the bus stop.
“Kylie!”
I hear his voice, but I don’t pay any attention.
“Hey, Kylie!” A tug on my sleeve brings my focus to Blake, panting beside me.
I brush wisps of hair from my face. “You knew who he was, didn’t you?”
He looks miserable. “Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?”
“I tried. The way you were talking…” He looks down at his sandy feet. “I’m sorry. I swear I thought you knew.”
The dive shop and resort spreads out on the eastern tip of the island. Not much going on out here, which is one reason I like it so much. I hate all the bustle of Seven Mile Beach, all the glitz and glimmer. There’s good diving on all sides of the island but right around the harbor on Seven Mile Beach, where the cruise ships drop off their loads of turtle people—that’s what I call the slow, wide-eyed tourists who lumber off the cruise ships into the first Senior Frogs they see and down frozen drinks until they’re drunk enough to wear balloon hats—the coral is brown and dead. Swim-throughs that once teamed with color and aquatic life lay broken, brown, lifeless, dead. I can’t stand
to dive there.
I know a couple other dive shops that would take me on but once they find out I lost a diver, even momentarily, they’ll never hire me. It’s a small island and an even smaller dive community. I’m done as a dive master.
I’d be lucky it a shop would hire me to shine their tanks.
Blake towers above me. With olive skin and soft, dark hair that curls into ringlets if he didn’t cut it regularly, long lashes and deep brown eyes, he has no trouble hooking up with cute tourists. He doesn’t take advantage of his opportunities very often, as far as I could tell.
Because he’s into you, dummy.
The ragged two-lane blacktop road that winds around most of the island passes in front of the resort and dive shop. Across the strip, with its dusting of sand, a business center thrives. It consists of a small grocery store, liquor store, Italian restaurant and a Dunkin Donuts/ice cream shop. The businesses cater to the resort guests.
Those of us working to assure the tourists of their perfect holiday, take the bus. I hate the thought of waiting on the hot roadside. The regular bus should run by here at the end of the day, around four or five. But island time is a squishy thing. If you want to ride, you might as well get comfortable because there’s no telling when a bus might happen by.
The smell of donut grease wafts over me. Damn it. Stupid, arrogant, pigheaded, bastard. He doesn’t understand that some of us need our measly jobs. I don’t have much of a cushion to pay my rent and buy my groceries if I didn’t have a steady income.
Island life is expensive.
An overweight thirty-something bald guy holds the door of the ice cream shop open for a boy and girl about seven and ten-years-old. All three lick on enormous ice cream cones. They’re wearing swimming suits, not even bothering to throw on a shirt or cover up. The kids shove and bicker and the guy, with his hairy, soft chest and belly hanging over his shorts, shouts at them to straighten up.
Ah, families on vacation. How precious. Mom and I saved all year for our dive trips. As soon as I was old enough, I started babysitting and contributed as much as I could. When I turned sixteen I flipped burgers and inquired if customers wanted fries with that. Any spare change went into our vacation fund.