Rock the Boat: A Griffin Bay Novel

by Starling, Lib

  “Well?” Storm’s prying kicked Jordan out of her miserable reverie.

  She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, Storm. I guess I’m just not feeling it anymore.”

  “Not feeling it? What do you mean?”

  Jordan waved vaguely toward the ferry, the crowds of tourists. “This. The tourist season. The charters. All the pressure from our clients to deliver a perfect experience. I can’t ever seem to give our clients what they want, and I… I don’t think I want to try anymore.”

  A stunned silence descended over the boat’s deck. Jordan winced as she peered at Storm and Emily in turn. But they didn’t look angry or disappointed; just thoughtful.

  “I’ll miss sailing on this boat,” Emily said.

  Storm scratched at the dark stubble of his chin. “Me too. A lot.”

  “We don’t have to give up the Coriolis,” Jordan said hastily. “I’ll never let this boat go, and you guys know you’re always welcome on my boat.”

  “But the moorage is expensive,” Storm said. “If you’re not taking on charters, how will you pay for it?”

  “I don’t know yet.” In truth, Jordan hadn’t thought that far ahead—unusual for her. Maybe I’ve been too scared to think that far ahead. “I’ll figure something out. Maybe Aunt Susan will let me rent it out as a live-aboard. You know, a floating vacation cabin.”

  “Maybe,” Emily said, but she sounded doubtful. “Will that be steady enough income to pay the moorage on time?”

  Jordan shrugged helplessly. “My only thought so far has been…” She trailed off and stared at her friends, the crisis robbing her of all words.

  “Don’t worry about us,” Emily said. “You know my parents are rich as sin. I’m practically one of those ‘I demand more whales!’ types.”

  “Don’t worry about me, either,” Storm said.

  Unlike Emily, Storm did not come from a privileged background. He was a townie—a year-round resident of Griffin Bay. In fact, Storm’s and Jordan’s family had generations of roots wound around the stony heart of San Juan Island. Unlike the wealthy vacationers they catered to, most year-round residents of Griffin Bay were salt-of-the-earth types—farmers and artisans, fishermen and boat mechanics and innkeepers—not the sort of people who could give up a lucrative job on short notice.

  “I am going to worry about you both,” Jordan insisted. “Even you, Emily. I know how important it is to you, to make your own living without relying on your parents for help. I’m more than just your friend. I’m your captain and your boss. I have a duty to you both, and I don’t take that lightly.” She sat on the roof of the boat’s cabin and swept off her hat, then massaged her temple with one hand. A definite ache was forming. “I’ll figure this out, I promise. I won’t let you guys go without a good, hefty payment.”

  “If you really want to quit, you know we’ll support you in that.” Storm dropped down beside her and pulled her into a rough side-hug. “You know we’ve always got your back. But… well… it will be easier on me if we don’t quit on such short notice. Maybe we can do one last season, and close up shop in the fall.”

  “That could work,” Emily said. “It would give Storm and me time to look for new jobs. And you could get enough money to tie up any loose ends. You could even moor the boat here until next summer. That’s a lot of time to figure out where you want your life to go next, Jordy.”

  “If you know it’s your last season as floating butler to the rich and famous, you might even enjoy all the snooty demands for better wine and more sun and whales with more symmetrical tail-flukes,” Storm joked.

  “Yeah,” Jordan answered vaguely.

  She knew her friends were right, but still her stomach clenched and her head pounded at the prospect of four and a half months of the same old, entitled, demanding grind. If I could just figure out a way to pay their year’s salaries in one go, without having to run an entire season of charters… The only option that came readily to Jordan’s mind was to sell Sea Wolf Charters as an intact business—which would certainly mean selling the Coriolis, too.

  No way. It won’t come to that. It can’t. I’ll only part with my boat as an absolute last resort.

  Her phone vibrated in her pocket with the two short bursts that meant she’d received an email to the Sea Wolf Charters account.

  “Ugh,” she said as she fished the phone from her pocket. “Look at this, can you believe it? The demands have already begun.”

  “Read it to us,” Emily prompted.

  Jordan cleared her throat and began. “‘Dear Ms. Griffin, I am writing to inquire about near-future availability for a chater trip through the San Juan Islands. I’m afraid I’m in need of a peaceful retreat as soon as possible…’”

  “Unbelievable,” Storm muttered. “These jerks even want peace and quiet on demand!”

  “‘The charter will include just one passenger who has no previous sailing experience.’”

  Emily groaned. “Nightmare client.”

  “‘I would like this trip to extend for as long as your near-future scheduling allows. Two weeks would be ideal. Please respond at your earliest convenience…’ Blah, blah, blah,” Jordan finished.

  “That was a pretty obnoxious email,” Storm said. “I can see why you’re burned out.”

  “What are you going to tell him?” Emily asked as Jordan began to thumb-type furiously.

  Jordan finished her reply and hit “send.”

  “There,” she said, cherishing a thrill of satisfaction. “I responded at my earliest convenience. I told him I’ve decided to take a hiatus this season and won’t be running any charters. We will run at least a few,” she assured her crew, “but I don’t want this guy on my boat. Demands, demands, demands.”

  “Probably a good call,” Storm said.

  Then Jordan’s phone buzzed again.

  When she glanced down at the response, her heart froze in her chest.

  The email read simply, “$150,000.”

  “Oh my God,” Jordan whispered.

  Storm took the phone from her numb hand and stared blankly at the screen. “He has to be kidding. That’s ten times our normal rate for a ten-day trip!”

  “What?” Emily swiped the phone from Storm. “Holy shit, Jordy! We have to do it. We have to!”

  “I don’t know. If he’s not pulling my leg, you know he’ll be the client from Hell. Full-blown Lucifer, with horns and a pitchfork and everything.”

  “But this kind of money would solve everything for you, Jordy! Instead of doing a full summer season, you’d only have to do one more charter. Just one—and then you’d be finished forever, if that’s what you really want.”

  The Coriolis rocked gently beneath Jordan; she trailed one hand along the sun-warmed roof of the cabin.

  If this guy’s serious, then it definitely won’t come down to selling my boat. That kind of money would change everything for the better.

  All she had to do was commit to one last charter.

  “I’ll call him,” Jordan told her friends. “I’ll find out if he’s serious about his offer. And if he is, well… then we’ll see.”

  .2.

  Davis jolted out of sleep and instantly regretted it. The moment he opened his eyes, the soft morning light filtering through his bedroom curtains stabbed into his skull. The steady pounding of a hangover started up in his head, relentless and precise in its four-four tempo. He tried to roll over onto his back, but his chest and gut felt heavy, groggy. He’d slept, but he hadn’t slept well.

  At least he had managed to make it to his bedroom instead of passing out on the couch—or worse, the bathroom floor. The corner of his silk pillowcase stuck to the five-o-clock shadow of his jaw, cemented there by a night’s worth of drool. He pulled it away, wincing as it tugged at his skin.

  “God, Davis,” he muttered to the empty room. “You really are getting too old for this.”

  He squinted his eyes just-barely-open to look at the clock on his night stand. Its digital readout was blurre
d and doubled. 9:45 a.m. He never woke up this early, not even when he’d remained boringly sober the night before. Something must have wakened him… but what? He lay still, listening for a honking horn, a barking dog, the ring of his phone—any sound that might account for this ungodly early rising.

  Then his condo’s door intercom buzzed, harsh and nasal, grating over the murmur of the city outside. Somebody had come to see him.

  “Shit,” Davis muttered, rolling out of bed, groaning at the ache in his stomach. Was he hungry? Or was that dull pain from all the puking he’d done last night? He didn’t remember puking, but since he’d woken up with a colossal hangover, a wise man would bet on the barf.

  He stumbled over rumpled clothes discarded on his floor and into the bathroom, where the shining white tiles of floor and walls reflected the overhead light with cruel brilliance. He splashed water on his face, rinsed his mouth, then crammed a toothbrush in it and brushed hastily while he peed. He gave himself one last look in the mirror before he went to buzz in the visitor. His hair was a disheveled mess, but that was acceptable in his line of work. The worn, white undershirt he slept in almost had a hip appeal, if he kind of squinted, but the threadbare boxers were definitely unacceptable. He grabbed a pair of jeans from his bedroom floor and wrestled them on as he stumbled across his condo, still disoriented from his night of drinking.

  Davis jabbed the intercom button. “Who is it?”

  The brisk, efficient voice of his manager answered. “It’s Tyler. Let me in.”

  Davis leaned his forehead against the wall and muttered, “Fuck.”

  “I heard that,” Tyler said. “Your finger’s still on the button.”

  Biting back another curse, he jammed the “Door Open” button and held it down longer than was necessary, relishing its angry buzz. He popped a pod of grounds into his coffee maker and stared at the dark stream of liquid salvation as it poured down, steaming, into his mug. The mug wasn’t even full when Tyler’s knock sounded on Davis’s door.

  He braced himself with a deep, calming breath, then swung the door open, trying his damndest to look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. “Tyler. Hi. What a lovely surprise.”

  “Can it, Davis.” Tyler brushed past him into the condo. “We need to talk.”

  Tyler stared around the living area, his hard eyes coolly assessing behind the lenses of his fashionable, thick-rimmed glasses. Davis could practically read his manager’s thoughts as he evaluated the scattering of clothes and guitars, the couch cushion that had been kicked halfway out of its place, the glass pipe and baggie of weed that had been left out on the coffee table atop a wrinkled newspaper and a stack of unread books. Davis’s life had become as much a mess as his home was. The clutter made an ugly picture set against the ordered backdrop of Seattle’s skyline.

  He’s thinking I’m a wreck, Davis told himself as he retrieved his coffee mug from the brewing machine. And he’s not wrong, either.

  Tyler ran a hand through his blond curls and turned to face Davis squarely. The Space Needle loomed behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows, like a monument to achievement and success. The Needle and Tyler together—Tyler, who was only twenty-eight but had his shit together in ways Davis could only dream about—seemed to mock him where he stood, barefoot in his faded jeans, his undershirt hanging limply from his frame.

  “I’ll cut right to the chase,” Tyler said. “You’re going away for a while.”

  “What? Where? What do you mean?”

  “You’re taking a vacation, Davis. I’ve booked you for a little cruise around the San Juan Islands—just you, alone, on a nice, comfy sailboat for ten whole days.”

  Davis set his untasted coffee down on the granite countertop and gaped at Tyler in disbelief.

  “Don’t worry,” Tyler added. “You’re not paying. It’s on the label’s tab.”

  “I hope so. I’ve never been on a damn boat in my life. And… alone? What’s this all about, Ty?”

  “Well, in short, it’s about… this.” Tyler spread his hands wide, indicating the strewn refuse of Davis’s life. “You’ve got to get it together, man. You need to do some serious thinking about where your future is heading and how you’re going to get there. I thought some R&R could help you out.”

  Alone. Drifting through the islands, alone. The last thing Davis wanted was to be alone. Wasn’t he alone enough these days? Living alone, drinking alone… as the frontman of the Local Youths, who’d enjoyed one hit after another a few years back, he was just famous enough that he couldn’t go out for a night on the town without being bombarded by demanding fans. The only time he got together with other people anymore was when the band rehearsed—or when they toured, which hadn’t happened in almost two years. They were still struggling to come back after losing their old drummer, Mark.

  Well… they didn’t so much lose Mark. It was more like Davis forcibly evicted him from the band. But what else should he have done, once he finally realized that Mark and Christine had been sleeping together behind his back?

  Hell no, Davis didn’t want to be alone, and he didn’t want any R&R. For him, peace and quiet were crowded with painful thoughts of Christine—how much he had adored her, how her body had driven all the sense right out of his head—and how badly it had hurt when he’d walked in on her and Mark in bed. Those awful memories could only be chased away with loud music and booze. That was what Davis did best: loud music and booze. And he’d keep on doing it until all thoughts of Christine were driven out of his heart.

  Of course, there were other reasons to fear peace and quiet and all that damn thinking Tyler wanted him to do. Davis didn’t relish the idea of sitting on some damn boat, pondering where his life was going—because he was afraid it was going nowhere. After tasting unimaginable fame, his career was on a slow but undeniable slide into obscurity. That hurt almost as badly as the mess with Mark and Christine. Maybe it hurt worse. Most days, Davis couldn’t decide. But he knew one thing for sure: he didn’t want to dwell on the grim future. He just wanted to live in the here-and-now, because he was pretty sure the here-and-now wouldn’t last much longer.

  “No way,” Davis said. “This sounds like a pointless waste of time, when we could be working on better promo for the band. We’ve got to launch our next album much more strongly than the last one. I—”

  “I’m afraid it’s not optional.” Tyler turned his back on Davis to stare out at the Space Needle. “You’re going to go on this little sea voyage and figure yourself out. You’re going to come back to Seattle and tell me exactly who Davis Steen is and where his career is going next. You’re going to get your shit together, Davis, or Sky Records will drop you.”

  Davis’s heart lurched. “What?”

  “You heard me, man.” Tyler faced him again, and his eyes had softened with sympathy. “We love you at Sky, Davis. You know that. The Local Youths really put us on the map. But the band isn’t what it used to be. We need more from you—we need a reinvention, a revival. Of the band, of you—I don’t care which. But it has to happen, and soon. Or we’ll have no choice but to drop you from the label.”

  Davis jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stared down at the floor. Damn. So it had come to this, and so soon. Fame really was fickle. He should have known this was coming—wasn’t everything in his life fickle? Christine, leaping into Mark’s bed the second she’d grown tired of Davis. Mark, jetting off with Christine to form a brand-new band… one that was currently tearing up the charts while the Youths floundered around for their next hit. And now Sky Records was ready to drop him. Davis had felt so secure with Sky, ever since they first signed the Youths six years ago. And now even that partnership was ready to fall apart.

  Nobody sticks with anything anymore. Everybody just goes wherever the wind blows them. And the wind is blowing me straight into ruin.

  The other members of the Youths would be just fine if Sky Records cut them from the roster. Even their new drummer had side projects with promising futures. But Dav
is had nothing—nothing but this band.

  “You’re thirty-two,” Tyler said gently. “Maybe it’s just time to move on from the Youths, Davis. I mean… the band’s name—”

  “Ha. You’ll see when you’re a grizzled old thirty-two-year-old like me that your thirties are hardly old age.”

  But despite his bravado, he felt old. Old and used up… and already forgotten. Davis very much feared that if he spent ten days all alone on a boat, with no one but his own dark thoughts for company, he’d feel even older. Even more useless.

  “You leave at one o’clock this afternoon,” Tyler said, tugging his sport jacket lapels in a businesslike manner, in a way that said, that’s that, and my work here is through. He stepped toward the door, but Davis stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

  “Listen, Tyler… I don’t think I can really—”

  At that moment, the morning alarm went off in his bedroom. A die-hard devotee of the days before phones did everything except wipe your ass—the days when real rock ruled the airwaves—Davis used his old-school clock radio, and kept its alarm set to the radio function. But now he wished for the obnoxious, pulsating buzz of a regular alarm. The radio blasted Two-Timer at an ungodly volume, so in-your-face that Davis could feel the chords vibrating in his teeth. It was the latest hit song from Can’t Never… the band Mark and Christine had formed together. It seemed every station in the area played Can’t Never every hour, on the hour. And whenever Davis turned off the radio, pictures of the band kept popping up on news sites and his friends’ Facebook feeds. He couldn’t escape Can’t Never—and all the dark thoughts Christine’s smile brought to his head.

  “Fuck,” Davis said, pinching the bridge of his nose. At least on a boat he would be free from Can’t Never for ten blissful days. He wouldn’t have to see any pictures of Mark and Christine, either, looking so cool and arrogantly in love as they held hands for the paparazzi’s cameras. “All right, Ty. I’ll do it. If you really want me to.”