by Lila Monroe
I step out onto the dock, beginning to feel more optimistic. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. A little time on the beach could be exactly what I need to clear my head.
“Look at this!” Kiki (???) is yelling, waving us over to the shipwreck, where the old wooden frame of a boat is scattered on the shoreline. “It’s perfect for the theme.”
Uh, hold on a second.
“Theme?” I ask, trying to keep the sudden suspicion out of my voice. Nobody said anything about a theme.
“Of course, silly!” Vanessa grins at me from behind her massive sunglasses. “Pirates of the Caribbean.”
I laugh out loud. “No, really,” I say, digging some sunblock out of my purse. “What is it?”
Vanessa gazes at me blankly for a moment and that’s when I realize she’s serious. “Oh,” I say, trying to backpedal. “That’s . . . creative!”
But Vanessa is hardly listening, turning to supervise as the girls unpack various outfits and accessories from the back of the speedboat, directing them this way and that like an army captain organizing the invasion of Normandy.
“Um, Vanessa,” I say, catching sight of a particularly low-cut pirate wench ensemble—which, at first glance, look likes it was stolen from the uniform closet of a low-end chain restaurant an hour outside of Orlando. “Where did you get these costumes?”
“I got them for a song from a local theater group,” she reports, obviously delighted by the DIY of it all. “They did Pirates of Penzance last season. The dresses had to be totally reconstructed to make them sexier, of course, but all those sewing lessons will totally pay off, right girls?”
“Um, yep,” Kirsty says, tying on a bright-read headscarf printed with tiny skulls. “That thousand-dollar sewing machine you had me buy will definitely come in handy next time I need new curtains for my apartment.”
I want to laugh, but it’s hard to feel particularly smug when you’re about to have your picture taken wearing a corset and fishnet stockings.
But when in Rome. Or rather, Florida . . .
I change into my wench outfit, and struggle to pin an ancient-looking stuffed parrot to my shoulder, swearing quietly as his crusty beak pokes me in the temple for the fifteenth time.
The things I do for my father.
“Be careful with Horace over there,” Vanessa chirps, nodding at the bird’s faded tail-feathers. “He’s real.”
“What?” I shriek, ripping the flea-bitten corpse off my shoulder and chucking it down into the sand, where it considers me with one menacing eyeball.
Vanessa laughs. “I’m just kidding, Livvie,” she says, adjusting her pirate tiara—she’s the queen in this little tableau, obviously. “Maybe.”
“Ha.” I force a smile. “Hilarious!”
“Come on, let’s all get in position!”
We take pictures for what feels like hours—lounging on the sand, draped over an outcropping of rocks in the surf, gathered precariously on the creaking ruins of the shipwreck while Vanessa plays captain. It looks like we’re starring in a 70s porno with a kinky Disney theme. The photographer clicks gamely away, stopping only when Vanessa tries to convince her to shimmy up the ship’s termite-eaten mast to get a series of aerial shots.
“Yes, this is perfect!” Vanessa says, checking the camera display.
Kiki peers over her shoulder. “You can airbrush out my cellulite, right?”
“Keeks, what happened to that fasting program I sent you?” Vanessa coos, fake-syrupy. “You know carbs go straight to your butt.” She pinches Kiki’s ass and laughs.
Kiki’s face falls.
“I think you look great,” I speak up, taking pity on her. I mean, I’m not the only one strapped and trussed into this getup. She’s got a bright-red bustier on, and shorts so high I can see her last trip to Brazil.
“Thanks,” Kiki gives me a faint smile.
We take a break for refreshments while Vanessa bickers with the photographer about showing her best side. They’re all drinking plastic cups of what the Bride Tribe is calling “grog” but I’m pretty sure is sorority-style party punch, confirmed when I take a cautious sip—vodka mixed with what tastes suspiciously like Kool-Aid, a one-way ticket to Hangover Town. I stick mostly to bottled water, picking at the fruit salad and half listening to the bridesmaids’ chatter. Kirsty is a nutritionist who specializes in fad diets, while Kiki is into crystals—or the other way around, maybe? And Crystal recently broke up with her boyfriend Josh after walking in on him with their personal trainer . . . whose name is also Josh. “I’ll never look at the weight bench the same way again,” she says sadly, peeling off her eye patch and dropping it into the sand.
Kiki shakes her head. “Enough about dumb Josh,” she says, knocking back the rest of her party punch with practiced ease and raising her empty cup in my direction. “I want to hear about what it’s like to date Ryan fucking Callahan.”
“Oh my God, yes!” The others look at me with a mix of admiration and envy. “Spill!
I gulp. Right away my whole body gets warm, and it has nothing to do with the sun beating down overhead. “He’s great,” I say carefully. “I don’t know if that’s— I mean, we really like each other, if that’s what you’re—”
Crystal rolls her eyes, “Don’t be coy, Olivia,” she chides, all Josh-related heartbreak momentarily forgotten. “We want all the dirty details.”
“Yeah we do,” Kiki adds, pouring herself another cup of grog. “Like, for instance: is his package as big as the rest of him?”
Kirsty snorts. “Keeks!” she chides, then looks at me with laser focus. “No, seriously though, we totally want to know.”
I pause, reaching down and fussing with the laces of the high-heeled pirate booties we’ve all been tottering around in. This is so not the kind of conversation I want to be having with a bunch of sorority girls in busty wench outfits. Still, I remember the feel of him, hard and hot against my thigh at the club last night, and I find myself nodding. “It’s . . . definitely impressive,” I admit before I can stop myself.
“All of him is impressive,” Kiki says, scooping her curly hair up off her shoulders. “Seriously, those muscles? I don’t know how you can keep your hands off him long enough to get anything done.”
“It’s a challenge,” I say truthfully.
Vanessa makes her way back over to the group. “What’s up, guys?”
“We’re talking about Olivia’s football hunk boyfriend,” Kirsty reports. “Isn’t she lucky?”
“Oh.” Vanessa looks at me, then back at the others. “Well, Livvie wasn’t exactly what you’d call a guy magnet back in college, so of course it’s—”
But the girls aren’t listening. “What’s he like in bed?” Kiki demands. “Does he just, like, pick you up and toss you around like one of those tackle dummies?”
I definitely don’t hate the idea of Ryan using all that size to his advantage. Still, I think of the focused, capable way he touched me last night . . . I shake my head. “It’s not rough, exactly,” I say, technically truthful. “He’s good with his hands, for sure. Most of all he’s just surprising, you know? He isn’t how I imagined him at all.”
“Larry and I have been experimenting with a little light bondage,” Vanessa announces, obviously jonesing for the Bride Tribe’s undivided attention, but before I have time to be properly horrified by the thought of my dad and her recreating an at-home version of Fifty Shades of Grey, Crystal turns to me.
“Lock that shit down,” she advises, her voice thick with the sage wisdom of the heartbroken and slightly drunk. “I can tell by the look on your face when you talk about him that what you and Ryan have is the real deal, so don’t make the same mistakes I did.” She sighs heavily. “On top of everything else, I have to find a new gym.”
Vanessa checks her phone. “Come on, guys. Time to head back if we want to make our mani-pedi-waxing appointments before dinner!”
We load up the makeup cases and garment bags and the faux-wood treasure chest back
into the speedboat, while Vanessa selfies in front of a palm tree. It looks like she might take a while, and after all that water, I’m dying for the bathroom, so I duck into the brush really quick to pee before the ride back, hoping that nobody gets snap-happy while I’m in my less-than-elegant crouch.
Thankfully, there’s no noise coming from the beach, so I finish my business, and wriggle back into my pirate suit, making my way back to the sand. “Guys?” I call, but there’s no reply, and when I clear the tree line, I realize why.
There’s nobody there.
No. No, no!
Horror floods my body like a kayak that’s sprung a leak, and I look desperately around at the empty shore. “This is a prank, right?” I call loudly. “Haha, very funny. You’re hilarious, Vanessa!”
But the Bride Tribe doesn’t come stumbling out of the shipwreck in hysterics, and when I look down the dock, I see it’s just as deserted as the rest of the beach.
No bags. No bachelorettes. And, most importantly, no speedboat.
They took off without me back to the mainland. I’m literally stranded on a desert island.
Alone.
9
Olivia
What the hell do I do now?
I give in to a moment of sheer, blinding panic as I stare out at the empty horizon, visions of Tom Hanks baring his soul to that volleyball in Castaway running wildly through my head. There’s no way I can survive on a deserted island! Fuck, I’ve never even been to Queens.
“OK, Danvers,” I say out loud, trying desperately to keep myself calm. “You’re practical. You’re a fixer. You can figure this out.” I’m trying to decide if I can somehow fashion a shelter out of the blotting papers and tampons I’ve got in my purse when suddenly I realize—
I’ve still got my purse.
Which means I’ve still got my phone.
Hallelujah! Thank God for small miracles—there’s one tiny bar of service out here, and Ryan answers on the second ring. “Ahoy, matey,” he says by way of greeting. “I heard about your sexy calendar shoot.”
“You have no idea.” I plunk down on a bit of driftwood, my knees weak with relief at the sound of his voice. “Here’s the thing, though: I need your help.”
Ryan listens as I explain what’s going on—managing, to his credit, to swallow down most of his incredulous laughter. “Well,” he says when I’m finished, “I mean, it could be worse. When I saw your name come up on the caller ID I thought maybe they were making you walk the plank.”
I smother a giggle. “That is quite the arsenal of pirate jokes you’ve got there, my friend.”
“Oh, they’re endless,” Ryan assures me cheerfully. “I haven’t even gotten to the one about Blackbeard’s favorite letter.”
“Let me guess,” I say, charmed in spite of myself. “Arrrrrr?”
“You’d think it was arrrrr,” Ryan shoots back, clearly delighted with himself. “But it’s really the C.”
Twenty minutes later, he shows up in a borrowed speedboat. I greet him on the dock, never so happy to see anyone in my life.
“I can’t believe they just took off without me. Actually, no, I can totally believe Vanessa would do that.”
Ryan smirks, his eyes slowly traveling from my thigh-high boots all the way up my bare legs to my wench’s blouse. “Nice outfit.”
“Eyes down, mister.”
“I think what you mean is, ‘Thanks for being my knight in shining armor, Ryan, and not leaving me out here to get eaten by sharks.’ ”
I smile. “OK, that too.”
“Well, we have a boat,” Ryan says, cutting the engine. “But I also brought supplies.” He nods to the beach gear and cooler also tucked in beside him. “So, we can head straight back if you want, but I figured you might be happier chilling here for the day.”
No contest.
“How long will those supplies last?” I ask, helping him bring everything down the dock. “Because I would be happy hiding out here for the rest of the week.”
“That bad?” he asks sympathetically.
“Umm, did you see what she made me wear?” I point, and Ryan chuckles.
“I think you look—”
“For the sake of our professional relationship, I suggest you don’t finish that remark,” I interrupt quickly, and he laughs.
“Good point.”
We set up on the sand, with a blanket and a massive umbrella to keep the heat off. Ryan’s packed beer and snacks in the cooler, and I gladly grab a cold one and take a gulp. “Ah, yes. This place is so much more relaxing without a Facebook Live shoot going on.”
“I saw. She sent the links to your dad,” Ryan explains. “He’s very proud of her creativity.”
“Oh, good.”
I sit back on the sand, and Ryan gets comfortable, too. He pulls his T-shirt up over his head in one smooth motion. I glance over, then look quickly away.
Then I look back.
God, I can’t help it. The man has a body that should be sculpted in fucking marble and worshipped in pagan ceremonies. His abs are incredible. His pecs are like a sexy Ken doll’s. And his ass, frankly, begs to be squeezed. Not a single ounce of the muscle from his football days has softened into fat.
Way to ruin all other men for me.
“Um . . .” I realize that I’ve been staring, and try to drag my thoughts off his tanned, rippling body. “So! How was the rest of your morning?”
“Not as eventful as yours, clearly.” Ryan smiles. “Laid by the pool a little, then hit the gym and worked a little bit on my pitch.” He holds up the sunscreen. “Here,” he says, tossing it casually in my direction, “you mind helping me with this?”
I raise my eyebrows even as I somehow manage to catch the damn thing. “Seriously?”
Ryan makes a face. “Mind out of the gutter, princess. I just need a little help between the shoulder blades, that’s all. Callahans burn easy.”
“OK,” I gulp, looking down and fumbling purposely with the cap on the bottle to hide my own furious blush. “Sure.”
“Thanks,” he says, then chuckles. “You can relax. This isn’t some pretext to get cozy. If I was trying to get into your pirate costume, you’d know it.”
You were trying to get into my pirate costume last night.
I warm the lotion between my hands before smoothing it onto his back. He’s got freckles back here, plus a trio of pinprick beauty marks right in the crook of his shoulder. I want to duck my head and suck on the skin there. I want to nibble the back of his neck.
God, what is wrong with me?
I like sex as much as the next girl, but’s I’ve never been so all-consumed by constant thoughts of the hundred different ways I want some guy to fuck me. It’s like some base animal instinct has taken over, turning me into someone I never knew before.
“There,” I say finally, clearing my throat. “You’re all set.”
Ryan looks at me for a long moment. “Thanks a lot, princess,” is all he says.
We settle ourselves on the blanket, looking out at the water and chatting idly about all kinds of stuff: the giant vegetable garden his mom grows every summer, whether Vanessa made the Bride Tribe swear a blood oath of loyalty, how much Ryan secretly loves The Muppet Show. Occasionally we lapse into comfortable silence, lying side by side propped up on our elbows, listening to the sound of the waves. I can’t believe it was just this morning that I was worried about things being unbearably awkward between us. I don’t know if I’ve ever met someone it’s so easy to be around.
Finally, we take a dip in the ocean, jumping the low waves as the tide rolls in. “OK,” I declare, floating on my back in the clear crystal waters. “I’m calling it. I’m officially relaxed.”
“I can see that,” Ryan says, looking over at me with a small smile playing across those criminally kissable lips. “Is this a first-time experience for you, or . . . ?”
“Shut up,” I chide, splashing him gently. “Cut a girl some slack, OK? I haven’t taken a vacation in . . .” I tr
ail off, suddenly embarrassed by how long it’s been. “God, a while.”
“Oh yeah?” Ryan raises his dark eyebrows. “How come?”
“Always something else to do, I guess.” I sigh. “I was growing the business for so many years, there never seemed to be a good time. I took work trips to meet clients and stuff, but I never just like, took off for the weekend to blow off steam.”
“I mean, this is technically a work trip too,” Ryan points out. “Isn’t it?”
“Right, yeah, of course,” I say, a little bit startled. The truth is, it hasn’t been feeling like one. “It’s just nice to not have to be acting like we’re in love at this particular moment, I mean.” I brush some imaginary sand off my shoulder. “What about you?” I ask, wanting to change the subject. “What’s your perfect vacation?”
Ryan thinks about that for a moment, floating on his back in the surf. “My family’s got a cabin on Lake Michigan,” he tells me. “Nothing fancy—my grandfather used to use it to hunt and like, get away from my grandma—but back when I was playing I used to head out there in the offseason to unplug, clear my head, that kind of thing.”
“By yourself?” I can’t help but ask, hit with a ridiculous pang of jealousy.
“Mostly,” Ryan allows, with a smile that makes me think he knows what I’m after. “My sister would come up sometimes, bring her husband and their dogs, but a lot of trips I was on my own. Mostly I went for hikes and watched a lot of old movies on VHS.”
“That does sounds peaceful,” I admit. “In, like, a Unabomber kind of way.”
“Fuck you!” Ryan says, but he’s laughing. “I mean, yeah, it could get a little lonely. I think I always figured when I met the right girl I’d bring her back there one day.”
I nod noncommittally, letting myself imagine it. I’ve never been much of an outdoor girl, but I think I could like being out in the wilderness with Ryan—sitting around a campfire, snuggling close in the chilly mountain air.