by Cecilia Fyre
“What…ahhh!” Lea sat bolt upright, nearly colliding with Ricco. He pulled back just in time.
Heart hammering, Lea tried to focus. Ricco crouched next to the sofa, his face lit up in a huge grin. He indicated the DVD sleeve lying on Lea’s lap. She must’ve fallen asleep holding it.
“Did the baddies scare the shit outta you?” Ricco asked. “I still get nightmares sometimes when I watch them do their thing just before bed, and I have lunch with those guys on the regular.”
Lea rubbed her face. “It was more the fact that you snuck up right into my face that nearly gave me a heart attack.”
Ricco only grinned more widely. “I didn’t sneak, actually. Nearly fell over the damn cats on the stairs. My swearing should’ve woken you up. What you do, take some of your excellent meds yourself? Bit of R&R on your night off, huh?” He chuckled, the glint in his eyes infectious.
Lea stuck her tongue out. “I’ve worked three twelve-hour shifts in the last seventy-two hours. I’m not as young as I was.”
She swung her legs off the sofa, then looked at Ricco more closely. It was hard to see his face in the dim living room, but he seemed exhausted, his eyes red-rimmed and darkly circled. He hadn’t removed his baseball cap but from what she could see of his hair it looked like he hadn’t brushed it in days. “Speaking of tired. When did you last get any sleep?”
Ricco shrugged. “I dozed on the plane.”
“Well, you look terrible,” she scolded. “You got a busy shoot ahead. Let’s go to bed.”
Ricco got up out of his crouch. “I was hoping we’d do something else besides sleeping.” He pulled her to her feet. Lea let him draw her close and lost herself in a gentle, drawn-out kiss. She had missed feeling his arms around her, his strong, muscular body pressing close. He smelled of travel and cigarettes, a little sweaty but still sexy. He crowded in, his arousal evident against her hip, but Lea pulled away. “Darling, it’s a school night for you. You’ll regret not getting a good night’s rest. How would you like a migraine attack in the middle of the ocean?”
He looked disappointed but then grinned mischievously. "I like it when you talk dirty to me… school night, huh? Will you be my teacher?"
Lea rolled her eyes. “You’ll get a spanking if you don’t listen to doctor’s orders.”
“Is that a promise?” His eyes sparkled.
Lea couldn’t help laughing as Ricco spun her around, then drew her close and kissed her face, neck, and shoulders. He pushed her T-shirt out of the way. His hands moved into the small of her back, then deft fingers danced up her spine, busy with the clasp on her bra before she could get her wits together.
“I’ll be super quick, I promise,” he whispered. “It’ll put me to sleep nicely.”
Lea sighed. “Oh all right then, if that’s what it takes. But don’t be so quick that I don’t even have time to take my knickers off, okay?”
Ricco shook his finger at her. “Watch it, doc. You got no idea how fast I can make someone scream my name.”
Lea felt no longer tired. Ricco’s hands, which had dispensed with her bra, now cupped her breasts. His exhaustion seemed to have vanished. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of his jeans and pulled him close. Her own body responded eagerly to his erection digging into her hip. “C’mon then, biker chief,” she said, surprising herself with her own daring. “Show a girl what you can do with that.”
2
Did this boat never stop moving?
Ricco lay on the bed, hands bunched into the covers. Eyes closed, he tried to will the sickening, lurching sensation to subside. It was just in his head – literally. His inner ear was to blame, reacting to each movement of the yacht on the water, magnifying it and fooling his brain into believing that what his eyes saw as a calm room was in fact pitching and swaying.
He had expected this to happen. Since the on-set accident he’d had problems with travel sickness, but he hadn’t been on a boat in a long time. He'd not mentioned this to anyone. Not to the film crew, or to Stuart, the executive producer on both his travel show and Hell Riders. And not to Lea, either. She had worried he would give himself a migraine with too much work and no sleep. If he’d told her that he’d soon have this different, albeit just as unpleasant problem, she would never understand why in hell he had agreed to this nonsense.
And he didn’t want to tell her, or anyone, the truth. He was too embarrassed. He was on this yacht, and he'd agreed to the travel show because he was a big fat pussy. He couldn't say no. Ever. To anyone. If someone wanted him to do something, and he had time, and the budget worked out, he’d always say yes. Before Hell Riders had made him famous this had been his MO, the only way to pay the bills and survive in the biz. Commercials, conventions, meet and greets, voiceovers, modeling, anything. And now he didn’t know how to stop.
The travel show was an amazing opportunity, tangible proof that he had made it, that he was someone in the entertainment business now. Ricco was co-producer as well and had worked his ass off to get the whole thing together. He'd recruited the entire team through the contacts he’d made in his time doing work in Hollywood. It was exhausting, never-ending hustle. Ricco wasn't sure he was cut out for this, and that feeling had grown stronger as they got further into the project. Stuart was a great help, and he liked the people he'd hired. Everyone worked hard, but the fact that in the end, it was his career on the line was terrifying.
Stuart had come up with this idea for their first episode: Yachting with Steven Spielberg. The idea was to hang out with a public figure in each episode, and travel with them to a place of their choosing. Steven was the most famous guest they had for the first season, so Ricco hadn’t dared raise any objections about the yacht. This was an amazing opportunity. This episode would bring the ratings, all right. So he had to lump it, even if he’d never felt this awful in his life.
He hadn’t expected things to be this bad. Before boarding he’d asked Stuart casually about seasickness on yachts. “Most people are all right after a couple of hours,” Stuart had said, shrugging.
Why wasn’t he most people? The answer came unbidden, unwelcome: Because you never fucking are.
The room tilted again, and Ricco’s eyes snapped open. The bathroom light was the only source of illumination in his cabin. His eyes told him that in fact nothing was moving, but his inner ear insisted that he was standing on his head.
Ricco closed his eyes again, cold sweat beading his forehead. He placed a hand on his stomach, which was engaged in a rollercoaster ride of its own.
The tequila shots he’d downed during the evening concert had been a bad idea. It gurgled in his stomach. Ricco groaned, swallowing to keep the panic at bay. He just wanted to curl up and go to sleep. But he didn’t dare move.
Even if he stayed absolutely still he wouldn’t be able to keep it together much longer.
At first, it hadn’t been so bad. Getting the production crew settled, then the cameras set up for the first few scenes – Steven showing Ricco how to operate the yacht’s controls, then basic safety training – had taken his mind off the fact that there was only water under the thin metal hull.
Ricco had prayed that several high doses of Meclizine and Dramamine would help to keep him out of trouble. He had stuck a couple of anti-nausea patches on his shoulder, as well, and added a few motion sickness bracelets to the eclectic collection of wristbands he’d put on for the express purpose of disguise.
When evening fell and the band they’d hired for the concert Ricco had accepted defeat. Positive he would puke on someone’s shoes any moment, he’d excused himself to top up the Dramamine in the bathroom.
The first shot of tequila had seemed like a good way to calm his stomach. For twenty minutes it had done the trick. The second shot could only bolster that effect. But the fact that he’d not eaten since breakfast meant that from the third shot onward, everything was a blur.
Somehow he’d held it together. He stuck close to Stuart and hadn’t talked much to anyone else. Nobody had
noticed; his colleagues were used to him staying in the background when other people were happy to take the limelight. Steven Spielberg, unsurprisingly, was a great storyteller.
On the way back to their cabins Ricco had managed to hide from Stuart just why exactly he was lurching and staggering along the deck like the worst landlubber ever. Stuart, a little inebriated himself, had only laughed when Ricco had leaned against the railing at one point when the deck just wouldn’t stay still under his feet. At that moment, Ricco had been sure he’d lose it, and that two-thirds of a bottle of tequila and a handful of anti-nausea pills would make a reappearance.
Then Stuart had taken him by the neck and none too gently pushed him along the deck toward their beds. Thanks to a discipline honed by living life in the public eye, Ricco had managed to swallow back the bile and the acrid taste of recycled tequila.
It briefly occurred to him that he’d become too good at swallowing back and holding down things that were bad and wrong and toxic. Then he’d fallen onto his bed and all musing had ceased as his entire focus turned to keeping the nausea at bay.
Stuart was next door now, probably passed out after hours of making love to his lovely wife, who had come along to escape the dreary winter weather in Ottawa. Ricco wasn’t the envious type, but with his present being so unpalatable and the memories of Lea in his arms fresh from last night, jealousy prevailed. Why couldn’t he have his doc here now?
Her cool hand on his burning temple. Her expert fingers checking his pulse, preparing his meds. Her arms around him when the nausea got too much.
Those memories of migraines past were what did it. A huge surge of sickness gripped his insides and he knew he only had seconds before he wouldn’t be able to hold this beast at bay any longer. As he rolled off the bed, stomach protesting at the sudden movement, Ricco would’ve bet money that he couldn’t make it into the bathroom. He had never felt this sick, this humiliated, this miserable in his entire life.
The fact that he was on a yacht helped preserve a shred of dignity in the end. In the luxurious but cramped cabins everything was within a few steps of the bed – including the bathroom.
One hand on his stomach, which was twisting itself into more and more painful knots, the other thrown out to catch himself against the wall, Ricco made his way toward the light like a beacon of hope.
Stomach a ball of molten agony he put one foot in front of the other. One step, two, and he was in the bathroom, squinting against the suddenly glaring light.
The sink was closest. He got there just as his body lost the final battle of the day.
The bile-tequila-Dramamine mixture burned his throat. Ricco gripped the porcelain. On the next wave of nausea shadowy flowers blossomed before his eyes, and his knees were threatening to give way.
He dropped to the floor in the approximate direction of the toilet. One arm wrapped around his burning stomach, he supported himself on the wall with the other.
At last, he could allow himself to let go completely, give in to the monster that was clawing its way up his throat.
When this latest round came to an end he sat down hard on the floor. He’d be here a while, he might as well get comfortable.
At least he could catch a breath now. Taking advantage of it while he could Ricco gulped air like he’d soon have to pay for it.
He closed his eyes and leaned his sweaty back against the shower cubicle. Right now, the nausea was almost bearable, like the ocean smoothing out after a storm. The thought of the vast water beneath the yacht made him shudder.
The buzzing of the phone in his pants pocket startled him from his stupor. He considered just ignoring the phone since any movement could trigger another storm. But then he changed his mind and fished it out of his pocket. Maybe it would distract him from his misery.
The screen showed Lea’s new number. Ricco hesitated. He dearly wanted to talk to her, hear her voice, let her calm soothe him as he fought this beast tearing his insides to shreds.
But he didn’t want her to know that he was sick. It was embarrassing and stupid, and weak. Why did he keep fucking things up? Maybe getting travel sick wasn’t his fault. But the tequila and the pill overdose damn well had been.
In the end, his misery won over dignity. He picked up the call. “Oh, Lea.”
His voice sounded worse than croaky. He flushed with embarrassment at how close to tears he was.
“Honey? Are you okay?” Her voice instantly soothed him.
“No,” he whispered, then swallowed. “Hang on.” Talking had brought on a new wave of nausea. He gagged, and a trickle of bile burned his already raw throat. When he could breathe again he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Lea sounded panicked. “Ricco, darling? What’s going on? Are you there?”
“I’m here,” he whispered, wincing. “Sorry.” He drew his legs up, resting his burning forehead on his knees.
“Honey, what is it? Talk to me,” Lea demanded.
“I’m sick,” he managed. “Fucking boat.” The words made him gag and shudder.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry. Do you usually get seasick?” When he didn’t answer, she added, “Ricco?”
“I knew I might,” he admitted. “I don’t fly so well anymore, neither. It’s because of my head, but this boat is a lot worse.”
“Why did you agree to this, then?” She sounded just as incredulous as he’d imagined.
There it was. The Big Question. “I don’t know,” he whispered.
“Never mind that now, anyway,” she said. “How bad is it? You sound terrible.”
“Yeah, it’s bad all right.” There was no point anymore in pretending otherwise.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.” He didn’t want to worry her more, but what else could he say?
“You shouldn’t be,” she said with finality. “Can you ask someone to stay with you?”
“Dunno,” he mumbled. “Don’t wanna bother nobody.”
“Honey, stop this right now!” She was getting annoyed. Ricco winced. Lea continued, “Your producer is on the yacht, isn’t he?”
“Stuart. Yeah.”
“You said he’s nice,” she pressed on. “Call him now. I’m sure he’ll stay with you. There are a few things you can do that’ll make you feel better quickly. Are you okay to remember them, or shall I phone back in ten minutes and tell Stuart?”
“No… ‘s okay, ’m listening.” Ricco sat up straighter.
“Does your suite have a balcony?”
“Sure.”
"Bundle up warm and take your music out there with you," she said. "Lie on a sunbed with some extra blankets, but so that you're not looking out to sea. Put the music on, close your eyes, and relax. Fresh air and rest will help. Are you with me so far?"
It was getting hard to remember everything, but Ricco gave it his best. “Stuart, music, fresh air, yeah.”
"Good. Can someone from the galley bring you ginger tea, ginger biscuits, or ginger jellies? They're bound to have some of that."
Ricco shuddered at the thought of anything passing his lips. “Hang on.” His stomach spasmed and he expelled more bile. His hands were icy, and he shivered. He curled up on the bath mat and raised the phone. “I’m back.”
Lea sighed. “I’m so sorry, honey,” she said. “Make sure you get that ginger tea asap.”
“Dunno if I can get anything down right now,” he gasped. The thought alone made his gorge rise again.
“Try,” she insisted. “I promise, it’ll help. Did you bring any travel meds?”
“Meclizine and Dramamine,” he said. “Got some patches too. Dunno what brand they are.”
“Does the yacht have any first aiders?”
“Actually, Spielberg brought a doctor.”
“Really? Wow. I’ll text you some drugs in a minute. Give the list to the doctor. And take them, but don’t overdose. That’ll just make it worse.”
If she only knew. “All right.”
“I wish I could do more,” Le
a sighed. “Right, get Stuart now, and let him help you. I’ll call again in an hour or so, okay?”
“’Thanks, doc. I‘m sorry about all this.”
“Oh Ricco, what for?” She sounded upset. “Hope you feel better soon. Speak in a bit.”
“Hello, Ricco’s phone?” The voice was unfamiliar but Lea could guess who it was.
“Uh, hi… this is Lea. Is this Stuart?”
“It is. Ricco said you’d call again.”
A weight dropped from Lea’s shoulders. “Oh good, so he called you.”
“He did. Thanks for kicking his ass. He gets a little funny about letting people help.”
“That he does,” she agreed. “How is he?”
“Fast asleep on the balcony.”
“Don’t leave him out there all night, he’ll catch cold.”
“I won’t. I’ll tuck him into bed soon. Hey, you really made a difference. He’s had some ginger tea, been out there with his music, resting.”
“So he’s not been sick again?”
“Not since I peeled him off the bathroom floor.”
“I sent him a text with some anti-sickness meds.”
“The doctor’s been here. Gave him something called Maldemar, I think?”
“That’s the best one.” Lea was relieved. At least the doctor seemed to know what he was doing. “He’ll need to take it easy for the rest of the trip.”
Stuart sighed. “I know. I’ll make sure he does. Our schedule is busy, but we’ll figure something out. Spielberg’s a nice guy. I’m thinking we’ll return to Cuba early. We can extend the scenes we were going to shoot on land. We got all the permits, took forever to get those. So we might as well make the most of them.”
“That should make Ricco happy." Lea thought of something else. "Try and get him to cut back on the cigarettes tomorrow as well if you can."
Stuart gave a low grunt. “We’ve tried that for years, y’know.”
“He might not fancy them much if he’s feeling sick. Now may be a good time to try again. And don’t let him overdose on the seasickness meds. It’ll just make him feel worse.”