The Lion's Den

by Katherine St. John

  The theatrics were unusual for Summer; normally she had her guy wrapped around her little finger, and when she crooked it, he bought her baubles—or she dumped him for another man who would. But Eric had staying power regardless—or perhaps because—of his failure to bow before her. She was obviously more smitten with him than she cared to confess, and I daresay (in spite of her claims to the contrary) he was less with her, which drove her nuts. I had no doubt that if he actually wanted her to be his girlfriend, she’d have turned down the French Laundry with millionaires in Lamborghinis to eat ramen and ride the subway with him. For once in her life, the tables were turned. And this, I was ashamed to acknowledge, made me more than a tiny bit gratified.

  One Saturday evening I arrived home bone-tired from a long day slinging drinks at the pool to find the door to my bedroom closed. I’d had to get up at the crack of dawn to drive Wendy to a physical therapy session for her broken leg, and was badly in need of a nap. But I didn’t want to nap with Summer. I wanted to nap alone.

  Annoyed, I pushed the door open to find Summer fully nude on my white down comforter, posing seductively while Eric snapped pictures. I froze, rooted in place.

  Making no attempt to cover herself, she calmly rolled onto her side. “Hey. We’re just doing a photo shoot. We’ll be finished soon.”

  I blinked. Eric lowered the camera. “I’m doing a series on female erotica.”

  “On my bed.” My voice sounded high and strange.

  “It’s a good bed,” Eric said. “I like the iron; it photographs well.”

  How the hell did neither of them realize this was totally weird? Having no idea what else to say, I backed out of the room, avoiding looking at Summer as I shut the door behind me, and walked blindly into the kitchen, where I poured myself a shot of tequila. I knocked it back, the booze burning my throat.

  Had they fucked in my bed?

  I knew I shouldn’t care. I’d stayed in hotel beds a million times, where God only knows how many people had done God only knows what. But it was my bed.

  And why was I so turned on by the idea of Eric fucking in my bed?

  Aaaah! I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to erase the thought, and when I opened them, Eric was standing in the doorway, gazing at me. “I like your garden.”

  “Thanks,” I managed.

  “Have you heard from my brother?”

  “He invited me to London,” I said.

  This wasn’t exactly true, of course. He’d thrown it out there the night I met him, a full year ago, but he hadn’t mentioned it the handful of times we’d emailed since, and if he had, it was doubtful I would have gone.

  “Are you going to go?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “I’d love to shoot you sometime,” he said.

  I pictured Summer nude on my bed. “No thanks.”

  He glanced toward my bedroom. “Not like that. I’ve been looking for a queen for a series I’m doing. Your face, your attitude—you’d be perfect.”

  Over his shoulder, I noticed Summer lingering in the hallway, now wearing a sundress. She draped her arms around him from behind and nuzzled his ear. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “Belle modeling for me,” Eric said, not taking his eyes off mine.

  I wanted to slap some sense into him, but all I could do was stand there gaping like an idiot.

  Summer slipped past him and slid her arm around me, giving me a little squeeze. “She is pretty, isn’t she?” she asked, stroking my hair. And then lightly: “But you lay a hand on her and I’ll fucking kill you.”

  Day 5

  Wednesday morning—Saint-Tropez, France

  John’s portrait looms above me, dark despite the bright day. Uncomfortable under his shifting gaze, I once again angle the computer screen away from the unblinking eye of the security camera and type quickly:

  Hey Sis,

  Sorry for the delayed response, we’ve been kept busy helping John entertain some foreign executives he’s trying to get to invest in a resort on the Italian coast. It’s a gorgeous day here and we’re on the boat near Saint-Tropez, going for lunch somewhere fancy with some rich people later.

  In other news, Summer got one of the crew girls fired last night because she didn’t like the way the poor girl looked. So that was dramatic. Meanwhile I’m trying to just be nice and get along, as you suggested. Hoping I can make it through the trip without being fired myself, haha.

  How are you? Everything good?

  Love,

  Sis

  I realize I’ll come off as ungrateful if anyone is monitoring my emails, but at this point I just don’t care. I grab my latte and laptop and pad over to one of the couches looking out toward the shining sea.

  The entire back of the boat is open to the morning light reflecting off the water, and the other girls are splayed out in the sun on loungers, half reading beauty and gossip magazines as the boat rocks gently back and forth. We’ve been given a blissful break from our packed schedule by John’s urgent need to see some land he intends to buy, and Summer has gone with him, leaving the rest of us to our own devices. This, at last, feels like paradise.

  I open my computer and pop in my earbuds, then pump up some Jimmy Buffett. We are at the beach, after all.

  After the drama with Emmanuelle, last night’s dinner on the boat was mostly uneventful, largely because the combination of jet lag, sun, and alcohol had left us all so tired we could hardly see straight. Even Brittani was subdued. The investors from China joined us again, and the ladies were expected to keep quiet so that the men could discuss matters Summer assured us were of the utmost importance.

  Though once again they mentioned nothing exactly illegal in range of our delicate lady ears, at this point it’s clear that John pairs a take-no-prisoners approach to enterprise with a practice of doing everything as cheaply as humanly possible, regardless of pesky rules or environmental ramifications. To summarize: no surprise, he’s a real motherfucker and it’s made him very, very rich.

  It makes my blood boil. So many good people suffer through their lives trying to make ends meet while he sits on his throne counting his gold, believing he deserves every ounce of it. For he is a lion, hear him roar! I took a zoology class in college, because why not? And what I remember most vividly about the exalted rulers of the animal kingdom speaks more to their cunning than their courage: in a drought, the king of beasts drives the lesser creatures from the watering hole while he drinks, then falls upon their weakened bodies with triumph, devouring their parched flesh before they’ve even expired.

  You can’t blame a lion for being a lion. An animal has no wickedness; it knows only how to survive. But a man who fancies himself a lion to excuse his depravity? Well, he’s no more than a predator.

  But, of course, no one’s asking my opinion.

  After John’s associates left, he and Summer withdrew to their room and I climbed up to the roof deck for a nightcap with Wendy and Claire. None of us needed another drink, but there was half a bottle of Dom left, and it felt wasteful to abandon it. The evening was beautiful and clear, the moon yet to rise. A dazzling array of twinkling stars lit up the sky as the boat bobbed gently in the tide, but I could hardly keep my eyes open to enjoy the display. Claire leaned on Wendy’s shoulder, and Wendy leaned on mine, all of us so drowsy that the trek back to our rooms seemed almost insurmountable. “I don’t think I’ve been this sleepy since I was on painkillers after my accident,” Wendy commented, yawning.

  “I feel drugged,” Claire agreed, matching her yawn. “It must be all the sun.”

  “And champagne,” Wendy added, taking a slug from the bottle.

  Suddenly I remembered the Valium in Bernard’s pocket. I thought about how strangely tired I’d been every night, how deeply I’d slept, the floating sensation I couldn’t seem to shake. Could they be drugging us?

  No, surely not. But the idea wasn’t ill founded. I considered whether to broach the subject with Wendy and Claire. I didn’t want to alarm them,
but I was curious whether they’d noticed the same things I had. “You guys”—I lowered my voice, pretending to be more drunk than I was—“what if they’re, like, drugging us?”

  Claire sat up, her eyes wide in the starlight. “What?”

  Wendy laughed. “Oh my God, of course they’re not drugging us. That’s insane.”

  “Yeah,” I whispered conspiratorially, “but just go with me here––we’re sooo tired at night, and there’s cameras everywhere, no Wi-Fi…Doesn’t it seem like something shady could be going on?”

  Wendy rolled her eyes. “Ohmygod, stop being dramatic. This isn’t one of your horror movies.”

  I laughed, taking the bottle from her. “I have been in waaay too many horror movies.” Bubbles fizzed and popped in my mouth.

  “This is our best friend we’re talking about,” she continued quietly, “and it’s super nice of her to invite us here. Let’s just be grateful, k?”

  It was no surprise that ever-diplomatic Wendy preferred us to stay in our lanes. I should have known better than to bring it up with her. I sighed, passing the champagne to Claire. “Okay, Mom.”

  A star shot across the sky. I pointed, glad for the diversion. “Did you see that?”

  “Make a wish,” Wendy said.

  Claire squealed and wiped her mouth with her hand. “I got so excited I spilled champagne all over myself.”

  I lifted the seat cushion next to me, revealing rows upon rows of neatly stacked navy-and-white towels beneath. “You get a towel.” I tossed Claire a towel. “And you get a towel.” I tossed Wendy a towel. “And I get a towel! Everybody gets a towel!”

  We laughed together and curled up beneath our plush towels, our eyes fixed on the diamond-studded sky.

  Once we retired to our rooms around midnight, I forced myself to lie awake quietly listening until I heard the click of the lock in the door. Amythest slumbered while I stealthily got out of bed and tried the handle, confirming we were indeed locked in. So I wasn’t crazy. Claustrophobia wound around me like a python. I squeezed my eyes shut and controlled my breath in an effort to pry it loose.

  It couldn’t be one of the crew locking us in; there’s no way that could be safe. If the ship were to go down, we’d have no way out.

  So it must be Bernard and Vinny, our hall monitors. But why?

  Regardless of how tired I was, sleep eluded me. After what must have been more than an hour of tossing and turning, trying to convince my feverish mind to sleep, I heard a motor out on the water, close by. I carefully climbed over Amythest and pushed up the shade on the small round window above her bed. In the silvery moonlight, I could just make out the back of a tender idling by the landing at the stern of our boat. Two men were in the process of boarding the Lion’s Den, though whether others had gone before them, I couldn’t tell. Nor could I tell anything about their identity, other than that they were dressed in white robes and wearing headpieces of the type favored by royalty from certain Middle Eastern countries.

  Whoever these men are, they must be shadow associates of the variety a high-profile American businessman fraternizes with only in private. Was this the sole reason for our being locked in at night? Or was there something more? I wondered what Summer was privy to and how much control John exerted over her evening hours, beyond his seemingly unquenchable thirst for sex. And what of the crew? Did they know about this, or were they confined to their quarters during certain hours as well?

  Leaving the shade partially open, I crept back to my bed, where I remained vigilant in the hope of possibly getting a better look at the visitors when they departed. But I never heard the motor fire up again, and at some point I must have given in to sleep, because the next thing I knew, Camille was rousing us this morning at dawn with instructions to report to the dining room dressed for Spin class. We sat around the table for an hour before Summer showed up to inform us that Spin class was canceled because she and John were going to look at land. She was in an exceptionally cheerful mood and even gave me one of her Dramamine pills when I discovered I’d misplaced my own. I suppose I could’ve gone back to bed after she and John departed, but I was so wired from all the coffee I’d consumed, I figured I’d try to get some work done.

  So here I sit, trying to read a television script I have an audition for next week, but my stomach hasn’t felt right all morning and I’m distracted. Summer’s vicious elimination of Emmanuelle has me on edge, especially coupled with her unusual friendliness toward me this morning. I feel like I’m playing a game of increasing stakes with ever-changing rules.

  Of course I knew intellectually going into this trip that Summer was no longer the girl I’d always shared secrets with, but seeing her without the rose-colored glasses of years of friendship, I hardly recognize her. And I feel stupid for not seeing her more clearly before.

  I realize it should be a simple trick to not get caught up in her machinations, but I don’t seem to be able to disentangle myself and can’t help but wonder at her intentions for bringing me here when she so clearly despises me. Granted, things were different between us when she first extended the invitation—God, was it only six weeks ago? This is the first time we’ve spent any quality time together since what happened to Eric.

  Eric. Regardless of my promise to myself that I wasn’t going to think about him this week, my heart tugs at the idea of him.

  But I’m here now, so I have to keep up the act, pretend everything’s great and I’m having a wonderful time. It’s the most exhausting role I’ve ever played, and the whole thing makes me nauseated. I take a sip of my coffee. My stomach roils. I put the coffee down. Maybe no more coffee this morning. Hopefully this is just a case of too much coffee on an empty stomach and not something worse. I look out at the horizon in an attempt to still my thoughts and my churning stomach.

  Camille appears in my line of sight, speaking words I can’t hear. I rip the earbuds from my ears. “Sorry. I had it up loud.”

  “Not a problem,” she says. “The tender will leave at noon.”

  “Oh!” I glance at my watch. It’s 11:43 a.m. “I didn’t realize we were leaving so soon.”

  She nods. “Madame Lyons would like everyone there early.”

  “She’s not Madame Lyons, you know,” I say tersely. “She’s his mistress.”

  Camille looks at me wide-eyed, unsure how to respond. As I snap my laptop closed, I notice Dre and Hugo collecting towels and magazines from the deserted sundeck. Camille follows my gaze and apologizes. “They went down thirty minutes ago. I didn’t see you here. I’m sorry.”

  My stomach lurches as I stand. Oh no.

  I scurry down the stairs to our room, where Amythest is already perfectly made up and curling her hair in front of the mirror wearing a shiny purple bikini. I enter the bathroom, waving her out. “You can have it back, but I need it for a minute.”

  “Can’t you just pee in front of me?”

  “I don’t need to—”

  And just like that, I’m on my knees, hurling my morning coffee and croissant into the toilet.

  “Shit.” Amythest drops the curling iron and pulls my hair back in one motion.

  After I finish, she wets a washcloth and hands it to me. “You okay?”

  I nod. “Better now.”

  “Did you forget to take your Dramamine this morning?” she asks, concerned.

  I shake my head. “I couldn’t find my pill bottle, but Summer gave me one of hers.”

  Amythest narrows her eyes. “Are you sure it was Dramamine?”

  “No.” I bite my lip, realizing. I’d recognized the goons might be drugging us with their Valium, but it hadn’t occurred to me that Summer would drug me. How could I have been so stupid? “She said it was a different brand that did the same thing.” Amythest raises an eyebrow. I take a deep breath and let it out. “But why? Why on earth would she want me to be sick? I coulda hurled all over her precious boat!”

  She shrugs. “She doesn’t like you. It’s pretty obvious.”

  “Than
ks.”

  “Oh, come on. Like you don’t know.”

  She’s right. I know.

  “Maybe you should skip lunch,” she suggests.

  I shake my head, wobbling to my feet. “And let her think she won? No way.”

  I wash my mouth out and brush my teeth, noting my ghostly appearance in the mirror. Amythest is right. I should probably skip lunch, but that’s not happening. I focus on the horizon through the window above Amythest’s bed in an effort to quell my nausea while she looks on, amused.

  “Well,” she says, “it’s a beach club. So, like, bring a bikini so we can lay out or whatever after lunch. If you can keep it down.”

  She gives me a wry smile and turns back to the mirror.

  Beach club. That means I don’t have to shower, right? I forgo the shower in favor of a spray of perfume and a layer of deodorant, and throw on a simple white bikini under a red sundress. A layer of mascara, a little stain on my lips, and I’m done in just enough time to scour our room once more for my bottle of Dramamine, but turn up nothing. Odd. Or maybe, all things considered, it’s not so odd.

  I grab my bag and slip out the door, thankful to escape the cloud of Amythest’s hair spray and perfume. We exchange compliments with Wendy and Claire in the hallway before heading up to the main deck to wait for the tender.

  Brittani and Rhonda are already reclining on the loungers sipping champagne when we arrive. Camille offers us a tray, but I decline, instead requesting Dramamine. Camille scurries off in search of it.

  “Party pooper!” Brittani declares.

  “I’m feeling a little woozy,” I explain.

  Claire gives me a side hug. “Sorry. All this rocking’s not great for me, either.”