Something Like Perfect

by Stephens, S. C.

  Jake smiled softly as he indicated the steaming bathroom he’d just vacated. “All yours.”

  I quickly snapped my mouth shut. And that was when I noticed it. Jesus. He had a freaking tattoo. Kylie had never mentioned that either. There were two lines of script traveling down his side. I ached to read what it said, but his arm was partially in the way, and I was too riled up to carry on a coherent conversation. Instead, I muttered, “Thanks,” and darted into the bathroom, quick as lightning.

  I showered with cold water, hoping that would snap that glorious body out of my head. No such luck. It was stuck there, much as I was stuck on this boat with him. But I was learning a lot, and that was what mattered—the job.

  After dressing in the tiny bathroom, I hastily stashed my stuff in my room and headed to the galley. I held my breath the entire time I was downstairs, wondering if and when Jake would appear again. I wasn’t quite ready to see him after that last encounter. I would have to ask him not to do that anymore . . . and that would open the door to yet another awkward conversation.

  When I got to the galley, Chef Sinclair was already there, along with a tall, distinguished-looking man whom I’d never seen before. Chef Sinclair looked nervous having him in his kitchen, and that was when it struck me—this was our mutual boss, the head honcho, the billionaire, Mr. Thomas. Why was he down here and not upstairs in his luxurious palace, lounging on furniture that cost more than everything in my apartment combined? Shit. Was I about to get fired? Would that be a bad thing?

  Yes, I wanted this job.

  Chef Sinclair locked eyes with me when he spotted me entering. He subtly adjusted his jacket, and I did the same. Mr. Thomas was a neat freak who wanted all of his employees in crisp, clean uniforms. I hoped mine wasn’t wrinkled.

  Mr. Thomas turned around and met eyes with me. He had a friendly face but penetrating eyes. It was almost like he could see into the very depths of my soul. “Ah,” he said. “You must be the new assistant. Chef Sinclair tells me that you’re doing well and that he put last night’s main course largely in your hands.”

  I felt like I was going to be sick. Had I messed up the beef Wellington? Had he gotten sick? Chef Sinclair had said the last assistant had asked to leave midtrip. How did that work? As far as I knew, we were in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in the South Pacific. Would they just put me in a life raft with instructions to paddle in an easterly direction? I hoped not. I wasn’t the greatest paddler. And sharks terrified me.

  “Yes. I . . . hope you liked it.” Mentally, I crossed my fingers and prayed for good news.

  Mr. Thomas stared at me for long, achingly quiet moments, and then he smiled. “I loved it, and I wanted to congratulate you personally on a meal well done.”

  Relief surged through me so fast I thought my knees might buckle. My grin was too big to be professional, but I didn’t care. He’d loved it. Even though I felt like jumping up and down, I kept my comment brief and restrained. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re very welcome. Good job—keep it up.” Turning to Chef Sinclair, he added, “Captain tells me we might hit the edge of a storm today. Make sure everything is strapped down tight. I don’t want any accidents.”

  Chef Sinclair nodded. “Will do, sir.”

  Mr. Thomas nodded, then left the galley. The second he was gone, I started bouncing up and down. “Oh my God! Oh my God, Chef! He loved it!”

  Chef watched my exuberant display with pursed lips. “I heard.”

  Forgetting all my decorum, I ran up to him and gave him a quick hug. “Thank you so much for all you’ve taught me. This has truly been a dream come true.”

  Chef Sinclair rigidly pushed me away. “Clearly, I haven’t taught you professionalism yet, but . . . you’re welcome.” His expression softened into a smile. “You know, I don’t say this to my assistants often, but . . . I truly believe you have potential, and if you stick with this—and don’t give up when it gets hard, because it will get hard—then I think you could actually have a very successful restaurant one day.”

  My jaw nearly dropped to the floor after such kind words from him. “Thank you,” I murmured. “Someone like you saying that . . . it means more than you know.”

  He smirked in response. “You forget I was once in your position. I know exactly what it means. Now don’t let it go to your head.” Shooing me off, he said, “Let’s get ready for breakfast. And keep in mind what Mr. Thomas said. Everything gets put away after you use it. Everything. Every time. It might get a little bumpy, and I don’t want anything breaking.”

  I was so happy I was giddy . . . right up until he said that, and then a hole of anxiety began opening inside my stomach. “Bumpy? How bumpy?”

  Chef shrugged, like he wasn’t concerned at all. “Depends on how much of the storm catches us. I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Captain is a genius about avoiding these things. We’ll be fine.”

  “Oh, okay . . . good.” Because I was sure I’d need about five more Dramamine to cope with anything greater than the constant slight swaying that I was slowly becoming accustomed to.

  Putting everything away after it was used was a gigantic pain in the ass. And I kept forgetting to do it. Chef Sinclair had to constantly remind me to wash that pan and put it back, to not leave food out, to keep the knives on the magnetic board. It was a hassle, and since the boat was still only slightly swaying, it felt completely unnecessary. But all that changed while we were making dinner.

  I heard the rain first, which was odd, since it was loud in the kitchen and we were a couple of floors down from the top deck. I usually didn’t hear anything from outside. Then the gentle rocking of the boat became more pronounced. I lost my balance a few times and had to slap a hand onto the counter to remain upright. Panic shot through me, and I looked to the chef for comfort.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, hoping my voice didn’t sound as high strung as I felt.

  “Looks like the storm caught us,” he said. “But we’ll be fine. This is nothing the boat can’t handle.” His voice was calm and comforting, but his eyes were a little too wide, his forehead a little too wrinkled. He was worried, and knowing that he was concerned didn’t make me feel any better.

  I was in the process of cutting up a zucchini when a sudden violent jolt shoved me against the counter. My hand slipped, and the knife slid across my finger. Bright blood seeped to the surface of my skin, followed by pain. “Damn it,” I swore, grabbing a paper towel.

  Chef threw a concerned look my way. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just sliced myself.” I traded the paper towel for a bandage just as another jolt sent the zucchini and knife flying to the floor. If we hadn’t been so diligent about putting stuff away, I was sure half the kitchen would have shifted. “This seems bad. Are we still okay?”

  Chef didn’t seem like he was sure anymore. He thought for a moment, then picked up a phone that connected us to the bridge. “What the hell is going on up there?” he said.

  Someone on deck responded, probably Jake, but all I heard was Chef saying, “I see. Okay.”

  He hung up the phone, and dread filled my stomach. “What?”

  “We’re closing the kitchen. We ran right into the storm, and there’s no getting out of it now.”

  Well, shit.

  Heart racing, I helped Chef put away the few things we hadn’t secured yet, and then we double-checked everything. When we were both satisfied that nothing was going to move in the room, we turned off the lights and left.

  “What do we do now?” I asked.

  “Just go to your room and stay put. Best to wait these things out somewhere safe.”

  Yeah . . . somewhere safe. Problem was, nothing really felt safe at the moment. The violent jerking wasn’t stopping, and every other minute, I was being tossed against one wall or another. This was definitely not normal. “Are you sure we’re going to be okay?” I knew Chef couldn’t possibly know what our fate would be, but I still needed to ask. My mind needed reassurance, even if it w
as false assurance.

  “Of course,” he said, a tight smile on his lips. “See you bright and early tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Chef,” I automatically replied, and somehow the normalcy of saying that to him made me feel a little better.

  He turned and left, and I watched him for a moment before inhaling a deep breath and making a mad dash to the safety of my tiny room. At least I wouldn’t be tossed around too badly in there—there wasn’t enough space.

  After shutting the door, I lay on my bed and tried to calm my rolling stomach. Either the Dramamine was wearing off, or the drug wasn’t strong enough to offset the extreme rocking of the ship. I was both terrified and nauseous. But through it all, my main concern was Jake. Was he still up top, helping the captain keep control of the ship, or had he been dismissed to his room? A part of me—a large part—wanted to pop into his bedroom to check on him. Getting through this with him by my side sounded preferable to toughing it out alone.

  Maybe in a minute. When my stomach wasn’t threatening to spill out onto the floor.

  The boat kept jerking left and right, up and down. I clamped onto the mattress, holding myself in place as best I could as I prayed for the storm to stop. And that was when I heard and felt something alarming. The entire ship groaned, the metal walls around me vibrating with noise. It was a terrifying sound, one that made my heart pound in my chest, made my palms slick with sweat. I knew nothing about boats, but I instinctively knew that sound wasn’t good. It stopped with a loud metallic cracking that reverberated through my bones, and then the boat shifted in an entirely new direction. The shift was so sudden and severe that I couldn’t keep myself from slamming into the headboard. As I lay at an odd angle against the wall, I waited for the boat to correct itself. It didn’t.

  An alarm started sounding throughout the ship, a loud, shrill siren that was straight out of my worst nightmare. The strange angle of the ship combined with that sound meant only one thing—we were in trouble, and we weren’t getting out of it. Panic made me shoot off the bed. I heard people in the hallway, so I tossed open the door. Crew members were scrambling to get to the stairs. It was difficult with the way the ship was tilted. I followed them, praying that Jake and the captain could fix this, somehow. That was when I heard the captain’s voice over the intercom, ordering everyone to get to the life rafts. Oh God . . . we were going under.

  The group of us emerged on the floor just under the top deck. Even more people were rushing to the stairs here—including Chef Sinclair and Mr. Thomas. They all looked terrified. Not able to take the terror I saw in their eyes, I glanced out the large windows lining the ship. And that was when I saw the waterline. It was rising above the windows as we slipped at a steep angle under the roiling ocean. I stared in utter horror as the slit of sky transformed into endless ocean. My mind was stuck trying to process it. We were sinking. Why were we sinking? Boats floated. They only sank when there was . . .

  A hole.

  Even as I thought it, I heard the sound of rushing, angry water coming to claim me. Coming to claim us all. People were screaming as they tried to leave, but I knew in my gut they were too late. They wouldn’t beat the water. None of us would. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was my dream; it was supposed to be the beginning of my life, not the end.

  As I stood there, transfixed by my fate, I heard a voice shouting my name. “Valerie!”

  I looked over at the stairs to see Jake pushing against people as he ran down them. Ran to me. Why was he running to me? He was safer near the surface. “Jake!”

  I moved toward him, fingers outstretched. We were centimeters from connecting when the wall of water hit us. We were slammed forward, against the wall next to the stairs. The impact nearly made me pass out, but somehow I stayed conscious. When my world settled somewhat, I opened my eyes and looked through the murky water full of random floating objects. Up. I needed to go up and get out. That was all I truly cared about—escape. The lights in the boat flickered, then died, plunging me into complete darkness. No. If I couldn’t see, how would I ever leave? I couldn’t blindly search for the stairs; I didn’t have enough air. This beautiful ship was about to be my watery grave.

  No. It couldn’t end like this.

  Panic made me spin in a circle. Where were the stairs? Where were all the people who’d been on them? Where was Jake?

  A second later, a hand grabbed mine, stopping my ceaseless spinning. Another hand grabbed my face, focusing me. Jake. He was so close I could see him clearly despite the darkness. He looked scared as he floated there in front of me but focused too. When he saw I was paying attention to him, he jerked his thumb behind him. He knew where the stairs were. Thank God. But did it even matter at this point? My lungs were burning, and the pressure against my ears told me we were still sinking. We could already be too deep to make it to the surface in time.

  Jake’s hand tightened around mine, and he yanked me toward the stairs. We kicked and pulled our way up them before leaving the ship’s interior and entering the open ocean. There was enough fading daylight streaming through the water to show me a nightmarish vision—the entire crew trapped in the hostile ocean, the surface several dozens of feet above us. The suction of the boat had pulled everyone deeper than I’d imagined it would. I wasn’t sure I had enough strength or enough air to make it out of the water. Some of the people had already succumbed to the ocean; they were completely still as they floated, arms and legs outstretched in an almost peaceful manner. Mr. Thomas was one of them. He’d never leave these waters that he loved so much. Some of the surviving crew members, still struggling to reach air, were bleeding badly; the impact with the water hadn’t been as kind to them as it had been to me. Even if they did break the surface, I didn’t think they’d live long.

  Just when I was wondering how Jake and I would ever escape this hell, I felt clothes being removed from me. Jake was hurriedly tugging at my jacket. He’d already pulled off his and kicked off his shoes. He was trying to reduce our drag. I followed suit, slipping off my shoes, removing my chef’s jacket. Once we were more streamlined, Jake grabbed my hand, kicked off the deck, and shot toward the surface like a torpedo, yanking me with him until I matched his fierce, kicking stride.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted another survivor—Chef Sinclair. He was struggling toward the surface but not moving nearly as quickly as Jake and me. His face was full of fear, and as I watched, his mouth reflexively opened, and he sucked in water. No. He was failing, drowning; he’d never make it to the surface without help.

  I started to let go of Jake’s hand, wanting to save my mentor. Jake clamped me tight, then glanced down at my face. Seeing my expression, he shot a brief look over at what had my attention. He studied Chef Sinclair for a microsecond, then shook his head, held me tighter, and kept on kicking toward the surface. Chef noticed us as we shot by him. His hand briefly extended toward mine, while my hand reached out for him. Our fingers touched . . . and a second later, the light of life left his eyes. Forever.

  I knew, right then and there, if I happened to make it out of this alive, that blank stare would fill my every waking thought and haunt every single one of my dreams. I’m so sorry, Chef.

  Chapter Eight

  We kicked for what felt like an eternity. My vision was hazy, and my lungs were screaming at me to breathe. I wasn’t going to make it. I was going to end up like Chef, gulping down seawater, filling my lungs until I sank to the bottom of the ocean with the doomed yacht.

  Just when I couldn’t handle another second without oxygen, we finally broke the surface of the frigid water. I gulped in much-needed air. Thank God, we made it. I felt like sobbing as I floated on top of the raging waves. Relief that I was alive surged through me, giving me strength, but heartache and guilt filled me too. No one else had popped above the surface yet.

  As waves crashed around us, dousing us with water, I swiveled my head, looking for other survivors. I fiercely hoped someone else had made it to the surface, but everywhere I
turned, all I saw was the chaotic, angry ocean, barren of all life, save us. They hadn’t made it . . . none of them. Mr. Thomas and the rest of the crew were now forever trapped under the vast depths, their lungs full of water, holding them down. Jake and I were the only ones to make it out, but we were nowhere near safe yet. We couldn’t tread water forever, especially with how vicious the waves were. With every movement of my arms and legs, I felt myself slipping back under the water, and I knew if I went under again, I’d never resurface.

  Jake seemed just as stunned as me as he looked around. The horror of what had happened was too much to bear. My mind was still struggling to believe this was real, so I had to believe Jake was suffering from the same problem. He snapped out of it quickly, though. Looking back at me, he nodded with his head. “Over there.”

  I glanced at where he’d indicated and saw a flat piece of . . . something floating on the water. It looked like part of the rear deck. Jake started swimming toward it, and I followed suit. It was difficult. I was so tired. I’d always thought I was in good shape before, but I suddenly felt like I hadn’t exercised in years. Escaping to the surface had taken nearly everything I had. Jake too. He was breathing heavily when we finally reached our salvation.

  Jake used his arms to pull himself up; the slab of wood slanted sharply as he did, but he was able to move himself into position and steady the material. I didn’t have that kind of strength left, and I lifted my hand, silently asking for assistance. Jake splayed out on the board for stability, then grabbed my arm and yanked me up with him. It hurt, but I wasn’t about to complain. The ache in my shoulder would heal, assuming we lived through this.

  Once I was fully on top of the deck with him, I lay on my stomach and panted. I couldn’t stop shaking; my entire body was vibrating. Jake put his hand on my arm, and I peeked up at him. “Breathe deep. In and out. Try to hold it as long as you can.”

  I never wanted to hold my breath again, but I did what he asked. It took a few minutes, but the shaking finally stopped. The grief didn’t, and silent tears rolled down my cheeks. “They’re all gone, Jake. Every single one of them.” My voice shook as emotion tightened my throat.