Chapter 5
The Seafarer is massive, easily larger than any cruise ship I’ve ever been on. With sixteen decks, cabins for five thousand, seven swimming pools, a shopping mall and movie theater, and fifteen dining areas, I’d definitely choose this place as a refuge from a zombie apocalypse.
Unfortunately, I can’t use it as a refuge from Nick.
I’m standing on the dock, craning my neck to look up at the ship, acutely aware that he’s waiting on it. Waiting for me. In a few moments we’ll hopefully be talking pleasantly about work-related matters and ignoring the fact that our every encounter up until this point has been rife with tension.
It’s going to be next to impossible.
Mickey isn’t with me today. Dan, ecstatic at our last minute victory, had sent her out to look at a few short-term leases so he doesn’t have to keep paying for our pricey hotel room. Mickey had asked if I wanted her to stick around regardless. I almost took her up on it but ultimately decided that she wouldn’t be much use other than as a buffer between Nick and me. And, like it or not, I’m going to have to get used to working with the man. With any luck, in a couple of months, he’ll just be a part of the landscape, as sexless and bland as Band-Aid Dan.
Though these days I’m not sure I have that much luck.
So it’s alone that I walk up the gangway of the Seafarer, heart thumping in time with the waves below me.
I’ve forgone my typical heels as there’s a lot of ground to cover today. I’ve also gone conservative in my attire, trading a dress for a pencil skirt and blouse, both in dark tones. My hair is up in a bun, my makeup minimal. I’m dressed like a teacher, and hopefully not the kind guys want to have sex with. I’m putting as much effort as possible into making this a completely neutral meeting. Now I just need to keep my mouth in line.
I expect there to be an attendant or a security guard who’ll lead me to Nick, who’s no doubt posed against the railing somewhere, the wind ruffling his hair. I absolutely don’t expect him to meet me himself.
In the latter I’m correct, in the former utterly wrong. There doesn’t appear to be anyone at all on the ship. The deck is empty. Everything is silent save for the distant noise of city traffic.
I look around. Maybe I got the time wrong? I quickly disregard that wishful thinking. No, this is just another game that Nick is playing with me. He’s lurking somewhere in this big, stupid boat. Now I have to wander around like an idiot until I stumble upon him and then he’ll be all what took you so long?
Like I’m the asshole.
I grumble to myself and set my bag down with a thump, then take out my camera and attach the appropriate lens. Well if he doesn’t want to meet me at the arranged time then fuck him. I’m here for photos anyway, and Nick Madison doesn’t need to be in them.
After a bit of wandering, I find my way to the top deck and start snapping pictures. As annoyed as I am, my focus quickly shifts over to work-mode, and I start envisioning the commercial we can shoot up here, backed by the dramatic views of Manhattan. It’ll come out really well, I can already tell.
As for the launch party, could you ask for a better space? Kara Kon and five thousand New Yorkers circling the Hudson on a clear and bright New York night? It’ll be the event of the summer.
I finish my photos, but before I start down to the lower decks, I take a moment just to admire the view. You can practically see the entire length of the city from up here, and man what a gorgeous city it is. It really is a relief to be able to stay after all. I’m so sick of Boston and the thought of spending the next few months exploring with Mickey makes my heart swell. We already have plans to go clubbing on Friday, and I can’t wait to experience the excitement of a night out in the city.
Thoughts of Brent and Cheryl have never been further from my mind.
I’m just about to go down when a helicopter appears from within the tangled towers. It’s not a unique sight in New York; Mickey has already expressed a desire to rent one of the innumerable tours offered. But this one catches my eye because it’s heading directly at me. I watch it idly, waiting for it to divert, but it never does. It gets closer and closer and then lower and lower, and I realize that it’s actually, literally heading directly for me. It’s going to land here!
And it doesn’t take a genius to imagine who could be on it.
I can’t help rolling my eyes. Is it so hard to take a car? Does Nick have to constantly exist on a plane above everyone else in the world? Maybe if he joined us mortals on the ground some time he’d be a little more easygoing. I picture Nick in Times Square, wearing flip flops and taking a photo with Elmo, and can’t hold in a snort of laughter. The guy would never survive.
I check my watch. Over an hour has passed since we agreed to meet. Will he give an excuse? I certainly don’t expect an apology for keeping me waiting.
Still, behind my annoyance there’s a little surge of anticipation. Here we go again.
The helicopter flies toward a smaller elevated deck south of where I’m standing. I head that way, climbing a set of stairs that leads to a shadowed overhang. From there I watch as the helicopter floats to a gentle landing.
Nick gets out of the back, buttoning his dark gray suit jacket. He’s wearing dark sunglasses and the wind from the slowing blades is throwing his hair into ever-changing but somehow equally attractive variations of messy.
My own hair, pulled back in a severe bun, doesn’t budge. Unfortunately the same can’t be said for the hair on the backs of my arms; at the sight of Nick they all stand up.
How the heck does he manage to look so good all the time? I swear he wears those suits better than a runway model.
I glance in a nearby window at my own reflection. I look professional, and I suddenly wish that I’d dressed a little bit sexier.
No. Stop that, I command myself. This is a business meeting and also remember the fact that he’s an arrogant asshole?
Maybe my hormones are out of whack. That would explain these completely uncharacteristic thoughts. And if not hormones then maybe I can blame it on my horoscope, or melting ice caps in the Arctic, or the Asian markets. I’m not sure what it is, but I know for a fact that it’s forces are beyond my control. All I can do is try to weather the ride and keep a little bit of my dignity.
I start out of my thoughts when my phone rings. And unfortunately the helicopter has died down fully and can’t drown out the noise. Nick, his own phone pressed to the side of his head, turns on his heel and peers into the darkness I’m hiding in.
Shit. I missed my chance to pose by the railing somewhere. Instead Nick has to find me lurking like Gollum.
“Ms. Davis?” Nick calls.
I emerge, walking straight-backed in a way that I hope invokes confidence and not constipation.
“Mr. Madison,” I reply.
His eyes narrow at the sight of me, obviously taking in my wardrobe. But he doesn’t comment. Instead, he says, “You can just call me ‘Nick’.”
“Do all your employees call you that?” I ask.
“None of them do,” he replies.
“Then I’m not sure it’s appropriate that I do.”
A single thick, dark eyebrow arches. “You’re not an employee. You’re a contractor.”
He has a point. I flush slightly at the fuss I’m making right from the jump. “In that case, you may call me ‘Evie’,” I say.
“I may?” he asks. He’s fucking with me. The stern coldness of his tone hides a smile. I don’t rise to it.
I tuck strands of hair that aren’t there behind my ear, blush, and then raise my camera.
“I’ve been taking photos,” I say, lamely.
“What? No comment about how late I am?” he asks.
I tighten my jaw. He’s poking, waiting for a reaction. Don’t rise to it. Keep things professional. My best vengeance shall be giving him nothing to work with.
I cock my head and look steadily up at him. My gaze is as frosty as a January midnight. “No need to apologize. I’m sure something important came up and it won’t happen again.”
“I’m not apologizing,” he says. “Just surprised you’re not more upset about it.”
“Oh of course. How could I forget? They’re weakness. And lord knows we can’t have you looking weak.” Sarcasm drips in great gooey globs from my words.
Nick seems unfazed. “We can’t. If I let my guard down who knows what you’ll do to me.”
My next words, primed for the beginning of a fight, catch in my throat. What does a girl even say to that? What could I possibly do to Nick Madison?
Nick chuckles at the dumbfounded look on my face, puts his hands in his pockets, and saunters past me, toward the stairs to the lower deck. “Come on,” he says. “We’re never going to see the whole ship if you can’t keep up.”
I grind my heel into the deck and then turn on it, walking swiftly after him with what I hope is a look of utmost professionalism on my face. So he wants to toss flirty low balls when I’ve geared up for a ninety-mile-an-hour pitch? I see how it is. Apparently I need to be prepared for anything.
Unfortunately it’s hard to stay on my guard with Nick. He slips into business-as-usual like he slips on those perfectly-tailored suit jackets, taking me across the various decks, through the kitchens and dining areas, down galley halls to game rooms and the daycare center.
At the latter, he pauses and peers into a room painted in bright childish colors, already stocked with toys.
“I suppose this will have to change,” he says.
He’s right. There’ll be no use for childcare on an adults only booze cruise. I glance inside, evaluating the room. It’s big, long with a low ceiling and no windows.
“Any ideas?” I ask him.
“Sex dungeon?”
I choke on nothing and cough. For an instant that cool-gray expression slips into what I can only describe as childlike mischievousness at my reaction. But in a blink it’s wiped away, stored back inside Nick’s steel internal cage.
“No!” I exclaim. “No sex dungeons.”
“It is my boat,” he notes. “Besides, you’re the one who wants to differentiate us. What other cruise can say they have a whole room for ass-slapping, bondage-loving fun?”
I hate that he kinda has a point. That would definitely get us some free advertising on Twitter. Unfortunately, it’s a little too extreme for the vibe I’m trying to promote.
“Why don’t we compromise and have some kind of erotic performance art show? There are a bunch in New York that we could hire. And then we haven’t crossed the line of actively encouraging the passengers to have public sex.”
Nick closes the door but doesn’t move on, instead leaning against the wall and raising an eyebrow. “Only been in the city for less than a week and you’re already going to sex shows?” he asks.
“Okay, I believe I said erotic performance, which is different from a sex show.”
“Name one way.”
“Uh… Artistic integrity?”
“Which means what exactly? That the fucking has an anti-capitalist theme?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But for your information I’m not ‘already going to sex shows’. I’ve barely left the hotel.”
He raises his hands in mock defense. “Forgive me. You seemed like an expert a moment ago.”
I flush and cross my arms. We’re not that far apart and I feel like we need a barrier between us. The hairs on the back of my arms reach out toward him like he’s made of static electricity.
“I’m not,” I say. “But my friend Mickey is.”
“Mickey? That’s the intern you came with?” he asks.
I nod.
“She seems fun,” he says. “Maybe she can get you to loosen up a little bit.”
My mouth drops. “Me?” I say, dumbfounded. “I’m the one who needs to loosen up?”
He shrugs. “I said what I said.”
“That’s pretty ironic considering you have a stick up your ass that could part the Red Sea.” Woof. So much for keeping things professional. I’m pretty proud of my comeback but it falls a bit flat as I’m the one currently standing on my tiptoes in anger while he remains coolly leaning against the wall.
He bends toward me slightly. “If that’s true I wonder how big yours is.”
I scoff. “You might as well say ‘I know you are but what am I’. Don’t be childish.” I cross my arms tighter and will myself to relax. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more frustrating man in my life.
“Childish? You’re the one who started talking about asses,” he says.
“I was— It’s—” I start and stop and then try, valiantly, to compose myself. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re uniquely frustrating?” I ask genuinely.
“Once or twice,” he says. “I take it as a compliment. Usually it’s a sign a deal is working in my favor.”
Urgh.The douchiness of it all.
“Well this isn’t a meeting, so I don’t know what you think is working in your favor here. Unless you think this is appealing to me somehow. And in that case, let me be clear. I’m not interested in you.”
Putting it out there was a gamble, but I hit gold. I’ve found the hidden lever that triggers a reaction from Nick. For the first time his face twitches involuntarily. “Who says I’m interested in you?” he challenges.
“You did. On the train,” I say.
“Someone needs to pull up the transcripts,” he says, “because as far as I remember I was just making conversation.”
I roll my eyes at that whopper. “Oh yeah. I’m sure if I were some dude you would have moved down next to him and read his palm.”
“Maybe I would have,” he says.
“Was that supposed to be convincing?” I ask.
“Whatever,” Nick says. I’ve ruffled him. It’s obvious. And just like me, Nick seems unable to stop himself from digging the hole deeper.
“I wish it had been a guy,” he says. “I’d have had more in common with him. A guy wouldn’t have been nearly as sappy as you were.”
“Sappy?” I repeat. “Because I don’t think people are evil?”
“I don’t think people are evil.”
“That’s not what you said on the train.”
“I think people are calculating and self-interested, especially in business. And I think they’re stupid. I think they see what they want to see. They cling to preconceived notions and there’s little that can be done to dissuade them.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Just like you think that I’m naive and a goody-two-shoes, and you almost passed me over because of it instead of looking at the facts.”
“So we agree?”
“On that,” I say. “But you also said people are cruel, and I just don’t believe that.”
“Well you just haven’t met the same people I have. I hope you never will.”
I throw up my hands. “And there you go again! Implying I’m naive. I’ve met cruel people, Nick. That doesn’t mean I believe everyone is.”
Nick’s eyes narrow. “Well maybe I’ll drop my notion of your naivete when you stop thinking that everything in my life was just handed to me.”
He tries to say it lightly, but nothing can stop thinly-veiled annoyance from leaking onto his words.
I pause. I guess I had said as much a couple of times. But instead of taking it back, I just shrug. “I’m open to correction,” I say.
Nick opens his mouth, but then snaps it shut.
“This isn’t an interview,” he mutters, turning away from me and stalking down the hallway.
I follow, rolling my eyes. So touchy! And I don’t even care. Let Nick keep his deep dark secrets. I certainly haven’t wondered exactly what had happened to the man to make him act like he’s a king in a Shakespearean tragedy. I’m not curious at all.
Really.
“If this were an interview,” I say, speeding up so that I’m walking beside him and not in his wake, “you wouldn’t be acing it.”
He grunts. “I’ve never been good at them,” he admits, surprising me. I didn’t think Nick’s ego could ever allow him to admit he’s not the best at something.
“Why?” I tease. “Get too nervous?”
Nick shoots me a look. “Don’t make fun of me,” he says.
“I’m not! Scout’s honor,” I say.
Another look says he doesn’t believe me at all.
“Really,” I insist. “Why not?”
“Isn’t it obvious? In an interview, the interviewer has all the control. I hate having another person hold me in the palm of their hand. That’s why I made it my goal to be the one giving the interviews and not the other way around.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, turning his words around in my head. “I don’t buy it,” I say.
This time Nick’s look isn’t annoyed. It’s surprised, wary. “You don’t buy what?” he asks.
“That you’re bad at interviews,” I say. “I think you can be incredibly charming when you want to be. And not,” I say quickly at his raised eyebrows, “because of your personality transplant on the train. No, as much as you want to pretend otherwise, I just don’t buy that you could build a company this large and not have any interpersonal skills. You had to convince a whole lot of people to take a chance on you. This persona might work now that you’re in charge, but it’s not the one that got you there.”
I glance over at him when he doesn’t say anything. I expect to see him frowning, instead I’m surprised to find him fighting a smile.
“I can see why you’re in advertising,” he says at last.
“And why’s that?”
“You’re unusually perceptive.”
The way he says it makes me laugh and ask, “Annoyingly so?”
His eyes flash to mine and look away just as quickly. “I didn’t say that.”
“Well then hold your answer until after my follow up question. Which persona is the real Nick Madison?”
A pause in which we turn left, down yet another hallway. We’ve been walking at a clipped pace for a while now through a labyrinth of service halls deep within the bowels of the ship. I’m horribly lost, but Nick seems to know exactly where we are and where we’re going.
“I don’t understand the question,” Nick finally says.
I lengthen my stride. Nick seems to be walking faster. Whether this is a power move highlighting his ridiculously long legs or just him trying to get away from my questions I can’t decide.
“I mean, is this angry, jaded thing an act, the persona of The Boss, or is it the real you?”
Nick doesn’t answer. Instead he stops so abruptly that I go skidding on the polished floor several feet when I have to apply the brakes.
“And what else,” he asks stiffly, “would be ‘the real me’?”
“I met a charming guy on the train. He was relaxed, and rather funny if I remember correctly. Though he had some terrible pickup lines.”
“And if I recall correctly, our conversation didn’t end so well on the train either,” he says.
“But it started well enough.”
“Are you asking me if I put on a face at work that isn’t there on my off hours?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. “Of course. Don’t you?”
“So you do have a softer side,” I say.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You just said so yourself. You put on this grumpy facade when you come in to work. So then what do you look like when you’re not here?”
I’m pressing beyond what’s appropriate for what’s essentially a work meeting. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t seem to help myself. Because I finally have Nick on the ropes, and it’s a lot better than being there myself.
“I—” Nick starts, struggles for the correct word, and then says, “I hardly think this question is appropriate, Ms. Davis.”
The moment plunges into ice. Nick’s expression is cold, closed-off. I suddenly feel incredibly awkward, fully aware that I’ve pushed too far, gotten too personal.
I’ll admit, I get overly involved in my projects, occasionally crossing the line into unprofessionalism. But it’s also the reason I’ve been so successful in advertising. I throw myself fully into every campaign, delight in all the small details, of learning the inner workings of the businesses and their leaders.
But Nick is different from the other company heads I’ve worked for. The wall he’s built up against the world is thick, his defenses strong. And knocking on the door seems to only lead to the deadbolt being drawn.
Without another word, Nick opens the door we’ve stopped in front of and I realize that this was where we were heading the whole time. In an instant, the tumultuous thoughts colliding in my head are halted by the breathtaking sight before us.
The door leads to the bridge, the area at the helm where the captain issues commands and drives the ship onward. It’s a large, brightly lit room with huge windows giving a 180-degree view of the Hudson and the New Jersey coastline.
“Wow,” I say, walking slowly into the room. I run a hand over the golden brass command center, touching the controls delicately as if they were made of amber. “It’s wonderful.”
“The seat of power,” Nick says, “always looks wonderful.”
I glance awkwardly back at him, my overly invasive moment in the hall not forgotten for long.
But Nick seems content to leave the moment behind us. He doesn’t meet my eye, instead walking to the windows, hands clasped behind him. He looks out over the river, to Jersey.
I watch him silently, wondering what he could be thinking of. But before I can ponder for long, he turns around and fixes me in that level and knowing stare.
“Well?” he asks. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking pictures?”
And just like that, we’re back to frosty professionalism. I suppose I should just be relieved he didn’t fire me. I get to work immediately, lest that be an idea he’s still tossing around in his head.
I photograph the stately interior, the captain’s buttery leather seat, the view, already envisioning the drafts Mickey and I will put together later. The beauty of it all will make our job easy.
I’ve just about finished when I hesitate and glance at Nick. He’s still staring out the window.
I really shouldn’t do it, but I can’t help myself. I raise the camera and snap a photo of him. His back is mostly to me, but the picture still captures the curve of his chin, the severity of his expression.
He looks like a troubled captain, looking out over stormy waters. And despite our differences, despite how much I should dislike a man so hot and cold, so aggravating and jaded, I can’t help but feel a growing connection to him. That, despite what he insists on presenting to the world, there’s way more to Nick Madison than it seems.