34. Pippi
Jackson despised my outfit.
When I’d emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a billowy rainbow blouse, tucked into a hot pink skirt, he’d scowled . And I’d glared back, daring him to say something.
He hadn’t.
But, goodness, I’d gotten some seething looks.
Even as we waited in the queue to board the ship, Jackson’s eyes burned into me. And quivers of rage zapped my belly— his rage. The sort of anger that made you itch to grab someone and shake them until they yelled in pain.
It was violent. And so extreme.
I gnawed on the inside of my cheek and forced myself to look anywhere but at him.
The problem?
In avoiding Jackson, I kept seeing Alistair.
The boat tour was the premier activity on Niverwick Isle, since it got you up close and personal with the doofus dino (a.k.a.: their Loch Ness Monster; a.k.a.: Alistair). And they showcased him everywhere.
The odd, squiggly-shaped building called Misty Mages, which hosted both the tour departures and a dive bar, was painted a deep cerulean.
Moss dangled from the gabled roof, and craggy, coral-colored stones bracketed the doors and windows.
It was very obviously meant to look like the sea—especially with the way the one-story building curved in a loose wave around the docks—although it was far prettier than the actual ocean around Niverwick.
Inside the building, peppering the glossy lapis walls, were dozens of small, cartoon-y pictures of Alistair.
All of them depicted him as a wild-eyed monster who savagely hunted the other beasts of the sea.
They were all PG images, no blood or gore.
Cartoon Alistair was just snarling viciously at whales and sharks and monster squids.
But a grim black-and-white portrait of him cleaving a ship in half hung above the black marble table, where we all penciled our signatures on a waiver, agreeing to not sue Niverwick Isle, should the dreaded sea beast wreck our ship.
A little girl had bawled upon seeing that portrait.
I understood her fear.
Oh, stars, did I understand.
And I’d ached to comfort the girl, to tell her that Alistair was just a big, gentle derp. But her mom had quickly scooped her up and pulled her aside, murmuring assurances and singing until the girl calmed.
Outside, the Alistair assault continued. A towering mural of him scaled the full length of the cerulean wall on the backside of Misty Mages. His big, green-scaled body turpentined around the wiggly building, while his scathing orange eyes leered at the queue.
A few slots in front of us, a family waited with their two kids, and both boys oohed and aahed over the big mural. It got some huffs of appreciation from all the adults too.
I frowned at it.
This island needed to fire their stupid, violent artist.
Jackson had said nothing, not a single word since we’d left the cottage. But as we shuffled off the land and prepared to step onto the dock, he laughed darkly and flicked one of the A-frame signs that flashed a few final warnings at us.
This one had “Arms are a yummy snack” in bold orange letters that wove around a crude sketch of a Loch Ness Monster biting the arms off the stick figure tourist who’d waved them over the side of the boat.
And under, in smaller writing, “For your safety, keep all arms and legs behind the rail. Absolutely no diving.”
I wondered grimly, sadly , if Jackson had tapped that sign to indicate that he hoped I’d become sea monster food on this tour.
But then he went right back to giving me the silent treatment, even as we strolled across the rickety dock to the smiling young attendant handing out goggles at the ship ramp.
“Sorcerer’s vision,” he crowed as he handed two sets to Jackson.
Jackson smiled, thanked him, and chucked my goggles at my head once we boarded the ship.
They bonked off my cheek, hard, and I had to scramble to catch them.
Jackson kept walking. And I followed…until the ship rocked under my feet and my brain bulldozed past the anger and hurt to remind me where I was.
This ship was substantially smaller than the one we’d sailed to the isle on, built to hold only fifty adults, or so the max capacity sign at the entrance had said. And this old-fashioned vessel, boasting weather-worn wood from the 1800s, creaked its geriatric bones in the swaying dance of the sea.
My stomach slithered.
Alistair’s down there, I reminded myself as I fought the swelling panic. You’re safe, Pippi, like he always says.
Jackson cocked his head over his shoulder, saw me getting a little green around the gills, and walked back.
I reached for him.
“I hope you took your meds,” he snapped as he snatched my hand.
“Yes.” My teeth ground the word out.
He harrumphed and twisted his arm through mine, leading me across the ship deck.
I smiled, as best I could, with my stomach doing loop-de-loops and my lips quivering, and leaned into him, hating the pressure broiling between us.
I didn’t want to fight. Or spend the rest of the trip scowling and throwing jabs at each other.
“Jackson”—I slung the goggles up on my shoulder and used my other hand to rub his arm—“can we?—”
“Hey! Jackson!” a deep male voice called.
Jackson raised his goggles in a cheery wave. “Kian! Hello!”
Rune Bloodworth and the rest of the Sorcerers had an area roped off near the front of the ship—although the ropes weren’t attached to anything.
They floated in mid-air, joggling threateningly at any plebeians who dared to wander too close.
And people were milling around it, ogling longingly at the minibar and snack tables lining the ship bow.
From the throng of Sorcerers, the dimpled Kian beckoned for us to join them.
The ropes exuded a droning fizz and slithered to the side when we approached, giving Jackson and I entry into the Sorcerer Club.
Jackson yanked me into his side, bending his head like he was going to smooch my cheek. Instead, he hissed in my ear, “Please do not puke in front of these guys. Use the bathrooms below deck. Please .”
Anger gashed my skin, no doubt leaving red patches over my cheeks and chest. And it possessed me to say something utterly wretched, “Maybe I’ll puke on Rune Bloodworth’s shoes.”
Jackson said nothing. But the utter contempt that spilled into my stomach left me shaken.
“Jackson!” Kian seemed to not notice the tension sparking off us as he stepped forward and reached out his hand.
A boyish grin slipped over Jackson’s face as he pivoted.
“Kian.” He beamed, shaking his hand. “Thank you so much for snagging us spots today.”
“Of course, of course.” Kian turned his twinkling eyes to me. “And I’m glad the lovely Pippa was able to join us.”
“Pip — ” I started to say in an amiable correction.
But Jackson spoke over me. “She’s finally feeling better.”
“Oh, awesome. I’m very happy to hear that.” When Kian let go of Jackson’s hand and reached for mine, I took it. Numbly. Not even feeling the handshake—not really. Not with the buzzing of my brain drowning out other sensations.
He’d called me Pippa.
An honest mistake; people did it all the time. But Jackson hadn’t corrected him, nor had he let me correct him.
Almost as though he didn’t want them to know my real name.
I turned to Jackson, when Kian left us for the mini bar, and reached for him. Physically, and emotionally as well. Trying to find something, anything , that would settle my souring stomach.
But when I touched his hand, a wave of animosity slammed into me.
I almost cried.
Jackson wouldn’t look at me.
“Here we are!” Kian returned a few seconds later, handing a tall pint of beer to Jackson.
“And for you, Pippa.” He bowed slightly as he handed me a glass with clear, bubbly liquid.
“A hard seltzer. My wife loves this flavor. It’s peach something— what is this one again, hun?
” He turned to where a group of women sprawled on stools by the minibar.
“Mango. Peach Mango!” quipped a tall and elegant-looking blonde woman.
“That’s it.” Kian pressed the glass into my hand. “But go easy on these, eh? Lest your man kick my ass for getting his girl sick again.”
I screwed the happiest smile I could manage onto my face. “He’s very protective.”
“As he should be.”
With an almighty urrrrrrrgggg , the ship teetered beneath my feet.
I clutched on to Jackson, and he held me steady. But the antipathy he kept expelling turned my stomach into an acidic wasteland.
A cacophony of whoops and hollers rose from the people onboard the ship. Kian tucked his glass under his arm and whacked his hands together in thunderous applause.
“We’re off!” Rune announced, as he thrust his own glass into the air. “A toast! To a successful voyage… hopefully ,” he added, with a booming laugh that sounded like Count von Count.
Muh-a-a-a-a.
“Cigar, Jackson?” Kian asked.
“Of course!” Jackson said.
“Excellent. Oh, and Pippa,” Kian added, “feel free to hang out with these lovely ladies. Hun!” He drew his wife’s attention again. “You’ve got room for one more, right?”
She beamed and nodded. “Always. Pippa, is it?”
“Pippi,” I muttered automatically.
“Oh, shit . It’s Pipp i ? I’m sorry, I was calling you Pippa, wasn’t I?” Kian turned toward me with a genuine look of remorse.
“It’s no big deal. Honestly,” I said. “It’s?—”
“She gets called Pippa all the time.” Jackson drew me in for a flat hug. “I don’t even notice when people get it wrong anymore. I always joke that she should change her name.”
Do you? Always joke?
I’ve never once heard you say that.
“But then I remind him that we’d lose this fun conversation starter.” I daubed a grin on my face, ignoring the throbbing pain it left in my cheeks, and angled my head up to stare at Jackson.
He smiled, but his eyes were hard. Cold.
A wrathful god wearing a mask of happiness.
“It’s a conversation starter for sure ,” Kian said. “Pippi. Like the cartoon, right? The girl with the pigtails?”
“That’s the one.”
“My mom used to love that show,” he said.
“Mine too.” I pointed to my chest. “Obviously.”
Kian chuckled. “That’s awesome! We’ll have to wrangle up the crew and do a coolness check, to see who gets the reference and who doesn’t.” He gave my hair a friendly ruffle.
And I…actually liked him. He had an easy-going temperament. A little boastful, maybe, but harmless. And he softened whenever he glanced at his wife.
I almost hated to admit that Jackson had been right about me taking to him. Then again, he’d accused me (rightfully) of liking everyone. But I wanted to extend this olive branch to him, a balm for the raw sores I’d inflicted on him this week.
I do like Kian, Jackson.
You were right. I’m sorry I acted like an ass when you mentioned this earlier.
Please forgive me.
I touched his arm, stood on my tiptoes, and started to whisper all of that into his ear.
Jackson shrugged me off and walked away.