11. Cypress
Cypress
Kelya
Iwake up to the smell of cypress in my room. With great compartmentalization, I shower and get ready for Dave, ignoring it.
The man with the boat will make me feel better. I just know it.
I wear white shorts that have this cute lace hem and a little red camisole.
I throw on my hat and sunglasses, slip on my little red flats, and rush out the door with my purse swinging to my back.
I grab a coffee on the way, my gold chain clanking against itself on my wrist, reminding me to figure out how to sell it today.
I told Dave my name was Penelope. I’m usually pretty good at remembering these things. After last night, I’m not exactly on my game, so I repeat it to myself while I walk to the docks and sip my coffee. Black americano.
Penelope. Omega. I’ve always wanted to go out on a boat in the ocean. Penelope.
The sun is finally off the horizon. It’s going to be a hot day.
The ocean water sparkling in the air is already struggling against the sunrays.
The water wants to cool the air down while the sun would like to burn it up.
It’s making my hair go haywire. The hat doesn’t help.
It’s a big floppy thing, and it’s making me overstimulated as hell.
I grabbed it from the hotel’s lost and found, where I’ve discovered a treasure trove of interesting items. Including a sexy red swimsuit with a heart cut-out in the middle. I had to take it. It was made for me.
I pass under a rainbow gate and then a giant art piece with ten-foot-tall letters that spell out “Boricua,” which means Puerto Rican. I stop and lean against it, set my coffee near my feet, take my hat off, and run my fingers over my scalp. I still don’t feel well.
I think about my sister and wonder how it felt when she died. I wasn’t around when it happened. She was with her alphas. A little lightning bolt zings through my brain, and I push the thoughts away, unable to deal with them right now.
Behind me, blocking out the sun, a large cruise liner rests at the dock.
I’m a little late, so when I see Dave standing near a pink building, it shocks me. Shouldn’t he be at his boat waiting for me?
He’s talking to another middle-aged white man. The way they lean towards each other, with serious, glum looks and their hands on their hips, makes me think it’s a professional conversation.
I see the gun holster on his ribs.
Shit.
Cops.
FBI, most likely.
The other guy is carrying a standard issue. His slacks are black and rumpled. His shoes are scuffed. Before I accidentally kick it over, I snatch my coffee from the ground and toss it. Then I creep closer.
“Are we sure she’s the right one?” Dave asks.
“It’s weird she didn’t take the bait, but it has to be her. She’s behaving exactly like her. If the notorious omega is in Puerto Rico, then she’s that girl.”
I have to keep walking so it’s not obvious I’m listening in. I keep walking through the plaza and right out.
Take the bait. What bait? Am I the notorious omega—and more importantly, am I being set up?
The fucking FBI! Wait. Is this the cypress smelling alpha?
Oh god, I hope not. Dave has a jacket tied around his waist—a pussy drying act if I’ve ever seen one—and he’s also at least fifty years old.
But why would one of their agents keep me from getting drugged and then send ice cream to my room? That doesn’t add up.
I knew I was risking it when I started taking larger ticket items like art pieces, cash, and cars. Every car I ever stole, I left at an airport. That had to start looking suspicious.
It was bound to catch up to me. The notorious omega.
I’ve got to get out of Puerto Rico.
Fuck!
I throw a tiny fit behind a clothing store, and then rush to the hotel. I nearly get run over by a car while hopping across the street—its little horn sending my heart into orbit—so I have to stop and slow my racing heart. Do I even need to go back to the hotel?
Fuck!
I look up and am outside a pawnshop. I duck in and use what Spanish I’ve learned recently to get $1400 for the chain. Cash. Fuck yes. The woman who valued it counts the cash, hands it over, and I thank her kindly then promptly leave, feeling a little better.
Yesterday I consulted the Heat Map on my phone. Cuba is dead. Mexico City looks hot. Maybe I should go to Miami. No. No US states or territories.
Toronto looks oddly hot.
Toronto. That should be fine. I have my fake passport already and the drugs in my purse.
When I step back onto the street, my head swims. I find a place to lean against, then check my phone again.
Direct flights are only on weekends. There’s a flight later tonight I can take, two stops, but it leaves from Aguadilla, which is on the other side of the island. I could take the FBI boat to Aguidilla…
Take the boat to the airport on the other side of the island. Take a flight outta here. Yes, that’s the plan.
I have to close my eyes because the world is tilting again.
No.
I’m not deviating from the plan. I get myself together and head back to the docks. Dave is pacing in front of his big ass boat. I could totally figure out how to navigate that thing…
It’s called a Slow Poke. A 90-foot lime-green yacht with three cabins, a stunning fly ridge, and a large swimming platform. Not that I can swim.
I wave at him, and when he sees me, he smiles like a fucking kid on Christmas morning.
“Penelope!” He jogs over and kisses me on my cheek.
Right, I’m Penelope. The innocent traveler.
He smells like movie theater popcorn. Not cypress.
“Dave, sorry for being late. I had some errands to run.”
“I’m just happy you showed.”
He’s sweating.
Fuck.
I can’t do this.
“Come! Let me give you a tour.”
I look around and notice a few men in baseball hats and sunglasses nearby, pretending they aren’t watching me. Fuck it. New plan. I’m stealing this fucking boat from the FBI guys.
Who cares? I may not live another day.
I board the vessel, and he takes me around on a little tour.
It’s so fucking shiny. Every surface and piece of furniture is a shiny black panel with cherry wood borders.
The main cabin has a fucking library in it.
I point out a title I like, and Dave looks very confused.
He doesn’t know a damned book in this library.
Dave fumbles for a bottle of champagne he’s retrieved from an ice bucket. He pours the bubbly wine into two flute glasses that took him way too long to find in the cabinets.
Additionally, one weird fact:
The cabins smell like cypress.
Am I losing my mind?
That guy has to have something to do with this.
With champagne in hand, Dave takes me to the flybridge and tells me how to pull up the anchor and get this thing out into the water. I didn’t even ask.
“I’m the captain, so you aren’t allowed up here without me. Ok? You do not have permission to operate this vessel. Tell me you understand.” If I didn’t know this was a setup before, him establishing it’s wrong for me to take his boat out makes it abundantly clear.
“I understand.” Officer.
We take our drinks to the other side of the flybridge, and I sit on one of the couches underneath the sails, which on this motor vessel are used for sunshade. He sits next to me and clinks our flute glasses together.
The world tilts, and I close my eyes.
Maybe it’s this fucking cypress scent that’s making me want to London-Bridge every couple of hours. I won’t be able to pull off my heist if I’m like this.
After I regain my horizon, I ask, “Hey, so what is that smell? Do you smell that? Is it a cleaner you use?”
He looks like I caught him in a lie.
“Uh, what smell?”
“Like trees…”
“Oh!” he laughs, relieved. “No, I don’t know what that is. If it bothers you, I can get rid of it. There’s some descenter spray. Let me get it.” While he’s rummaging around in the cabinets, he says, “Maybe it was a cleaner. I had an entire crew in here this morning.”
“A cleaning crew of fucking evergreens…” I mumble. I don’t drink from my glass. Mr. FBI cannot be trusted. He sets the found spray on the table in front of me. It looks expensive. I stand up, taking it with me.
“I’m going to go spray the boat down if you don’t mind. It’s giving me a headache.”
“Of course, babydoll.” He winces at his own nickname.
I wonder if he’s married. That must be hard for him.
He stands and puts his hands on his hips.
“Hey, I want to…Hey, oh my god, I just realized that I forgot…well, will you look at that. Before we take the boat out for the evening, I need to deboard and go to the convenience store to get orange juice.”
“Orange juice?”
“Yes, so right. So right.”
“Can you also get me some sour candies?”
“Sour candies?”
“For the seasickness.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“And condoms.”
His face goes completely white. “Condoms,” he repeats.
Poor married special agent.
He’s stopped breathing.
“Condoms.”
I wink and walk off to make this boat no longer smell like anything at all. Then, when he’s on the dock, I’m going to do exactly what he’s hoping I do—steal the thing.