CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 17
NESS HAD, AS ANTICIPATED, SPENT HER NIGHT ON THE BEACH, KEEPING the fire going. She’d seen a couple of planes fly far overhead, lights blinking in the star-dappled sky, but nothing closer, and certainly no boats close enough to see them.While unproductive from a rescue standpoint, she had to admit, it wasn’t terrible being down there on her own, with the sound of the waves and the breeze rustling the trees. Aside from the circumstances that had brought her there, it was almost peaceful.
She’d hoped that the morning would bring a renewed sense of hope and promise to everyone. Alas, it seemed all the new day brought was a fresh dose of angst tinged with uneasy, group-wide suspicion. And possibly also food poisoning.
“We’re going to need another bucket of water for the bathroom.”
Coco emerged, clutching her stomach, and lowered herself delicately onto her mattress, where she curled into a tiny ball.
“I don’t know why I bothered coming out. Next time I’m going to stay in there. I may never emerge.” She groaned and rolled onto her other side. “Tell Olive and Pickles that I love them and they should spend their inheritance wisely. Don’t let them blow it all on liver snaps and smoked deer femurs.”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to lecture them on canine fiscal responsibility yourself.” Ness set a jar of pre-boiled water beside her and draped a fresh, cool cloth across her forehead.
It was just the two of them for now.As soon as it was light, everyone else had dispersed, most not even bothering to make excuses or say where they were heading.
Tyler and Hayes, at least, had taken the remnants of the iguanas down to the water to use as bait, and she was very hopeful they’d return with breakfast.Which meant they’d have to cook.Which meant another fire.
Ness stifled a groan at the thought. Maybe she could turn on the generator, only for a little while, and cook on the stove like a real, honest-to-goodness human of the modern world.
“If those idiots manage to bring back a shark or something, don’t you dare think about cooking it in here,” Coco moaned, as if reading her mind. “I will die. I will spontaneously combust, but instead of fire, it will be fecal matter, and someone will have to burn the island down into the sea. And that will be on you.” Her face contorted and she rolled quickly off the mattress, staggered to her feet, and rushed down the hall to the bathroom.
“This is it for me,” she called. “It’s been a real experience knowing you all.”
* * *
The feeling that she should be doing something useful hung over Ness’s head, but for the life of her she couldn’t come up with anything. Not to mention, she was tired. Not a stayed-out-all-night tired, or worked-out-really-hard tired. This was a bone-deep exhaustion that threatened to pull her to the ground.
She’d abandoned the shirt she’d arrived in after discovering the front was dappled with iguana blood, and now she was sporting the Fall Out Boy shirt from the wardrobe. Despite being dunked in the ocean and hung in the sun to dry, it still smelled exactly like it had been sitting in the dark, damp corner of a closet for lord knows how long . . . but it was still cleaner than what she had before.
She sipped some water and wished for a peanut butter banana smoothie dusted with cinnamon, topped with coconut whipped cream. Maybe a burger on the side. And a pizza on the side of that.
Coco came back in, sweating and pale, and toppled onto the bed.
“Give me Bradley’s bag,” she demanded, extending her arm blindly.
“Um, that seems . . .” Ness couldn’t even land on an appropriate word. Dicey? Invasive? Suicidal? Sure, she’d tried to gain access to said bag herself just the day before, but doing it while Bradley was aware versus sneaking seemed like a key differentiator. Oh, how the lines blurred in these trying times.
Gingerly, Coco maneuvered until she could reach the messenger bag half-hidden under the couch. She snagged the strap with a finger and pulled it toward her, panting slightly.
“He’s a health nut, Ness. Probably carries seven different kinds of digestion aids. I want to see if there’s anything in here that will encourage my bowels to stay inside my body.”
It was hard to argue with that.
Where Ness may have gone for a careful rummage, Coco upended the bag and dumped the contents onto the floor. A travel-size cologne roller clattered to the tile and was quickly overwhelmed by a growing pile of empty gum packets, empty protein wrappers, and three pairs of black briefs. A toiletries pouch plopped out on top, its contents rattling promisingly.
Coco gave the bag another shake, sending some receipt-sized papers and bottom-of-the-bag garbage fluttering through the air, then tossed it aside. It slid across the floor and disappeared back under the couch.
Coco watched it with glazed eyes.
“Oops.”
She went straight for the toiletries bag, unzipping the top and dumping that onto the mattress in front of her.
“Come on, Coco,” Ness complained. “Can we not be even semi-stealthy about this?” She checked the room to make sure no one else was around.
Coco flung aside a pack of condoms, sending them flying onto the cracked coffee table. “What’s the point?”
“We’re invading his privacy! You could be a bit more respectful about it.”
“I could, I guess, but it’s too late for that now. Besides, I haven’t even seen him today. Maybe he’s hiding from Libby, or riding a pair of dolphins to freedom, and we’re in the clear. This bounty could be ours. Hey, you think we could sell stuff to the others? Like a prison barter system?”
“What do you think they’re going to have to trade? You want to swap Daisy some dirty underwear for another iguana?”
Coco clapped a hand over her mouth and scrambled to her feet, sending travel-size custom-formulated moisturizer and Yves St. Laurent deodorant rolling. Soon Ness was cringing at the sounds that traveled down the hall from the bathroom.
She did a quick survey of the rest of Bradley’s stuff, setting aside a bottle of Advil and some organic ginger capsules and trying not to get too rage-y over the empty food wrappers spread around her. Then she got to work putting everything back where they’d found it.
The toiletries bag was a maze of tiny pockets, elasticized holders, and satin pouches—one of which revealed a small, half-empty container of dry shampoo that explained how Bradley was keeping his hair looking so much nicer than Ness’s own wild mane.
She gave up trying to guess where it all went, dumped everything into the central compartment, and zipped it closed.
The space under the couch was rife with dust bunnies, a battered copy of Sports Illustrated circa 2014, and the desiccated corpse of a small bird. Grimacing, Ness reached in and grabbed the messenger bag, sliding it into the open. As she pulled her arm back, something brushed against her skin from the bottom surface of the couch.
She jerked her arm to safety, heart pounding, then felt like an idiot when two folded sheets of paper fell into sight. Cautiously prodding at the underside of the sofa, she felt the gap where the pages had been wedged and pulled another free. She rocked back, sitting on the mattress—the one usually shared by Ian and Bradley—and unfolded them.
Kimberley,
The last few days have been some of the hardest of my life. Not being able to speak to you, to fall asleep to the sound of your breath, has been torture.
The way we left things hangs over me. I know you’re worried. And rightly so. I’ve been stubborn and unwilling to accept how untenable the situation is. For that, I am so sorry. What a burden for you to carry, when you already hold so much.
I do have a plan to fix things, to correct course and provide us with a stable future. While it’s not what I envisioned at this stage of my career, it is what we need. I can find pride in that.
Your spirit is with me constantly, and I wish for nothing more than to be in your arms, my head on your belly, telling the Small One about all the adventures we’ll have together.
I have no doubt that someone will show up soon to sweep us away from this place and back to civilization. But until they do, I’ll continue to write. Just in case.
My love for you knows no bounds.
B
“What are you doing?”
Ness dropped the pages as if they were on fire. Libby stood at the foot of the mattress, surveying the mess Coco had made.
“It’s nothing,” Ness said, trying to play it cool and failing miserably. She shot out a hand to grab the letter, but Libby was faster.
“Hey, I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to—”
Ness watched the blood drain from the other woman’s face as she read. The hand holding the paper fell limply to her side, and she stared out the window.
“We tried, you know. For years we tried. But I couldn’t . . .” She cut herself off, shaking her head.
“Oh, Libby. I’m so sorry.”
Libby’s gaze landed on Ness, her eyes widening as if she hadn’t realized who she was speaking to. She took a breath, and Ness braced herself for an onslaught, but Libby seemed to change her mind, plucking the other pages from Ness’s hand and walking out of the room. A moment later, a door slammed. A lock clicked loudly.
Ness let herself fall sideways and stared up at the ceiling, the scent of unwashed male and mildew rising from the mattress.
If someone was in the business of selling ill-gotten secrets, this was a real doozy.
Vulture Magazine, September 2014
When I meet Freddie Maltravers for the first time, it is poolside at his Los Angeles home. I arrive at the wrought-iron, mermaid-adorned gates thinking the rumors have surely been blown out of proportion. The property is well maintained, and the exterior decor is tasteful, though admittedly the mermaids are exceptionally well-endowed.
I’d heard things over the years about the self-styled “Modern Prince of Porn,” much of which sounded completely fabricated. That he invested 30 percent of his fortune in Sriracha. He only wears animal-based products. He pays attractive women to wheel his red velvet throne from room to room. He prefers to travel by chauffeured recumbent bicycle.
After being led through a series of corridors and rooms I can only describe as nouveau riche on an acid trip by a curvaceous brunette named Jessica (who is using this gig to fund law school), I begin to think perhaps I’d been wrong to doubt anything.
Jessica and I emerge from the dimly lit, flocked-wall paper gloom into the blinding light of the pool deck. My guide excuses herself, transforming from demure future lawyer to burbling fountain of husky giggles, and she flounces over to join a trio of women dangling their legs in the pool on either side of . . . a red velvet throne.
Maltravers lounges there, seemingly unconcerned by the idea of water damaging his seat.
A cotton concert T-shirt from Michael Jackson’s Immortal World Tour and board shorts the color of yellow Gatorade disprove at least one of the rumors I’m here to fact-check. He does, however, sport a great python resting over his shoulders.
“Ah, Jordan!” He greets me, accent London posh to the extreme. “Come and meet Gamora.” The snake’s tongue flicks in my direction.