1148 A.M.
MIGUEL
“Winslow, come out of there, please.” Miguel pressed his forehead to the en suite door.
His confession had come pouring out of his mouth in one long barrage of words, jumbled together and nonsensical (and some in Spanish) as he told Winslow what a mess he’d made of things and how none of this would have happened if Winslow would have just listened and considered the idea.
In an ill-advised moment of indignation, he told him that he didn’t have a voice in their marriage. And he deserved a voice.
And now, his head pounded with emotion and his eyes were puffy, red, and sore.
On the other side of the door, the intro to “Paint It Black” by The Rolling Stones started up, followed by the sound of the shower turning on.
“Oh God, not The Stones,” Miguel groaned.
The first evening aboard, when they were sharing each other’s quirks, Miguel had left out one key detail—that Winslow only sang like Mick Jagger when he was furious.
And how, after years of his husband blasting their songs when they were in a fight, Miguel had grown to despise their music.
It was the same with the sound of vacuum cleaners.
His mother was a rage-cleaner, and every time that damn Hoover was turned on, it meant there would be hell to pay.
He knocked on the door, knowing Winslow wasn’t likely to hear. “Please come out soon so we can talk. I love you.”
Miguel walked over to the mini-bar and got himself a bottle of water, then stretched out on the bed.
He wouldn’t put his noise-canceling headphones on to block the sound.
Not this time. This time, he deserved to have his body tense up and his skin crawl while he listened to every muffled beat, strum, and word.
He had hurt the person he loved the most in this world and would force himself to take whatever was coming to him. Even the electric sitar.
He closed his eyes for a second, only to be tortured with a flash of Winslow’s stoic face earlier.
There was no yelling. No chastising him for being impulsive.
Just a calm, measured response as if they were disagreeing on what color of curtains to hang in the guest room.
But that shouldn’t have been a surprise.
In all their years together, Miguel had never heard Winslow raise his voice.
He was quiet, controlled, and careful with his words.
But if he wanted to wound, he would. He’d do it swiftly, with surgical-precision.
But he hadn’t done that either. Instead, he said, “It appears as though our lives are about to take us in very different directions.”
There was no way Miguel was going to simply agree to call it quits.
Yes, he’d done something stupid, and had been hiding it for weeks, but they were in love, they had history together, and he knew in his heart of hearts that Winslow didn’t want a divorce.
And this was his only chance to stop it.
He just needed to get him out of the bathroom so they could talk.
Really talk for once. They needed to dive deep into their relationship and how to salvage what was left of what Miguel had blown up.
He wanted Winslow to fight with him. To fight for them.
And the fact that he hadn’t even tried caused a flash of anger to tear through him.
It took every last bit of Miguel’s willpower not to get up and kick the door down so he could confront him.
(Logically, he knew he couldn’t actually kick the door down.
It was solid-core, and, based on the high-quality finishings, the hardware would hold up.) He imagined himself screaming in his husband’s shocked face while the water poured down on him.
How can you give up, you old bastard? Do I mean nothing to you?
Unlike Winslow, Miguel had a quick temper, and still struggled to stay calm during disagreements, despite his best efforts.
But no amount of deep breathing or counting to ten stopped him from making a complete fool of himself.
The truth was, he secretly blamed Winslow for drawing out so much anger.
After all, there was nothing on this earth more irritating than an overly calm husband when you were upset.
The song ended. Then, a moment later, it started up again, which was the worst-case scenario.
Playing this particular song on repeat was a clear signal that Winslow meant what he said about their lives going in different directions.
He’d done it the day he and his business partner of twenty-eight years parted ways.
Oh God, was that really what they were doing?
Parting ways? The thought caused him to let out a string of curse words in Spanish, then he forced himself to slowly inhale again.
By the time Winslow walked out of that bathroom, Miguel would be ready for round two.
Yelling, pleading, or begging wouldn’t work.
Neither would guilt trips or excuses. He had done what he did and he had to be a man and face it.
A sickeningly loud, wet thump on the other side of the wall caused Miguel’s heart to stop momentarily. He jumped off the bed and crossed the room in two steps, then banged on the door. “Winslow?! Winslow! Answer me! Are you hurt?”
No reply. Only the sound of the water and the blaring music.
“WINSLOW!!!! ANSWER ME! For fuck’s sake,” Miguel called.
He tried the handle in case it wasn’t locked, but of course it was.
He pressed his ear up to the door but couldn’t make out any sounds that would indicate Winslow was still showering.
No squirt of the shampoo bottle, no changes to the flow of the water hitting the tile floor.
“ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW OR I’M GOING TO GET HELP! !”
Only Mick had the decency to answer him back. “My love will laugh with me before the morning comes.”
That awful thump played out in his head again. It sounded like wet flesh hitting the floor. He must have passed out and fallen. Or worse. Winslow would never ignore him when he was shouting like that. He wasn’t cruel. “ALL RIGHT. I’M GOING FOR HELP! I’LL BE RIGHT BACK, MY LOVE!”
Miguel sprinted down the hallway calling for help. “Somebody! Anybody!! I need a doctor!”
Only maybe he didn’t need a doctor. Maybe he needed a fireman. Or several. “Emergency! HELP!!!”
The hallway led to a lounge area, where Indira was doing a designer’s karate chop on a large navy throw pillow on the white sectional.
Miguel’s first thought was that she did it wrong.
It was a weak chop when a powerful one was needed.
His second thought was fuck the chop, the love of his life might be dead. Or about to die. “Help! I need help!”
Ignoring him, she moved onto the next pillow, where she gave it a similarly lackluster attempt. God, how could she screw up something so simple? More importantly, why wasn’t she answering?
He ran over and reached out with his clammy hands. “Help me! I need help!”
She jumped and pulled away, then seeing his face, she took out her earbuds. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s my husband. He fell. He’s trapped in the bathroom of our suite!”
“All right,” she said, sounding far too calm for his liking.
“Do something, you pendejo!”
She narrowed her eyes and for a second, he was scared she understood what he had said.
But then she pulled a walkie-talkie out of a holster strapped to the waistband of her shorts.
“Emergency, emergency, there is a guest in trouble. We need assistance to…” She released the button and said, “Which suite is yours?”
“The Dolphin Suite,” he said, desperation causing every hair on his body to stand straight up.
“The Dolphin Suite. Again, assistance required immediately in the Dolphin Suite.”
Grabbing her arm, he started back to the room. “Come on! I need a key to get into the bathroom!”
She hurried along with him. The captain’s voice came over the walkie-talkie. “I’m on my way. Do we need to call for a medivac?”
Miguel grabbed the radio out of her hands. “Yes! Get a helicopter right now with a team of surgeons on it! He might be dying!”
Indira tried to take the walkie-talkie back, and they struggled a little while she ground out, “That’s not for guests!”
He let go of it, which sent her stumbling back a little.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” he said, reaching out to help her steady herself. “I’m panicking. The love of my life might be—”
“You need to calm down, sir,” she said firmly.
Nodding quickly, he said, “Yes, yes. I need to stay calm.”
They started back down the hall and she muttered, “In order to stay calm, you’d already have to be calm.”
When they reached the suite, he tried the door handle, only to realize it had locked behind him and he didn’t have a key. “Open it! PLEASE!”
She used the cardkey that hung from her wrist to unlock it, then Miguel pushed it open.
“Paint It, Black” filled the room and assaulted his ears.
If he never heard it again, it would be too soon.
A wave of nausea came over him as he stumbled to the door of the en suite, banging loudly and shouting for Winslow while the young woman propped the door to the suite open.
She hurried over while peeling a small flat tool out from what looked like a Swiss Army knife. “Excuse me.”
The room filled with staff members, including Oliver, who was holding a defibrillator. Captain Ben strode in, looking very much in command as his employees parted for him. “What’s going on?”
Miguel answered him. “He fell. He’s in the shower. He’s not answering me.”
“Of course he’s not answering. He’s got the music blaring in there.” He banged on the door, as if Miguel hadn’t already tried that. He banged again, then shouted, “Mr. Taggart! It is Captain Benedetto speaking! Can you hear me?”
When there was no reply, the captain pulled out a walkie-talkie. “Cut the power to the Dolphin Suite.”
A few seconds later, the music stopped, the lights went off, and the sweet sound of Winslow’s voice could be heard. “Well, that’s just great.”
“That’s a good sign,” Indira said to no one in particular.
The captain ignored her. “Mr. Taggart, it’s the captain. We’ve got a medivac on the way for you. We’re going to force open the door. Don’t be alarmed.”
The door swung open and there stood Winslow, dripping wet in a towel. “What on earth is going on?!”
Overwhelmed with relief, Miguel launched himself at Winslow, who threw up a straight arm to keep him back.
The result was immediate and embarrassing in a way few things could be.
Miguel bounced back with an equal amount of force with which he had propelled his body at his husband, landing on the floor and sliding.
At the same time, both men said, “What are you doing?”
Miguel answered first. “I was saving you.”
Winslow didn’t offer to help him up, which only added insult to the injury of Miguel’s poor bottom. Instead, he raised one eyebrow. “From what, exactly? A long, hot shower?”
The captain offered a hand to Miguel and tugged him to his feet before turning back to Winslow. “I take it we can cancel the ambulance.”
“Obviously I’m fine,” Winslow snapped. “What I don’t understand is why you called one in the first place.”
The captain threw a look of irritation at Miguel. “Your husband led us to believe you had fallen in the shower.”
“Clearly not.” Winslow tightened his grip on the towel and pursed his lips at Miguel. “Seriously?”
“What was that awful banging noise?”
“My hands.”
“Doing what?” Miguel asked, now filled with regret for overreacting. Winslow would be humiliated on top of everything else.
“I slapped the wall. I don’t recommend it. It still hurts.”