3. Three
After their last day at sea, West was down in one of the yacht’s plush lounges with Luke. The final dinner of the trip had gone well, and the entire crew was up on the deck dancing the night away.
The room was dimly lit, with only the soft glow of a few lights casting shadows on the walls. West leaned back in his chair, took a sip of his whiskey, and watched as Luke rolled a joint. The sound of laughter and music drifted down the stairs, a muffled reminder of the party happening above.
“I think that went well,” Luke said, the joint now between his teeth.
“You know you’ll get arrested if you’re caught with that in Jakarta,” West reminded his idiot friend.
“It’s the last one.”
Sighing, West ran his hands through his hair. He was over Luke’s antics at this point. “Better be. I’m not bailing you out of an Indonesian prison.”
Luke looked unconcerned. “Like you couldn’t send them a wire transfer with some zeros and be done with it.”
West gave him a scathing glare over his whiskey glass. “Like you couldn’t either.”
Luke spread his long arms across the sofa, the picture of true indolence. “Since you’re done with Gia for good this time, do you care if I hit that?” he asked casually.
West couldn’t care less what Luke did with his ex-girlfriend.
“Do whatever you want, man.” He tipped back his drink. “But personally, I’d steer clear.” He didn’t mention that when he broke up with Gia, she’d torn his hotel room in Paris apart in a violent rage. He could certainly never go back to Le Meurice.
Luke grinned. “You know I like them crazy, and these models I brought on the yacht are too boring. Gia has something about her.”
There was that, West had to agree. She wasn’t like many of the other models: she was intelligent, conniving, and manipulative. She used her intelligence and her body to get what she wanted, and it worked for her.
“Yeah, she’s also expensive, so I hope you’re ready to put that trust fund to work.”
Luke took a long inhale of the joint and held his breath for a minute, contemplating West’s words, then he released a cloud of white swirling smoke around his head. “You going broke, Monroe? Couldn’t afford her tastes?”
West didn’t want to discuss his financial problems. His accountant had been his last call before they had sailed away. He had been offered an acting role in a movie, but he wasn’t sure it was something he wanted to do. He had to give the movie studio an answer within the week, and he’d needed a clear picture of his finances, especially if he didn’t take the job. Turned out he was hurting a lot worse than he’d realized, and something didn’t sit right with him about the figures his accountant had read off.
“No, but since I’m retiring I need to watch the bank account a little closer,” was all he would say.
At that moment Declan walked into the room, making a beeline straight to the bar and pouring himself a drink.
“Watch your bank account? Why would you do that?” he asked in what West felt was a rather pointed question.
“West is broke,” Luke said with the joint back between his teeth.
Declan swallowed his drink in one gulp and slammed the glass on the bar. “No shit? What are you buying, man? I know the numbers are down, but they’re not that bad.”
West gritted his teeth. Declan dealt with the label and his accountant to make sure they paid him. He knew exactly how much money was coming in, and it wasn’t a paltry amount. West had fronted the tour with his own money, and he hoped soon there would be money coming in from all the shows. “I’m not broke,” he ground out.
“But you’re going to have to take that acting gig?” Declan hedged.
“Don’t push it, Dec,” West growled. “Something strange is going on with my financials, and when I get home, I intend to have a team go through them. Something’s not right.”
Declan shrugged, poured himself another drink and looked over at Luke.
“You think your accountant is stealing from you?” Luke asked.
“It’s possible. I don’t think I’ve spent that much, not like you.” He gave Luke a look over his glass.
Luke laughed and put out his joint in the ashtray. “So, what are you going to do then? You’re retired, you’re single, you’re rich and good looking with no obligations. If you’re not going to act, what’s it going to be?”
West grimaced. That wasn’t entirely true. He was never free, he still had obligations and choices to make.
“I don’t know yet, but when I decide you’ll be the first to know.”
“That’s cryptic, buddy, but okay, have it your way, keep your secrets. While you sulk, I’m going to at least have a little fun with the models you don’t seem to care about.” Luke set his glass on the mahogany table and walked out of the lounge and down the hall to his cabin.
Declan gave a nod. “I’m off to bed,” he told West, ambling after Luke.
After they’d gone, West stared down the hall for a time. The silence hung heavy in the air like a thick fog, broken only by the sound of revelry coming from above.
Luke had been his best friend for over thirty years, and yet he felt they were losing their connection, moving in different directions. Luke wanted to keep partying, dating models, and living the same life they always had, but West wanted something different. He just didn’t know what that was yet.
He walked over to the bar and ran his fingers along the expensive bottles of whiskey, landing on one he found acceptable. “Widow Jane is the best they got, huh? No Macallan?”
He pulled the cork out and threw it across the room, then headed up to the deck to join the production crew and his band—they were more like family to him than his actual family at this point, and he was ready to lose himself in the music, have a good time, and drink until he couldn’t anymore.
The music had ended, and everyone had gone off to bed. Kat sat on the uppermost deck of the yacht, hugging her legs to her chest, staring out into the inky blackness, watching the moonlight glittering off the expanse of water. The yacht cut through the night like a swift arrow, faster than its usual easy pace, and the cool wind brushed against her skin. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, attempting to capture this moment forever in her memory.
The sudden sound of voices in the dark made her heart race, and she ducked down into the lounge chair. It was still early in the morning—around three or four o’clock—but like many other nights the crew was rounding out their evening with drunken revelry, on the cusp of passing out.
Kat pulled her hoodie closer to her body and tugged the legs down on her linen pants, trying to keep warm in the cool ocean air. Suddenly, a dark figure appeared sat on the chair beside her.
“Seat taken?” a strong masculine voice asked.
“Jesus.” She jumped. “Don’t scare people like that, Weston.”
“Sorry,” he whispered, his lips twitching with a sheepish smile that she could only partially make out in the faint light of the lamps.
“What are you doing awake?” she asked, trying to ignore the bubbling anticipation as her body drew closer to his of its own volition.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he said, his voice low and thick like honey.
“Typical deflection of the question,” she noted wryly, turning toward him, suddenly aware of how close they were in the dark. The familiar scent of his soap filled her senses, and an electric current seemed to flow between them.
He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep, I guess.”
“Me neither,” she offered. “It’s going to be hard to go back to reality after all this.” She gestured around her.
“What is reality going to be for you?” he asked.
“Who knows? It’s not like you care,” she said, the hurt in her tone obvious. If she hadn’t been coming down from her buzz, she probably wouldn’t have said anything, but alcohol made her reveal her true feelings.
“That’s not true,” he said almost inaudibly.
Kat stood and stalked away, her peaceful moment ruined. He couldn’t just come around and say things like he cared when he didn’t, and never had. Considering her room was currently occupied, she wasn’t sure where to go, she just knew she needed to be away from him.
“Kat, wait.” West was faltering after her, footsteps unsteady. “What did I say? Why are you walking so fast?”
Kat spun around to face him, their chests bumping against each other before she took a step backward. Her skin tingled at the heat of his body brushing hers. “Oof . . . what are you doing?” She was annoyed and tired, and he was scrambling her brain. She needed to go to bed.
“Me? You’re the one who turned around so suddenly,” he retorted with a smirk.
Kat glared at him in the dim light. “Well, why are you following me so closely? I thought it was clear that our conversation was over. That’s what it generally means when someone walks away. A normal person would get that.”
West raised his hands in surrender, taking a few steps back. “I guess I’m not very normal.” He winked.
Kat scoffed and turned away, but not before taking note of how his golden blond hair shone in the moonlight against his tanned skin.
“Okay, Kat, I’ll leave you alone. I just wanted you to know that I do care about you and the others, and I should have given you a heads-up.”
She sniffed as she felt the familiar burn behind her eyes. But she couldn’t let go of her anger toward him even after hearing his words. She crossed her arms over her chest and muttered, “That would have been a nice start.”
She turned on her heel, leaving him on the deck. She was done with whatever it was her body was trying to do with this man. She knew better than to go down that road.
“Good night, Kat,” Weston said. For good measure, she held up her middle finger in his general direction. She wouldn’t forgive him simply because he said one nice thing.
He laughed as she walked away, but Kat refused to give him the satisfaction of looking back. She rounded the corner of the deck toward the stairs and stopped to take in deep breaths. Between the alcohol and such a close encounter with Weston, she was struggling to find her equilibrium.
For a moment, she thought she saw a shadow cross the deck and wondered if he had followed her. Turning to investigate, she looked across the dark deck, but seeing nothing, she dismissed it and continued to her cabin.
Kat’s annoyance toward him lingered as she made her way back, hoping Lydia was alone. Lydia and the tour guitarist didn’t have a relationship per se, but rather a no-strings-attached touring friendship that left Kat currently without a room.
A sudden cry for help stopped her in her tracks. She paused and listened. There it was again. Turning, she sprinted up the stairs and ran back on deck, nearly stumbling over the coils of rope on the teak wood. Another cry for help echoing through the night drew her attention to the edge. Trembling, she leaned over the starboard railing’s top rung and saw Weston struggling to get back onto the boat. His hands were clenched around one of the railings of the deck below, his feet slipping and sliding against the wet hull as he tried to climb up.
“Oh my god!” she exclaimed.
“Kat,” he yelled. “Go get help!”
Her head whipped back and forth, scanning the deck for someone who could help them, but everyone had already gone to bed and the noise of the engine prevented Weston’s yells from being heard by anyone not nearby.
“Can’t you swing down onto the lowest deck?” she suggested, eyeing his position. It was possible he could make it . . . Maybe.
“No, Katy,” he replied, his voice strained with exhaustion. “Not if I don’t want to land in the ocean. Can you please just get help?”
With a frustrated whimper, she backed away from the ledge. What the hell was she going to do? Any minute now West would fall into the ocean, and she needed to save him.
Turning, she frantically ran down the upper deck, hoping to find someone or something to help him. How he had flipped off the edge of the yacht was beyond her. She crisscrossed the deck looking for someone to help her, fear and frustration growing inside her at a rapid rate.
He should really give her a large severance package after this. Why was there no one around anymore?
She sprinted down to the deck, catching a glimpse of Weston who was hanging on for his life, waves crashing against the sides of the yacht. She had to do something, and quick. She could tell his arms were getting tired.
Her eyes landed on the bright orange life buoy hanging on the wall.
Why was it hanging so high?
Frantically, Kat looked around for a ladder or something to stand on, catching sight of a large storage bin down the deck. She ran to the bin, unhooking it from the wall and pushing with all her strength. It was heavy, but not immovable. Kat pushed, her muscles screaming at her to stop, but she knew she had to get the buoy. Finally, her energy almost spent, she pushed the box under it.
Without hesitation, she leapt onto a storage bin and snatched the buoy, barely able to reach it. She ran to Weston, urgency pushing her forward, and threw it down to him.
“Here, grab this!”
He observed it swing back and forth, doubt clear in his eyes. “And you’re going to do what exactly?” he asked with trepidation. One of his hands started slipping from the rung.
“Jesus, Weston, just grab it.” She tied the rope to the railing, pulling on it. “Look, it’s tied off; you’re not going anywhere.”
His other hand slipped off the rung, and he grabbed the buoy. “Now what?” His blue eyes pierced through the dark as he held onto the buoy for dear life. His feet were still perched on the edge of the boat.
“Swing yourself over to the lower deck.”
Weston looked at it dubiously, though it didn’t look far away from their current vantage point. She watched his hesitation play across his face. “I’m not Tarzan,” he grumbled.
“Just do it!” Kat stomped her foot on the deck.
He made a sighing sound and slowly pushed up, his feet walking across the boat, the rope and life buoy protesting under his weight. He was surprisingly calm and sure-footed, while Kat could feel her heart about to beat out of her chest.
“There you go,” Kat said as she eased him along. “You’re almost there.”
One scoot of his foot after the other, Weston had moved as far as the rope would take him. “Now what?” He stared up at her, dangling from the side of the yacht, the deck still too far away to lunge onto.
“Stay put!” Kat yelled, her voice trembling. “I’ll find more rope.” She scanned the area for another life buoy, desperation seeping in. There was no time to waste, and not a rope or second buoy in sight. Panic welled within her, but she tamped it down. She had to save Weston first, panic later.
“Shit.” She heard Weston cry out.
Running back to the edge of the deck, she called out to him, panic rearing its ugly head within her. “What? What’s wrong?”
But she didn’t need an answer. The rope was coming untied, and Weston was slipping incrementally down the yacht’s exterior, past the point of no return. Without thinking, she grabbed the rope before he fell into the sea.
It burned her hands as it raced through them, but she threw her weight into it with every ounce of strength her body had. She grunted in determination as Weston continued to slip down the side of the yacht.
Kat felt herself being pulled over the railing as she pulled against the rope. Her knuckles whitened as they clung tightly to the fraying rope fibers, determined not to let him fall.
“Let go,” Weston cried out from below her. “You can’t pull me up.”
“No! I won’t let you fall in!” Kat said through clenched jaws.
“Then you’re going to fall in with me. I’m too heavy. You can’t pull me up.”
“I don’t need to pull you up,” Kat said with a grunt as she pulled on the rope. “I . . . just need . . . to tie it onto one of these rungs before we both go down!”
She leaned over the edge just slightly; if she could just . . . get . . . some . . . leverage . . .
“Kat, stop, just let me go, and tell—“
But before he could finish, Kat’s feet suddenly flipped over her head, and then they were falling together. And loathe as she was to admit it, Weston might have been right. Instinctively, she braced for impact as she plummeted into the void below.