Chapter One
Leo
I’m fairly sure I’ve died and gone to hell. And apparently, hell looks like what would happen if Captain Jack Sparrow and Blackbeard decided to open an IHOP together.
“Isn’t this place awesome?” my client Ezra gushes as we pick up the menus.
Awesome. That’s one word for it.
I have other words I’m inclined to use instead, but I bite those back.
This is what happens when your client is a twenty-six-year-old who made millions from a meditation app for dogs and insists all his business meetings take place at innovative dining establishments. You end up eating dessert at a restaurant called Pirates of Pancake Bay, where a mechanical parrot screams “Walk the pancake!” and a fog machine erupts periodically, smelling suspiciously of burned bacon.
Thankfully, we’re not sitting in the raised section of the restaurant, which is built to resemble the bow of a ship. The whole thing shakes every half hour, forcing patrons to desperately grab at their food to keep it from sliding off the table.
I kid you not.
This restaurant chain might work better in America, where servers would commit to the bit for the prospect of a decent tip. Here in London, our server Trevor holds his plastic cutlass at arm’s length like he’s holding a dead fish and asks if we’d like to “Plunder the dessert menu” with the dead-eyed conviction of a man reading a hostage statement.
Ezra gleefully ordersShiver Me Timbers Tiramisuoff the menu, while I grimly point at something namedScurvy Prevention Lemon Tartwhile calculating exactly how much I’m charging Ezra for this humiliation.
Luckily, it’s a lot.
“Isn’t this so much fun?” Ezra tries again to get me to show enthusiasm as Trevor retreats with the soulless shuffle of a man whose spirit left his body sometime around the lunch rush.
“It’s certainly something,” I reply. “Now, about your quarterly projections?—”
“You need to lighten up, Leo!” Ezra says, grabbing a pirate hat out of the prop box next to our table and trying to place it on my head.
I catch his wrist midair.
“My rates triple if I’m forced to wear physical props,” I say flatly.
The hat slowly lowers.
I drop his hand and take a deep breath, then start to talk about liquidating some of his meme stock portfolio before it crashes.
“The fundamentals don’t support—” I start, but I can tell I’ve already lost him to whatever shiny thought just crossed his mind.
“Oh! Oh! I’m thinking of my next app idea!” Ezra interrupts. “Tinder, but for matching people with their ideal houseplants. We’ll analyze their aura! We could…”
Ezra goes into in-depth detail about how he could use machine learning to match succulents with people’s chakras based on their Spotify playlists.
I know from experience that I’ve just got to ride out this enthusiasm. I let my eyes roam the room, trying to gauge whether other patrons are enjoying or suffering through their dining experience.
It appears most people are having actual, unironic fun. A couple at the next table is sword-fighting with breadsticks, and something about the easy, uncomplicated joy on their faces makes me look away.
But as my gaze moves on from them, it snags on a table on the deck of the ship. Recognition jolts through me.
Surely not.
It can’t be.
My stomach hollows.
Fucking hell, itishim.
Vaughn Mansley.
