But Trey doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to know that my deceased former BFF was both the impetus and inspiration behind my account and that without her I’m floundering in more ways than one. No wonder Ashley thought I was fake—she probably guessed I was imitating someone in my posts. She just didn’t know the person I was imitating was my dead friend.
I force myself to meet Trey’s eyes. “Well, I’m excited for this opportunity. And I wanted to thank you personally for taking a chance on me. I hope to show you what I’m capable of.”
“I hope so too.” Trey smiles, and my stomach tugs. His energy is intense. “I’ll be around, Charlie. It was great to meet you.”
I don’t want him to leave yet, I want to market myself more, but he’s already letting go of my arm and sauntering back across the deck, slipping into the yacht.
The main level is softly lit up, the whole living room glowing and pouring yellow light onto the water below. There are no window treatments, so I can watch Trey moving to the staircase. He pauses for a moment, looking down the stairs to the level that holds my room, along with Rachel, Ashley, and Fiona’s. Then he turns and makes his way upstairs. Checking on Piper, maybe?
I’m not sure where the other girls are; for the first time in hours, I’m totally alone.
I want to take advantage of it. I want to go to my room and take another shower and lock the door and crawl into my big new bed before any of the other girls can insist on shoving a phone camera in my face again.
Hurriedly, I bring my empty drink inside. I ignore the line of hundreds of other used glasses on the counter and place mine in the dishwasher instead. I wonder when the stews will come and clean everything—I don’t envy them their jobs.
When I reach the lower level, everything is quiet. The other doors in the hallway are closed.
I remember the bar at the end of the hall in the billiards room and decide to grab a bottled water before turning in.
But as I draw closer and closer to the end of the hallway, my steps are punctuated by soft rustling sounds and deep sighs. A sharp intake of breath, followed by a little mew.
I stop several feet from the billiards room. From the hallway, I can only see the very corner of the pool table and one leather couch.
I should turn around. I should go back to my room. Images of a face floating in the water and looming behind me in the mirror crowd my head.
No.I need to see. I need to know the truth.
There’s no door, so I creep to the left side of the hall, slowly, quietly, listening as the sounds grow louder.
When I reach the very edge of the hall, I press myself flat against the wall like a paper doll and, holding my breath, peer around the edge.
There are two people, tangled together, near the pool table. She’s got her back to me, and he’s too busy to notice me watching them from the threshold. He’s got her up on the edge of the pool table, top off, her breasts pressed against his muscled bare chest. The white shirt he was wearing earlier is on the floor, crumpled and forgotten. One hand is wrapped around the back of her neck, the other is hidden from me, lower, and the cause of her moans.
His tongue is so deep in her mouth her head is forced back from it.
They rock against each other like they’re trying to mimic the waves beneath us.
It might have been hot. Except that the person Carl has his hands all over isn’t Fiona, his girlfriend.
It’s Ashley. Rachel’s twin.
For a second, I’m frozen. Then Carl lifts Ashley up, hands appearing around her waist, spinning with her legs locked around him. He leans against the pool table so that now their positions areswitched; I can see the back of his head, the fullness of Ashley’s filler lips as she kisses him. He moves his mouth to her neck and she lolls back, giving him more room.
Without warning, Ashley opens her eyes, looks up.
I dart my head back, heart pounding, racing down the hall on softly pattering feet. My brow is dotted with sweat by the time I slip into my room, shutting the door as quietly as I can, locking it behind me, chest heaving.
She saw me.
I lean against the door, hands shaking, trying not to jump to any conclusions.
Maybe Fiona and Carl have an open relationship. Hell, maybe they are polyamorous. It’s not my business. I mean, if Carlwascheating, would he be so stupid as to do it a door down from his girlfriend’s room in a wide-open space anyone could walk into?
Regardless, I can’t get involved. What would I do? Casually ask Fiona if she’s cool with her boyfriend fucking her shipmate?
I just got here. If I insert myself into whatever this potential drama might be, I will be the one blamed. People always shoot the messenger.
Sweat pours down my temples, and my pulse throbs. I’m too worked up; I need to settle myself. I head into the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face and neck, eager to wipe off my makeup and get ready for bed.
