“What? And have the rest of us miss out on all the fun?”
Vincent dropped his head forward and rapped it gently on the steering wheel so as not to smudge his makeup.
This interaction was taking far too long.
“Are we done here? Between you and Mom, I’m almost an hour behind where I wanted to be.”
These days, Vincent had a visceral need to control his timetable.
“Yeah, dude. We’re finished. I actually just wanted to wish you luck.”
Vincent raised his head and met his brother’s eyes, amazed when he saw that no joke was coming.
“Thanks Kyle,” he said sincerely, but he couldn’t help himself.
“You know…” He reached down and squeezed the clown-horn.
Honk, honk.
“…you look really hot in that uniform.”
CHAPTER SIX
Lace looked at the clock.
An hour later than the time she’d mentioned.
Crap.
If she had to guess, she’d have to say Vincent had been scared off.
If he werereallyinterested, he would have been here by now. After all, Lace had informed Bobbie of her “visitable” hours today, and Bobbie had assured her that if there was one thing she knew about Vincent, it was his commitment to promptness.
Sure.How was that working out?
Lace’s stomach roiled again.
Great.Vincent’s no-show was adding to hernormalnausea mix. Just what she needed. Additional distress on top of all the other crap she was going through.
Yup.Crap and distress.
They sure were the operative words of the week.
Thinking back over the last six days had Lace grimacing.
The crew aboard theWater Wrestler—a stupid name for a boat if anyone wanted Lace’s opinion—had been assholes to her. Well, all except two young men who had silently shadowed heras self-appointed bodyguards. But she wasn’t about to win over any of the others, and she knew it.
The bullshit had started almost as soon as they’d weighed anchor on their way to Jeffrey’s Ledge the day after her last infusion.
The older prick-of-a-captain onboard, Otis Macleen, had “accidently” tripped, and the entire batch of chocolate chip cookies Lace had baked and just handed to him, had gone spilling over the rail.
“Oops,” he’d said, looking her right in the face with an arrogance that had her wanting to punch the smirk off his weathered puss.
A few of the men had grumbled, knowing that Lace’s baking was always top-notch, but none had called Captain Ahab—Lace never thought of him by his real name—out on it. He was their boss, after all. Volatile at best, apoplectic at his worst, so nobody ever overtly crossed him for any of his insouciant behavior.
His next attack, however, hadn’t been anywhere near as subtle, if you could call blatantly tossing her cookies overboard, subtle.
Later in the day, when he’d walked by her, he’d hip checked her, hard, and nearly sent her into one of the refrigerated seawater tanks below deck.