The Bucket List

9.2 The Party

No drinking on the job.

Luca Ivanov's order was clear. Painfully clear. I gaze at the line of shots marching across the bar with pursed lips.

"Come on," Randolph Waterman coaxes, pushing one in my direction. "Just one."

Randolph is what Lawrence likes to call a high-priority guest. He made his fortune in the stock market and funded Luca Ivanov's venture to establish a tech empire in the States some thirty-odd years ago. As such, he holds more esteem than many of the other guests on board The Iron Lady.

Blonde Number One hangs onto his arm with an iron grip. Her friend is nowhere in sight. "We won't tell," she whispers, shooting him a conspiratorial grin.

He winks at her, holding his shot aloft. His date follows suit. "There you have it. It'll be our little secret."

No drinking on the job. No drinking on the job. No drinking on the job.

I shoot a glance down the bar. Lawrence and I made quick work of our first drink. No more, I told myself, wincing as the liquor burned its way down my throat. Lawrence agreed. No more.

Liar, I think now. Lawrence is on his third shot with the trio of men in front of his station. They cheer him on, demanding another round.

He catches my glare and shrugs. What can you do?

I sigh. We were told to cater to the guests. And Randolph Waterman isn't the sort of man you can say no to.

"Alright," I say. Blonde Number One squeals with delight. "To the birthday boy."

I knock back the liquor with ease. Randolph nods, smacking his lips. "Good stuff. How 'bout one more."

And so the night progresses. One more becomes two more, and two more become three more. The sky darkens to black velvet. Randolph Waterman tells me about his first wife, and his second. And then comes talk of the children. He has three of them. I scroll through the pictures on his phone, eyes bleary, while he lists off their accomplishments. A proud parent.

He leaves at midnight. "I'm not as young as I used to be," he tells me with a wink. I watch as he boards the vessel that's been shuttling guests back to the mainland since ten o'clock, feeling oddly hollow.

"Amara!"

I turn around and immediately get a face-full of fabric and cologne. "Oh! Alexei," I say, surprised and pleased, all at once.

His laughter is warm and bright in my ear as he crushes me in an enthusiastic embrace. "Enjoying the party?" he asks me, once he's set me back on my feet.

I stumble back a bit. "Definitely. Happy birthday, by the way."

He beams. "Celebratory shot?"

My head swims at the prospect. But, at this point... "Sure," I say with a shrug. "Why not?"

"Babe."

I suck in a startled breath as Larissa steps into view, clutching two flutes of champagne. She smiles at me—a tight sort of smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

I miss you.

The thought is so unexpected, so unwelcome, that I physically recoil. "I'll be right back," I blurt, darting blindly into the crowd, which has thinned considerably in the last hour. Something to be thankful for, I suppose.

I retreat belowdecks, fighting back a wave of nausea. My mind keeps dredging up memories of Larissa: her head thrown back in laughter; her eyes tracking me across a room; her fingers trailing over my skin in the dark.

But that girl is gone. The face that was once more familiar than my own has become the face of a stranger. And I can't stand it.

I barrel through the kitchen—the cooks already cleaned up for the night—and wedge myself into the miniscule employee's bathroom. I hover over the toilet, waiting for the inevitable.

A few seconds later, which feels more like an eternity in this state, someone taps lightly on the door. "Amara?"

I curse. "Go away, Lawrence."

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

It's not a lie. Not exactly. The nausea has passed—that, or the mortification of being questioned through the door of the employee's bathroom has simply overridden it.

Lawrence snickers. "Tequila do you in?"

Annoyed now, I jerk open the door. Lawrence jumps back, startled. "I'm not sick."

"Sure."

I scowl at him. "I'm not. I just...needed a minute."

"Alright. Just wanted to make sure." He leans against the back wall, hands in his pockets. "Most of the guests just ditched, so we're pretty much done for the night."

I wilt against the doorframe, relieved. "Good."

Lawrence just smiles at me. He's taken off his vest and left the top of his shirt unbuttoned, exposing the ridge of his collarbone.

He's...not bad looking. The errant thought takes me by surprise. Good height. Nice jawline. That really is a terrible haircut, though.

We've been staring at each other in silence for an awkward stretch of time. He pushes off the wall and rocks back on his heels. "Guess I better—"

I grab him by the shirt. His eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn't resist as we tumble back into the bathroom, the door closing behind us. It's a tight fit; our bodies press together, chest to chest and thigh to thigh. His lips find mine—or maybe my lips find his—and nothing matters except for the taste of tequila on his tongue and the remaining buttons on his shirt.

Except the bastard buttons are being difficult, and who cares about the shirt, anyway? I reach instead for his belt. Our breath, ragged and hot, fills the small space, the sound of music above our heads a faraway backdrop. I fumble with the buckle on his belt before managing to get it undone, his hands traveling up my shirt all the while, roving clumsily over the clasp of my bra.

Getting out of my pants is another matter entirely. But I manage it, his body still half-pressed against mine. We're both desperate for this, or maybe we're just drunk and it doesn't matter. I don't give it much thought, not as he presses me back into the wall, my legs around his waist and his tongue in my mouth. There's no gentle exploration to be had, no whispers of affection. Just our mingled breath, his skin hot against mine, and a sort of shared understanding as we join together, hard and fast.

The hollow chasm in my chest returns after we stumble out of the bathroom, our faces flushed and our clothes disheveled. Lawrence flashes me a bashful smile before heading further belowdecks, toward the cramped cabins where crew members can catch some shuteye. He doesn't tell me to join him, which is just as well. I don't want to. The thought of shutting myself in another small, dark room fills me with dread.

Grimacing, I stumble out of the kitchen—everything's a bit hazy at the edges—and make a beeline for the stairs, desperate for a bit of fresh air. I pause at the base of the steps to collect my breath. When I glance up, there's a hooded figure in the doorway, their broad shoulders outlined by the night sky beyond.

I blink to try and clear my vision. But the stranger—if ever there was a stranger at all—is gone.