Bad Cruz(35)

“I don’t think Bear’s gonna like being punished for Rob’s actions,” Trinity warned.

“Me neither. Tell him I’ll buy him the video game that he wants. And take him to that burger place in Salem.”

“All right. Stay safe, sis.”

“You, too.”

They hung up.

Tennessee still ignored my existence. She tapped her fingers against her knee worriedly. I appreciated how much she cared for her son, and how protective she was of him. She was obviously crazy about that kid.

“Want me to talk to him?” I asked.

Her head whipped up, like she’d just remembered I was there.

“Rob,” I explained. “Not Bear.”

I didn’t know Bear. He wasn’t my patient—his mom took him to an out-of-town clinic—and I had seen very little of him over the years, which suited me fine, considering the circumstances.

“I can handle my own blip.”

“The fact that you use the word blip in this scenario tells me differently. I’m just trying to help.”

“Help by making yourself as scarce as possible.”

Here we go again. I bit on my inner cheek, using every ounce of my patience not to snap at her.

“It’s not me you’re mad at, so I suggest you take a deep breath.”

“You’re just as bad as him,” she snapped, pinning me with a look.

“Why? Because we used to be friends in high school?”

“Because you’re the same brand of privileged gasshole.”

“If I’m a stereotype, then today proved so are you.” I let loose a vicious smile.

“I may be easy, Dr. Costello, but rest assured, for you, I’ll always make life difficult.” She got up and grabbed her purse. “Stick to your corner of the ship today.”

And she slammed the door in my face.

That went well.





I spent dinner reading over Gabriella’s many text messages. She sent me pictures of her jugs (this was not a euphemism—she was launching new water bottles for women who went to the gym) and her modeling new lingerie she got for free as promotional material for her blog.

I answered curtly, but I answered nonetheless.

There was no point avoiding her the entire ten days. Not only was it cruel, but also unnecessary.

It wasn’t like I had many people to talk to, with my companion hating my guts and a growing number of people on the ship thinking I had two penises and was married to a thieving hooker who gave me gonorrhea. (I noticed Brendan and the Warren couple were sharing a table at the dinner buffet.)

Tennessee was nowhere to be seen, but knowing her, she did not miss the free dinner and kept to herself.

Usually, I studied the itinerary during cruises and planned my days and evenings ahead. Not this time. I was too distracted to be my usual, calculated self. I winged it and walked around aimlessly after dinner.

I ended up in the arcade.

The past seven years, every time I got on a cruise with my family (and oftentimes with a designated girlfriend), I hadn’t had the chance to enjoy the arcade.

It was considered juvenile, and I was in a different chapter in life. A chapter where I played golf and tennis with my father and discussed world politics and the stock market at the library with Wyatt and his balding friends.

I didn’t know when would be the next time I could do this uninterrupted and unobserved by everyone who knew me.

The average age at the arcade was fifteen, and that was only because I brought it up from twelve with my own thirty-one years. Apparently, there was another arcade on the cruise ship, which served alcohol, and that’s where most people chose to be. Everyone around me was at least two heads shorter, with tie-dyed clothes, gelled hair, and disproportioned amounts of cologne and perfume.

I started with some NASCAR racing, switched to Donkey Kong, and then hit the Galaxian. I burned about an hour before I noticed the place was suspiciously emptying out.

Or, to be more specific, everyone was moving toward one side of the arcade, huddling around the air hockey table in clusters of fours and fives.

An air hockey connoisseur, myself, I headed over to the table to see what all the fuss was about.

I should have known from the start the only person with the ability to attract the attention of every male on this cruise was Tennessee Turner.

She leaned forward on one side of the air hockey table, her breasts spilling from her lacy dress like fountain soda at a loosely regulated movie theater.

She pressed her finger pad to striker by the nub, like she couldn’t be bothered with holding the entire thing, stopping the puck from slipping into her slit.

I glanced over at her competitor and found a man who looked to be in his late twenties, trimmed and decent-looking, who actually paid attention to the game and not her jugs (this was a euphemism, by the way).

My pulse quickened. I ignored the weird sensation, chalking it up to the fact I was spending ten days with the village’s official idiot/harlot in the middle of the ocean.

They went on for ten minutes. She smoked the poor guy, then another dudebro—younger, this time—took his place while the twenty-something man retired and returned a few moments later with a cocktail for the lady. And by ‘the lady’ I mean the current bane of my existence.

She wiped the floor with dudebro number two, too, and then with the girl who replaced him, and the middle-aged man who stepped in—he was someone’s dad and had been called to save the day.