Reckless Abandon(11)

I snap my fingers to gather Leah out of her trance. “Listen, we can’t stay here. You get on the phone and call the hotel. I’ll shower and then we’ll switch. I need to get out of these clothes. I’m starting to smell like fish.”

Leah leans into me and takes a sniff, pinching her nostrils together. “Yeah, you do.” She lifts up her arms. “How about me?”

I return the favor and give her a once over. “Same. I’ll be quick.” I say and turn around and head into the bathroom. Flicking on the light and locking the door, I look around the space.

This is a bathroom. It’s a guest bathroom. It’s a guest bathroom on a boat. And it’s nicer than any latrine I have ever been in my entire life.

I don’t know a lot about rich people. Leah and I grew up in a normal, middle-class neighborhood. Our dad is a history teacher and our mom a homemaker. We lived in a three-bedroom house with one full bath. It’s the same bathroom I’ve been using the last six months since having to leave my home and job in Pittsburgh and go home for rehabilitation and mourning. It’s a good bathroom. It gets the job done. But what I am quickly learning about rich people is they know how to bathe in style.

A marble steam shower big enough for four, a vanity, a toilet, and a bidet, plus a mahogany dressing table with everything a guest could possibly need during her stay. Deodorants, creams, shampoos, soaps, perfumes . . . yup, it’s all here.

On a teak bench there’s a plush robe and a pair of slippers. Two of each, actually. After my shower, where I thoroughly scrub using sea salts and lather my face in seaweed, I wrap my hair in a fresh towel and put on the robe and slippers. I give my hair a quick dry using the blow dryer and brush it straight. I have to remind myself not to be too long. Leah needs to get in here and we have to get back to the hotel. I apply some of the creams to my face and body before opening the door.

“Long much?” Leah asks, her tone sarcastic. She is wearing nothing but the towel Devon gave her earlier.

“Once you go in there, you are not going to want to come out. Where are your clothes?” I ask.

“A maid came by asking for them. She said she’d dry them for us. Thanks for locking the door because I had to drop my drawers in front of her.” Leah holds up a piece of paper. “Anyway, I have the passport numbers. I’m gonna hop in the shower while you bring this to Devon.”

“Sure. As soon as our clothes come back.”

She leans into me, her hands on her hips. “That could be an hour. You are beyond covered up. That robe hides everything.”

I look down. She’s right. The robe falls at my calves and wraps around my body, snuggly up to my neck. “Fine.” I say, taking the paper from her hands.

Exiting back into the corridor, I follow the way we came in, peering into rooms looking for Devon.

I search all of the areas on the lower level we’re on with no sight of him. In the large seating area there’s a staircase. I grab the black banister and walk up the steps.

The second floor is what I can only assume is the main living area. A grander living room is up here, similar in style to the one downstairs with more seating and a wall of windows leading to an outdoor deck with an outdoor dining area. I turn to the opposite direction and walk over the indoor dining room.

Devon is in neither of these spaces so I continue on, passing a gourmet kitchen that rivals anything I’ve seen on TV.

I blow out a breath and try not to think about how awkward it is to be walking around a stranger’s boat wearing nothing but a robe.

Yes, not wearing underwear in someone else’s home is super weird.

I call out Devon’s name but he doesn’t answer. In fact, no one does.

Where are all the people who work on the boat?

I follow a wide hallway, peering into more rooms, trying not to look like I’m spying. I really am just trying to find Devon. There’s an office, two other staterooms, and a butler’s pantry.

Man, if someone sees me back here, they’ll think I’m trying to steal stuff.

I am about to turn around and head back downstairs when something catches my eye from a doorway left partially open. I backtrack and head toward the room at the end of the hall. I push open the door and am taken aback.

The room has a ceiling twice as high as the others. It sits at the front of the boat, with floor to ceiling windows, looking over the water. The view alone would make anyone stop and stare.

Except for me.

In front of the windows is the object that caught my attention.

A cello.

Okay, most people wouldn’t stop and stare at a string instrument but they’re not me. The cello is part of the violin family. The range of the instruments are similar but the tone quality and physical size distinguish them from one another. The violin is played under the chin, but the cello is played while seated and placed between the legs. With its lower octave sound, I always thought of it as the violin’s sexy and sensual lover. Don’t judge. It’s just the music geek in me.

The violin was my passion for fifteen years. In grade school we were encouraged to play an instrument. My teacher played the violin for us and I asked to try it. After a few lessons, I was hooked.

While most people think of the violin as being purely classical, I took my love for it one step further, playing jazz, rock, and with the use of an amp, heavy metal rock. I was accepted at a young age to the Pittsburgh Music Academy and my mother drove me two hours, three times a week so I could have the best musical education money can buy. We didn’t have a lot of money, but my parents knew it was my calling. My dream was to create a musical genre for the pop scene that no one had ever heard of. The sound was fresh, fun, and bold.