The Lion's Den(32)
Regardless, he hasn’t contacted me, so no use overthinking it now. I post the pic of my espresso, making sure to geotag it.
I hold my phone in my hand as we’re ferried out to the boat, but the only time it buzzes is with a new comment from Hunter:
Espresso? Really? Show us that yacht beotch!
Followed by a shit-ton of boat and champagne emojis. I laugh, missing him acutely, wishing I could confess to him the crazy reality of this picture-perfect trip. But before I can reply, I’ve lost service.
On the boat platform, Julie hands us each a bottled water and instructs us to shower before our staggered mani-pedis on the lower deck. I wash up quickly, glad to be included in the shift with Summer, Wendy, and Claire.
I’m the first to arrive. A pleasant breeze flutters my sundress as I step onto the lower deck. Emmanuelle greets me with a glass of light-pink champagne, a strawberry balanced on the lip. I thank her and take a sip, the crisp sweetness coating my tongue as I look out toward the sea, sparkling in the sunlight. The yachts belonging to the Russian billionaire have moved on, replaced by the biggest sailboat I’ve ever seen and a sleek blue vessel about the size of ours. Between them, two Jet Skis cut a line toward the horizon.
Four pedicure baths are laid out in front of the couch that faces the sea, and a white-uniformed manicurist directs me toward one. She taps my watch and motions for me to take it off, but I decline and place my feet into the warm water, still admiring the view. I feel something nick my foot and instinctively jerk my feet out of the water with a gasp, spilling my champagne. I look down to see the water is full of little fish.
“Good for skin,” my manicurist says with a smile, making her hand into a little fish and using her fingernails to bite my knee.
I let out a laugh. “They surprised me.” I guess I’m more on edge than I realized.
I slide my feet back into the water, and at least fifty tiny fish immediately attach to my skin, gently nibbling. It feels like a ticklish version of the pins and needles you get when your foot has fallen asleep, and I can’t help but giggle again. I feel Wendy’s nails lightly scratching my shoulder and turn to see her flanked by Summer and Claire, each holding a glass of champagne.
“What are we giggling about?” Summer asks. Her tone is light, but there’s a definite acidity to her voice. She relaxes as I gesture down at the fish. “Oh, they’re the best.” She settles in next to me. “They eat the dead skin right off your feet. Great exfoliation.”
“And supposedly they’re an aphrodisiac,” Claire chimes in, claiming the station on the other side of me.
“No wonder John ordered them for us,” Summer remarks. “He’s hoping I’ll let him do me again against those windows in the bathroom later.”
“He sure is horny,” Wendy says.
“You have no idea,” Summer says flatly. “But hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, amirite?”
I’m the sort of girl who only does who she wants to do, but I giggle with the others nonetheless.
“It’s too bad he can’t get it up when I’m on top. That would make it more fun.” Summer sighs. Okay, I didn’t need to visualize that. “But whatever. It doesn’t take long.”
Wow, her tune certainly has changed since she was with Eric. All she wanted from him was sex. Day and night, she was a fiend. And she kept going back for more, even when she knew it wasn’t good for her.
Camille materializes with a beautifully arranged tray of fruit, cheese, yogurt, nuts, and prosciutto and sets it on the table behind our couch. I turn to take a slice of cheese only to find Emmanuelle already whisking the tray away.
“Excuse me,” Summer calls. “We’ll keep that tray.”
“I’m sorry,” Emmanuelle says. “Monsieur Lyons doesn’t want to ruin your lunch.”
No wonder Summer’s so skinny.
“Enjoy your last day,” Summer mutters under her breath, glaring at Emmanuelle’s back as she scampers away with the tray.
Once our nails are lacquered in bright shades of pink and red (I wanted turquoise but it wasn’t offered; apparently John is offended by “strange” nail colors), Summer traipses to her room for a massage and facial, and I head up to the sundeck with a script for an audition I have next week.
As I emerge from the stairwell, the glare of the sun on the smooth white boat is so bright that at first I don’t see the two people deep in conversation in the hot tub. Their backs are toward me, her long hair twisted in a bun, head angled toward his silver mane as she hangs on his every word. They’re so close, I’m worried I’ve interrupted a romantic interlude and am about to retreat down the stairs when Amythest turns and waves. John swivels his head around and flashes a grin.
“Join us!” Amythest calls blithely, as if their little rendezvous is entirely aboveboard. “John was just telling me about the movie he’s producing. It’s so exciting.”
“That’s great,” I say, covering my unease. “I was just coming up to try to get some work done, but it’s so bright up here, I think I’m gonna head back down. We just finished our mani-pedis, so yours is coming up. You may wanna head down, too.”
“Okay.” She places her hands on John’s shoulders intimately and says something I can’t hear over the jets, then emerges like Venus from the water, topless. Thank God for my giant dark sunglasses, because my eyes would betray my astonishment as her perfect DDs float up out of the water all shiny, like some kind of teenage boy’s wet dream. She is wearing bikini bottoms, thankfully (though they’re a tooth-floss thong), and she struts around to the other side of the Jacuzzi so that she never leaves John’s line of sight as she grabs her dress and slips it over her head.