What Have We Done (4)

He ponders where he can get another bottle. The ship’s bars are closed. There’s room service, but his account is maxed out.

A woman appears in the weak light. She’s in her early twenties, younger than the band’s usual fans, but she’s wearing a Tracer T-shirt. Probably someone’s kid who grew up with their music. That happens sometimes.

Her face brightens when she sees him.

“Oh my god. Are you Donnie Danger?” She looks around as if she wants to confirm what she’s seeing, but no one else is on the deck.

“The one and only,” Donnie says. His southern drawl gets more pronounced when he’s playing rock star, particularly when he’s drinking.

“Will you sign an autograph for me?” she asks.

“I’ll do anything you want, sweetheart.”

She smiles, her teeth glowing in the dim light.

“Anything? ” she says seductively. She walks over next to him, leans against the protective railing.

“Your wish is my command, darlin’,” Donnie says, trying to muster more southern boy charm, but it’s half-assed and lazy.

The woman reaches inside her shirt. He thinks she’s going to pull it off. Have him sign her breasts. It’s been a while since he’s done that, but it’s part of the job, who’s he to complain?

She doesn’t remove her top. Doesn’t ask him to sign her ample cleavage. Instead, she’s reached into her waistband and pulled out a handgun.

“Well, my wish”—she says the word with derision—“is that you jump.” She motions the gun at

the ocean below them, then trains it back on Donnie.

He chuckles, like she’s kidding. She’s fucking crazy, but he’s always been drawn to crazy women. The gun looks real, but surely it’s a fake; she’s only playing. Offering a rakish smile, he says,

“Look, sweetheart, I don’t—”

He’s cut off with a hard blow to his head with the butt of the gun. Donnie doubles over. After what feels like a long time but might be only a few seconds, he stands, his legs wobbly. He touches his head. There’s red on his fingers. His eyes look into hers. She’s definitely not playing.

“Jump.”

She puts the barrel of the gun to his forehead, its muzzle cool on his skin.

“I don’t understand.” Donnie’s heartbeat swirls in his ears now.

“You don’t need to understand.” She holds up five fingers with the hand not clutching the gun. She begins ticking off her fingers.

“Five…”

“All right, hold on, wait.…”

“Four…”

“Wait, hold up.”

“Three…”

“Okay!” He raises his hands.

She retracts the barrel and steps back, motions her chin for him to get up on the rail.

A chill races up Donnie’s spine. He hops his ass up, feeling the cold metal through his jeans.

He’s no longer shit-faced drunk, but he’s still unsteady from the terror.

The woman gestures with the gun for him to swing his legs around, and he does, fear seizing him as he sits precariously on the ledge, his feet dangling. On this side of the ship there are no decks below. A straight drop into the ocean. His eyes search for life preservers but find none.

“Two,” she says.

He twists his head around. She’s displaying an awful peace sign with her fingers.

“Please—What’s—I don’t understand.”

Before he pleads more, he hears her say, “One,” and feels the shove into the abyss.





CHAPTER THREE

NICO

Nico clasps the flashlight and swings the ray around the coal mine.

He’s been the executive producer for the unexpected reality TV hit The Miners for a year now, but he still feels claustrophobic in the cavern. The low ceilings, the fog of coal dust, the rats. The coal company closed Mine B in the 1980s, and it’s now only used as one of the show’s sets. The cast always grumbles about shoots here, complaining that staging scenes in an inoperable mine takes away from the authenticity of the show. Nico listens patiently to their gripes, fights the urge to remind them that they’re hardly living an “authentic” coal miner’s life. The star of the show, Roger, who’s spent the better part of his life working in a godforsaken hole for $47K a year, drives a Bentley for fuck’s sake. But for better or for worse, they’re Nico’s meal ticket.

Like the cast, his income has skyrocketed with the success of the show—the most popular reality series on cable (take that, Housewives!). Not to mention that Nico has become something of a sex symbol with his weekly live recap show, The Black, which has thrust him into the national conversation. His DMs from women would make even the Tinder crowd blush. It almost makes living in the boonies of West Virginia worth it. Almost makes being at the beck and call of Roger—who texted Nico to meet him at Mine B tonight for some bizarre reason—less annoying. And, best of all, the influx of cash keeps the bookies and loan sharks off Nico’s ass, a refreshing change of pace.

Why the hell did Roger want to meet here, anyway? He probably wants to talk about getting more on-camera time. Complain about his co-stars outside their small enclave where gossip and grievances are more abundant than meth … which is saying something in this town.