Troubles in Paradise (Paradise #3)(51)
Home for the night, Cash thinks. He doesn’t have to go into the main house at all.
He’s getting thirty-nine thousand dollars free and clear. After he finishes his beer, he feels happy about this. He can buy a truck and stop driving Tilda’s Rover around like he’s the errand boy.
Cash has a difficult time falling asleep in the guest wing. The bed is too soft and it doesn’t smell like Tilda. It’s quarter to eleven; he could still go out. Cruz Bay isn’t exactly a late-night town but Cash knows the Parrot Club will be open. He can take what’s left in his bank account and gamble, now that he knows there’s more money coming.
Cash gets all the way out to the driveway before he comes to his senses. He’s been drinking; he should not get behind the wheel of the Rover and he should not piss all his hard-earned money away at the Parrot Club. He has a full charter tomorrow. He should go to bed.
He does go to bed—back in Tilda’s wing, his face buried in her pillow.
Working on Treasure Island has been a good distraction. There’s nothing like being responsible for thirty people as they swim, snorkel (often for the first time), and drink copious amounts of alcohol to keep one in the present moment. But on day four of not talking to Tilda—honestly, what’s going on? Has she not thought to call Cash even once?—Cash finds himself short on patience. It doesn’t help that he has a guest on the boat who reminds him of Duncan. This guy, Bradley, is an aggressive, in-your-face hipster. He’s exactly Dunk’s height and build, and he’s wearing jeans—jeans, on a trip to the BVIs!—and a plain white T-shirt that looks like it came out of a three-pack of Hanes but probably was made by Rick Owens and cost four hundred dollars. And he’s wearing a flashy gold Omega. Cash notices the jeans and the watch when Bradley checks in but not his Versace slip-on loafers, which he refuses to be separated from when it’s time to board the boat.
Cash says calmly, “Take your shoes off and put them in the basket or I will leave you here.”
“Oh yeah?” Bradley says, squaring his shoulders.
Cash lifts the rope from the bollard. Everyone is aboard except for Bradley, who remains in his shoes on the dock.
“Yeah,” Cash says.
Reluctantly, Bradley removes his precious shoes and hands them over to his girlfriend, who, Cash remembers from checkin, is named Gretchen Gingerman. She puts them in her oversize Fendi bag.
Bradley stays in the shade of the wheelhouse while Gretchen fetches him drinks. Gretchen has golden hair, is three inches taller than Bradley, and has the face and body of a supermodel; Cash tries not to look too closely but Gretchen Gingerman seems pretty damn perfect. And unlike Bradley, she’s cool. She leans across the bar and apologizes about the shoes, then says, “Bradley has a thing about people seeing his feet,” which is a statement so bizarre that all Cash can do is laugh, and Gretchen Gingerman laughs right along with him. Then Gretchen’s phone rings and she checks the display and says, “That’s him. He must be wondering where his drink is.”
“He called you?” Cash says. He takes his time making two painkillers. Let Bradley wonder.
Bradley stays on the boat during their trip to the Baths, since it can’t be done in jeans. Gretchen goes (she’s wearing a gold-lamé string bikini; Ayers would have had a field day, but Cash is inclined to cut Gretchen some slack, and besides, she looks amazing in it) and has a wonderful time. Gretchen also goes snorkeling at the Indians. Cash shows her his favorite staghorn coral formation, where they see a school of parrotfish and a baby barracuda, and when they get back to the boat, Bradley is glowering.
He says to Cash, “You trying to make time with my girl?”
Cash holds up his palms. “Just showing her the fish, man.”
They go to Pirates Bight on Norman Island for lunch; it has a dock, so Bradley can finally disembark. Cash always sits at the bar and orders the mahi sandwich (he isn’t required to socialize during lunch), but he can’t keep from seeking out the two-top in the corner where Gretchen and Bradley are sitting by themselves. This seems a little sad. By this point in the trip, most people have bonded with other guests and all sit at nearby or connecting tables so they can chat. Cash knows he shouldn’t…but he heads over to Gretchen and Bradley’s table. Gretchen is eating the fish and chips like it’s her last meal on earth, swiping her fries liberally through the tartar sauce, but Bradley has only a painkiller in front of him.
“Not hungry?” Cash asks. He’s poking the bear, he knows this, but he can’t help himself. “Did being on the boat make you nauseated?”
“He’s fasting,” Gretchen says. “He’s like Jack from Twitter. It’s a control thing.”
“A productivity thing,” Bradley says. He shoots his watch to the end of his wrist; it actually looks a little big, like it’s his father’s watch. “Not that it’s any of this squid’s business whether I eat or don’t eat.”
Squid? Cash thinks. Did Bradley, who came on an all-day swim-and-snorkel charter in a pair of skinny Calvin Kleins like he’s Brooke Shields, just call Cash a squid?
Gretchen is giving Cash big apologetic eyes, probably imploring him not to engage, an expression that doesn’t escape Bradley’s notice. “Don’t ogle him,” Bradley says. He drains the painkiller top to bottom in one long gulp like it’s some kind of party trick. Guess what, Bradley, Cash wants to say. I see it all day, every day. Chugging a painkiller does not make you a badass. “Don’t you have to go swab the decks?” Bradley asks.