Page 43 of The Cruiser
ChapterSixteen
Day two.
So far, running without a hitch.
I make it out of my hotel room fully clothed. Breakfast doesn’t involve tossing liquids in the face of disgusting men. On the deck of Catch Me, Morgan and I go over the day’s appointments while the crew serves rich espresso and pastries. Frankie already emailed Morgan this morning, and they’ve been going back and forth on some initial ideas.
“That’s fantastic,” I say, glad to see Morgan back in a positive mood. On the drive home last night, he brought me up to speed on Renan, and it left him in a dark place. Turns out Renan’s father Burak used to work for Morgan’s father. Morgan and Renan, close in age, were friends until Burak got fired for alcoholism. With no money coming in and a sickly mother who needed in-home care, things disintegrated. Renan asked Morgan for money, which only went straight down Burak’s throat. In a horrible twist of fate, he died of alcohol poisoning, suffocating his wife as he slumped on top of her.
Renan never forgave Morgan or his family.
“The trouble is,” Morgan explained, “my father gave Burak so many chances. But after a while, you’re an enabler. I fell into that trap, offering money every time Renan asked. In a way, I feel partly to blame for the tragedy. I’ve been his sworn enemy ever since.”
Because of this, Renan had tried to undermine several of Morgan’s deals. He began running with a suspect crowd of mafiosos, both Russian and Italian, who threw their weight and threats around in equal proportion. Morgan was pissed that Renan finagled his way into the Khaled deal. It prompted me to ask how he got involved, but Morgan’s unsure. According to Olivier, the former yacht broker with a deep Rolodex, Morgan was tipped to be the only designer in contention. Somehow Renan and a lesser-known German designer cropped up in the mix.
Nothing can be done about it now.
It all boils down to Khaled.
The story swirls in my head throughout the morning. It has all the juicy elements of a blockbuster: bitter rivals, mafia, the underbelly of a dazzling and prestigious industry. The unexpected side effect of knowing the backstory is feeling better about last night. Gives me some perspective on why Morgan shut down on the dock. A lot to process on his end.
A lot on my end.
If last night didn’t doom me to eternal damnation, the immense pleasure of it surely will. Holy smokes, can that man’s tongue duel. He found every nook and cranny like there was money to be had in new exploration. And in the mirror this morning, I noticed bruises blooming along the curve of my butt. Territorial markings.
He did not want to let go.
Although we agreed to maintain decorum, all morning Morgan keeps stealing looks, checking out my body language, finding my eyes. It’s distracting. By the time mid-afternoon rolls around, my focus is toast.
Morgan’s in deep discussion over hull shapes with Mielo, a Ukrainian LNG tycoon, when a flurry of incoming messages sets my phone off. I forgot to silence it after lunch and reach into my handbag to do so now, apologizing. I peek at the screen to see what’s up and scroll through Flynn’s trademark one text per thought with a heavy heart.
FD: OMG. If I screwed up I’m sorry!
FD: U shoulda told me.
FD: Derek’s here. Wanted to know where U were
FD: I told him
FD: He’s flipping out
FD: He’s calling U
FD: Call me after! Sorry…
Shitty shit.
Right away the phone starts to ring. With a sheepish smile, I stand and excuse myself. “I need to take this.”
Morgan clocks the shift in my mood, me not willing to look him in the eyes before I hustle away. Derek is the last person I want to talk to, but now that he knows where I am, he won’t stop calling. The tenacity of film people is next level.
I silence the ringer, and once I’m at the far end of the deck, answer. “Hi.”
“What the hell is Flynn doing in our house?” he demands.
“House-sitting, obviously.”
“Did you think about asking me? And what’s this shit about you taking off without saying anything? Or is that how it’s going down now? Us, not talking?”
