Page 47 of The Cruiser
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We leave the show at five, with one last stop at a bar in the city. A ship builder Morgan’s buddies with wants to connect off-site. Set along the waterfront, the bar patio is packed with boat folks. While Morgan freshens up in the restroom, I’m at our table deciding what to order when a battle cry reverberates over the crowd.
“Vanarama!!!”
I, and all my neighbors, turn toward the colorful intrusion bumping between tables and heading straight for me. On any given day, Stryker Talone turns heads. On a patio full of buttoned-up, stylish Europeans, a St. Patrick’s-green fauxhawk is the equivalent of a slasher movie—you can’t look away. He descends with all the nuance of a pterodactyl, the fringes of his buckskin jacket catching air as his arms widen to crush me in a hug.
“Hi,” I say, embracing him intimately, the way you do with someone who knows your darkest secrets. “What are you doing here?”
Without asking, Stryker grabs a spare chair from a nearby table and two shocked faces watch as he flips it backwards, straddles it, and makes himself at home.
“Fuck me,” he says. “Needed a solo debauch after that shitshow film. Was invited to Venice, but you know how it goes in my world.” He shrugs. In addition to being an A-list director, he’s also famous for losing track of time and himself when he’s not on the job. “What are you doing here?”
“Work, believe it or not. I just landed a yacht designer as a client. We’re here for the boat show.”
He slurps water from my glass, adding a cherry Chapstick smear to the rim. “You look fucking incredible, by the way.”
“Thanks.” It never fails. Ringed with sexy dark lashes, Stryker’s tender eyes always laser into my heart. This time, they burrow into the very core.
“So tell it to me straight, then,” he says. “What the shitballs is going on with your husband? When did he start fucking dudes?”
It’s hard to imagine an entire patio of people grinding to a complete halt. But it happens. As much as I love him, Stryker is the living embodiment of every bad, American stereotype: poorly dressed, loud, and oblivious to it all. My face flushes a deep red and before any reasonable response kicks in, Stryker’s eyes flick behind me.
“Hey, buddy. You mind? This table’s taken.” He shakes his head, muttering to me, “Fucking Euros. Love their wine and cars but they got no sense of personal space. Anyway, back to my point. Tell me you’re here because you’re divorcing his sorry ass. He’s married to you and thinking dicks? Hasta la vista, baby.”
Morgan places his leather messenger bag on the tabletop, and a gagging horror lodges in my throat.
No. Please no.
Oh, yes.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he says.
“Uh … no,” I stammer. “Stryker, this is Morgan. My client.” Hint, hint, is what I attempt to convey through the raising of my eyebrows. Shut it down.
Catching my drift, Stryker holds up his fist for a bump. “Dude. How’s it going?”
Morgan scans Stryker with bewilderment, the way everyone does when meeting him for the first time. Baby face still holding up after all the years spent partying hard. Wearing acid wash short shorts and displaying the mannerisms of a skate punk, you’d be hard-pressed to guess he’s one of Hollywood’s most bankable directors.
With the most awkward return bump, Morgan replies, “Very well.” And then, genuinely puzzled, he asks, “How do you two know each other?”
“Stryker’s an old friend,” I explain. “A film director. He was just shooting a project in Cape Town.”
“Old friend?”Stryker scoffs. “That doesn’t really do us justice, although we do go way back. Back to when she was a wild child. Bit of a princess now, but trust me, there’s a tiger inside.” He ruffles my hair affectionately and gestures at Morgan. “Take a seat, bro. No clue you were hanging with this hottie. I’m very protective of her.”
He lays a flirty wink on me and I can feel Morgan stiffening. Forget the alarm in his face or how ashen it is. I can’t even imagine how the conversation will start once he sits down. Thankfully, a moustached man with a beer belly waves at him across the patio. “Why don’t you two catch up?” Morgan offers. “I’ll join in when I’m done.”
Stryker watches him go. “So tell me. You riding that European train?”
I feel my cheeks warm. “No.”
“He seems very interested.”
“How do you know?”
“I spend my life trying to get authentic emotion out of batshit crazy actors. My radar knows when it’s real. I ruffled your hairand everything clamped up in his face.”
Morgan’s smiling now, clapping the other man on his back. If a smile could alter the course of planets spinning, change an entire universe, it would be his. That raging internal debate starts up again.
