Back in the hallway, the numbered plaque on the door of Jamal’s cabin stared me in the face; cold, unblinking, indifferent. The door had slammed shut behind us, and with it, the trance I’d been drifting in for the past hour cracked wide open. 

It all felt like a dream; blurry, unreal, the kind that makes you question whether it actually happened or if your body just made it up.

My breath came in short, uneven pulls. My legs trembled. Muscles I hadn’t used in a long time ached, like the day after a punishing gym session. And between my legs, it felt like my crotch was on fire,  stretched beyond anything recent memory could compare to. The kind of deep, pulsing soreness I hadn’t felt since Amir.

My chest; Mike’s early Christmas gift, still healing and untouched by another’s hands until today, throbbed with sharp, insistent soreness.

The shift from the sauna-like heat of Jamal’s room to the cool air of the corridor hit my body like a flipped switch. It was like stepping out of the Florida humidity into a chilled gift shop in the Magic Kingdom back home mid-July.

My skin was still damp, my sundress clinging to all the wrong places, and the sudden blast of air raised goosebumps along my arms. The hallway felt sterile; different now, almost aware, like it somehow knew what we’d just done.

I turned to Pam. She hadn’t moved. Her face wavered between exhaustion and guilt, but beneath it lingered the muted satisfaction only three orgasms in fifteen minutes could leave behind. Her eyes stayed fixed on the business card in her hand, the same one given to us both as we left the cabin, part souvenir, part unspoken invitation.

It was freshly printed, crisp with the SpaceX logo, Jamal’s name, “Propulsion Engineer” in bold, clean type, followed by his email and a phone number bearing a 312 area code, a quiet, almost taunting reminder of his proximity to Central Florida.

The end of the hallway felt suffocating, the air heavy with the unmistakable mix of sex and deodorant. And beneath it all lingered Jamal’s scent, just as it had when we first arrived, like he’d marked the space itself.

Her hair was a mess, curls stuck to her cheeks and neck, arms glistening with a light sheen of sweat. The white tank top she’d pulled from the pile of discarded clothes clung to her like a second skin. She looked like she’d just spent the entire day doing yardwork in the Mississippi sun, worked to exhaustion.

Finally turning to me, our eyes met. Not a word had passed between us since we stepped out of the cabin. It wasn’t the kind of look best friends were supposed to share, a silent acknowledgment of sex that defied reason, logic, and loyalty; but there was no avoiding it now. It hung between us: quiet, raw, and heavy with something neither of us could name. A mutual recognition of what we’d just done, and how easily lust had steamrolled everything in its path.

And now, in its wake, came the post-orgasm clarity; that cold, unmistakable shift that settles in once the pleasure fades, when every reckless choice starts to sharpen and settle in the bones. It was a look full of regret, wrapped in the unspoken understanding that we’d do it all over again if given the opportunity.

The phone buzzed in her hand, slicing through the silence like a slap. Pam flinched, as if she’d genuinely forgotten Steve existed for a moment. Forgotten this was just the latest in a string of ignored vibrations, the others nearly rattling the phone off Jamal’s desk while he did everything in his power to make me forget about Amir. Forgotten that Steve was still somewhere on this ship, probably swinging away in the golf simulator… or worse, chasing losses in the casino, already down another mortgage payment.

Her body reacted before her face could catch up. Shoulders squared, chin lifted, a breath drawn hard through her nose. The posture locked in like armor; not confidence, but the sudden realization she’d have to answer for the string of ignored messages.

I’d seen it before: the same instinctive recoil that had yanked her off the pool deck, the same silent flinch that pulled her from the Serenity deck the night before. That look didn’t come from guilt. It came from knowing exactly what kind of man was waiting on the other end of those texts.

Her thumb hovered over the screen for a second before she finally looked at it. I watched her face, not the phone, as her eyes began to scan, scrolling through message after message, each one a breadcrumb trail leading back to reality.

It began with the “You there?” I remembered flashing across her screen, Steve’s follow-up to the text that had cracked something open in her, pushed her over the edge, and sent her diving headfirst into Jamal like her sanity depended on it.

She didn’t say anything. Just kept scrolling. Her breath hitched, eyes widening just enough to show she’d hit something.

Then she turned the screen toward me.

“Back to even, baby!!!” came first, quickly followed by, “Sorry I snapped at you.” A fake apology, not from the heart, but from the high of a lucky streak that came an hour too late. The kind a degenerate gives when the chips finally fall his way, long after the damage is done.

The phone buzzed in my purse almost on cue, muffled but perfectly timed.

“Wow, Steve caught fire, lol.”

Mike’s message came almost in tandem with what Pam had just shown me, a second source confirming Steve’s ridiculous hot streak.

Another buzz lit up the screen.

“Do you want to meet at Guy’s? Steve’s bugging me to eat,” quickly followed by,

“To be honest, I could use a drink or ten after babysitting this clown.”

Mike’s humor landed with a sting; a cruel, unintentional reminder of the sacrifice the love of my life had made, while I spent the last hour two decks below, reliving a version of myself that existed long before him.

I stared at the screen, the guilt settling hard.

He meant Guy’s Pig & Anchor Smokehouse and Brewhouse, named after that loud blond guy from Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives on the Food Network. We’d passed it at least half a dozen times on Deck Eight, the air around it always thick with the smell of smoked barbecue, sweet and heavy, impossible to ignore.

I knew Pam had gotten the same message from Steve, confirmed by the silent glance we shared. A casual suggestion to meet for lunch, like nothing had happened. The real world we’d stepped away from for an hour came crashing back, landing a punch to both our guts at the exact same time.

Her expression mirrored mine; stunned, distant, still trying to process whatever the hell we’d just walked out of as we lingered outside Jamal’s door. Beneath the exhaustion on her face, there was a flicker of relief. She’d be returning to the softened version of her husband; the charming one, the grateful one, riding high on a win. For her, this chaos had brought a reprieve. For me, it had only deepened the guilt.

We still hadn’t spoken as we started walking.

The corridor stretched ahead, door plaques ticking down in reverse order, counting us back toward reality. 

Without a word, we moved down the hall, two women carrying something no one else would ever fully understand.

Barely a few steps in, my mind drifted back to Jamal’s room.

I replayed the moment his focus shifted from Pam to me, while she lay there, disheveled and spent, a beautiful mess in a pool of her own release. That intense, almost angry look on his face when he saw her tattoo, only to have it melt into that familiar, nerdy grin. The easy, boyish charm that could almost make you forget what he’d just done.

Almost.

It was disarming in the worst way, like he could flip the switch from destroyer to dreamer without consequence.

It suddenly felt deliberate, as if Pam had never been the destination. Just the prelude. A stepping stone. His attention, his intent, had shifted entirely to me. And beneath that stillness was something unmistakable, a flicker of male ego. That primal need to outdo Amir. To leave a mark so deep, I’d never think of another. So that the next time I found myself gloating about the kind of BBC that ruins a woman, it wouldn’t be Amir’s name I said out loud. It would be his.

My life flashed before my eyes, not in some dramatic, near-death way, but in a quiet, crushing wave of clarity. The realization hit me hard: this wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t impulsive. It was inevitable. And deep down, I had seen it coming all along if I was being honest with myself.

Maybe that’s why I pushed Pam so hard. Why I’d made it so easy for her. The way I nudged her toward it, turned her against Steve, made her question everything she thought she deserved. I convinced myself it was about helping her feel desired again, but that was only part of it.

The truth was darker. My hormones had been waging war on my conscience from the moment I laid eyes on Jamal, dragging buried memories back to the surface, memories I’d locked away under the guise of a perfect marriage, a perfect family, a perfect life.

Mike was just a few decks up, babysitting Steve, playing peacemaker with the man who was supposed to be the villain in all this, trying to hold things together for one more day before we all went back to our lives.

I was supposed to be in a bar somewhere, comforting Pam, taking her mind off everything he’d done to her. Instead, I stood frozen, caught between right and wrong, arousal and guilt, while the angel on my shoulder shouted into a storm I’d already chosen to ignore.

I tried everything to look away. To walk out. To leave Pam where she lay and convince myself that just being in the room was something I could live with. I hadn’t touched anyone. I hadn’t been touched. Nothing had actually happened, at least not in any physical sense. It was just a scene, a live-action porno unfolding a few feet away. Except the woman who had gotten wrecked wasn’t some anonymous actress with daddy issues. She was my best friend. And she’d be the one carrying the guilt. Not me.

But I couldn’t do it.

Thoughts of Mike flooded my head. He was the best man I’d ever known, the most loyal husband a woman could ask for. The twins were back home with my parents, waiting for us to return to our perfect little life. Weekend routines, bedtime snuggles, and frequent trips to Disney World, a perk of living in Orlando. But it wasn’t enough. Not to pull me away. Not to override what was happening inside me.

It was a side of women no one liked to admit existed. A hidden, insatiable part buried beneath motherhood, marriage, and years of good behavior. A level of horniness the world pretended only men were wired to feel. It didn’t feel like temptation, it felt like gravity. And if it ever came to light, all you could do was hope someone might understand. That somehow, he’d forgive you, if only under the premise he knew it was worth it.

Though spent and still riding the aftershocks of life-altering sex, Pam wasn’t unaware. Her eyes stayed locked on me; her best friend, the one who always flaunted a perfect marriage, control, curated stability. The one who had just orchestrated her own unraveling.

She saw it all. Saw the walls I had built around Mike and my vows crumbling right in front of her.

Then I gave in. There was no hesitation, no thought of consequences, no weighing of right and wrong; just heat, instinct, and a hunger that had finally slipped its leash. My body acted before my mind could catch up, closing the distance without a single conscious thought.

I paused, drawing in a deep, shaky breath before wrapping both hands around him. Even soft, the sheer heft of him sagged in my grip, and with nothing more than my touch it swelled almost instantly, rising back to its full, impossible footlong length. He throbbed against my palms, already hard again barely minutes after unloading inside Pam; the kind of stamina only a twenty-one-year-old in his prime could wield.

In that moment, I knew I had crossed a line I could never uncross; the guilt, the excuses, the justifications; all drowned beneath the sheer weight of Jamal.

Her climax still coated him; slick, warm, sticking to his shaft like a mark she’d left behind. It should have repulsed me, should have made my stomach turn. But it didn’t. Not now. It felt distant, irrelevant. Instead, flashes of Amir flooded my mind; uninvited, vivid, and with them came a wave of wetness I could feel blooming beneath my sundress.

My eyes found Pam, and a faint grin curled at the edge of her lips. No judgment. No apology. Just quiet acknowledgment that the handoff had happened. I wasn’t just a bystander anymore. It was her turn to watch me come apart, to watch me back up everything I’d ever implied about Amir, without saying a word. I was in it now. Just as guilty. Just as far gone.

And in that look, we both understood. We’d had an unbreakable bond since grade school, the kind built on decades of trust. Now we shared something darker. A secret that could ruin everything. One we’d take to the grave.

The ding of the elevator snapped me out of it.

We reached the end of the corridor without a word, the same elevator that had dropped us off barely an hour ago now sliding open like nothing had changed. Like we hadn’t just left pieces of ourselves behind.

We stepped inside. Pam hesitated for a moment before pressing the button for deck eight, like she needed just one more breath before reentering reality.

In just a few minutes, we’d be at Guy’s, meeting up with the men who thought they knew us, smiling like nothing had changed, still riding the adrenaline rush of watching Steve claw his way out of a $7,000 hole.

The elevator hummed to life around us; still, sterile, carrying two women who hadn’t yet figured out how to wear what they’d just done. As we ascended from the bowels of the ship, the spectacle of Grand Central reappeared through the glass just as quickly as it had vanished an hour ago

I glanced over at Pam. Her clothes sticking to her just like mine, the humidity from Jamal’s room still acting like a glue we couldn’t shake off. Her white tank top was damp, stretched tight across her chest, and beneath it, I could make out the faint outline of that plain beige bra, the same one tossed carelessly on top of her crumpled clothes, resting at my feet during her undoing.

It was nearly the opposite of what lay beneath my sundress, the contrast pulling me straight back into Jamal’s room.

He reached forward, his hands wrapping around the thin straps of my sundress. I had to let go of him, fingers reluctantly sliding off his shaft as he pulled the straps down over my shoulders with a slow tug. The dress slipped easily, pooling around my ankles without a sound, leaving me fully exposed beneath the cabin’s low light.

What I wore beneath it told its own story.

My bra and panties matched perfectly; black lace, sheer, designed to be seen. This wasn’t the underwear of someone who packed for comfort. This was chosen for access. For Mike. For someone guaranteed to be touched every night we were aboard this ship. It was the exact opposite of Pam’s full-coverage Costco cotton. Hers had said forgotten. Mine said waiting.

His eyes dragged slowly over my body, taking in everything I’d worked so hard to reclaim.

“Wow, Amy,” he said, that grin slipping in.

Two simple words, words Mike had said often, always sweet, always polite. But hearing them now, from a man who wasn’t obligated to say them, felt different. Deeper. More validating. In that moment, they made every brutal workout, every late-night craving I’d denied, every inch I’d fought to get back after the twins, feel worth it.

The angel on my shoulder was still fighting. Still pleading. Still trying to drag me back to reason. But her voice was fading, drowned out by the pulse pounding in my ears and the heat coiling low in my belly. The battle was nearly lost, and I think she knew it.

I winced as Jamal’s hands came up and gripped my chest through the lace of my bra. His touch was firm, possessive, and the sudden pressure brought a jolt of temporary discomfort, just enough to remind me they were still new.

“Are you ok?,” he asked, pausing as he quickly pulled his hands away.

I exhaled, managing a crooked smile. “They’re new. Still healing.”

That should’ve been the moment I snapped out of it. Back to reality. Back to being a wife. A mom. The moment guilt should’ve taken the wheel.

But it didn’t.

Instead, it sealed everything. I wasn’t going back.

Mike had given them to me, not as a surprise, but because I needed them. He’d worked overtime, weekends, doing everything he could to make sure I got them. I needed to feel whole again, to feel sexy after giving birth to the twins. They were meant to help me heal, to rebuild the confidence I’d quietly lost.

I hadn’t even let him touch them yet. Not once.

And now here they were, in Jamal’s hands: claimed by a man they were never meant for.

He reached behind me and, with the same practiced motion he’d used on Pam not long ago, unclasped my bra. It slipped down my arms before he pulled it away completely, tossing it into the growing pile of clothes on the floor. It landed right on top of Pam’s panties, a visual contrast that said everything.

Two women, two marriages, two sets of underwear from opposite ends of the sexual spectrum. But in this moment, none of that mattered.

My breasts spilled free; C-cups, firm and high, hard as stone from the surgery. Probably too big for my tiny frame, exaggerated against the flatness of my stomach. They didn’t bounce, didn’t move. They stood there, unyielding and still sore to the touch.

Faint tan lines from the bikini I’d worn at the pool yesterday framed the upper curves, soft evidence of the sun and a version of me that, until now, had felt worlds away.

The elevator dinged again, snapping me back into reality for the second time.

The doors slid open, and the noise hit us instantly, bright voices echoing through the atrium, music pulsing somewhere below, and the low, constant hum of movement all around us. Grand Central buzzed beneath the open balcony, a curated chaos of vacationers weaving between bars and shops, trying to squeeze every last penny out of their drink packages.

And there it was.

Guy’s Pig & Anchor Smokehouse and Brewhouse sat right at the exit of the elevator, impossible to miss. The sign was loud and bold, almost as obnoxious as the man it had been named after; and the smoky air around it was thick with barbecue, hitting the back of your nose before you even stepped off.

We hadn’t even entirely cleared the doors when I heard it.

“Pam!”

Steve’s voice cut through the noise before either of us had a chance to collect ourselves, let alone put on the faces we’d need to survive this meal.

We walked toward them slowly, our legs still shaky beneath the weight of what we’d just left behind. I saw Mike first. His expression said it all; part disbelief, part cautious amusement, and part you owe me big time. He didn’t need to say a word.

The look on his face made it clear he still couldn’t believe Steve had actually pulled himself out of the financial crater he’d dug, let alone walked away from the table with a smile instead of a security escort.

And Steve?

Gone was the agitated, accusatory man who’d fired off that string of emotional shrapnel to Pam not long ago; blaming Carnival, mocking the “ghetto cruise ship,” lobbing casually racist jabs at her best friend, and ultimately pinning it all on her for dragging them into financial ruin.

Now he was all swagger and sunshine, the ignored messages during our undoing already erased from his mind, grinning like a man desperate for the world to believe his comeback was pure skill. As if he hadn’t torched their entire marriage by text, only to smother the flames with an unlikely lucky streak.

We were seated in a booth near the bar, tucked just far enough from the main walkway to fake a sense of privacy while still sitting in the middle of everything. Same configuration as breakfast that morning; Pam and I on one side, Mike and Steve on the other, but the energy was completely different.

I forced myself to smile, to nod; doing everything I could to keep from mentally being dragged back into Jamal’s room. I slipped into the small talk like nothing inside me had shifted. The same light banter we’d shared over breakfast that morning after Pam and Steve’s fight; before trivia, before Jamal’s cabin, before guilt settled in my throat like something I couldn’t swallow.

I asked about their morning, pretended to care as Steve recapped every miraculous hand that had pulled him back to even, and through the smothering guilt, I still felt a flicker of quiet, almost evil amusement at the irony. Both men, completely oblivious to what had been happening just beneath their feet as Steve pulled himself out of a hole… and even worse, Mike forced to sit there, smiling, clapping, cheering on the man who had hurled racist insults at his wife an hour earlier.

Beside me, Pam wore her own version of the same mask, though hers cracked a little more with every glance toward Steve. The guilt was still there; I could feel it radiating off her. But so was the anger, laced with a quiet satisfaction only another woman would recognize. It was duller now, tempered by the relief that he’d broken even. That impossible $7,000 hole had loomed over her all morning, even as Jamal was busy rewriting her sexual DNA. Now it was gone. But not forgotten.

Sliding into the booth across from the guys was the first time either of us had truly sat down since Jamal. The moment our hips touched the bright red vinyl, I saw it in Pam’s posture, and felt it in my own. A subtle shift.  An involuntary clench. The weight of gravity making itself known all over again.

During the walk from his cabin, it had already started; that slow drag of him, pulled lower with every step. And now, sitting upright, there was no ignoring it. He was leaking out of both of us, shameless and steady, slipping from where he’d spilled himself deep against our cervixes. The soaked fabric of our underwear did nothing to stop it, only pressed it closer, sealing the heat between our bodies and the cold vinyl seat.

It wasn’t just physical, it was something more. The shared sensation tethered us, bound together by superior DNA most women would pay for, whether they’d ever admit it or not. Whatever consequences might surface a month from now didn’t matter. Not yet. The ghost of that footlong cock still lived inside both of us, and for the moment, its memory was stronger than the guilt waiting on the other side.

When the server finally came around, Mike asked for another of the light beer he’d been nursing. Steve grinned, slapped the table with two fingers, and said, “Jack and Coke,” gloating like the drink itself had dragged him out of the hole. “Can’t mess with what works.”

Pam and I didn’t even look at each other, just spoke at the same time, quiet but in sync.

“Dark Ship.”

Mike laughed, catching the timing. “Guess you two found your drink.”

We both smiled, and Pam even let out a little chuckle. But under the table, our knees were still touching; quiet, constant, and unspoken. A lifeline neither of us wanted to acknowledge out loud.

The next few minutes passed in a blur; muffled small talk, glasses clinking, the low hum of nearby tables blending into static. I smiled when I needed to, nodded when prompted, but none of it fully landed. One moment I was taking another sip of my drink, and the next, the food was in front of us.

Pam and I had both ended up with salads; more of a formality than a meal, something to check the box of ordering, even though neither of us was even remotely hungry.

Steve’s ribs came next, piled high and glistening in a sticky glaze, each bone so tender it looked like it might slip free before he touched it.

Then came Mike’s plate.

A hotdog.

It was enormous; blistered from the grill, wedged into a toasted bun that couldn’t hope to contain it. The thing curved slightly under its own weight, juices already pooling on the plate beneath. It didn’t just arrive, it announced itself; a cruel bit of cosmic humor from Guy Fieri, mocking the man across from me.

Mike chuckled, said something about not expecting it to be that big, but the sound barely reached me. I couldn’t stop staring.

And before I could stop myself, my mind filled in the rest, dragging me straight back into Jamal’s cabin. The ache in my chest, dulled by guilt and distraction until now, flared to the surface again, pulling everything I’d tried to suppress roaring back with it.

Mike’s meal felt like the culinary equivalent of everything that followed the moment Jamal shoved me onto the bed like a rag doll, landing me beside Pam, my head sinking into the same pillow still damp with her sweat. The sheets beneath us were no cleaner; soaked in her juices, steeped in the raw scent of a body broken open minutes before.

He stepped forward onto the bed, moving past my open legs with deliberate intent. At 6'6", he was a giant, his sheer presence enough to make me feel completely overtaken. He climbed my body like a horizontal ladder, each movement controlled and effortless, rising above me with that same quiet authority that had already unraveled us both.

With careful precision, he lowered himself, settling just above my stomach like a chair. His weight stayed balanced on his legs, never pressing too much, yet it didn’t matter; I was pinned beneath him, breath caught in my throat, every inch of space around me consumed by him.

His glutes pressed into my stomach, heat radiating as our skin slid and adjusted, sending a jolt up my spine. His cock hovered just above my chest while he looked down at me with a slight grin, not the sharp, vengeful look he’d given Pam after spotting the tattoo on her leg that hinted at a darker past, but something more measured. It carried a smug certainty, the kind of grin that said he knew exactly what he was about to take, and that he’d be the first to break in another man’s ten-thousand-dollar investment.

With a gentle press of his hand, he guided his length down into the valley between my breasts, almost a warped reflection of the hotdog on Mike’s plate, which I stared at with vacant eyes, physically there but mentally gone.

He moved with slow, careful precision, fully aware of their tenderness, exhaling a low groan as it settled into place without the slightest resistance.

No hands were needed. No squeezing. No adjusting. The silicone held its shape, forming a seamless channel that wrapped around him with effortless precision. It was my first time being tit fucked, a sexual act my modest A-cups could have never accommodated just a month ago.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement; Pam. She was still sprawled across the bed, body slack and glistening, her face flushed, eyes fixed on us with a dazed stillness that wasn’t quite shock, just the quiet awareness of someone spent.

When I turned my head fully, she met my gaze with a slow, knowing grin.

My eyes drifted down. The thick glob of cum that had ricocheted off her tattoo onto the pancake-sized areola was now dripping toward the underside of her right breast, gravity finally pulling it into place against her ribcage like some vulgar badge of honor.

That’s when Jamal started to move. Slow at first, his hips rolled forward and back, his cock sliding between my tits in a steady rhythm. Pam’s orgasm slicked him perfectly, turning my cleavage into a manmade pussy, every thrust wet and deliberate. His ass pressed against my stomach, the sheet of perspiration between us letting him glide like a lubricated piston.

The massive helmet burst through the channel of my tits, lunging toward my face with every thrust until it hovered just a breath from my chin before retreating, only to drive forward again.

From my angle it was impossible to escape; each advance left me staring straight down the barrel of that enormous black mushroom; the same one that had been buried in Pam minutes ago, now aimed squarely at me.

A thick bead of pre-cum welled at the slit, swelling with each stroke, trembling in place, daring gravity or my mouth to take it.

Then reality pulled focus.

The beads of pre-cum blurred into grease clinging to the tip of Mike’s hot dog, dripping in slow motion onto the plate. For a heartbeat the images overlapped; two scenes, two bodies, two versions of me.

He lifted it to his mouth, the bun straining to hold its absurd length, and I stared through a haze, not really seeing him at all; only the motion, the shape, the rhythm.

My mind had already slipped.

In another world just thirty minutes behind us, Jamal finally shifted forward, the swollen head pressing against my lips before pushing straight in. There was no warning, no buildup, no chance to prepare. The pressure hit instantly, my jaw forced open so wide it ached up into my ears, my eyes already watering from the stretch. The corners of my mouth burned, straining at their limit, with nowhere to go.

The arrogant assumption that this would be like riding a bike; that Amir had somehow permanently conditioned me for this, was gone the moment he pushed in.

I wasn’t that woman anymore.

Not the one who could take a man like Amir and wear it like a badge. That superpower was gone, and Jamal knew it. He didn’t have to say a word. He just left it there: heavy, unrelenting, watching me stretch and strain to take it.

I could barely breathe. Could barely think.

Then the taste hit.

The unmistakable taste of pre-cum from a footlong Black cock, made more intoxicating by what it promised to do to me, milked out of him by Mike’s early Christmas gift… and laced with something else.

Pam.

Her climax still coated him, pungent and thick, the residue of three orgasms clinging to the head and spilling across my tongue like a cocktail blended solely for me.

And then; snap.

Back in reality, the check hit the table with a dull thud, silver tray catching the light. The server’s voice was distant, blurred by the thrum still echoing through me.

Mike glanced at me with that look.

Not the look that said we were heading to the casino, or the pool, or off to explore the ship.

It was the look that said payback was coming; that I was about to make it up to him for babysitting Steve all morning.

And as his eyes lingered on me, steady and certain, one truth sank in.

I was in trouble.