Page 8 of Caged By the Stranger (Bad Decisions #1)

This cruise just had to start in Hawaii.

A fucking island. Of all the shit I worried about this week, I completely forgot about the process of going through airport security.

The mental image of that TSA worker’s expression as he looked at my body scan will haunt me for the rest of my days.

Eyes pinched shut, he shook his head and waved me on like I was too big of a pervert to question.

Does that mean he sees cock cages all the time or that he’d already dealt with enough weird shit for one day before I came along?

Huffing, I grimace at my reflection in my cabin’s mirror.

Of course, I can tell the cage is there behind my cargo shorts.

The question is, will everyone else, or am I just being self-conscious?

The entire flight from Seattle to Honolulu had me squirming in my seat, wondering if the smiles from the flight attendants were a mockery because of my secret.

This thing has now gone beyond affecting my sex drive. It’s making me paranoid.

At least Carmen and Niel, two salespeople from other regions that I linked up with at the Honolulu airport, didn’t seem to notice on the drive to the harbor. Not even the overwhelming size of this superyacht when we made our way down the docks was able to make me forget my reality, though.

I was shown by the steward to my cabin without having to see anyone else, but the damn CEO of the company is supposed to be hosting this trip. Michael McDonnell—the name I’ve seen on emails countless times will be here in the flesh, and I’m wearing a fucking cock cage.

If I fixate on possible scenarios of my condition being outed to him and costing me this promotion, I’ll never be able to focus enough to prevent such from happening.

I need to keep my head in the game and treat this like a sales trip so I can work the room when it comes time to socialize.

As long as I can keep everyone’s eyes up top and my shirt hangs over my crotch like this the entire time, my sales record should stand on its own.

As for my charming personality…I better hit the bar I saw when I boarded and get a drink before this shitshow starts.

Slipping out into the corridor, I try to orient myself.

Aft, bow, forward—I don’t know what anything on a boat is called.

I realize I’m going the wrong way when the end of the corridor leads to stairs that go to an upper deck.

I’m not ready for mingling yet, and the steward did say there’s more than one bar on this ship, so I ascend.

The ocean greets me, spreading endlessly beyond the nose of the vessel. It’s a refreshing change of view and scent from city life. There’s no noise from traffic to remind me of being on a schedule. No exhaust from being stuck in gridlock.

Behind me, the familiar sound of ice cubes clinking against glass pulls me from the lapping waves. Spinning around, I find another bar and a hot tub. Rich people, man. If I’m ever one of them, I sure as shit am not going to waste a fortune on a floating luxury hotel.

I shield my eyes from the sun and make my way toward the man mixing a drink.

It’s not a steward, though, that comes into focus.

It’s that cocky salesman I’ve run into at a few trade shows over the last year, Rory.

I don’t even know what region he works in, never see him copied on emails, nor hear about him. How in the hell did he get an invite?

Wait a minute.

Rory.

Rory , who gave me the card to Illusion. This means I’m not the only person on this ship who knows about Illusion. Adjusting myself discreetly, I am more aware now than ever of the cinching sensation around my balls, as if that were possible.

Listen to me. I’m being stupid. It’s not like he knows what went down. It’s not like he’ll be bantering about sex clubs over dinner with McDonnell and the other salespeople.

I have nothing to worry about.

Actually…this could be an opportunity. He might have some answers for me.

“Rory, hey,” I greet, sidling up to the opposite side of the bar.

“Hi. Do I know you?”

How can he be a sales rep and not remember names?

That’s key in our line of work. His grown-out wavy black hairstyle doesn’t speak professionalism to me.

Or perhaps it’s how the sleeves of his white linen button-up are rolled up to his elbows.

His shirt collar is spread wide, revealing a thin silver chain and a few curls on his tan chest, while my polo shirt has all the buttons done.

He looks like an Italian underwear model who came prepared for beach time, the way he’s at home behind the bar, not an anxious salesman wondering why he got invited to a random luxury business cruise.

“Y-eah. Charlie,” I remind him. “We chatted at the Seattle convention a few months ago.”

“Oh, nice to see you again.”

Nodding absently, his attention returns to the garnish tray like olives take precedent over courtesy. Spearing a few, he drops them in his drink and takes a sip, looking satisfied. When he turns and gazes out at the ocean, it’s apparent he really doesn’t remember me.

How do you hand out a sex club card and not remember who you gave it to? Does he hand out so many that he can’t keep track?

In my annoyance, a peculiar thought takes hold. Has he been pleasured by my guy?

My guy . Listen to me. He’s not my fucking guy. I’m wasting valuable time before the welcome dinner being a cock suppressed idiot when I could be getting intel.

Leaning against the bar, I clear my throat. “Yeah. You, um…gave me a business card the last time we met.”

That gets his attention. Maybe there’s hope. Except…now he looks confused.

“I give a lot of those out. My number hasn’t changed, if that’s what you’re asking. Did you need a new one?”

I gape as he reaches into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out his wallet.

He can’t be serious. My heart sinks when I spot Amor’s logo at the corner of a business card he starts to tug out of his billfold.

I know my brothers say I’m uptight, but seriously, how do you not remember passing someone a card to a sex club?

Maybe it’s not as big of a deal to him as it is to me since it was my first time at one.

“No,” I digress, trying not to sound agitated as I hold up a hand to stop him. “You gave me…” Fuck. How do I explain this? “A different business card. One for…an attraction in Seattle.”

Frowning, he hums in thought, studying me like my face holds the answer. He’s a fucking idiot, clearly, but at least I have his undivided attention now.

Of course, this isn’t going to be easy. Why did I think even for a second that it would be? Nothing since the minute I walked into that place has been easy. Sighing, I glance around the deck to make sure no one else has wandered up here before I elaborate. “And I went .”

Recognition flickers on his face, finally. Brows hiking, he leans on the bar and murmurs conspiratorially, “Ah! And…did you enjoy the amenities?”

What the fuck kind of question is that? Did he think I brought it up just to chit chat like that’s the kind of shit I chit chat about with veritable strangers on work trips?

Face burning, I glance toward the stairs again. It’s still just the two of us and nothing but the ocean breeze up here. I probably need to admit something if I want to enlist his help.

“Yeah. Plenty of times.”

“Hm. Sounds like someone’s a little greedy.” He chuckles, drawing back and swirling his olive spear around.

Judgement? Really? I’m not the one who carries around the damn club’s card in my wallet and hands it out to a complete stranger.

Rolling my eyes, I grit my teeth and scan the bottles behind the bar, remembering I came here in search of liquor to take the edge off.

That edge has just increased twofold, thanks to Mr. Smug.

“Whatever,” I grumble. “I’m single. I work all the damn time.”

Following my gaze, he grabs a bottle of scotch from the bar-back setup and raises it in question.

If he wants to play bartender, fine by me.

It’s the least he can do for, in part, getting me into the mess that I’m in.

I shrug my shoulder carelessly in approval, and he places a rocks glass in front of me.

“Well, then I’m glad you found something that fits into your schedule. Ice?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Watching him tediously scoop cubes from an ice bucket with a little metal scoop, my line of questioning feels like a snarl of Christmas lights that needs unraveling.

I’m not overly social outside of my sales routes, and I can’t remember ever talking about sex with anyone.

Something about him making me a drink, however, gives off a vibe of camaraderie, bolstering my bravery.

I mean, if recommending sex clubs is no big deal to him, I should try to act like it’s no big deal to talk about one.

“Have you ever…had a problem…at one of these places?”

“What kind of problem?”

“The kind where…” Jeez. What do I even say? Shifting, my tender nuts beg me to say something. “Like if someone acted inappropriately.”

He stops mid-pour. His chestnut gaze flicks to mine with something more threatening in it than I imagined him capable of possessing. Until now, I’d have pegged him for one of those people who are so laid-back it’s almost obnoxious. “Did someone hurt you?”

“No,” I blurt, taken aback at his level of concern. I don’t want this to be a big deal. I want to get the help I need and then have it be a forgettable conversation. “They just…did something I didn’t expect.”

Brow furrowing, he considers my cryptic admission and finishes his pour. “And you didn’t like it?”