Page 24 of Wayward (Wrecked #4)

Rough Water

Dante

I close the door behind Sam. Calvin’s already placed Haley on the sofa. Zane’s closing the curtains.

“You think Holloway will ask at the front desk if anyone has seen us?” Zane says, pulling another curtain shut. Calvin grabs a chair from a table and wedges it under the door handle.

They’ve got this. I sink down next to her. “Holy hell, Sassy. I didn’t know you could lie like that!”

“I didn’t either. Well, other than the occasional little white lie to a guest.”

Rockwell sits on the sofa table and takes Haley’s hand. “Damn, Firefly, how did you know who the bride was?”

“I wasn’t sure but―”

“I was losing the desk clerk. You’re the one who closed the deal.” I give her a kiss on the cheek.

“On Charlie’s boat last year, there was a group of girls.

Remarkably easy to take care of―old money.

A Vanderbilt, Cabot, Winthrop, and some others.

Stella was the primary. They just read, sunbathed, and drank their weight in skinny martinis all week.

Stella was marrying into a shipping family from Thailand. It wasn’t a sure thing, but . . .”

“Damn, you’re hot when you’re so smart. And telling the clerk that Holloway stole our bags?” I kiss the side of her neck.

“Thank you. You think it will work? It’s going to work,” she says to herself.

“I know it.” I squeeze her shoulders and stand.

Sam’s pacing by the window. Calvin’s peering through the peephole insouciantly. And Zane’s flipping through a wooden folder.

“What do you have, Zane?” I ask.

“We’re going to need supplies. And if we’re going to take the engineer’s advice and not contact the authorities . . . Are you still sticking by that?” Zane’s eyebrows raise. We went over it more than once below deck on the Green Summit.

“What?” Sam turns. “We go to the police. I don’t believe the Zambrano family are all-seeing.”

Zane pulls a crumpled file folder out of the back of his pants. “Bloody hell, it feels good having that out. Look at this, Sam, and you’ll change your mind.” Zane hands it to him.

“What is it?”

“Well, it’s not straightforward. But it’s a list of payments and debits. Off the books stuff. Look at the second page. Those are initials. Country codes.”

Sam sinks into a chair. “It’s global.”

“Yeah.” Zane pats Sam’s back. “The twat has people in his ranks all over the world. Nowhere as secret as Rocky’s journal.

But . . . it would be a hell of a hard thing to sell in court.

There’s a ton of initials and records of debit and payments.

Hopefully we can use it somehow to implicate him.

Rocky’s code was complex. This is simple but only if you know what each column actually means. ”

Sam flips pages. “There are hundreds of initials.” He tosses it on the coffee table next to Easton, who picks it up.

“Yeah, mate. So no, we don’t tell anyone until we’re out of here and know who we can trust. Ed wants us dead.

And there’s a reason. A man with a list like that isn’t going to hold back.

” Zane’s attention returns to the wooden folder.

“This is the normal 'what to do about town' folder. We need clothes and a way out of here.”

“We’re going to need passports. Fake ones. Good ones.” I turn to Easton. “Don’t suppose you have access to cash without an ID?”

“Not if we don’t want anyone to know we’re here,” Rockwell replies.

“Right.” I squeeze my eyes tightly closed and pinch the bridge of my nose.

Because there’s no way he’s still here, running the same place.

And if he is . . . can I trust the bastard?

Haley puts her head on my shoulder. “Fuck, Sassy. Let me go get some ice for your ankle.” I remove myself from the sofa and carefully stand.

There’s an ice bucket on the other side of the room.

I take a keycard from the packet Sam left on the table.

“I’ll be back in a flash. I saw an ice machine not far from here. They must get a lot of Americans.”

“Dante, don’t go. My leg will be fine. It’s not safe.” She goes to stand, but Easton pulls her down onto his lap.

“You need ice, Haley. Dante knows what he’s doing.” Rockwell holds her.

“Thanks. I’ll be fast.” I give him a salute. Because I sure hope I know what I’m doing. We’re already in trouble. And bringing the asshole I’m thinking of into the picture? It could be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. And that’s saying a lot.

Calvin moves the chair, and when the door swings shut behind me, I hear it being jammed back in place.

It’s quiet out. But it won’t be where I’m heading.

The last time I was there, I was slamming back shots of straight Thai whiskey at four in the morning.

It’s actually a rum, but whatever. It’s sweeter and smoother and popular with the locals.

But first, I’m not leaving Sassy in pain.

The ice machine is humming in an alcove between a group of villas.

I fill the damn bucket to the top and run it back.

I knock on the door. Calvin opens it. “Here.” I shove it at him.

“There’s something I have to do. I know a guy.

But I need to go alone. Make up a good excuse for Sassy. ”

Calvin narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t fucking get caught.”

“I’ve got this.” I give the bucket at his chest a push; the damn Viking doesn’t move. But he does close the door.

And I’m off. First, I need new clothes. You can only get so far wearing hand-me-down blacks.

Though it’s not bad for hiding in the shadows.

I make my way to the front of the resort, staying clear of the marina on my way to the main building and out into the city streets.

Where I need to be is more than a couple of miles from here.

I’m about out of the gates when I hear a car coming out of the entrance.

Fuck. I imagine Holloway coming down the road.

It has my heart throbbing. I push myself into the tall, manicured hedge next to the road.

A taxi passes. A flash of light illuminates the back seat.

A man has his arm around a woman. I need to calm down.

Jumping to the worst-case scenario hasn’t been me since even before I got my stinking uncle out of my mother’s life.

There’s something there, though. My asshole uncle taught me a lot about getting what I want from people, even if they don’t want to give it to me.

I remove myself from the bushes and run my fingers through my hair.

Leaves drop from my shoulders as I do. I stride out to the sidewalk, a sidewalk that quickly disappears as you get away from Resort Treasure.

The huge sign glistens behind me. Another car comes down the road, the driver’s elbow out the side of his window.

A flash of my hands at the driver and he slows.

In my best French, I ask if he’ll give me a ride into town.

I ask again in broken Thai. He blinks and looks me up and down.

Being here for four months, eight years ago, has left me more than a little rusty.

“Sure, why not? Hop in,” he answers in English and taps the side of his car.

“Thanks.” I round the front of his car, one hand atop his grill. Because you never know when someone might just run you over. You can take the kid out of the hood, but you can’t take the hood out of the kid. I open the door and jump in.

“Where are you going?” he asks in English way better than my Thai.

“Yai’s Place, in the Kathu.” The car has a half-dozen air fresheners hanging from the mirror and a coke can full of cigarette butts in the glass holder.

“Ohh.”

“You know it?”

“Yes, the best food in town. Also the best place to lose your wallet after dark.”

“Exactly.”

“You want to lose your wallet?”

“No, the food. I’m . . .” I hesitate to say friend of the chef-owner. Because I’m not. “I know Yai Anan.”

He humphs but throws the car into gear and takes off. “He’s an ass.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“No, I’m never wrong.”

I nod and watch the elite beach hotels fade into the real heart of the city where the locals live.

The buildings get shorter and brighter. Pops of color glisten in the moonlight.

Maybe it’s having been away from the city―from people―for so long, but my heart’s opening up like a world of possibility is out there again.

There are fireworks exploding in my head.

I don’t remember every part of the way exactly, but it’s coming back.

Not that I spent many hours anywhere but in the bastard’s kitchen.

“Here.” He stops.

And I look at the other side of the street.

A flood of late nights rushes back at me.

It was hell and heaven at the same time.

I learned a lot and slept not at all. I thought I was going to leave with a big roll of cash, but other than the money I had already sent to my mother, everything was gone.

Because, well, Yai’s an asshole. But right now, he’s the only thing we have.

I hop out of the car and go around to the open driver’s window. “Thanks for the ride.” I fucking wish I had something to give the guy. If I’d thought this through better, I would have taken some of the cash from Sassy.

“It’s a full moon. Bad time to die.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He peels off.

The fucking building looks worse than it did when I left it. There’s a crowd of people stumbling out the doors. Locals, mostly. A few tourists in the know.

I muscle my way through the crowd and inside.

Fluorescent lights accost my eyes, but damn, the smells.

My stomach growls, almost loud enough to be heard over the roar of the patrons in the place.

Every booth is full. The bar is three deep.

I make my way to the front counter. There’s no one I know working there.

Not that I thought there would be. A perfectionist jerk like Anan has a hard time keeping staff from turning over.

I lean to the side where the counter lifts. I can almost see into the kitchen.

“Is Yai Anan here?” I ask in Thai.

“Yeah, who wants to know? He’s busy,” the counter girl says.

“The old fart’s always busy. I’m an old friend.” I bite my tongue on the word friend because, while he knows the whole city, I’m not sure he has a damn friend.

“Friend?” She humphs, and her raven black braid down her back sways. She tugs on her white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her eyes flick over me. “You a cook?”

“Yeah.” I’m not going into the semantics of being a chef with her. When I was here, I was just barely a cook. The ass flipped my switch to being a chef.

I can hear him screaming in the kitchen. It’s part Thai, a little French, and some English mixed in for good measure. There’s a slam of a pot and a cloud of flames and vapor over the stove. He yells again―basically saying, “Get your shit together.”

She lets the swinging door hit her, and I hear her telling him in rapid-fire Thai, “Some white guy says you’re his friend. He can’t talk worth shit.”

The door flies open. “Dante!” he says with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Get back here and show this useless lump of flesh how to make Pad Kra Pao before I have to hurt him.” He flips back the counter, making two of his customers grab their drinks before they are crushed.

Somehow, he’s not surprised I’ve shown up. But that’s Anan.

I wink at the front-of-house bartender-server and follow Anan.