I don’t bother giving him my name. I give him something more important—the amount. Along with the details of the account where he can send the money.
He takes a heartbeat to answer, his words stretched tight with fury. “She’s returned to me unharmed. Untouched. She’s my daughter. You haven’t touched her. Tell me you haven’t touched her, God damn you to hell.”
“Not yet,” I lie. “She’s tempting, though. I wouldn’t wait too long to pay up.”
And then I end the call, leaving him alone a thousand miles away, raging about what I might do to Daddy’s little girl. It’s more money than he’d have in liquid assets. It will take a few days for him to pull together the money. Maybe another day to contemplate bringing in the cops. Enough time for me to enjoy the sweet little hostage in my room.
9
Ashley
In the morning I can feel the echoes of his hands on me.
Fortunately, Poseidon isn’t in the room to witness my futile attempts to get the chain off my leg or the awkward five minutes I spend trying to figure out the best way to carry it around with me. It’s got to be twenty pounds.
Fine. I won’t escape. But that doesn’t mean I’m staying in bed all day.
I do my best with my hair in the bathroom and do a more thorough search in there. It’s pretty barren, as far as bathrooms go, but there is toothpaste and a toothbrush still in its packaging. I find another pair of pants and a clean shirt. It’s Poseidon’s own fault that he’ll have more laundry. The pants are their own special adventure, what with the chain, but it turns out the ball fits through the ankle hole. I don’t look normal when I’m dressed, but I look normal enough to walk down to the galley.
I’m hungry.
Ravenously hungry.
That’s what I get, I suppose, for going on a midnight swim and then...
All the rest.
I follow the scent of something cooking down the hallway. Then comes the clatter of pots, the slice of a knife. A pass-through window opens to a steel, industrial looking kitchen. So I didn’t imagine this. Or the oatmeal.
There are stools on this side of the window, making a kind of bar. They’re too high for me to reach with the heavy ball on the floor. Humiliation warms my body from the inside out. I take the ball in both arms, climb up, and perch it in my lap.
It’s weird, I think, for a ship like this to have a set of stools near a pass-through window. In the movies, pirates eat in a different room from the kitchen. I don’t know where that room is on this ship. The movies are a terrible guide to real-life pirate ships.
For a minute I let myself stew in the shame of being here like this, trapped in literal iron, but the empty pit in my stomach wins out.
“Cook?”
The metallic clanging stops. Through the strange angle of the window I can see part of his back, but after a hesitation his face comes into view.
He’s older, but I can’t tell how much older. Weathered skin. A birthmark across one cheek. Gray eyes that could be blue if he were out on deck, but I can’t imagine him spending much time in the sun. He’s got a rolling pin in both hands, and from the way he looks at me, I can tell this is going to be an uphill battle.
“Am I too late for breakfast?”
“Yes.” He turns away and goes back to his project of the morning.
I have an enormous ball on my lap. It gives me patience I otherwise might not have. Patience to let him start making noise again.
“Cook?”
He comes back. This time, his eyebrows are brought low over his eyes.
“I understand that I’m late for breakfast, but do you have any eggs left over? Or toast?” My stomach growls loudly as I say it. I couldn’t have wished for better timing.
“Yes.” He delivers this with a flick of his eyes that might be a roll, but he turns his back too quickly to see.
A pounding noise comes from the cooking area now. Eggs don’t involve pounding.
I wait a bit longer. “Cook?”
When he returns, he passes the rolling pin from one hand to the other. It would be threatening if he slapped it against his palm, but the way he’s doing it doesn’t seem dangerous. It seems more curious than anything. Curious about why yours truly would have the gall to sit here and bother him until he finally snaps.
But he doesn’t snap.
He presses his lips tight together, watching me.
Then he clears his throat. “What is it you want from me?”
“Eggs. Also, bacon, but I don’t think you have that. Also, toast. I haven’t eaten in what feels like a hundred years, and I think you’re the kind of guy who could make really good eggs.”
He huffs, adjacent to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Is this how you always are?”
“Annoying?”
The corner of his mouth turns upward. “I could spare a couple of eggs.”
It must be a giant stove back there, with pots and pans on hooks and in cupboards. One of them bangs down on the stove. The seal of a fridge door pops, and the door swings shut a moment later.
I’m willing to sit here in silence if it gets me a breakfast that’s not oatmeal. I would kill for salt. And not because Poseidon kissed me in the ocean. That has nothing to do with it. I’m sure it has to do with being dehydrated. Electrolytes, and all that.
“How do you like them?”
The question takes me by surprise, but I’ve been quietly fantasizing about eggs long enough that I have an answer. “Scrambled. Not—not dry.”
He makes an almost-laugh sound again, like he cannot believe the audacity of me. It’s an opening. “You’re a mouthy one for a hostage, you know that?”
Hostage. I choose to ignore that. “How long have you worked on ships?”
“Longer than you’ve been alive.”
I run a hand over the ball. It’s old, that much is obvious. But the ball itself is shiny and smooth. Like someone treasured it for a long time. “Have you always worked on this ship, or do you go wherever the sea is calm?”
“Calm seas,” he bursts out. His voice is gruff, sharp, but his tone isn't wounding. It’s like he doesn't speak to people very often. “No. Where I go has nothing to do with the state of the sea.”
A toaster dings. A plate clatters against metal. A saltshaker grinds. A minute later the cook reappears and slides a plate in front of me. He did not, in fact, have bacon. He had a sausage patty, two scrambled eggs, and a stack of toast. He reaches across and gives me a fork wrapped in a paper napkin.
“There.” He folds his arms over his chest but doesn’t retreat back out of sight. “That’ll taste decent. Not like the slop I feed everyone else.”
I put a hand to my heart. “I’m grateful.”
“Don’t waste time on that. It’s getting cold.”
No more wasted time, then. The food is good. It’s so good. And it’s not because it’s the first real food I’ve had since I threw myself off Robbie’s yacht. It has the perfect amount of butter and salt, and it’s warm, and I need it.
“You really feed them slop?” I ask around a mouthful of toast.
Cook waves this off. “It’s not going to be five stars if I can make it in a vat.”