“Not quite,” I smile.
“Just promise me you’ll be careful,” she pleads.
“I promise,” I reply earnestly, “Careful as can be.”
“And bring protection,” she adds. “Can’t be going to a bacchanalian bonanza without a crate of condoms, can you?”
“Words of wisdom from Emma Sanders,” I laugh, happy for her levity. Joking about this undertaking almost erases my fear of what I’m about to do.
Almost.
Chapter Seven
The very next evening, I find myself standing on the dock of a swanky Boston Harbor yacht club just before sunset. I tug at the hem of my black mini skirt, adjust the straps of my silky white tank. I’m more than a little conscious of the gazes I’m drawing from the monied men and women lounging about their vessels all around me. This is not exactly my natural habitat, that’s for sure.
“Logan!” a peppy voice calls, “Over here, honey!”
I turn to see a petite red head furiously waving at me from the deck of a huge, gleaming yacht tethered at the end of the dock. Smiling gamely, I make my way toward the boat, trying not to twist an ankle as my heels wrangle with the wooden planks of the dock. Rookie mistake, Farrah, I chide myself. Who wears stilettos to a secluded island orgy?
“Hey Kari,” I say as I approach the yacht, looking up at the trio of beauties who will be my traveling companions this evening. “Hey Brie, Ani...”
Kari, the redhead, spearheaded this little mission, dragging the blonde bombshell Brie and willowy brunette Ani along for the ride. I wonder if she only let me come along so that there’d be a raven-haired, ethnically ambiguous girl to round out the group aesthetic. If so, at least it’s worked to my advantage. Yay diversity, I think wryly.
“Come on up,” Kari says, cradling a pink cocktail in her manicured hand, “The party’s just begun!”
Swallowing hard, I tread on over to the entrance of the yacht. Refusing to let myself hesitate or second guess, I take my first step onto the vessel. Here goes nothing.
I fall in with the girls from my school, letting them shepherd me into the main cabin where a bar has been fully stocked for the occasion. Eight or so girls have already congregated, and each is sipping happily on some frozen cocktail or other. A margarita is thrust into my hand the second I step inside, though by who I cannot say. The cabin speakers pump Top 40 pop into the air, and before long I’m feeling mighty claustrophobic. The excited voices of the girls around me, the heady mix of too many opposing perfumes and body sprays, and even a sip of my heavily poured drinks send me reeling. If I already feel overwhelmed, then what am I going to do once we land? I set down my drink at once, vowing to keep my head.
“I hope all the bikers look just like that guy from that show,” one of the girls I don’t know gushes insipidly in my ear. It seems that the only points of reference any of these ladies have for MC types are TV soaps and actions movies. But from the little Juliet told me about her own experiences with outlaw life, the girls here are in for a rude awakening.
The yacht skips across the Atlantic, bringing us ever closer to our destination. Even when I steal away to the bow for a breath of fresh air, I can’t quiet my wildly beating heart. I feel like I’m plunging off the side of a cliff, free and weightless for the time being, but speeding toward an absolute and messy end. Just keep your mind on your task, I remind myself, Get the story, find Juliet if you can, that’s it. Easier said than done.
Just as my solitude is interrupted by my trio of tipsy classmates, I see it off in the distance: the island I’ve been dreading and dreaming of for these past few sleepless nights. And there, towering above the tree line like an imposing being all its own, is the brick and mortar majesty of The Club itself.
Originally built as a Revolutionary War fort, the building was converted into a prison for the criminally insane in the mid 1800’s. For more than a century, those walls housed some of the most disturbed, violent criminals tried along the East Coast. The prison shuttered by the 1960’s, and was bought up by a private investor about ten years ago. The new owner gutted the fort-turned-prison while leaving much of the grungy, mysterious exterior of the place intact. These days, it’s outfitted with luxurious rooms, spas and saunas, bars, a casino, and whatever else might tickle the fancy of the rich men who frequent it. It’s a playground for the monied and the horny, and I’m about to walk right into the center of it.
Night has fallen by the time we reach the shore, and the illicit scene we come upon is illuminated only by the light of a raging bonfire. Bodies writhe and teem everywhere I look, coupling wantonly in the open air. Booze flows freely, pungent pot smoke drifts distinctly from the earthy smell of the fire. After the perfumed, feminine scent of the yacht cabin, this new aroma is strangely appealing to me.
My dozen companions and I step out onto the dock and stare, amazed, at the outrageous, sexy madness playing out before our eyes. Before anyone can change her mind, the yacht pulls away with a bellowing cry of its whistle—it almost sounds mournful. Out of the darkness, a gigantic figure appears, his bushy face illuminated by the light of a lantern. He introduces himself to us as Titan—the gatekeeper of this island. I can tell he’s trying to put us all at ease with his cheerful, friendly demeanor, but I can feel the girls tensing up around me, still. It’s starting to hit everyone, exactly what they’ve gotten themselves into.
We’re led through a maze of towering, ancient trees, toward the bonfire that surges and burns in a clearing of the forest. All around, the sounds of blaring rock and voices crying out in ecstasy mingle in the summer air. Red cigarette tips smolder in the darkness as they’re raised to full, flushed lips. I feel totally intoxicated already, but I try and force the clouds from my mind. I need to be sharp tonight, keep my wits about me. They’re the only defense I have, after all.
Scores of hungry gazes swing our way as we step into the light of the fire. A herd of fresh meat, as it were. I watch Brie’s knees start knocking together as we’re set upon by a pack of looming, lumbering forms. One by one, the girls are picked off—plied away with the promise of a drink or a handsome face. But not me. I know exactly who it is I’m looking for. The gorgeous Circle of Death President, Devlin Vile—a man I’ve only seen in grainy photographs and years-old mug shots.
Until this very moment, that is.