Page 8 of Cruel Pleasures
Luckily, Emerald’s grandmother owns a vintage fashion shop in downtown Easton and she let me borrow several designer pieces, right down to the Louis Vuitton luggage I’m using.
It seemed doable.
But that was before Francesco—or Francesco’s wife—abruptly decided he would no longer be attending.
Any time I tried to contact Francesco, my messages went ignored. The same happened to all calls placed and emails sent.
He had ghosted me. I’d care more if he wasn’t so clearly some skeevy businessman helping me out for a fuck. He might not have said it outright, but I knew his type well—wealthy men who give you a helping hand expecting only one thing in return. In a way, I’m relieved he won’t be attending the event with me.
Now I don’t have to worry about being guilt-tripped into a pity lay.
I’m buckled into the window seat of the small 713 airliner that bobs and weaves upon takeoff. The neon red seatbelt light glows pointedly in the narrow cabin where passengers, no matter their size, sit shoulder to shoulder.
Between the inclement weather and the frailty of the 713, it wouldn’t surprise me if we blew away. The plane gave up the fight and simply… let itself get blown away among the fuzzy clouds and cold daggers of rain.
We hit another spat of turbulence, and my stomach rolls along with the small airliner. I clutch the armrests of my chair and sink my nails into the worn leather fabric covering them. It feels like we’re on the rockiest rollercoaster known to man—we’re riding an invisible track 40,000 feet in the sky, dipping and diving and leveling out only at the last possible second.
My heart’s a ticking clock in my chest. It’s all I can do to close my eyes and distract myself with thoughts of the giant fucking margarita I’m going to have the moment my feet touch the ground again.
Extra salt. Double tequila.
Thirty minutes later, the tiny wheels of the airliner reach the tarmac. The others on the plane—which consists of twelve more passengers—erupts in relieved applause. Glancing around at the rest of them, I suspect I wear the same relieved expression on my face.
The gratitude that we’ve survived the most shit-your-pants plane ride of our lives. A flight through every corner of hell would’ve been more pleasurable.
I suck in the cool, briny air as I step down the metal staircase. My chin-length hair whips against my face when confronted by the aggressive wind. The same wind that just about made me lose the contents of my stomach.
Though I shouldn’t be surprised.
All weather forecasts for the Isle of Hurst warned about the wet, windy season. Apparently, it’s a staple of the small New England isle.
When the sun’s out and the sand’s warm, it’s the perfect getaway.
In the winter months, not so much.
Which makes you wonder why the Midnight Society would bother throwing an annual party on a secluded island miles away from civilization in the most miserable weather…
I roll my carry-on suitcase behind me as I follow the throng of passengers headed inside the regional airport. The only regional airport on the sliver of water-locked land.
The next time I board the 713 airliner, it’ll be my return flight after I’ve found the answers I’m seeking.
For the next two weeks, I’m Sasha Newton, granddaughter of the illustrious Clive Newton, one of the world’s biggest real estate moguls. In preparation for the most intensive role I’ve ever taken on as an amateur actress, I’ve memorized everything I could about the missing woman.
I’m near undetectable from Sasha herself as I smile at the first taxi driver I see. He loads my things into the trunk of the taxi and then slides behind the wheel. His beady eyes meet mine in the rear view.
“Where to, sweetheart?”
“The local B&B.”
He smiles, showing mismatched teeth. “No surprise. But you’re getting here on the last night? It’s closing up for the season?”
“So I’ve heard.”
The rain pelts the roof of the taxi as we drive through town. The pounding sound competes with the taxi driver’s voice as he tells me all about the isle that frequently hosts the country’s rich and powerful.
I tune him out for a moment and study my surroundings.
There’s one big street that stretches from one end of the isle to the other. It runs dead center through the vacation town, dividing shops and boutiques up with bars and restaurants. The end of the line sits up ahead, taller than everything else on the isle.
