Page 29 of Ship Happens
I snatch on the cuff, my frustration building. “Because I can’t. Because I don’t have all the answers. I was given a mission, same as you.”
“That’s where we differ. I know why I’m here. My mission means something to me because I swore an oath.” She scoffs and shakes her head. “There’s no honor in what you do.”
Arguing right now is futile. She fully believes she’s making a difference through her work, but I need to show her that she and I can coexist, that her goals aren’t so different from ours. Our solutions are just more...permanent.
I also need to reach that bag at the foot of the bed. Once that’s accomplished, I’ll think of an alternate plan.
“Take off your bra.”
Her head whips to the side. “Excuse me?”
“I’m going to use it to fish for the bag. If the hooks on the bra’s fastener can catch that mesh pocket on the side of the bag, we’ll be free.”
Her drawn-down eyebrows rise. “That’s...actually a pretty good plan. But turn your head.”
She doesn’t need to tell me twice. The temptation is definitely there, but her inability to listen to reason is one hell of a mood killer.
Several quiet seconds pass. Well, they’re quiet aside from Frankie’s huffing and grumbling. I can’t imagine it’s easy to unfasten a bra using only one hand, but she’s making it sound like a struggle of epic proportions over there. The bed bumps and rocks, and she finally lets out a single whimper.
“I think I’m stuck.”
I blink at the wall. “Stuck? Like . . . how?”
“My bracelet is caught on a thread on my shirt.”
“So rip it?”
“The bracelet was a gift from someone, and it means a lot to me, so I’m not ripping the bracelet.” She grunts again, and the bed squeaks as she struggles. “I don’t care about ripping the shirt, but since someone prevented me from using one of my fuckinghands, I can’t exactly pick and choose.”
“Look, just rip the bracelet. I’ll pay for the repair.” My hand rises, yearning to push through my hair and release the tension crawling over my scalp, but I stop before I fuck anything up. The style strategically hides a scar I don’t want to talk about. “The only other solution is to allow me to help you.”
Frankie’s legs thrash on the bed. I assume it’s her legs, anyway. It could be her entire body for all I know. Then she stills. “Fine. Just don’t get any fucked-up ideas. Sex is tied to damn near everything where you sick assholes are concerned.”
She’s wrong, but now isn’t the time for correction. If anything, I can remain a complete gentleman and prove that serial killers aren’t oversexed maniacs.
I turn my body, and my left shoulder thanks me for coming around to a more natural position. Frankie tries to scoot and angle her back toward me. By the time she stops squirming and twisting, I can see where the bracelet has snagged her shirt.
I can also see acres of smooth skin. My eyes are drawn to the dark freckles that occasionally accentuate her body. Is this what men feel like when they step into territory that hasn’t known human interference in eons? I imagine it’s similar. Like I shouldn’t be seeing this, and I definitely shouldn’t be allowed totouchwhat I see.
She’s a living, breathing liminal space.
“Unless you possess magical powers, I don’t think you’re going to untangle this mess with your fucking eyes,” she says, snapping me out of the trance.
I lean forward and grip the bracelet between my fingers, providing an anchor so that it’s supported. She was right to worry. The frail gold chain would have snapped long before the shirt gave way. A single charm dangles from the thin chain, but I can’t make out what it is.
Frankie looks over her shoulder. “Do you have a good hold on the bracelet?”
“Yeah.”
She twists her body, and the fabric rips, tearing a large hole from the middle of her back to her armpit. Her wrist comes free, complete with a flailing fabric souvenir.
“We’ll have to work together to unfasten the bra. I can’t do it with one hand,” she says, and I nod.
Again, I don’t feel like I should be touching her, but here we are.
I slide my fingers beneath the band, providing support on one side as she pushes and pulls the other. Her muscles and skin warm my hand as they writhe against me. I imagine her writhing for other reasons, and a familiar ache steals my breath.
The fastener slides free, and Frankie breathes a sigh of relief. She and I work together to unhook the right strap from the band, then get it off her body. Unfortunately, it then proceeds to tangle itself within her torn shirt.
