Macy Beckett: Make You Mine

Marc brought the tumbler to his lips and belted it back, savoring the smooth, smoky burn of aged whiskey. He cleared his throat and clunked the crystal onto the table. “All right, I’m ready. Let’s have it.”

“Well, for starters,” Pawpaw began, scratching his turkey neck, “someone double-booked the honeymoon suite. Now the head’s busted in there, so neither of them can use it.”

That wasn’t so bad. “Call Herzinger Plumbing. He’s expensive, but he’s quick. Give the room to whoever booked it first, and offer the second couple the state suite. Then comp all their off-board excursions and give them a free bottle of champagne.”

“There’s more,” Alex said from the other side of the table. “Lutz found an issue with the train linkage, and he says he doesn’t like the look of the throttle valve.”

“Shit.” Now that was a problem. The city wasn’t exactly overflowing with steam engine mechanics, or spare parts for an antiquated machine designed in another century. “Can he get it fixed in time?”

Alex shrugged. “Probably, if you make it worth his while. You know how it goes.”

“Yeah, I know,” Marc grumbled. “Offer a twenty percent bonus for his crew if they get it done by next week.”

“And the Gaming Control Board called,” Nick added. “They’re auditing last year’s income statements, and they said there’re a couple pages missing from the general ledger.”

“That’s no biggie.” Marc’s sister could handle that. “I’ll have Ella-Claire fax them over.”

“Yeah, but the Mississippi permit still hasn’t come through for the Texas Hold’em tournament.”

“Son of a bitch.” Marc was going to need another shot.

Licensing was an unholy nightmare when Belle crossed state lines, but nothing aboard the boat drew as much income as the casino. Nothing. And tournaments doubled their cash flow, because the participants tended to gamble damn-near around the clock. He’d bent over backward to book that event. Without those earnings, they were screwed like—well, like the jazz singer they no longer had.

Marc pointed to Nick and said, “This takes priority over everything. Drive up there yourself and make sure we get that permit. Turn on the charm—do whatever it takes. We won’t cast off without it.”

“Want me to go now?”

Marc nodded at the door. “I wanted you there five minutes ago.”

“It’s just . . .” Nick hesitated. “There’s more.”

Marc slid his tumbler to Pawpaw for another pour. “What is it?”

“Daddy called,” Nick said.

“And?”

“He wants you to bring on Worm. Said to start him off busing tables.”

“And who’s going to look after him?” Their little brother wasn’t a bad kid, but fourteen-year-old boys had a way of gravitating toward trouble, and Worm was no exception.

Instead of answering, Nick tipped back his beer.

“Let me guess,” Marc said, accepting another shot from Pawpaw. “He expects us to do it for him.”

“The boy’ll be fine,” Pawpaw promised. “Just like when y’all were that age. Family takes care of their own.”

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one responsible for keeping Belle afloat—both literally and figuratively. Still, it could’ve been worse. At least Daddy hadn’t asked him to hire Beau. To say there was bad blood between Marc and his older brother was like calling Mount Fuji an anthill.

Marc tossed back his whiskey and wiped a hand across his mouth. “Fine, but we need to keep him busy. I want that boy so worn out, he falls down dead in his cot each night by eight.”

“That won’t be hard,” Alex said, “considering we’re short staffed.”

“What?” Marc’s backbone locked. “Since when?”

Pawpaw laughed and gestured at Marc’s empty glass. “Remember when I said you were gonna need that hooch? This is why. That shoddy employment agency that Alex used to hire the cleaning crew got shut down for forging work visas.”

Marc pushed both palms against the air. “Hold up a minute.” Everything had been fine when he’d left yesterday. “When did all this happen?”

The three shared a quick glance, and Pawpaw guessed, “’Bout thirty minutes ago.”

“It was the damnedest thing,” Alex said. “Like a shit storm blew into town and opened up right on top of us. It all happened at once.”

“All of a sudden,” Nick added. “When it rains, it pours.”

“Half an hour ago?” Marc whispered to himself.

Wasn’t that about the time he’d crossed paths with Allie Mauvais? That’s what he got for standing on the same side of the street with her. Maybe her great-great-grandma’s spirit knew all the filthy things he’d wanted to do with Allie.

“We’ve got to have a full cleaning crew,” he said, “or this trip won’t last long.” In such close quarters, sickness spread like wildfire, especially stomach bugs. All it would take was one bout of norovirus or E. coli to shut them down.

“No joke,” Alex said. “Remember that one year?”

All four men cringed at the memory.

A few summers ago, their vegetable supplier had delivered a bad batch of iceberg lettuce. Within days, hundreds of folks had it coming out of both ends—even the guests who’d avoided the salad bar. There wasn’t enough Pepto in the world to counteract a puke-fest of that magnitude. Just thinking about the smell . . . Oh, God, he was getting queasy. He quickly derailed that train of thought.

“If the press got wind of another outbreak like that, it would ruin us. Let’s station hand sanitizer pumps near all the doors and stairwells,” Marc suggested. “One inside every room, too.” He addressed Alex and said, “Call another temp agency. While you’re at it, see if you can snag us a few more servers.”

When a few seconds ticked by in silence, Marc asked his family, “Is that it?”

Pawpaw snorted. “That ain’t enough for you?”

More than enough. Marc felt the urge to knock on wood, toss a pinch of salt over one shoulder, cross his fingers, and tuck a rabbit’s foot in his back pocket—and he wasn’t even superstitious.

He dismissed the meeting and headed belowdecks to the boiler room. He wanted to see the valve “issues” with his own eyes and make sure Lutz wasn’t screwing him over.

Halfway down the first stairwell, his cell phone vibrated against his left butt cheek. Marc pulled it free and discovered a text.

Are you free for some afternoon delight?

A smile formed on his lips. It was Nora, the perky redheaded waitress he’d taken home a couple of weeks ago. She was hotter than hellfire in the sack, with a carpet that matched the drapes. But despite that, he found himself texting, Rain check?

You at the boat? she replied. I can be there in 10.

No dice. Marc was wiped out, and Nora wasn’t on his to-do list. Will make it up to you after this cruise.

It better be good!

Isn’t it always?

She signed off with an xxx/ooo, and Marc shoved his phone into his pocket.

For the first time since he’d sprouted short-n-curlies, he didn’t have the energy for sex. Hell, maybe he was jinxed after all.

One week and two dozen headaches later, Marc gathered his hair in a low ponytail and donned his captain’s hat—pristine white with a gold-embroidered black bill. He straightened his tie and grinned at his reflection in the pilothouse window.

He’d waited a long time for this.

Through the port bay, he could see a flurry of movement as early-morning shipments of fresh food and last-minute supplies arrived for loading. In a few hours, guests would begin boarding, and there was plenty to do before then. Just when Marc had managed to weather last week’s shit storm, the main chef had changed the menu and demanded a list of new ingredients.