Dirty Grovel: Chapter 1

For a split second, I’m safe.

For a split second, I’m content.

For a single, split, solitary second, I’m at peace with the world.

Then reality shoves itself back into place like a harpoon to the eyeballs.

With it comes all the realizations that I never, ever should have forgotten. I am not safe.

I am not even a little bit safe! I’m on a yacht in the middle of the ocean, on the run from a crazy ex-boyfriend, a pissed off ex-fiancé, and possibly that fiancé’s psychopathic uncle, too.

I’m also huddled up in a miserable, uncomfortable ball on the cold tile floor of a bathroom, sick to my stomach from a baby I can’t afford to keep and can’t bear to lose.

Wait.

Hold on.

No, I’m not.

I mean, yes, I’m sick to my stomach—but I’m not in the bathroom. Not anymore.

I sit up abruptly as sleep falls away. The stateroom swims before my eyes—beautiful, luxurious, flawless, all polished teak and gleaming brass fixtures with portholes large enough to admire the pearlescent blues and greens of the ocean as it streams past.

I thrash around, but the sheets are cuffing my legs in place and the more I thrash, the tighter they get.

“I’d be careful if I were you—you’re bruised up enough as it is.”

I whip around and find myself staring into a pair of cold, gold eyes.

Oleg’s jaw is squared, his eyebrows knitted together.

He looks pissed.

He gets half a step closer to me before I scream.

“No!” I choke out, recoiling away from him. “Don’t come any closer.”

He bares his teeth. “For God’s sake, Sutton⁠—”

I finally rip out of the sheets and lunge towards the bathroom door behind me. The moment I’m on the other side, I slam it shut and lock myself in, heart hammering frantically against my rib cage.

On the plus side, I’m not trapped in the middle of the ocean with Boris.

But I can’t say that being trapped in the middle of the ocean with Oleg is much better.

“Open the door, Sutton.”

His voice is restrained, calm, bordering on sensible. It’s almost enough to make me listen.

Almost.

But then I remember who I’m dealing with.

This is Oleg Pavlov. He’ll be restrained, calm, sensible, and I’ll listen—and then, when I think I’m safe, he’ll strike.

“No!”

His shadow darkens the crack at the bottom of the door. “Sutt⁠—”

“No!” I cry again. “Leave me alone.”

“Need I remind you that you’re on my yacht?”

“Only because I didn’t think you’d be on it,” I yell back at him.

There’s a thunderous rattle on the door and I cringe backward with a gasp.

Sensibility and calm go right out the porthole. “Open the fucking door, Sutton.”

The queasiness is back with a vengeance. I feel like throwing up again. Maybe I should give him what he wants and open the door just so that I can yak all over him.

But before I can get my digestive system on board with the plan, the rattling stops. “I’m going to give you fifteen minutes to calm down and get this little temper tantrum out of your system,” he says. “When I return, I expect you to open the door so that we can have an adult conversation. Or else I will kick it down.”

“Well, that’s very grown-up of you,” I holler as his footsteps disappear from the state room.

When it’s quiet, I smack my forehead against the door repeatedly.

That couldn’t have gone worse.

I need to think. But the hormone soup is turning my brain into absolute mush. It feels like I can’t even form a single complete sentence in my head, much less devise a way out of this absolute clusterfuck of a situation.

It’s not like I’m awash in options, either. What am I gonna do—commandeer a lifeboat and make for shore like Captain Jack Sparrow?

I’m no sailor. Hell, I’m failing pretty miserably at being a stowaway. The ocean is not my friend right now.

Neither is anyone on this ship.

The best I can come up with is splashing water on my face, peeing fast, and pulling out my phone. Which only has a twenty-five percent charge left, and extremely tenuous reception.

I send a quick text to Sydney, hoping she’s got her phone on her and can answer right away. She’s my last lifeline at this point.

SUTTON: Syd, I’m in trouble. Oleg’s kinda kidnapped me. I need your help.

Thankfully, she starts typing back almost immediately. Unfortunately for me, her text isn’t very helpful at all.

SYDNEY: What do you mean, he “kinda” kidnapped you?

That’s what she chooses to focus on?!

SUTTON: Can I call?

SYDNEY: All clear on my side.

I do a quick battery check as I place the call. Shit. I’m down to twenty percent now. And this call is definitely going to drain the rest of it.

Guess I’ll just have to talk fast.

I give her the rundown as quickly as I can. Snuck on board a ship, thought I was safe, turns out I’m not.

“No way!” Sydney squeals. “You’re going to the Bahamas?”

“Trust me, Syd: I couldn’t make these things up if I tried.”

“What do you need from me? A coconut bra and a grass skirt?”

My jaw drops. “I’m trapped in the middle of the ocean with Oleg and you’re making jokes?”

“Hey, laughing is a whole lot better than crying about everything. Look at me. I’ve been trapped in my bedroom since yesterday, with guards posted outside my door—but you don’t hear me crying about it, do you?”

“What?!”

Sydney sighs. “Sorry to dump on you while you’re going through your own little drama but… yeah. I’m kinda in the same boat—figuratively speaking, in my case of course.”

“Jesus, Syd, what happened?”

“Paul and I had another fight.”

“Did he hit you again?” I demand.

“No, not this time. But he did threaten to never let me out of this room until my hair turns grey.” She takes a deep breath. “I might have to leave him.”

“You think?!” I yell incredulously. “You should have left him a long time ago, Sydney!”

“Okay, the I told you so’s aren’t helping.”

“Right,” I mutter. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. I promised to help you out and then I go and land myself here.”

I bite my lip. “Does that mean you can’t get the money to me?”

“I’m still working on it,” she reassures me. “I’ll just need a little more time. I made friends with one of the guards outside my door. I think he may be able to help me pawn a couple of pieces of jewelry. Then I can Venmo you the cash the moment I get it.”

“Shit, I’m sorry to even ask right now, Syd.”

“Please. That’s what sisters are for. When you’re free and in the clear, maybe you could come over and save me in return.”

“Of course. That’s what sisters are for, after all.”

“Okay, but you have to keep me posted about where you are. Bahamas. Maldives. The freaking Cayman Islands. Honestly, are you really on the run or on vacation?”

I shake my head. “I wish I could laugh at things the way you can.”

“Just takes a little practice, girl. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“I hope I never have to again,” I sigh, gripping the phone a little tighter because I know I’m going to have to say goodbye soon. “I miss you, Syd.”

“Hang in there, baby sister. Us Palmer women may be judgement-impaired when it comes to men, but we’re strong, we’re resilient, and we can get out of any mess we get ourselves into.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Fuck yeah, I’m right. We’ll get through this, you and me, together. Just give me twenty-four hours. Until then—” I startle as a sound comes from the opposite side of the door. He’s here. Probably with a sledgehammer. “—be careful and stay safe.”

The door vibrates as something heavy rams it from the other side.

I glance at my phone. Eighteen percent battery.

Dammit.

Sydney’s right, though. Us Palmer women are strong. We are resilient.

And if we go down, we go down fighting.

Mom kicked and screamed even as she was being dragged into the police car. She cussed out the cops who cuffed her and screamed obscenities as they shoved her into the back seat of the police vehicle.

She called the arresting officer a “sorry excuse for feminism.” The female cop was decidedly not amused but I’ll give my mother one thing: She got the last word in.

Not sure how much of a comfort that is to her now, sitting in her jail cell the last few years, but hey—small victories, right?

The next ram on the door means business. Another hit and it’s going to come crashing off its hinges.

I spot a crystal bottle of cologne and grab it. My palms are so sweaty that it damn near slips through my fingers.

Right on cue, the door crashes inwards.

I don’t wait and I don’t aim.

I just hurl the bottle right at the man standing on the threshold.

If it’s a fight he wants, it’s a fight he’s going to get.