Page 47 of Ship Happens

Then Brandon presses down sharply, and something pops. Owen can’t tell if it was supposed to or not.

“Oh my God . . .” Owen’s eyes roll back in his head.

“Better?”

“No, no, not really.” In fact, the tightness in Owen’s back only feels like it’s gotten worse. He can sense Brandon taking a step back, as if reassessing the situation.

“Hmm . . . maybe we could try some hot stones?” he offers. “I can step out and grab some if you’d like?”

In a flash, a plan forms in Owen’s mind. “Sure, stones sound great!” He musters as much faux enthusiasm as he can through the pain that’s only growing in his back.

“Excellent! Just wait here, I’ll be back in a jiffy!” Brandon tells Owen cheerfully as he steps out of the room. Owen is on his feet in an instant once the door is closed, stretching his back out a bit before he grabs his robe.

He pauses at the door, making sure that Brandon isn’t already on his way back, and when the coast is clear, he tiptoes out of the room, moving down the hallway, careful of every step. He almost expects Brandon to pop up out of nowhere, grab him by the ankles, and drag him back to the room. Not that that’d really happen, Owen knows that. But he can just as easily imagine the disappointment on the poor guy’s face as he’s told that he gave—what Owen suspects could be—one of the worst massages in human history.

Perhaps he could word that a bit better, let Brandon down a bit easier?

But just as he’s rounding the corner to what he hopes is the mineral bath area, Owen collides with something heavy and soft so suddenly that he almost falls to the floor. In fact, he should have fallen to the hard, damp tile. Owen’s never been all that good at catching himself.

That’s what Jacob was always there for.

It almost feels like a dream, standing there with him in the hallway, the both of them in their matching robes. Jacob’s arm is stretched around Owen’s waist, exerting just enough energy to keep Owen from falling flat on his even flatter ass.

“Hey,” he says. Jacob’s lips are mostly hidden by the bushiness of his mustache, but Owen can tell that he’s smiling.

“Hello.”

Jacob helps Owen regain his balance. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I was just—”

“Hey, Taylor, have you seen my client?” a familiar voice asks from around the corner. Owen freezes, barely stopping himself from making a run for it.

“Just what?” Jacob asks, none the wiser.

“I gotta hide,” Owen says.

“Huh?”

Owen doesn’t think, he just acts, opening the first door he can, which just so happens to be a storage closet. He closes the door behind him, searching frantically for a light switch to illuminate the small space, eventually finding the chain dangling from the ceiling. Shelves are stacked with folded towels, robes, extra pairs of slippers. There’s a pile of miscellaneous cleaning supplies, and a bin filled with dirty, damp laundry that smells sort of moldy. Not exactly the most inviting of spaces, but it works.

There’s a soft tap on the door, followed by Jacob’s quiet voice. “Owen? Everything okay in there?”

Then another voice.

“Excuse me, have you seen another passenger? Shorter than you, long blond hair, lots of tattoos?”

Please, Jacob . . . Owen telepathically signals. Please.

“Oh, uh . . .” Jacob’s voice is louder as he replies. “No, sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell.” Owen feels his stomach unclench.

“Okay, well . . . thanks. Let me know if you do!”

“Got it!” Jacob reassures Brandon, and then there’s a beat. Owen tries to listen for the sound of fading footsteps, but he can’t hear anything, not until Jacob chimes in again. “You’re clear.”

Owen opens the door slowly, still checking around the corner for any signs that Brandon might be doubling back. But there’s just Jacob, standing guard, smiling down at Owen with his arms crossed.

“Jilted lover?” Jacob teases.