Enslaved by the Ocean
Page 15
“Thanks,” Hendrix says, taking the items from her hand.
She turns her eyes to me, and for a moment we hold each other’s gaze. Could this girl be my way out? She gives me a small weak smile and then turns and leaves. Just how many women are on this ship? I thought it was some sort of rule that women didn’t stay on pirate ships, but then, I didn’t think pirates even existed in the world anymore.
I guess everything I believed in was wrong.
Hendrix walks over, dropping the things on the table in front of me. I see a tank top, a pair of jeans, a bottle of water and a sandwich. My stomach twists angrily, and I’m not sure eating is a wise idea.
“Is that girl a prisoner too?” I suddenly ask.
Hendrix was just turning away, but at my words he stops and glares down at me. “She is here willingly.”
“Why?” I blurt.
Why would anyone, in their right mind, stay on a pirate ship?
“Her life ain’t your business. Nor are any of my crew’s lives.”
I narrow my eyes, but I drop it. I turn and stare at the sandwich again.
“I suggest you eat that, drink the water, get in the shower, and then rest.”
“Like you care,” I murmur, reaching over and gripping the sandwich.
“I have to give something worth wanting,” he snaps. “Right now you wouldn’t sell for even the cheapest price.”
Ouch.
I don’t answer him. I just lift the sandwich to my mouth and take a bite. The minute the food hits my tongue, I cringe. I’m starving, don’t get me wrong, but my stomach has been starved for so many days, the idea of food and the reaction to food has it coiling angrily. I chew slowly, closing my eyes and focusing on my breathing. I have to eat, for my health and my strength. I swallow the chewed piece down, and wince loudly at the pain in my throat.
“Don’t go eating that too fast,” Hendrix says. “You will only chuck it back up. Take it from me.”
I glare at him. “What would you know? Have you ever been so starved the thought of food actually repulses you?”
He meets my gaze, his eyes deadly serious. “Yeah, I have.”
He has? I blink. That wasn’t the answer I expected. Unable to say anything to that, I turn my head back to the sandwich, and take another bite. It’s ham and cheese, basic, simple, and if I wasn’t feeling so ill, probably very yummy. I reach over and take the water, unscrewing the top and bringing it to my lips. The desperation grips me again, and I want so badly to just swallow it all down. I know I can’t. I have to go easy, so I take a few big sips and put it down. I take another bite of the sandwich, then stand and lift the clothes into my arms. I turn and walk off toward the bathroom without another look at Hendrix. I can’t eat another bite more until I have showered. I just can’t.
The bathroom is actually quite large with a shower over a tub, a toilet, and a big square sink. I walk over, running my fingers over the razors and aftershave on the countertop. It’s like being in a normal man’s bathroom, only Hendrix isn’t a normal man. I turn toward the mirror, and gasp when I see myself. Oh…my…God. He’s right. I look hideous. My face is covered in peeling skin, my hair is ratty and disgusting, and my eyes are bloodshot, saggy, and have dark rings under them. I’m usually quite tanned, with dark blond hair and big brown eyes. I actually like my looks. Right now, though, I look like a peeling snake.
I spin around and reach in to turn the shower on. The thought of soothing warm water has my body tingling in anticipation. I haven’t showered for days. I drop my clothes, wincing as I run them over my raw burned body. I step into the shower, and the moment the water touches my skin I cry out. I grit my teeth, knowing I have no choice but to stay and endure this. I need it. My body needs it. I close my eyes, and steady myself by pressing my palms against the shower wall. The ship rocks slightly, and I widen my stance to stop myself from tipping over.
It takes about five minutes for my skin to feel better. When it eases, I lean down and fill my palm full of soap. I gently wipe it over the least burned parts of my body, and then I lather it into my hair. I find a washcloth, and I begin gently wiping my face, removing all the dried-up skin. I rinse my hair, my body and my face, and then step out. I must admit I do feel fresher. My thoughts go to Eric. I should have requested that he got a shower. Maybe I can add it in. I dry myself gently, and then pull on the jeans and tank. Getting the jeans over my sore leg is a challenge, but I get there. They’re a little big, but that’s okay. They’re clean and they’re comfy.
When I’m done, I lift a comb from the counter and I run it through my hair. It takes me a solid fifteen minutes to detangle my blond locks, but when I look in the mirror again I can see a glimpse of myself. My face looks red, but far less hideous. Taking a deep breath, I turn and head back out. When I step out of the bathroom, I hear a giggle and turn my eyes to the far end of the room where Hendrix’s bed sits. The blond girl who gave me the stitches, is sitting on the edge of his bed, running her hands up and down his leg. Oh hell no, he’s not seriously going to get it on while I’m in the room…is he?
I clear my throat.
He looks up, and his eyes widen. It takes a moment for him to put the serious expression back on his face. Was he shocked that I actually look like a female?
“Why is she in here?” she whines.
I wrinkle my nose, and mutter, “I’m his prisoner. Remember?”
“Is she going to be in here long?” She pouts, turning her gaze to Hendrix, who still has his eyes on me.
She turns her eyes to me, and for a moment we hold each other’s gaze. Could this girl be my way out? She gives me a small weak smile and then turns and leaves. Just how many women are on this ship? I thought it was some sort of rule that women didn’t stay on pirate ships, but then, I didn’t think pirates even existed in the world anymore.
I guess everything I believed in was wrong.
Hendrix walks over, dropping the things on the table in front of me. I see a tank top, a pair of jeans, a bottle of water and a sandwich. My stomach twists angrily, and I’m not sure eating is a wise idea.
“Is that girl a prisoner too?” I suddenly ask.
Hendrix was just turning away, but at my words he stops and glares down at me. “She is here willingly.”
“Why?” I blurt.
Why would anyone, in their right mind, stay on a pirate ship?
“Her life ain’t your business. Nor are any of my crew’s lives.”
I narrow my eyes, but I drop it. I turn and stare at the sandwich again.
“I suggest you eat that, drink the water, get in the shower, and then rest.”
“Like you care,” I murmur, reaching over and gripping the sandwich.
“I have to give something worth wanting,” he snaps. “Right now you wouldn’t sell for even the cheapest price.”
Ouch.
I don’t answer him. I just lift the sandwich to my mouth and take a bite. The minute the food hits my tongue, I cringe. I’m starving, don’t get me wrong, but my stomach has been starved for so many days, the idea of food and the reaction to food has it coiling angrily. I chew slowly, closing my eyes and focusing on my breathing. I have to eat, for my health and my strength. I swallow the chewed piece down, and wince loudly at the pain in my throat.
“Don’t go eating that too fast,” Hendrix says. “You will only chuck it back up. Take it from me.”
I glare at him. “What would you know? Have you ever been so starved the thought of food actually repulses you?”
He meets my gaze, his eyes deadly serious. “Yeah, I have.”
He has? I blink. That wasn’t the answer I expected. Unable to say anything to that, I turn my head back to the sandwich, and take another bite. It’s ham and cheese, basic, simple, and if I wasn’t feeling so ill, probably very yummy. I reach over and take the water, unscrewing the top and bringing it to my lips. The desperation grips me again, and I want so badly to just swallow it all down. I know I can’t. I have to go easy, so I take a few big sips and put it down. I take another bite of the sandwich, then stand and lift the clothes into my arms. I turn and walk off toward the bathroom without another look at Hendrix. I can’t eat another bite more until I have showered. I just can’t.
The bathroom is actually quite large with a shower over a tub, a toilet, and a big square sink. I walk over, running my fingers over the razors and aftershave on the countertop. It’s like being in a normal man’s bathroom, only Hendrix isn’t a normal man. I turn toward the mirror, and gasp when I see myself. Oh…my…God. He’s right. I look hideous. My face is covered in peeling skin, my hair is ratty and disgusting, and my eyes are bloodshot, saggy, and have dark rings under them. I’m usually quite tanned, with dark blond hair and big brown eyes. I actually like my looks. Right now, though, I look like a peeling snake.
I spin around and reach in to turn the shower on. The thought of soothing warm water has my body tingling in anticipation. I haven’t showered for days. I drop my clothes, wincing as I run them over my raw burned body. I step into the shower, and the moment the water touches my skin I cry out. I grit my teeth, knowing I have no choice but to stay and endure this. I need it. My body needs it. I close my eyes, and steady myself by pressing my palms against the shower wall. The ship rocks slightly, and I widen my stance to stop myself from tipping over.
It takes about five minutes for my skin to feel better. When it eases, I lean down and fill my palm full of soap. I gently wipe it over the least burned parts of my body, and then I lather it into my hair. I find a washcloth, and I begin gently wiping my face, removing all the dried-up skin. I rinse my hair, my body and my face, and then step out. I must admit I do feel fresher. My thoughts go to Eric. I should have requested that he got a shower. Maybe I can add it in. I dry myself gently, and then pull on the jeans and tank. Getting the jeans over my sore leg is a challenge, but I get there. They’re a little big, but that’s okay. They’re clean and they’re comfy.
When I’m done, I lift a comb from the counter and I run it through my hair. It takes me a solid fifteen minutes to detangle my blond locks, but when I look in the mirror again I can see a glimpse of myself. My face looks red, but far less hideous. Taking a deep breath, I turn and head back out. When I step out of the bathroom, I hear a giggle and turn my eyes to the far end of the room where Hendrix’s bed sits. The blond girl who gave me the stitches, is sitting on the edge of his bed, running her hands up and down his leg. Oh hell no, he’s not seriously going to get it on while I’m in the room…is he?
I clear my throat.
He looks up, and his eyes widen. It takes a moment for him to put the serious expression back on his face. Was he shocked that I actually look like a female?
“Why is she in here?” she whines.
I wrinkle my nose, and mutter, “I’m his prisoner. Remember?”
“Is she going to be in here long?” She pouts, turning her gaze to Hendrix, who still has his eyes on me.
