As the yacht grows small beneath us, I turn my attention to Brock. His gash is still pumping blood and he swipes at it again. The man is a mess.
“Put your headphones on!” Robert yells. I glance up to see his are in place, as are his sunglasses. I blink a few times, adjusting to seeing him at the controls. The man doesn’t even drive himself around, but he flies helicopters? I roll my eyes and he turns in his seat, his jaw ticking, spearing me with a look even with the sunglasses on.
I find my headphones and put them on. When I look back at him Robert’s focus is once again on his controls…as it should be.
“There must be a first aid kit on this thing,” I say, my gaze tracking over the luxe interior.
“Under the seat,” comes Robert’s voice over the headset—smooth and calm in my ears.
I reach under, feeling around until I touch a metal box. Pulling it free, I find the classic red-and-white first aid kit. Inside is everything one needs to dress a head wound. Brock tries to take it from me, but I push his bloody hands away.
“Mrs. Maxim—” he starts, but I turn to him, meeting his gaze.
“Brock, I can help you. And for the love of God, call me nothing before you call me Mrs. Maxim.”
“He is under strict orders to call you by your legal name,” Robert’s voice says in my ears.
I flash him an angry look. Robert’s focus remains forward so I only see his profile. But he’s smiling, the jerk. I return my attention to Brock and the wound still seeping blood on his forehead.
I pull on latex gloves and then start with towels. Brock closes his eyes as I swipe at his forehead, flinching only slightly as I softly wipe away the blood around the wound. Then I open one of the large alcohol-soaked pads. “This is going to sting,” I warn.
Brock opens his eyes, meeting my gaze. He offers me a small smile, a thank you and almost what looks like an apology. Brock might recognize how messed up my relationship with Robert is…
I smile back at him, raising the wet wipe. The scent of alcohol fills the space between us and Brock’s jaw tightens as I clean his wound. It continues to seep blood, dyeing the pad red.
“Almost done,” I say, my voice probably too low for him to hear. I find butterfly bandages and scoot closer to him. Brock closes his eyes and his hands ball into fists as I place the first one. He takes in slow even breaths that hit my chest on the exhale as I work across his brow.
When they are all in place, I turn back to the kit and find gauze. Which I wrap around his head, mummy style, to keep the blood still escaping from falling into his eyes.
I secure it at the side of his head with tape and then sit back to admire my work. Brock opens his eyes and looks at me. I tilt my head. There is still blood all over his face.
Finding another wet wipe, I lean forward and start to clean off his face. Brock blinks at me but doesn’t pull away as I rub the crust off.
“Where are we going?” I ask Robert.
“The Palms,” he says. “Then you’ll go back to the island. I am not safe for you to be around.”
“Not before you tell me what I came here to learn,” I say, my voice coming out weird. As if I want to spend time with him and am upset he is sending me away. Don’t be weird, vocal cords, none of that is true.
“I’ll give you everything you want,” Robert says. I don’t respond, just sit back in the seat and pull off the latex gloves, stuffing them into the little trash bag that came with the kit. It’s pretty full with the rest of the debris from my wound tending.
The pink of sunset stains the sky peachy blue. My son moves inside of me, and I’m suddenly ravenously hungry. Even with the thick scent of alcohol and blood in the air, I am ready to eat.
Brock’s voice comes over the headphones, a pair of which he has now donned over his bandaged head. “Do you want me to message the Palms, sir?”
“Yes,” Robert answers.
Brock’s jaw ticks as if he doesn’t like this but he doesn’t contradict his boss.
Robert flicks something on the controls and his lips move. He must be communicating with his team.
Brock sends off a message on his phone and then rests his head back and closes his eyes. Brock’s breathing evens out, and I’m pretty sure he is asleep twenty seconds later when Robert’s voice comes into my headphones again.
“We will be at the hotel in fifteen minutes. You need a change of clothing and then we can eat. I’d like you to leave tonight.”
I glance down at myself. There is blood on my shirt—must be from Brock, though I don’t remember when it got on me. “Leave tonight?” I ask, surprised at my disappointment. “My doctor didn’t want me flying around that much. She actually thought I should spend a few days here,” I continue, thinking out loud. “But it wasn’t that long a flight…”
“Why?” Robert asks, turning to glance back at me briefly.
“It’s not good to fly so frequently at this stage of the pregnancy; I mean, she said it’s fine, but better to give my body a few days on the ground.” My gaze tracks to the ocean below. “I guess I blew that,” I add with a laugh.
“Are you in some kind of distress with the pregnancy?” Robert asks, his voice calm and collected. He doesn’t sound worried but when I look back at him his jaw is clenched tight.
“No, I’m fine,” I say. Blue shifts closer, resting his head in my lap, as if he knows that I’m not really fine. That I’m even more confused than when I left the island.
I need to get some answers and get the fuck out of here. Robert is right, he is not safe for me to be around. And not just because I’m likely to get shot…