Bad Cruz

This lady must’ve pushed one hell of a button.

“Don’t,” I warned the woman in front of me, my jaw ticking in irritation. I’d never been less than a perfect gentleman to a woman before, and this, too, felt more liberating than alarming.

Her eyes flared. “I’m leaving with my suitcase.”

“It’s not yours. My companion already said she didn’t steal it.”

“I don’t care what your whore said,” the woman enunciated extra slowly for impact. “I’m leaving with it. And, frankly, next time you take a sex worker on a cruise, at least get an expensive escort. You’re embarrassing yourself prancing around with her like we don’t know what she is. Now, if you excuse me, I’m leaving.”

“Wanna roughhouse it?” I lifted an eyebrow.

She almost fainted.

“You deserve each other,” she spat.

“I wish.”

Riling her up was fun, and I couldn’t actually let her get out of here before making Tennessee feel better about the mix-up.

At some point in all this mess, her husband—poor Fred—had the good sense to pry my suitcase out of her hands and unzip it, revealing some flowery gowns, high heels, and jewelry I definitely did not pack for the cruise.

He crouched down, waving a handful of diamonds in the air in triumph.

“See? This is hers. Says right here on the suitcase tag. Ramona Warren. That’s my wife.”

For a second there, I was completely speechless. Probably because I’d never been in a situation like this before.

No one had ever accused me of any wrongdoings, and I’d never been caught with my pants down (ironically, other than that time I was caught with my pants down, junior year of college with Felicia Ralph).

Logically, I could tell that there was room for error—both suitcases were navy. Even I had mistaken it at first glance for mine.

And I definitely should’ve unzipped my suitcase and checked its contents—which I would’ve, given the chance, which Tennessee took from me when she locked me out the night before.

But then there were other things to consider. Such as—who the hell didn’t read the tag on a suitcase before bringing it into a room?—Tennessee Turner, that’s who.

Also, why had Tennessee been so stressed about our room being searched before it was revealed the suitcase belonged to this woman? What did she have to hide? From what I could tell, there were no sex toys or human feces in plain sight to make a quick search in the room unbearably uncomfortable.

I turned to look at my companion. Tennessee glanced away, out the window, at the blue ocean, her chin upturned, her eyes two shiny crystals.

She was going to cry.

I turned back to Mr. and Mrs. Warren.

“My apologies.”

The management women began blabbering about complimentary drink vouchers and a new point system that would allow Mr. and Mrs. Warren an upgraded room if they chose the same cruise again.

“I bet you feel pretty stupid right now, don’t ya, Mr. Hot Shot?” The lovely Mrs. Warren stomped over the carpeted floor with a vicious grin as she passed me, her shoulder brushing my arm purposefully.

“All I feel is intense compassion for my companion, who made a human error, and had to pay for it with meeting with your sour face,” I maintained calmly.

Mrs. Warren snorted, already out the door. “Keep her on a leash, pal.”

“That’s a nice visual. I just might, if she’s into it.” I received the desired effect as Mrs. Warren paled to a shade reserved for the walls of mental institutions. “Does that mean you have my suitcase?” I asked, the practical prick that I was.

“There’s a couple suitcases in the lost and found cabin. We’ll check,” one of the representatives said helpfully.

And then, Tennessee and I were all alone.