Chapter 7: Morning After
The first thing Jan felt was the warm, solid weight of Stacy’s arm thrown across her stomach. The second was the dull ache in her hips and the pleasant, molten throb between her legs—a satisfying reminder of the night’s festivities. Sunlight streamed through the porthole, etching shifting, watery patterns on the ceiling. The room smelled of sex, sweat, and the lingering scent of patchouli incense.
She stretched, a long, cat-like motion that made her back pop. Stacy stirred beside her, mumbling something unintelligible into her pillow.
“Morning, Coach,” Jan murmured, her voice raspy with sleep.
Stacy cracked one eye open. Her dark hair was a wild mess on the pillow. She took in Jan’s naked form, the freckles on her shoulders, the smile playing on her lips. A slow, sly grin spread across Stacy’s face. “Red. You’re on my arm.”
“Your arm is on me.”
“Semantics.” Stacy shifted, pulling her arm free and rolling onto her back. She stared at the ceiling. “Did we… you know. After the game? I remember you eating Casey out while I had my fingers in you, and then… blur.”
Jan propped herself up on an elbow, her short red hair sticking up in all directions. “You passed out. Snoring like a chainsaw. Mike and Casey went back to their room to check on Rick. The others slunk off. You and I just… crashed.” She traced a finger down Stacy’s taut abdominal muscle. “We didn’t finish what you started.”
Stacy caught her hand, lacing their fingers together. “An oversight.”
“A tragedy.”
“The shower,” Stacy said, her voice dropping to a low, husky register, “is big enough for two.”
“Is it now?”
“I checked the brochure.” Stacy sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist. She was all defined lines and sun-kissed skin, powerful and lean. “Race you.”
They didn’t race. They tangled together instead, Jan rolling on top of Stacy, their bare skin sliding in a warm, familiar friction. Jan kissed her, deep and languid, tasting sleep and herself on Stacy’s mouth. Stacy’s hands came up to cup Jan’s ass, squeezing, pulling her closer so their hips ground together.
“No rush,” Jan breathed against her lips, her own hands sliding up to knead Stacy’s breasts, her thumbs brushing over the hard nipples.
“Says you,” Stacy growled, but she let Jan set the pace. This was different from the energetic chaos of last night. This was slow, deliberate, a reclamation of a friendship that had always bordered on this but never quite crossed it. Jan kissed down Stacy’s neck, sucking a mark just above her collarbone, her hand drifting lower, through the coarse thatch of dark hair, to find her already wet and swollen.
Stacy gasped, her hips bucking off the mattress as Jan’s fingers slid inside her. “Fuck, Jan.”
“Mm-hmm.” Jan curled her fingers, finding that rough spot inside that made Stacy’s breath hitch. She set a steady, relentless rhythm, her thumb circling Stacy’s clit in time with her thrusts. She watched Stacy’s face—the sharp intake of breath, the flutter of her eyelids, the way her teeth sank into her lower lip. This was a study in controlled unraveling.
“I’m not gonna last,” Stacy warned, her voice tight.
“Don’t.” Jan increased the pressure, the speed. “Come for me, Stace. Let me feel you.”
Stacy’s orgasm crashed over her silently, a wave of tension that locked her body rigid for a long moment before releasing in a series of violent shudders. Her inner muscles clenched around Jan’s fingers, milking them. Jan held her through it, whispering nonsense into her ear until the tremors subsided.
Breathing heavily, Stacy pushed Jan onto her back. “My turn.” Her hand, slick with her own arousal, found Jan’s cunt. She didn’t tease. She pushed two fingers inside, deep, her palm grinding against Jan’s clit.
Jan cried out, back arching. “Yes, like that, fuck, just like that.”
Stacy fucked her hard and fast, a punishing, athletic pace born of years of physical discipline. It was overwhelming, raw, devoid of prettiness. Jan’s legs wrapped around Stacy’s waist, her heels digging into the small of Stacy’s back. She was close, so close, the coil in her gut winding impossibly tight.
“Come on, Red,” Stacy grunted, her own sweat dripping onto Jan’s chest. “Let it go.”
Jan shattered. A raw, guttural scream tore from her throat as the climax ripped through her, blinding and total. She convulsed, her vision whiting out, every nerve ending screaming. Stacy didn’t stop, working her through the aftershocks until Jan was a boneless, gasping heap on the tangled sheets.
They lay together for a while, sticky and spent, listening to the distant hum of the ship’s engines.
“Shower,” Stacy finally said, her voice rough.
“Carry me.”
“You wish.”
The hallway outside their rooms was quiet, the thick carpet muffling all sound. Mike pushed the stroller with a rhythmic squeak from one of the wheels. Rick, swaddled and pacified, stared up at the ceiling lights with wide, blue wonder.
“I think we broke the weirdness scale last night,” Casey said, walking beside him. She wore loose linen trousers and one of Mike’s old t-shirts, her hair in a messy bun. She felt sore in the best possible way.
“Scale’s fictional,” Mike replied, his goofy grin in place. “Jan lives several miles past the end of any scale.” He glanced at her. “You okay? After… everything?”
She leaned into him, bumping her shoulder against his. “I’m good. More than good. It was… fun. A different kind of fun.” She smirked. “You seemed to enjoy the game.”
He blushed. “It was a tactical defeat. I was ambushed.”
“By my natural 20.”
“By your everything.”
They shared a look, a whole conversation passing between them in silence. The love was there, steady and warm, but beneath it ran the darker, hotter current of what they’d shared, what they’d seen, what they’d done. It was a part of their tapestry now.
The ship’s intercom crackled to life with a gentle chime, followed by the smooth, cultivated voice of the Cruise Director. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is your Cruise Director speaking. We hope you are enjoying your transatlantic crossing. A minor reminder: all access to the forward cargo holds, Decks A through C, is temporarily restricted due to… unexpected guests requiring additional security screening. We apologize for any inconvenience. Please enjoy the numerous other amenities the S.S. Bon Voyage has to offer.”
Mike and Casey stopped walking. They exchanged a long, flat look.
“Unexpected guests,” Mike repeated.
“In the cargo hold,” Casey finished.
They both sighed in unison, the sound profoundly weary.
“Do we…” Mike began.
“Nope,” Casey said, popping the ‘p’. “Not today. Today, we are going to find the least magical, most boring place on this ship—probably the library—and we are going to sit. And read. Or not read. But we will not investigate.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
The squeak of the stroller wheel resumed.
Mara found the library. It was a beautiful, wood-paneled room with leather armchairs and a smell of old paper and lemon polish. She had claimed a corner table, a stack of legal journals and a laptop open before her. Zack was dozing in an armchair nearby, a thriller novel splayed on his chest.
The peace lasted twenty minutes.
An old woman shuffled into the library. She was small, draped in layers of lavender knitwear despite the ship’s climate control, with a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with silk flowers. She moved with a delicate, bird-like hesitation, her gloved hands clutching a beaded purse.
She paused by Mara’s table, her eyes—a shockingly vivid, liquid blue—settling on her. “Oh, I do apologize, dear. Is this seat taken?” Her voice was a soft, papery rustle.
Mara glanced at the empty chair opposite her. “No, please.”
The woman lowered herself into the chair with a sigh. “Thank you. The decks are so lively this morning. One seeks a modicum of quiet.” She placed her purse on the table. The beads seemed to shift, patterns swirling within them. “You have a focused mind. Like a sharp, clean needle. It’s… refreshing.”
Mara felt a strange tingling at the base of her skull, a sensation like spiderwebs brushing against her consciousness. She blinked, her lawyer’s instincts flaring. “I’m sorry, you are?”
“Mrs. Elmyra Winthrop,” the woman said, offering a gloved hand. Her smile was warm, but her eyes held an impossible depth. “A widow. Traveling to scatter my husband’s ashes off the Azores. A sentimental journey.” The tingling intensified. It wasn’t unpleasant, just… profound. As if she were standing near a hidden power source.
“Mara Henderson.” Mara took the gloved hand. The touch was cool, dry, and the tingling spiked, shooting up her arm. She withdrew her hand politely. “My condolences.”
“Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Winthrop’s gaze drifted past Mara, toward the door where Vivian had just entered, looking for a quiet corner to read. The old woman’s placid smile didn’t change, but her blue eyes seemed to darken for a fraction of a second. Vivian froze mid-step, her face going pale. She turned and walked briskly back out into the hallway.
“Are you alright, Miss Henderson?” Mrs. Winthrop asked, her attention returning to Mara. “You seem distracted.”
“I’m fine,” Mara said, forcing her voice to remain steady. The spiderweb feeling was coalescing into something clearer, a low-grade psychic hum. This was magic. Immense, ancient, and currently sipping tea in a lavender cardigan. “Just… a lot on my mind.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Winthrop said softly, her eyes twinkling. “A mind like yours must always be busy. Tell me, have you seen my boy? He’s… prone to wandering. Gets into trouble. I do worry so.”
Mara’s blood ran cold. The jar. The Entity in Fatima’s room. This was no widow. “I can’t say I have,” she replied, her tone perfectly neutral. “What does he look like?”
“Oh,” Mrs. Winthrop sighed, a sound like wind through distant caves. “He looks like trouble. But he’s mine. And a mother always finds her children.” She leaned forward slightly. “You’ll help me, won’t you dear? You seem like such a helpful young woman.”
Before Mara could formulate a response, a shadow fell across the table.
Agent Dale Foster stood there, his smile professional, his blue eyes cool. “Mrs. Winthrop. Miss Henderson. Is everything alright here?”
Mrs. Winthrop looked up at him, her expression innocent. “Just making a new friend, Officer.”
Foster’s gaze swept over Mara, assessing. “The forward cargo holds are off-limits, ladies. Safety protocol. I’d recommend the promenade deck for socializing. Much better view.” His tone was polite, but it carried an undertone of steel.
“We were just discussing literature,” Mara said, meeting his eyes. The hum from the old woman and the polished, antiseptic aura emanating from Foster created a dissonant pressure in her head.
“Of course.” Foster nodded. “Carry on.” He didn’t move.
Mrs. Winthrop slowly gathered her purse. “I believe I’ve taken enough of your time, dear. We’ll speak again.” She gave Mara a final, meaningful look, then shuffled out of the library, leaving a faint scent of ozone and rosewater in her wake.
Foster watched her go, then turned his attention back to Mara. “Interesting woman. You should be careful who you befriend on a ship this large, Miss Henderson. Not everyone is as they seem.”
“I could say the same, Agent Foster,” Mara replied, closing her laptop with a definitive click.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Enjoy your day.”
Once he was gone, Zack stirred awake. “What’d I miss?”
Mara stared at the doorway, her mind racing, piecing together fragments. The restricted cargo hold. The Entity in the jar. A mother looking for her troublesome child. A security agent with a hidden agenda. “Trouble,” she said quietly. “We need to find Jan.”
The shower was indeed big enough for two. It was also, ten minutes later, the scene of a much more leisurely and soapy exploration than the bed had been. Stacy had Jan pinned against the cool tile, water sluicing over their bodies as she kissed her way down Jan’s stomach.
“You know,” Jan gasped, her hands braced against the wall, “we should do this more often.”
“Shut up,” Stacy murmured, her breath hot against Jan’s inner thigh before her mouth found its target.
Jan’s head thumped back against the tile. Stacy’s tongue was relentless, licking and sucking with a focused intensity that left Jan trembling. She hooked one of her legs over Stacy’s shoulder, opening herself wider. “Right there, fuck, don’t stop.”
Stacy didn’t stop. She used her tongue, her lips, the flat of her hand, bringing Jan to a quick, sharp peak that left her slumping against the wall, water pouring over her face. Stacy rose, kissing her way back up Jan’s body, claiming her mouth, letting Jan taste herself.
They were drying off, towels wrapped around their bodies, when a frantic knocking echoed through the stateroom.
“Jan! Stacy! You in there?” It was Mara’s voice, tight with controlled urgency.
Jan shared a look with Stacy. “Duty calls,” she sighed, though her eyes were already alight with a familiar, mischievous fire. She pulled on a silk robe, leaving it untied, and opened the door.
She pulled on a silk robe, leaving it untied, and opened the door.
Mara stood there, still dressed in her sharp silk pajamas, her arms crossed. Zack hovered just behind her, looking sheepish. Mara’s eyes flicked over Jan’s damp, loosely-clad form, then past her to where Stacy stood similarly robed, toweling her hair.
Jan’s face broke into a bright, unrepentant grin. “Counselor! You’re up early.”
Mara’s gaze was flat. “Jan, can you go five minutes without getting laid by at least one of your friends?” She pinched the bridge of her nose, a familiar gesture of exasperated affection.
Jan shrugged, the robe gaping further. “It’s a big ship. The day is long. What’s up?”
“We need to talk. Now.” Mara shouldered past her into the room, Zack giving Jan an apologetic glance as he followed. The air was still thick with the smell of sex and steam. Mara ignored it, perching on the edge of the unmade bed. “I had two very suspicious run-ins in the library.”
Stacy, finishing with her hair, leaned against the bathroom doorframe. “Popular place this morning.”
“One,” Mara began, her voice low and precise, “was an old woman. Called herself Mrs. Winthrop. Widow scattering ashes. She set my teeth on edge just by sitting near me. And she was looking for her son.”
Jan’s playful expression faded into one of focused intensity. She cinched her robe closed, but the casual gesture couldn’t hide the sudden sharpness in her green eyes. “She made you feel it? You’re not magical.”
“I felt a… pressure. A psychic hum. Like listening to a transformer box in a rainstorm.”
“That’s strong magic,” Jan said quietly. “Old magic. To push that through to someone without the sight.” She glanced at Stacy, who gave a slight nod, understanding the weight.
“Vivian walked in, took one look at her, and turned right around,” Zack added, his voice hushed. “She looked like she’d seen a ghost.”
“What else?” Stacy prompted.
Mara’s lips tightened. “The other was a security, one Agent Foster. He materialized right after the old woman started talking about her ‘wandering boy’. Very concerned. Very knowledgeable about where I shouldn’t go.” She met Jan’s eyes. “He knew I felt something. He was assessing me.”
Jan nodded slowly, absorbing it. “So we have at least one enemy on the ship. If the old lady’s supernatural and strong enough for you to feel her, she’s major league.” She ran a hand through her damp hair. “Did she seem dangerous?”
“Yes and no,” Mara said, her analytical mind parsing the memory. “The power was obvious. It was like sitting next to a furnace. But her intent… she felt curious. Concerned, even. She didn’t threaten. She asked for help.”
The stateroom door was still ajar. Fatima appeared in the hallway, Hank trailing behind her. She was already dressed in practical dark trousers and a cream-colored blouse, her expression one of mild annoyance. “The disturbance Mara felt,” Fatima said, entering without invitation, “it was palpable from down the hall. What was it?”
Mara repeated her story. Fatima listened, her brow furrowed in thought. “If it is taking the form of an old woman and making inquiries,” she mused, “it might simply be trying to understand human interaction. It may be harmless, if we return what it seeks.”
Jan shook her head. “The Entity in that jar tossed us around like ragdolls. It felt plenty hostile.”
“A juvenile is not an adult,” Fatima countered. “A child throws a tantrum. A parent seeks to correct.” She glanced at Jan. “It was frightened, lashing out.”
“Still tossed us.”
Stacy crossed her arms. “So we need to know what happens if we let the kid out. Does mommy dearest thank us and leave, or does she throw a bigger tantrum because we put her baby in a jar?”
“A calculated risk,” Mara agreed. “I’ll try to work up more of a rapport. See if I can gauge her true intentions.”
Her eyes then flicked to Zack, who was trying very hard not to stare at the deep vee of Jan’s robe or the expanse of Stacy’s thigh where her own robe had fallen open. “Zack,” she said, her voice dry. “Your eyeballs are on the verge of falling out of your head.”
Zack blushed crimson, fixing his gaze on the carpet. “Sorry.”
Jan chuckled. “He’s still new to the whole ‘everyone’s naked by noon’ policy. Give him time.”
“As for the security guard,” Jan continued, her tone turning speculative. “Could be Consortium. Could be Order of the Morningstar. A host of minor factions would love to get their hands on a psychic entity. If he was magical, one of us would’ve sensed it by now.”
“Probably Consortium,” Stacy stated, her voice flat. “They love their tech masking. Suits, sunglasses, a creepy devotion to sterilizing the weird out of the world.”
Hank, lingering in the doorway, scowled. “Those assholes again. Can’t we have one vacation without a secret society trying to ruin everything?”
At that moment, the squeak of a stroller wheel announced new arrivals. Mike and Casey appeared, Rick snoozing peacefully in his pram. Polluck the cat slunk behind them, his notched ear twitching at the assembled crowd.
“Hey,” Mike said, his goofy smile vanishing as he took in their serious faces. “What’s with the war council?”
“There’s something in the forward cargo holds,” Casey added, her voice monotone. “Security’s got it locked down tight. Made an announcement.”
Jan’s eyes sharpened. “Did you find out anything else?”
“Nope,” Mike said, popping the ‘p’.
“We did not look into it,” Casey affirmed.
“We’re on vacation,” they said in unison.
Hank snorted. “You two are freelancers. What kind of vacation do you even need?”
Mike chose to stare at a point on the ceiling. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say anything.”
“Just because I work from home doesn’t mean I don’t work hard,” Casey snipped, though there was no real heat in it.
“We deal with weird shit all the time,” Mike elaborated, his arm slipping around Casey’s waist. “Like the sea serpent that just popped our backyard pool into existence last summer.”
Casey nudged him. “He was polite. And apologetic.”
“He was,” Mike agreed with a nostalgic sigh. “We miss him. Kept the raccoons out of the garbage cans.”
Rick made a soft, sleepy sound, shifting in his stroller. Mike looked down at his son, then back at the group. “All we’re doing right now is going to breakfast. I’m going to eat a pyramid of bacon.”
“I want waffles,” Casey said, her stomach growling on cue.
Hank’s face lit up. “Now that’s a plan. Lead the way.”
He took a step to follow them, but Fatima’s hand shot out, gentle but firm, taking him by the collar of his shirt. “You are on the investigative team,” she reminded him, her voice quiet but leaving no room for argument.
Hank slumped. “But bacon.”
“Mike and Casey were on the distraction team,” Jan explained, slipping her arm through Hank’s with a sympathetic smile. “With Ginny, Molly, Charley, and Rebecca. Their job was to keep Mara in the dark about why we’re all on this ship.”
Mara raised an eyebrow. “A job they failed at spectacularly before the first day was out.”
“Exactly,” Jan said, her grin returning. “So their work is done. They get to enjoy the cruise. We,” she said, squeezing Hank’s arm, “get to figure out why an ancient psychic grandma and a bunch of tech-obsessed goons are on our floating hotel.” She looked at Mara, then Fatima and Stacy. “We can always shoot for a working breakfast. But first, we need to find Liam and Bethany.” She glanced at the pram. “And we are not bringing the baby into the creepy cargo hold.”
Mike was already steering the stroller away. “Wasn’t offering. Waffles await.”
Casey gave a little wave over her shoulder. “Try not to get possessed again. It’s a hassle.”
They disappeared down the hallway, the squeaky wheel fading. Polluck gave the group one last, indifferent glance before trotting after his family.
Jan closed the door, turning to face the others. The playful energy was gone, replaced by a focused determination. “Okay. Let’s find the lovebirds. Then we need to get a look at that cargo hold. Mara, you’re on old lady duty. Be her friend.”
Mara’s smile was thin and sharp. “I’ll be her best friend.”
“Zack,” Jan said, “stick with her. Two normal-seeming people are less suspicious than one. Fatima, Hank—you’re with me and Stacy. We find Liam and Bethany, then we scout.”
“What’s the play?” Stacy asked, already moving to where her bag was stashed, presumably to retrieve her 9mm.
“The play,” Jan said, her eyes glinting with that familiar, chaotic light, “is to find out what the Consortium wants with a psychic entity, and whether Mommy is going to spank us for putting her kid in time-out.” She tugged her robe tighter. “Now, let’s get dressed. It’s time to go to work.”