With Every Breath (Sea Swept #2) (21 page)

I look ahead and see two men waiting in front of my open cabin door. One is a security guard, and the other I recognize as Randall Cunningham, the ship’s Hotel Director.

“Yasmin Alejo?” he says, seeing me.

“Yes,” I say cautiously. “Is something wrong?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I regret to inform you that you’ve been terminated. Effective immediately.”

I actually laugh, because it’s so out of the blue. “Fired?” Then I realize that Owen has stiffened beside me, and the Hotel Director is frowning. This isn’t a joke. He hands me a slip of paper, bright pink in color, which I take automatically. “You’re firing me?”

“Yes. Effective immediately,” Mr. Cunningham repeats.
 

I stare at the paper in my hands.

“The slip is actually pink,” I find myself saying. “I didn’t think they did that anymore.” My brain is broken. What is happening? “What did I do?”

Mr. Cunningham ignores my question, but Owen steps forward.

“I thought company policy was that firings happen in the morning,” he says.

“The 6-am knock,” I hear myself say. Elise told me it happened … but I never thought it would happen to me.

The Hotel Director gives us both a severe look.

“Consider this the 6-PM knock. Ms. Alejo, you need to leave the ship immediately. Your belongings have already been packed for you, and Security will escort you ashore.”

“Wait, what did I do?” I repeat, but Mr. Cunningham only waves me off.

“We need you to debark, Ms. Alejo.”

“But … we’re in Mexico.” I stare at him, stunned. They’re not really going to abandon me in Mexico, are they?

“Company policy is for terminated employees to be escorted off the ship within 24-hours of the decision,” the Hotel Director says.

“Where am I going to stay?” I ask. Panic starts to churn in my stomach. “How am I going to get home?”

“That is not the company’s concern. Employees who are terminated with cause are not guaranteed a flight home paid for by the company.”

“Cause? What cause?” I’m starting to tremble, because none of this makes any sense.

The security guard picks up my luggage, and Mr. Cunningham closes my cabin door. “You can read about it in your termination packet, but right now you must exit the ship. We’re about to leave port.”

This is all happening so fast.
 

“I’ll need your crew badge,” Mr. Cunningham says, holding out his hand. I want to protest, but he’s the guy who’s practically in charge of the whole ship, so what can I say? I still feel frozen. I fumble for my badge and hand it over. Is this really happening?

“Do you have any cash?” Owen asks, turning to me.

“Maybe a twenty,” I say dazedly. He pulls out his wallet and pushes two bills into my hands, along with a business card that bears no words, only an odd symbol embossed on glossy black cardstock.
 

“Take this. Go to the Sand Piper Hotel and give them this card. They’ll take care of you until you can get a flight home. Got that?”

I nod, dazed, and Owen pushes past me to jog down the hall. I stare after him.

“Bye, I guess,” I mutter. Mr. Cunningham is waiting, so I stuff the money and card in my bag and follow him and the security guard away from my cabin.
 

My head is whirling. Can they really just fire me like this? I’m too stunned to say anything until we near the crew debarkation ramp, but then I see who’s waiting.
 

“You,” I say.
 

Letta smiles sharply back at me.

“Letta is a ship’s purser; she has your termination documents for you,” Mr. Cunningham says.

“That’s really sweet of her,” I say sarcastically. I’m starting to get a feel for where this is coming from. I point at Letta. “Did she do this? She has no jurisdiction over me; she’s just causing trouble.”

Mr. Cunningham gestures impatiently. “Let’s get on with it,” he says, and Letta holds out a folder. On the top there’s a paper, and she points to the bottom line.

“Sign here,” she says. I scan the paper, but it’s all legalese about how I accept being fired or something. I shove it back at her.

“I won’t sign.”

“Duly noted,” she says, and grabs a pen. “Employee is … belligerent,” she murmurs in her clipped accent as she scribbles.

“I’m not being belligerent. This is bullshit!” I wave my folder in the air as I turn to Mr. Cunningham. The security guard has already transferred my suitcase and the rest of my stuff to the pier at the end of the ramp.

“Please leave the ship, Ms. Alejo,” Mr. Cunningham says, looking harried. I almost don’t, but my laptop and camera and purse are down with my luggage, and I wouldn’t put it past this guy to strand me without them. Besides, the burly security guard looks like he’s escorted many a reluctant terminated employee off the ship, and wouldn’t hesitate to physically manhandle me if asked.
 

I step off the linoleum of the hallway and onto the metal dock, then turn, clutching my folder.

“Does West know about this?” I ask.

Mr. Cunningham raises a brow.
 

“West is the one who fired you,” he says, and closes the door.

Chapter 21

West

Taking a break, I lean against the wall of the ship’s indoor ballroom, which is the venue for the wedding reception since it’s probably going to storm tonight. We took the formal photos earlier in the day when the light was good, so for now it’s candid shots of the cocktail hour. Half my mind is on the crowd, and in a moment I’ll take more photos, but I’m also running through my explanation to Yasmin in my head. I never got a chance to tell her last night that in a few days she’d be fired, but tonight I can’t let her distract me again.
 

The wedding has gone well today, all things considered. The bride is gorgeous, though incredibly picky about what photos she wants—more than once she demanded to see the files on my camera’s viewfinder and asked me to re-shoot some images. She’s been fretting about the incoming storm, and the fact that the sunset is hidden by clouds caused a mini-meltdown earlier. She almost seems like she cares more about the pictures than the wedding, but that’s none of my business. I’m actually enjoying the challenge, and we got some fantastic shots throughout the day.

I wonder a few times whether doing this for a living might actually be an option, the way Yasmin thinks. On land, of course. It could be exciting, taking photos full-time, working for myself—but then I remember my mom’s long stretches of depression because no one would buy her work, and I shudder. Photography is a hobby, not a career, as my dad has always said. I know my mother felt like she was disappointing him by not making more money. No, the promotion in Miami is what I want, so I can be near Yasmin, and climb a corporate ladder, and all that. I’m not sure I am really looking forward to wearing a suit every day, but a steady paycheck that can support college classes and an apartment and nice dinners with Yasmin? I’ll deal with a 9-to-5 job for that kind of life.

Charlie wanders over, munching a cocktail shrimp.

“You’re not supposed to eat the food,” I remind him.

“The groom offered it to me himself,” he says, and I shrug. “When are the toasts starting?”

“Should be pretty soon,” I say. If I could have had Yasmin as my secondary photographer I would have, but Charlie has more seniority, and since these types of shoots pay well, he wanted the gig.

Just then, I see Owen enter the ballroom. He’s way underdressed in beach shorts and a T-shirt, but he ignores the odd looks from the guests. He scans the crowd; catching my eye, he beckons me over. Charlie and I meet him by the door.

“It’s Yasmin,” Owen says, and I tense.

“Is she okay?”

“Physically, yes. But she was fired.”

I almost drop my camera. “Now? Already?”

At that, Owen pauses. “You knew about this?”

“Yeah, but …” I shake my head. “Randall promised I could tell her when we were back in Miami.”

“Well, he’s a lying sack of shit.”

“Why would he tell her days beforehand? Usually they wait until right when they escort them off the ship …” I trail off, realizing what has happened. My hands clench on my camera. “Shit. They’re kicking her off the ship now?”

Owen checks his watch. “Ten minutes ago. It took me a while to get to you.”

I turn to Charlie.
 
“You’re the lead photog for the rest of the night,” I tell him.

“West, you can’t—” he starts, but I’m already out the door.
 

I’ll catch hell for leaving the wedding in the hands of the assistant photographer, but I don’t care. Owen is at my heels, and we sprint down the hallway, duck into a crew-only stairwell, and pelt along the I-95 towards the hallway that leads to the crew door on the side of the ship.

Before we get there I spot Randall, nearly knocking into him as he rounds a corner. I pull up short.

“Did you fire Yasmin?” I ask, but I already know that he did. “Why? What are you doing?” I pant.

“My job, Mr. Campbell.”

“We agreed you’d wait until Miami.”

Randall raises a brow. “I said I’d take it under advisement. However, I deemed it in the company’s best interest to remove the terminated employee from the ship.”

“What? Why?”

“You admitted you two are involved. I was concerned you would tell her.”

“I promised I wouldn’t.” Though I’d basically decided to. But he doesn’t know that. Before I can say more, a slim figure comes out of the hallway behind Randall. She’s carrying documents, and I spot Yasmin’s name on one.

“Hi, West,” Letta says, smiling at me. I frown, not sure why she’s here, but then I remember that one of her purser duties is to assist with terminations. My eyes narrow.

“What did you do?” I say to her, my voice hard.

“Letta is only following orders,” Randall says, but behind me I hear Owen snort.
 

“Bullshit,” he drawls. “I know what happened now. Letta is best friends with your sweetheart, isn’t she? What happened, Randall? Did your girlfriend ask you for a little favor? All you had to do to make her happy was toss one of your employees off the ship in a foreign country where she knows no one.”

“Is that true?” I ask Randall. His brows snap together.

“My personal life is none of your concern, and like you, West, I’d never let it affect my business decisions.” He says it fiercely, but I’ve met enough liars to see that Owen’s right.
 

“You can’t put her ashore in Mexico,” I say. “Can’t we give her a ride home to Miami?”

“She’s no longer an employee of this company, and she’s not a passenger, so no, we can’t.” Randall makes an impatient gesture. “It’s over. I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

Shit, shit,
shit
. This is a disaster. I can’t stand the thought of Yasmin being kicked off the ship without explanation. Picturing her brown eyes darkening with confusion and pain is killing me.

“Let me go talk to her,” I say.
 

“We’ve already locked the doors and been cleared for departure.”

“Then let me off the ship. I’ll catch up at the next port stop, on my own dime.” They have to accept that, right? I wouldn’t be costing the company anything.

But Randall shakes his head. “There’s nothing you can do, West.” He eyes me pointedly. “And if you still want a shot at Miami, you’d do well to stop giving me a hard time about this.”

I go still. He’s holding the promotion over me as if I’ll ignore the way he’s treating Yasmin?
 

Randall smiles, clearly misconstruing my silence to mean that he’s finally gotten through to me. “Don’t throw your career away over some girl,” he says, his tone turning avuncular. My blood starts to boil. He thinks he can control me through the promise of a job that without Yasmin no longer means anything. He’s mistaken. I bristle, but Randall doesn’t seem to notice, clapping me on the shoulder like we’re friends.

“Trust me, West, there’s more where she came from,” he continues. “Give it a few days, and you’ll hardly remember her name.”

“There’s no one like her,” I find myself saying.
 

“What, does she have money between her legs?” Randal quips. He starts to laugh at his own joke.

I launch myself at him.

Chapter 22

Yasmin

I cannot believe West fired me.

“It makes no sense,” I say to no one. I’m at the hotel Owen told me to go to. It’s way fancier than what I could afford on my own, but when I babbled to the concierge about what happened, and gave her Owen’s weird card, she’d immediately booked me a room on the house, had my luggage taken up, and sent me to relax at the beachside hotel bar with a free drink coupon while she arranged a flight home for me. I don’t know what kind of pull Owen has, but I’m grateful he used it to help me, because I’m too upset to think straight.

What happened? My head is still spinning, and I can’t understand the Hotel Director’s last comment. West and I were doing great—or so I’d thought. Had I been too intense, gotten too clingy? Was the shipboard togetherness too much for West, and this was his unsubtle hint that he wanted to break up? After all, when he wanted to break up with Letta, he’d just waited until she left the ship. Was he doing the same thing with me, just making it happen a little earlier?

The sunset is hidden by gray clouds. Standing on the beach with a colorful drink in my hands, I stare at the
Radiant Star
, floating at its dock. Any moment now, it’ll leave. West will leave. Without me.

What a coward.

I need a butter knife. Ten butter knives. A thousand.

But warring with my fury is disbelief, because I have a hard time believing that this is his way of dumping me. When I saw him this morning, West had seemed fine. Hadn’t he? Sure, he’d been distracted, preoccupied … and he’d wanted to talk to me about something.

My stomach sinks.

Maybe this was what he’d wanted to say. Hey, darling, it’s been grand, but I can’t stand another second with you, so I’m ditching you. In freaking Mexico. Happy flight home. See you never.

I mumble a curse, then down half my drink. It’s fruity and cold, and packs a kick—I’d asked the bartender for whatever had the most alcohol. I’m guessing it’s a Caribbean version of a long island iced tea or something. Good. That’ll get me drunk fast. Hopefully before the pain sets in.