8
LICENSE TO KILL
Later that night, Hanna took Mike’s hand as they stepped off the elevator on the Palm Tree Deck. “Nine-oh-seven is that way,” he murmured, then turned right and started down a long corridor. Hanna followed him, shooting a haughty look at Phi Templeton, who had paused eagerly at her cabin door. Hanna and Mike were on their way to a top-secret, exclusive party in Mason Byers’s suite, but not everyone was invited.
They passed a long mirror, and Hanna gazed at her reflection. She was definitely party-ready. Her skin glowed with a brand-new tan; the gauzy, burnt-orange sundress she’d bought at the King James floated softly away from her hips; and the gladiator heels she’d purchased just before the trip made her legs look so superlong that she didn’t mind that they pinched her feet a little.
Mike stopped at the last door at the end of the hall. “Here we are.”
They listened for a moment. Bass thumped from inside. A girl squealed, and a bunch of guys laughed. The scent of booze and cigarettes wafted under the door.
Hanna bit her lip. “What if the chaperone hears us? I don’t want to get in trouble.”
Mike’s thick brows knitted together. “Since when do you care about getting in trouble?”
Hanna wound a piece of perfectly curled auburn hair around her finger. “I don’t want to have to give up any more tanning time to sit in some cruise ship’s idea of detention. It’s bad enough I have to work in the dungeon.” She hadn’t bothered to sign up for a volunteer job before the cruise, so she’d been randomly assigned a position in the ship’s administration office. The office was in the bowels of the ship, run by a woman named Vera who wore a thousand tiny barrettes in her hair and was obsessed with country music. Hanna was supposed to do mind-numbing data entry about the ship’s capacity the whole morning—Vera tried to make it seem so interesting that this particular vessel could hold almost a hundred more guests than were on board. Mostly, she’d just googled how she could make a grass skirt look sexy for the end-of-trip talent show.
“Don’t worry,” Mike said. “Mason paid off this hallway’s chaperone to keep quiet. We’re cool.”
Then he knocked on the door. It opened a crack. “Password?” said a gruff voice.
“Flipper,” Mike whispered.
The door opened, and they walked into a suite packed with bodies. The patio door was open wide, letting in the warm, fragrant air, and a bunch of people leaned over the railing or sat on the deck chairs. On the kitchen’s counter were a bunch of airplane bottles of liquor, a half-drained jug of rum, plastic cups, and pretzels, peanuts, and M&M’s from the minibar. Rihanna blared from an iPod dock, and a few people were dancing on one of the beds. The room smelled thickly of perfume, sweat, and all-natural carpet cleaner.
“Welcome to our soiree.” Mason strode forward and offered Hanna and Mike cups filled with rum and Diet Coke. He was wearing his Rosewood Day blazer, a striped tie loosely knotted around his neck, and a pair of seersucker shorts that looked suspiciously like boxers.
Hanna accepted the drink, then started through the crowd. A lot of kids from Rosewood Day were here, as well as people from Doringbell Friends, Pritchard, and Tate. A couple of blond bombshells from Villa Louisa were doing shots with James Freed and a few other boys from the lacrosse team. Maybe it was something about the hot, humid air, or maybe it was the smell of the coconut sunscreen everyone was wearing, but suddenly Hanna was reminded of the parties they’d attended in Jamaica—especially that crowded dinner the night they met Tabitha. They’d all been sitting at the table, drinking and having a good time, when Emily had grabbed their arm. “It’s Ali,” she’d said, and there was Tabitha on the top step, looking eerie and familiar in that yellow dress....
Jesus. Why was she thinking about it again? She grabbed Mike’s arm. “Let’s dance.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” Mike said.
They hit the dance floor and started moving to a Wiz Khalifa song. Hanna shook her arms and legs like a dervish, trying to purge the negative thoughts from her mind. A Lil Wayne song came on next, and then there was a medley of stuff from Madonna’s latest album. By the time someone put on vintage Nirvana, she was slightly winded from dancing and much more relaxed.
“I’ll get more drinks,” Mike said. Hanna nodded woozily and wandered out to the balcony, where kids were staring at the moon. A hand touched Hanna’s bare shoulder, and she turned, thinking Mike was back. Instead, it was Naomi. Hanna instantly inhaled a heady whiff of her fruity Kate Spade perfume.
Hanna brightened. “What’s up?”
“Hey, girl,” Naomi chirped. “Good to see you here.”
Hanna smiled but didn’t answer, not wanting to seem too eager. It still baffled her that Naomi was being nice. They’d hung out at the welcome soiree a little and had gotten breakfast this morning, which had instantly upped her cool-girl cred—a few girls had said hi to her in the corridors afterward. Naomi had even asked if Hanna wanted to tan this afternoon, but Hanna had had her jewelry-making class. Hanna kept waiting for Naomi to prank her, ditch her, or laugh in her face, but so far, so good. Naomi had finally woken up and realized Hanna was cool.
“I don’t know how you dance in those shoes.” Naomi pointed to the high, strappy gladiator heels on Hanna’s feet. “They’re incredible. Are they from Salt and Pepper?”
Hanna flinched. Actually, the shoes were from Salt and Pepper, but the store was in the slightly down-market section of the King James Mall—definitely uncool. The only reason Hanna shopped there was because their knockoffs were so good people often couldn’t tell the difference.