But despite my swagger, as soon as we stepped onto the pale wood mid deck, a sweat broke out on my lower back. The crowd was thick with bleached-toothed, rich assholes and gorgeous women. Everyone had a drink in hand and everyone was exposing those white-capped teeth with fake-ass smiles.

The yacht itself was stunning. Sleek, polished wood panels and brilliant white leather furniture, multiple decks, each with its own full bar. There was a sunning platform at the aft deck, and a big-ass hot tub on the middle deck where women in string bikinis frolicked.

I’d been on yachts like this. I could even appreciate the craftsmanship and beauty of the vessel. It was the human element that got under my skin and crawled around like ants. It was too familiar. Too much like that world I left behind. The world I never belonged in but was pulled into to provide entertainment.

I rolled my shoulders, and Parker glanced up at me.

“Are you all right?” she asked in a low voice.

“Of course. Piece of cake, babe.”

I doubted she believed my bullshit. Whatever she might have said was lost as Fairchild glided up to us.

“Morgan!” He was all smiles and wearing a white linen suit with purple velvet slippers. Honest-to-God purple slippers—with his initials embroidered on them in gold thread. I choked back a snort as he reached for my hand and pumped it. “Good to see you.”

He afforded Parker a glance. “And Ms. Brown.”

“Parker, sir. Please call me Parker.”

“Parker,” he repeated blandly. “Fine, fine.” His watery gaze landed back on me. “Let me show you around, Morgan. Ever been on a boat?”

“One or two.” I took hold of Parker’s elbow, feeling the tension humming through her arm. “We’d love a tour.”

Actually, I’d love to toss him overboard, but hey, being in his company was what both Parker and I needed. So, I’d deal.

Like a king, Fairchild strutted through the crowd, slapping shoulders, shaking hands, and all the while introducing me. “Rhys Morgan. The Widowmaker. And his friend Parker.”

Somewhere along the way, I grabbed a glass of champagne off a waiter’s tray and handed it to Parker. She gave me a tight but grateful smile and took a healthy swallow. “None for you?” she asked, leaning in to be heard over the increasing chatter.

“Nah. The stuff gives me a shitty headache.”

Her lips pursed again, and I knew she was fighting the urge to correct my language. I wouldn’t be surprised if she eventually brought out a swear jar. But Fairchild had heard me and dropped his conversation with a loud older man wearing a palm tree-printed silk shirt.

“Let me get you a real man’s drink,” he said.

Parker muttered into her glass as he led us over to a bar.

“What’ll you have, Rhys, my boy?”