Page 49 of Pay the Piper

“Anything on her background check?”

That question from Nikki finally ends the volley, the seriousness of his line of thinking feeling even thicker than the air of the sauna. He’s right about all of it. No, I haven’t fucking told her what I do for work. Yet. I will. It just…needs to be the right time. And after our weekend of bliss, I’m unwilling to pop that bubble. I’m definitely not giving these fuckers all the details at once. Abby feels like a perfect new toy I’ve just unwrapped on Christmas, and I’ve never liked to share.

Ignoring all but the last question, and ignoring Thatcher as he continues to lean closer, looking at my piercing then back down at his own dick, I reassure Nikki.

“Her background check is squeaky clean. Everything she’s told me is true—school records check out, and lease agreements going back to when she lived with her parents all line up. No holes or sketchy shit. She is who she says she is.”

“Hmm,” he says, sensing that I don’t want to divulge anything further. He probably knows not to push too much into anyone else’s business when anyone with half a brain can see he has his own secrets weighing him down.

“We’re glad you’re happy, Misha. You sure as hell deserve it,” Thatcher says, damn near sitting in my lap and throwing an arm around my shoulders. “We did have an ulterior motive for bringing you in here, though.”

At this, Nikki stands to stretch and bark a laugh.

“Do you want to tell him, Sunshine? Or shall I?”

“Alright, everyone! Grab your last choices from the buffet and sit down. If you’ve been around a while, you know exactly what time it is—”

“Woohoo!”

“Let’s go!”

A cacophony of cheers erupts from the vets on the team as all the rookies share nervous looks. Surely, I’m not included in this. I wasn’t drafted. I’m not a real member of the team.

“Cocoa, you’re with Thatcher and Bugsy!”

What?

“Come on, man! We’ve got an hour. There’s literally not a second to waste.” Thatcher’s pulling me behind him into what seems to be a hellish basement of unwanted items, while Bugsy tries to explain what I missed when I checked out of Nikki’s announcement.

“Every year, two vets and a rookie get teamed up for the talent show. There’s a room full of random shit accumulated over the years—”

“Literally every time there’s a leftover prop from a weird media thing, it gets thrown in here.” Thatcher picks up Bugsy’s explanation, punctuating “weird” by thrusting a neon-pink pool float topped with a narwhal head into my chest. “Here. We’ll start with this. While they’re out there picking teams, we can try to get most of what we need—Oh, hell yes. Jackpot, boys.”

The “jackpot” he’s referring to is the rest of a beach-themed set, neon pink and blue with garish sequins on every available surface. The narwhal I’m clutching matches one with a manatee, and a sea turtle completes the herd.

“Oh, yeah. This was from a few years ago. We did a photo shoot with the children’s hospital and promoted a local sealife sanctuary’s Valentine’s Day event. They brought it pool floats actually big enough to fit around our waists, which was nice. I took one home because it’s just so damn hard to find. Somewhere there’s a—”

With a grunt, Thatcher pulls a partially inflated pastel pink float out from under a pile of snorkel gear.

“Hell yeah, we’re in business, boys.”

He digs around more, handing back candy heart floats of varying colors that say “U R CUTE,” “BE MINE,” “KISS ME,” and “XOXO,” before turning to me with a grin.

“Ready to learn some choreo?”

An hour later, as promised, we’re decked out and ready for the rookie show. It’s impossible to stay mad at Thatcher for long, and as he and Bugsy run me through our last mini dance rehearsal, I can’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm. His energy is boundless, and I’m so caught up in his whirlwind that before long, it’s our turn.

With my hair pulled back in miniature pink shark clips, my narwhal around my waist, and a re-inflated candy heart professing my love for the audience, I feel ready to put on a show. Bugsy went undercover to scout since we’re going on last, and as we’re announced, he gives his report.

“We have a great shot. The group that just went is for sure our biggest competition. Millsy and his rookie did a dramatic rendition of the Titanic sinking while Pretzel played a hilariously bad rendition of “My Heart Will Go On” on the recorder.”

“Damn.” Thatcher looks at me as if he’s a second away from asking if I have any hidden musical talent when they call for us. “No time for me to go back and get the bubble machine, but that’s fine. Don’t forget, you’re the main attraction. Bugs and I will do what we can, but ultimately, you’ll be scored on personal effort and performance.”

The opening notes of our song hit, and before I know it, we’re under the spotlight.

Showtime.

“And our talented rookie of the year, your very own…Misha Mavrin!”