“And here is our last architectoooral wonder,” he slurred. “The Chicago Spire.” Grant leaned back on the railing of the bridge, suddenly feeling lightheaded. The swaying of the ship was uncharacteristically unwelcome, and his legs felt tingly and warm. He closed his eyes to try to steady himself and gripped the railing tightly. Only five more minutes.
Several moments passed, and Sophie wondered what had happened to Grant, but suddenly his voice filled the speakers once again. “Construction on the Spire begannn one year ago, and right now the ssstructure is not yet above-ground, but, dude, I so wish you could see the completed product. It’s gonna be one-hundred-fitty stories highhh—taller than the Ssssears Towerrr—and its design will make it look like a giant drill bit. It’s freakin’ one of the most phallic things you have everrr sssseen. It’s like a huuuuge, throbbing penis piercing the skyyy.”
Sophie dropped her tray with a deafening clatter.
Grant chuckled lightly over the speakers, a low sexy rumble that made her knees wobble. “Mmmm, the architect is Sssantiago Calatrava. I wonder how biggg that guy is? He seems kinda obsessed with sssize.”
Sophie frantically gathered the plastic cups scattered on the deck near the man and his son she’d served earlier. She looked up to find the man covering his son’s ears and shooting her an angry glance. She gulped.
Standing up and walking the tray to the bar, Sophie glanced around at the passengers, expecting a revolt to erupt. But instead she found most wearing bemused expressions, some sporting looks of disbelief, and some chuckling to themselves. The majority seemed to crave more commentary from the crazy man up on the bridge.
Teetering on the brink of exhaustion after a long first day on the job, worrying about Roger in the hospital, and working alongside the hottest man on earth, who now appeared to be drunk off his ass, Sophie felt a slap-happy giddiness overtake her. She tried desperately not to laugh.
What the hell was Tommy doing up there? How much had Grant had to drink? Should she go up to the bridge and find out? She still had several drink orders pending. Frozen in a moment of indecision, she looked back and forth between the bridge and the passengers, then heard Grant’s voice once again.
This time he was singing.
Hey, now what can happen to me
In an awesome city like thisss?
I give a shout-out to Chicago, baby!
And smooooch you with a big fat kissss …
Sophie cupped her hand over her mouth. Grant was really losing it now.
“Join in, everyone!” he encouraged loudly. Considering his creative lyrics, it took the crowd a couple of lines to realize he was singing Sinatra’s “My Kind of Town.” It figured ol’ crystal eyes was singing a tune by Ol’ Blue Eyes. If his speaking voice was sexy, his singing voice was orgasmic—smooth, mellow, and melodic, with perfect pitch. But then his slurred serenade was replaced by static and the sound of harsh, unintelligible words.
Several of the passengers actually had joined the singing, and a raucous mood flowed throughout the ship as they pulled into the dock. Diners at a nearby restaurant, Dan’s Dock, craned their necks to see what was causing such an uproar.
Sophie quickly scurried to settle up the last bills, then scampered down to the dock, plastering a fake smile on her lips and nodding pleasantly at the departing passengers. She did not even wait for the last stragglers to leave before she bolted up the steps to the bridge, finding Tommy wrestling the microphone headset from Grant’s grasp.
“I want to sssing ssssome more!” he pleaded.
She glanced at the bottle of tequila and her eyes widened at the paltry amount left. That had been a full bottle of Cuervo Gold!
“Grant!” she shouted. “How many shots of tequila did you have?”
Startled into lucidity by her sharp tone, he gave her a puzzled, glassy-eyed stare. “Dunno … Maybe five? No, ten?”
Her jaw dropped. “Tommy! How could you let him drink that much? He’s never had alcohol before!”
“I didn’t know that!” he hissed back, finally gaining possession of the headset and hiding it behind his back. “I was busy navigating the damn ship, not babysitting Frank Sinatra over here!”
“I get a big kick from tequila,” Grant began singing, a huge grin on his face as he continued to maul Sinatra songs. “Cuervo Gold, it makes me feel so damn bold …”
He moved unsteadily toward Sophie, and before she knew it, he had her in his arms, leading her in an impromptu waltz around the bridge. Despite her misgivings, Sophie let herself be drawn into his arms, surrendering to the spontaneous joy of the moment.
He spun her around, and Sophie squealed as she twirled in the small space. Apparently the motion was a little much for Grant, as he went careening into the controls for the ship, crashing into the panel and sliding to the floor like an accordion.
Sophie gasped and ran to his side. “Are you all right?”
Grant nodded with a serene, happy grin, closing his eyes and continuing to hum Frank Sinatra. Tommy rolled his eyes disgustedly.
“Awesome,” he spat. “The substitute captain is wasted, and the real captain is in the hospital having a heart attack.” He rubbed his temples. “What a day.”
“What are we going to do?” Sophie asked.
“We gotta lock up. And one of us should probably go check on Rog.”
Tommy peered down at Sophie, his sandy-blond buzz cut topping a frowning face. He seemed young, maybe in his early twenties, and Sophie felt guilty that at ages twenty-nine and thirty, respectively, she and Grant were the irresponsible ones.
“Well, I can try to take Ol’ Blue Eyes home,” she negotiated, “if you can check on Rog?”
Tommy nodded. “Here, let’s get him in a cab.” He knelt down. “Grant, you need to get up!”
Grant began laughing softly. “Donnn think ssso.”
“Shit. Now that he’s on the floor there ain’t no way we’re getting him up on his feet.” Glaring at Sophie, he proclaimed, “This is all your fault, you know! You’re the one who gave him booze.”
Tommy tapped his foot pensively while Sophie bit her lip, trying to figure out how to help. Then Tommy leaned in near Grant’s ear and barked, “Lieutenant Madsen! On your feet!”
Miraculously Grant scrambled up and snapped to attention.
Sophie marveled at this abrupt change. “Lieutenant?”
“He was in the Navy,” Tommy explained. “So was I, and so was Rog. I figured that would get his attention.”
“Huh,” Sophie mused, lost in thought. Visions of Grant in a crisp white uniform that hugged his lean body swam in her head. The perfect man just became more perfect. She wondered what else she would learn before the night was over.
“Let’s go, Lieutenant,” Tommy ordered, firmly grasping Grant’s elbow and leading him toward the stairs.
“Where we goin’, bossss?” he asked.
“Boss?” Tommy asked. “Don’t you mean ‘sir,’ you drunkard?”