Island Getaway Ch 01 1

Her mind awash in fear and anxiety, Abigail walked through the thick humid air and down the dark alley away from the hotel, doing her best not to trip in the unfamiliar stiletto heels she wore. Two days ago she'd been a teacher about to go on a much needed vacation and now she was getting paid to suck cock while armed thugs tried to kill her. How had it all gone wrong?

*****

Abigail had been looking forward to her vacation for months. The school year had been the hardest she'd dealt with in the 17 years she'd worked as a teacher. The middle school kids she taught had seemed even less controllable than usual. She thought their lack of maturity and social skills was probably the result of the years of online schooling caused by COVID, but despite wanting to fail at least a handful, her principal had "encouraged" her to pass them all.

Now, though, it was summer and she had planned a two-week-long trip to a beautiful tropical resort, far away from students, parents, principals, and any friends or family members who kept asking when she was getting married. When she'd turned 40 a few months ago she'd received plenty of teasing comments about still being single, but she was perfectly happy with her "old maid" status. She'd never been great at dating and was perfectly capable of living a fulfilling life without being in a relationship. And on the occasional times she needed "release," well...there was always her trusty rabbit vibrator.

"What time is it?" Abigail thought to herself as she opened her eyes and reached over to her phone on the bedside table. The black screen reflected her face back at her as her phone refused to turn on.

"Dang," she muttered to herself, plugging her phone into the charging cable as she crawled out of bed and made her way to the kitchen to get some coffee. Upon entering the kitchen her eyes went to the time on the microwave: 9:37 a.m.

"Fuck," she said out loud, realizing that she'd been relying on her currently dead phone to wake her up in time for her flight. Her flight that was leaving in almost, but not quite, two hours.

"Okay," she thought to herself, suddenly wide awake without any caffeine. "Don't panic. You can still make it."

She ran back to her bedroom and pushed the power button on the phone until it turned on. The thirty seconds she waited as the phone went through its startup process felt like it took forever but, finally, Abigail was able to open the Uber app and request a car for immediate pick-up.

Then, stripping out of the light blue panties and oversized t-shirt she'd slept in, she grabbed the first pair of underwear she found in a drawer and began pulling on whatever clothes lying on the floor of her bedroom seemed cleanest. This turned out to be the outfit she'd worn to yoga the day before: a beige t-shirt bra, a light blue tank top featuring the lotus flower logo of the yoga studio, and some hideous pink and white paisley leggings she'd bought from the clearance rack

.

Just as she'd pulled the tank top over her head and readjusted her glasses, her phone chimed, indicating her Uber had arrived.

Abigail strapped on the black and gold sandals she'd bought for the trip, stuffed her phone and passport into her purse, grabbed her suitcase, and ran out of her apartment building to the waiting car.

"Get me to the airport as fast as possible," she said to the driver as she climbed into the back seat. "I'm late for my flight."

"You got it, lady," the driver replied before pulling the car away from the curb and into traffic.

The less said about the ensuing drive the better, but Abigail made it to the airport far faster than she thought was possible.

Yelling her thanks to the driver, Abigail hurried to the baggage check, scanned her ticket, printed the bag tags, and practically threw her suitcase into the drop-off area in record time before running to the security line where, as politely as possible, she pushed her way past the other people in line not quite believing that suddenly

she

was the one who was late and being an asshole to everyone around her.

She ran up to her gate, breathing heavily, and just as she saw the large "delayed" notice above the departure time, the strap on one of her sandals broke and she tripped, falling to the floor. Thankfully Abigail was able to get her arms up in front of her face to cushion the blow, so the only thing other than her sandal that was damaged was her pride.

"Well," she thought to herself lying on the floor in a heap as an employee ran over to help her, "at least I didn't miss my flight."

After twenty minutes, Abigail was drinking some overpriced airport coffee and eating one of the driest and least appetizing muffins she'd ever encountered (cranberry-zucchini). She sat on the floor of the airport next to one of the awkwardly placed outlets, charging her phone that had entirely died about 30 seconds after she had gotten into the Uber, only having gotten up to 4% in the few minutes it had been plugged in that morning.

Now, though, it looked like she'd have the next several hours to charge it and look through the multitude of texts and emails she'd missed telling her that her flight had been delayed. She reached for her carry-on bag to pull out her laptop and after grasping at thin air her mind flashed back to the travel bag that, in her hurry to make it to the airport, was still sitting on her living room table.

She groaned. "Don't worry about it," she thought to herself trying to put a positive spin on things. "Not bringing your laptop is a good thing! Less time looking at social media and more time living! And the suitcase you checked has everything else you'll need for this trip."

Still, it annoyed her that she'd forgotten her bag which, in addition to her laptop, contained her makeup, travel-sized toiletries, a book she'd wanted to read, and a change of clothes, all of which she really would have liked to have at that moment.

*****

Six hours and three additional delays later, Abigail settled into her seat on the plane and couldn't help but feel her excitement begin to rise. "Okay, so you slept in, forgot your carry-on, haven't showered, are wearing yesterday's clothes, spent more than six hours in the airport, and look like crap, but you're still going on vacation," she thought to herself. "This is going to be great."

Her mind wandered to the beaches she would soon be relaxing on and the books she would be reading. She figured everything would be smooth sailing, but that was before the pilot came on over the intercom and said there was a mechanical problem that they'd hoped would be an easy fix and they'd be taking off as soon as possible.

Abigail sighed and pulled out the thriller novel she'd bought a couple of hours into her long wait at the airport to pass the time. She'd almost bought a different book, one she'd been looking forward to reading for months, but she couldn't bring herself to buy a second copy of a novel she already owned, albeit one that was sitting in her carry-on bag at home. Three hours, two mechanical problems, and the longest runway taxi Abigail had ever experienced, the plane finally took off, nine hours late.

An hour into the flight, just as the thriller was starting to get exciting, a flight attendant passed by with the beverage cart offering free alcoholic beverages as an apology for the flight delay.

Abigail ordered a glass (or plastic cup) of red wine, thinking that her luck was beginning to change, and was seconds away from taking the glass from the flight attendant when the plane suddenly dropped and both the glass and the entire bottle the flight attendant had been holding in her other hand fell onto her. Both Abigail and the flight attendant grabbed for the bottle, but they only managed to knock it around, dousing Abigail's shirt, leggings, face, and hair in the sticky, red liquid.

As the flight attendant apologized profusely, offering handfuls of napkins to her, the pilot made an announcement saying they were about to encounter some turbulence and the seatbelt signs were being turned on.

"Great, thanks," thought Abigail.

Twenty minutes later, when the 'fasten seatbelt' sign had finally been turned off, Abigail headed to the bathroom to clean herself off as much as possible. Despite her best efforts, vibrant scarlet stains stubbornly clung to the fabric of her clothes, leaving a very visible reminder of the mishap.

"Really, really wish I had that change of clothes now, " she said, staring at herself in the airplane's bathroom mirror. The stains seemed like they were adding insult to injury as she'd spent the last few hours in the airport feeling nervous about being seen in the outfit she'd pulled on that morning. While her yoga outfit wasn't particularly revealing, it was far tighter and hugged her curvy figure in a way she preferred to avoid.

She rinsed off her black-framed glasses in the sink and did her best to clean the wine out of her long, curly, dark brown hair. Failing that--the sink not being designed to let someone wash their hair--she ended up putting her hair into a messy bun using an assortment of bobby pins and elastics from the bottom of her purse.

Returning to her seat, somewhat drier but still fairly sticky, Abigail hoped to escape back into the thriller novel only to discover it had also been soaked by the wine spill, and the pages were thoroughly stuck together. Sighing, she began flicking through the in-flight magazine, hoping she could find something to read.

*****

When the plane finally arrived at her final destination Abigail was exhausted. She hadn't been able to sleep due to a crying baby in the row behind her and, despite all her high hopes for the vacation, all she wanted to do was get to her hotel and go to sleep.

Abigail walked through the mostly empty airport in the middle of the night and stood next to the other passengers at the baggage carousel waiting for her bag to show up. Her heart sank as she watched bag after bag appear and other passengers from her flight pick them up and leave the airport. Finally, the baggage carousel came to a halt and Abigail had to accept that her bag wasn't there.

Abigail had wondered what else could go wrong on this trip, and now she knew. She didn't even want to imagine how her streak of misfortune could continue. She let out a frustrated sigh, feeling utterly disheartened.

Barefoot (walking in one broken sandal hadn't worked and she'd thrown them in a garbage can while waiting at the baggage claim) and wearing wine-stained clothes, she set out through the empty airport hoping to find an employee who could help her at this time of night, though by this point she had to admit her expectations were low.

Approaching the lost luggage desk Abigail was relieved to find an airport employee and almost jumped for joy when, after a few minutes, the employee found a suitcase that matched the description she'd given. "That's my bag!" she cried before the employee even had a chance to ask.

The dark blue suitcase, purchased several years prior but never used, now looked the worst for wear. The once pristine exterior was battered and covered with scuffs and scratches, seemingly showing signs of its adventurous journey without her.

After listening to Abigail's brief description of the contents of the bag (Abigail had to admit it was mostly books, though it also contained shoes which Abigail was desperate to put on), the airport employee asked for the key to the lock holding the suitcase closed. Abigail searched through her purse looking for the key only to feel a pang of panic as she couldn't find it.

"I...don't have it." She felt like she was about to cry.

The employee looked at the disheveled woman standing in front of her, barefoot, her clothes covered in red wine stains, and about to cry. "Look, I shouldn't do this, but just take it," she said, pushing the suitcase towards Abigail.

At this point Abigail did cry, though this time out of happiness. She embraced the surprised airport employee, grabbed her suitcase, and headed on her way. "I'll open it once I get to the hotel," she said to herself, sure that if she tried to force the lock in the airport her bag would tear open, leaving an explosion of her things lying on the ground.

She was still lost in a haze of happiness over finding the suitcase (combined with the haze that comes from a lack of sleep) when a voice brought her back to reality.

"Glasses off."

"What?" asked Abigail, not sure what the border agent (for that was who had asked) had said.

"Glasses off for the photo." Abigail removed her glasses and squinted at the camera where a bright flash briefly blinded her. Putting her glasses back on she saw on the screen an image of a tired and exhausted woman that was, possibly, the least flattering photo of herself she'd ever seen.

She answered the questions about what she was doing ("tourism") and where she was staying ("Tranquil Waves Beach Resort"), and then the agent stamped her passport, handed it back to her, and welcomed her to the country.

She made her way to the taxi rank where, for maybe the first time so far in this trip, nothing went wrong and she arrived at her hotel as dawn began to break.

Abigail walked through the front doors of the hotel, relieved to leave the sticky humid outside for the cool air conditioned inside, and approached the reception desk where, once again, things began to fall apart.

"What do you mean you don't have a room for me?" she asked the clerk for the third or possibly fourth time.

"You, ah, you did not show up for the day you booked and you did not contact us," the young clerk replied.

"That's because my flight was delayed by nine hours!"

"Yeeeessss," said the clerk slowly, hoping that maybe this time Abigail would understand. "And the hotel is now full."

After thirty minutes of conversation, it became very obvious that the young man working the reception was unwilling, or at least unable, to help.

Abigail felt like she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown when, suddenly, salvation came from an unlikely direction, as a clearly hungover woman wearing dark sunglasses arrived at the desk, intending to check out.

"Here," the woman said. "I'm checking out a day early, just take my room."

"Are you sure?" asked Abigail.

"I'm

literally

going to the airport. I could care less what goes on in that room." The way the woman said it, anyone who wasn't about to fall asleep on their feet like Abigail could tell she had not had a great time in the resort.

"Oh my gosh," said Abigail somewhat flustered and fighting her teacherly urge to correct the woman's use of 'could care less'. "Thank you so much."

"Sure, whatever, here you go," she passed Abigail a keycard. "Room 1313."

"But," began the hotel receptionist. "The room has not been cleaned!"

Abigail turned to look at the man.

"I. Do. Not. Care."

"Uh, uh, uh," the man replied, cowed by the intensity in Abigail's stare. "Uh, the elevator is broken, I'll help you with your bag."

The receptionist grabbed Abigail's bag and led her up 12 flights of stairs. Abigail was at first annoyed about this but by the time they reached the 13th floor, she was overwhelmingly glad as she was pretty sure she would have just fallen over halfway up if she'd been carrying the suitcase herself. Not bothering to say another word, the receptionist left Abigail at the entrance to her room where, out of breath from climbing the stairs, she barely managed to sputter out a "thank you."

She opened the door, thankful that the keycard actually worked, and looked out the window to see the sun rising over a nearby beach.

"Finally," she said.

Abigail peeled off her still-sticky clothes. They were completely ruined. All of them, including her panties and bra, had large red stains covering them that were never going to come out.

Sighing, she dumped them into an empty trash can not wanting to stain the beige carpet covering the floor of the hotel room, and collapsed, naked, into the unmade queen-sized bed. Pulling the blankets over her head, she fell asleep instantly

*****

Upon waking, Abigail found herself in a pitch-black room. Turning on the bedside lamp, she realized that she'd slept through the entire day and the sun had already set.

After climbing out of the bed and finding the switch for the room's overhead light she noticed that the room had been cleaned and tidied (at least as much as could be done when someone was passed out in the bed). Her suitcase and purse had been moved against a wall, her phone and passport were carefully placed on the nightstand, the bathroom was filled with clean, fluffy towels, and the garbage can into which she'd dumped her wine-stained clothing was empty.

"Okay, first things first, bath time," thought Abigail as she turned on the bathtub faucet and dumped every tiny bottle that had been left on the counter into the water. When the tub was filled with water (and bubbles) she slipped her body under the water and lay there for a long time, letting the heat remove the stress from her muscles and the worries from her mind.

After a not-inconsiderable amount of time relaxing in the bath, Abigail turned on the shower and scrubbed the general grime of traveling and the sticky remnants of wine from her body and hair.

Emerging from the shower Abigail dried herself off, wrapped her body in a large, white towel, tied her hair into a bun after drying it with the hairdryer she found under the sink, and stepped into the bedroom.

Abigail used the tiny coffee maker in the room to make a cup of terrible instant coffee (that was somehow the best thing she'd ever tasted), put on her glasses, flicked on the television on the wall, and went over to the suitcase that sat on the floor. She lifted the bag onto the bed and pulled at the lock, which didn't seem like it'd open any time soon.

"Or at least," thought Abigail. "That's what the manufacturers want you to think!" She grabbed her phone and quickly found a video on YouTube.

"This is the LockPickingLawyer and..."

A few minutes later, Abigail felt a degree of pride in managing to open the lock without a key, despite how shockingly easy it had been. "Though," she smiled to herself. "I bet that lawyer's never opened one while naked!"

Abigail eagerly unzipped the now unlocked suitcase. But as she flung the lid open, her mind struggled to understand what it saw.

Inside the suitcase lay not the clothes she'd spent hours selecting, not her spare sandals, and not even the books she'd planned to read (those had taken even longer than the clothes to decide on). Instead, she saw tiny bikinis, minuscule tube tops, micro-miniskirts, g-strings, fishnet

something-or-others

, and a plethora of skimpy and revealing clothes in a multitude of colors that were utterly unlike what Abigail usually wore. She dumped all of the clothes out onto the bed, hoping that maybe, somehow, someone had just put their clothes on top of hers, but quickly realized the entire suitcase was filled with similar items.

"Where are my clothes?" Abigail cried out, suddenly aware that all she was wearing was a towel.

After a brief moment of 'woe-is-me'ing, Abigail turned to examine the suitcase more closely and realized that, while it was the same brand as the one she'd lost, in her excitement and haste at the airport she'd somehow missed that it wasn't hers (the missing her luggage tags should have been a tip-off).

Suddenly uncomfortable with going through someone else's clothes, Abigail hesitated but quickly realized that searching through the rest of the bag might help her find contact information for whoever the bag belonged to. "Maybe," she thought, still surprisingly hopeful, "they'll have my bag."

Sorting through the pockets of the suitcase, Abigail found more skimpy clothing, makeup, jewelry, and multiple pairs of sky-high stiletto heels. With an "Aha!" she pulled a pink rhinestone-sequin purse out of the bag and began setting its contents out on the small table next to her bed. It contained condoms, lube, perfume, breath mints, false eyelashes, a hairbrush, and a lot more makeup, but no ID.