Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN, CAPTAIN JACK SPARROW ETC. THEY BELONG TO DISNEY AND BUENEVISTA.

A/N: Hello friends. For those of you reading "My Sweet Ghost, My Angel," don't worry! I'm not abandoning it. But it is on hold for a while. My inspiration for it is very limited. I've had other stories in my head. And here's one of them! This story is from first person point of view. Melody's point of view. I must say, this is my favorite fic I've written so far. I think its my best writing and such and such. And I'm most definitely happier with my characters, including Jack! So. . . yes. I hope you likey. Also, if you read "The Unicorn" which has been removed permanently now, this story will follow some of that basic storyline. . . sort of. Melody's original character hasn't changed. The plot is different but it sort of revolves around the same thing. Sort of. And for those of you who didn't read that . . . I hope you enjoy this new fic!

Please Review, I'd really appreciate it!

Chapter One

What's Lucky and What's Fair

“You've got to be kidding me.” I stare disgusted at the room before my eyes. The tavern closed only ten minutes ago. Well, I suppose you could more accurately put it that the tavern 'closed' twenty-five minutes ago and we just got all the men out ten minutes ago.

Kylie looks at my sideways, her dark hair curtaining her shadow-grey eyes. “Nope. Not kiddin’”

I look towards the ceiling, though my head stays in the same spot. The entire look, I'm sure, clearly reads, “Dear-heaven-no-I-don't-want-to.” or just plain annoyed. And why shouldn't I be annoyed. I mean, I'm not supposed to help clean up this part of the tavern. I'm supposed to keep the kitchen in order. And I've done that already. I should be going home. What the hell is this? I'm tired and--

“Melody, please, we need yer 'elp.” Charlotte whines at me. I swear, that girl, even through her profession, has never grown up. She sounds like a six year old. “We canno' do this all tenigh'! Tis a mess. And Luther will push us all.”

That's what I'm afraid of! Luther is our boss. I'm the lucky one here. All eight of these girls, Kylie, Charlotte, Tiff, Jezzy, Rachelle, Mariana, Kate, and Isabelle, are whores. I'm number nine. Melody. The cook. And the finest one around if I do say so myself. I smirk to myself, but quickly wipe it away, knowing the look will only receive five million stupid questions that I'd really rather not answer. Especially when its over something so ridiculous as my gloating. I have no right to really. Gloat I mean. I'm lucky. Sometimes luck doesn't last forever.

Who am I kidding? Sometimes. Luck never lasts forever.

Whatever.

They're all pouting. I roll my eyes again. “Look,” I say, “I've been up as long as you working hard as well. And this isn't my job!” Jezzy glares at me from her dark, black eyes. I try to look away, they've always bothered me. They're deep set and dark. In more ways than one. She's like a black shadow, hiding secrets and death under her blatant face. Underneath, is a hell that no one wants to touch. ‘Beware the silent types dear’, my mother used to say. ‘And the really obnoxious ones.’

She was right. Obnoxious people are always bad news around here. So are the silent ones. The obnoxious ones are the ones that wont stop grabbing and screaming and starting fights. The silent ones, they are usually the cause of a fight or the ones that sneak to the back of the pub and try to kidnap a girl. My thoughts are wandering again.

“Mel!” Tiff shrieks, as she starts to push tables back to the upright position. “If ye 'elp us, it won't take nearly as long!”

I place an annoyed hand on my hip and lean my weight to one foot. “One more person is not going to make that much difference.” My tone is bordering anger now. “I don't get paid for this and you people do.”

Richella, the older of all of us claps her hands sharply. “Girls! Mel is–”

I was quite curious as to what she was going to say, but it is cut off by Luther coming through the back door, sopping wet from the rain. He stares at the small gathered crowed of females. “What is going on?!” He nearly shouts, though it sounds more annoyed than angry. My thoughts exactly.

Kate chimes in. It’s a rare thing. She only talks when she's gotta get herself out of trouble. "We we're tryin' te make clean'n arrange-men's."

"What are you still doin' here?" Luther looks at me.

"They wanted me to help," I say flatly tucking a lock of my long blond hair behind one ear. As quick as I do that I untuck it and hang my hand by my side.

Luther growls slightly. "I've told you all! No! Don't bugger her into it! Not her job. I pay you fer yer work and I'll pay her for hers! Now get on with it! And you!" He points at me in a 'threatening' manner. He'd never hurt a fly. "Get out of here! Be back six tomorrow even'nin!"

I nod in relief and turn abruptly and pull my cloak around my shoulders. It's not that I'm mean. Well, they might see me as such, but I don't. Pushing me to do something that I won't get paid for and they will, I just don't see it as fair. Not that life is always fair. But hey, if I can get it as close to fair as I can get it, I'm good.

I leave the tavern and wander down the slightly less than normally crowded streets of Tortuga. I suppose I can thank the rain for the lack of people. Most of them could use mental help. I miss Dover England. It's where I come from. I came to Tortuga two years ago at the age of twenty-three. My mother still lives there, in England I mean. I exchange letters with her, but its not the same. Walking in the rain I'm reminded of England. Especially tonight. Its colder than normal for the Caribbean. The wind is light, but chilled, pulling playfully at my cloak and the loose strands of hair that have escaped from underneath the hood.

I shiver. I'm not used to the chill anymore. I've been spoiled by the Caribbean heat.

I sigh heavily. I stop walking when I can see the ocean through the alley of two buildings. The dock looks nearly empty. I scan what I can see and note the two large ships in the harbor. The smaller is beautifully decorated with cherry red wood and folded sails that look grey in the very early morning light. I'd say its around six-thirty in the morning.

I can't help my curiosity and I turn toward the dock, wandering down the alley. I come out on the other side and admire the ship. The figure head is a mermaid, swelling out of well-carved waves. She's bare from the hips up.

I roll my shoulder back till it pops, all the while, my mind playing over the fact that men are sick minded idiots. My eyes wander to the other, darker ship. I scowl as my eyes finally focus on it. I hadn't payed it much heed as I'd been looking at the brighter colored ship. The black paint is cracked and fading to a grey. Bits of brown and white wood are exposed in great amounts. The sails are black. The ship looks worn and older. In a way however, it is intriguing to look at. I could almost picture it before the paint began to fade and fall apart. All black. The ship would have been completely black. Stealth? I wonder. Just looking at it tells me there is a story to this ship. I move my pale silver eyes to the figure head and smile sadly at the angel there. She looks sad, her arm outstretched with a bird flying from her fingers. It's almost like she's attached to the ship, her wings won't carry her anywhere but where she leads the ship, and she wants the bird to leave for her. But he can't either. The rain somehow doesn't help her sadness. It begins to dig it's way into my heart. I feel it go heavy. I suddenly miss my mother so much it hurts. Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back.

I take a deep breath and roll my eyes at myself. You're ridiculous Mel. It's just a ship! And you're fine without yer mum! She's fine! You're fine.

I turn away from the ship and walk back toward the alley. Though, before I turn the corner I can't help one last glance at the beautiful dark ship. I smile to myself. I'll likely daydream about it.

I'm about to turn my head again, back to the direction I'm going. Before I do this however, my foot drags over something on the ground and I feel myself start to fall. I put my hands out to catch myself and feel them slide in the water on the cobbles. I hit my head hard and blackness overtakes my vision.

“It's not like I did somethin’ bad!”

I feel disoriented as the deep voice speaks distantly. I can't seem to focus and I feel unsteady, queasy.

“Cap’n! Ye’ve no idea where the girl’d been goin’. Or where she'd come from! Ye shoulda jist left’er! Ye did do somethin’ bad!”

The other voice seems even further away. But I've gathered now that I'm most likely the topic of conversation. Oh, what in the world is going on? I trip and black out and now I have no idea where I am. And since when did I black out? That has never happened to me before. I have the worst headache I've ever experienced. That is for sure. I reach up and rub my forehead, not shocked to feel a large bump in the middle of my hairline on my forehead. Oh, that is wonderful. Just wonderful!

My hand moves back to its place next to my body. I'm quite surprised to feel a soft bed beneath me. Its rocking.

Last I checked, beds for people over the age of one year, didn't rock. One word comes to my head.

Ship.

“Ship,” I say out loud. My mouth feels like its full of cotton.

My eyes open and as they focus I cast them over the dark wood above my head. Yes. I'm on a ship. I turn my attention back to the conversation in the other room.

“--ibbs! I already told ye! It was pourin’ man. I couldn't just leave ‘er there. She’da caught’er death!” The voice makes a frustrated noise and continues. “She was soaked as it was. I don't know how long she'd been ly’n there. But it must've been a while.” His voice is a bit softer now. At least he seems to care. Whoever he is.

“What exactly ‘appened. Cap'n?”

“I was jist comin’ back from gettin’ a drink. I turned to go down that alley closest to us, and there she was. Out cold.” I hear a shuffling noise and the dull thumping of boots. They seem to be getting closer. I briefly panic. The sounds tops. “Gibbs. Don't worry ‘bout it. Alright? I’ll take care of it.”

“Cap’n. She’s gonna be awfully upset with ye.” More shuffling and footsteps that sound slightly heavier heading the opposite direction. The man called Gibbs must be leaving the Captain's Quarters. I assume that's where I am. He has two rooms? Spoiled rat.

“I know Gibbs,” The Captain responds to the comment. “But what else could I do? We had te go.”

I hear a low growling noise of what sounds like disapproval.

“Gibbs, get out,” The Captain says softly.

“I'm goin’.” I hear a door handle turn and a door creak open. Then close again.

The Captains footsteps are heard again. I panic again. What am I supposed to do?! A man, a sailor, is coming into this room. I'm on his bed, with a throbbing headache and he's gonn--

The door opens. I turn my head sharply, immediately regretting it. I am shocked at what I see.

He's not just a sailor. He's...a pirate. There is no mistaking it. The fact is given away by his extravagant attire. He's wearing about his head a faded red bandanna, topped by a worn out tri-cornered hat that is so at home on his head it seems he was born with it. His hair, is a sight. Dread locks. Loads of dread locks. Along with small braids and beads entwined and dangling all over as well. His clothing seems to be whatever he picked up from who knows where. Somehow, however, he manages to make it look fashionable. I look up to his eyes and find them deep, dark and brown and beautiful. They are lined with kohl. In short, he's the strangest man I've ever seen. But he's pretty...NO! Where the hell did that come from?!

He raises a dark eyebrow at me and I look to the floor then back at him.

“Awake are you?” He says. His voice is smooth, and yet gravelly at the same time.

I nod briefly. His other brow goes up as he closes the door. He looks at me sideways then smirks. His eyes light up with a barely concealed mirth. I realize in this moment that I am staring. I drop my eyes again and clear my throat quietly.

“What’ere ye lookin’ at love?” He moves toward the bed, swaying slightly as he walks. I wonder if he's drunk. If so, that could be very, very bad. Or very good. I suppose that depends on how you look at it.

“Your clothes,” I say without hesitation. He scowls slightly as he sits in a chair near the bed against the wall. It's bolted to the floor. Just like all the other furniture, to keep it from moving about in violent storms and such.

“My clothes?” His voice has raised an octave in confusion. He wrinkles his board-straight nose and shakes his head slightly, causing his beads to make a slight jingling sound.

“Yes.” I nod. And again, I regret it, as it sends pain shooting around my skull.

“Why's that love?” He grins, displaying an array of straight white and gold and sliver teeth.

I look over his clothes in a way that seems to be scrutinizing. He raises a dark brow again and his grin fades a bit. “They're...interesting.” I say. I don't feel the need to expand.

“Do explain.”

I roll my eyes. “They're not bad,” I say, my voice raising a small amount. “They just...well they're just different. Y'know?”

“No. Not really.” He still looks so confused. He must be touched in the head.

“Never mind. . .” I mumble. My hand goes back up to my forehead. He takes notice and chimes in again. “Ye took a bad fall. What ‘appened?”

I look at him strangely. I don't know if I really want to tell him exactly what happened. It’s embarrassing after all. I mean, I just tripped. Most people can catch themselves and manage to get up and keep walking with a few minor scrapes when they trip. I have to be the one who knocks myself out!

“Well?” He prods impatiently. I suppose I should tell him. He is trying to help after all. At least, that's how it appears so far.

“I tripped.” I feel so stupid saying that.

“Ye tripped?”

“Yes. I tripped. That's it. I wasn't watching where I was going and I tripped. My hands slipped and I hit my head. That's it. I know, it's stupid.” I look up at him. He's smirking. Evilly. Ooooh. I'm gonna kill him! He sniggers. I'm double gonna kill him! “What are you laughing at?!”

“Ye tripped. Yeah, that’s pretty stupid.”

I growl and mutter. “So are your clothes.”

“Hey!” He looks upset. Pathetically upset. Like...a five year old. What is it with me and getting involved with adults that act like children? “That is completely different!” He says in his defense. I raise a brow as I listen. “At least I didn't purposely...” he pauses. I snort laughter at his mistake.

“You didn't purposely pick your clothes?” I laugh. “Oh yes, I suppose your mother picked them for you.” Real anger flashes through his dark eyes, making them burn. The look alone is frightening. Not to mention how quickly this mans humorous, childish looks can transform into features and a glare that is making my blood run cold. Fear flits through my mind.

“Not funny.” He says the words quietly, with vehemence.

I don't say anything.

After a moment of awkward and very thickly tensious silence he says, “And I suppose I did pick my clothes on purpose. Alas love,” I furrow my brows at the name. I realize this isn't the first time he's called me this. “ I think that purposely tri–”

“I did not purposely trip!”

“Well, people don't knock themselves out like that!”

“How do you bloody know!?” I nearly shriek. He looks slightly startled. I growl. “Look, it really doesn't matter! I didn't knock myself out on purpose. Now...how did I get here and what is going on?”

“I carried you here.” The look on his face tells me that he is very proud of this fact. “And its on a ship.”

“I figured that much,” I say flatly. “And?”

He looks nervous. He looks to the floor and fidgets in his seat. “And what?” He asks, the nervousness fading to confidence again.

I scowl. “Are we in Tortuga still?” I ask.

Again he is nervous. My gut twists up into a very tight knot. My throat closes off and starts to burn, dryly. No. This is not happening. I have not been dragged onto a ship, a pirate ship no less, by a seriously mental, drunk, pirate. No, no, no. It is not--

“No...we’re not in Tortuga anymore. We're out te sea.”

My eyes go wide. I have been dragged out to sea by a seriously mental, drunk pirate! Damn. The pirate captain fiddles with his hands and looks discreetly at me from the corner of his eyes. I make sure I'm giving him the death glare. He visibly flinches and looks away. I'm speechless. I really don't have a clue what to say to this man. And looking at his face doesn't help! What does anyone say to any man who is acting like a drunk child?! He's still got the slight pout on his face. He obviously wants me to be sorry. The question is for what? I'm not the one who kidnaped him!