In turn, each of us is questioned by the female cop who tells us to call her Sofia. She’s tough but nice. Not to mention hot. When it’s my turn to be questioned one-on-one, I can’t help but fantasize about her thick black curls flowing all around my face as she fucks me with a strap-on.

“Was that a yes or a no?” she says.

I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, what was the question?”

“Did you ever see anyone picking up the soup containers besides Fernando?”

“No, I didn’t.”

She asks me a few more questions about the basic running of the restaurant and then places a picture on the table.

“Have you ever seen this man?” she asks.

I can’t help it. My hand goes up to my mouth, and I inhale sharply with a little squeak. Damn.

Her eyebrows rise. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Shit, I’d make a terrible criminal, wouldn’t I? On the table is a photo of Lukas Thorn, in a flowing white shirt open to his waist, that goddamned evil half-smile on his face.

I’m about to speak, but words don’t come out. I have no clue what to say.

“Jayd, I know you know him. I also know your real name is Abigail Trowbridge from Concord, Massachusetts, date of birth four-twelve-ninety-four. That’s correct, right?”

“Umm . . . yeah.”

“Don’t be alarmed. I just ran a standard background check on all the employees here. But I need to speak with this man. What name do you know him by?”

My brain scrambles. “Um . . . “

“Lying to a police officer is a misdemeanor in the state of Florida punishable by a prison sentence of up to five years. Now, honey, you’re sweet. I know you’re not going to lie to me, but I just wanted you to know.”

I keep my mouth shut. Even though Lukas Thorn is my least favorite person on Earth right now . . . while simultaneously my favorite person on Earth right now . . . I’m not turning him in.

“That’s fine,” she says with a warm smile. “All we want to do is talk to him.” She takes out a card and hands it to me. “Please call me if you see him. He’s not a suspect in anything. We just need to speak with him about an unrelated matter. Nothing to do with what’s going on here tonight.”

“Okay, I will.”

“Thanks. Do you need a ride home?”

“No, I’ll walk.”

Chapter 6

While the Redmond Apts may not be the most glamorous place on South Beach, it’s only a fifteen-minute walk from the restaurant. Much better than having to catch a skeevy bus to Karissa’s.

Which doesn’t matter anymore now, does it?

As I walk past the hordes of South Beach partiers, my mind tries to make sense of this strange new world.

It all started so simply, but now I feel like I’m living inside the kinky bastard child of Miami Vice and Fifty Shades of Grey with a little Days of Our Lives thrown in for good measure.

I chuckle.

How can I chuckle, really?

Because I’m not so sure I believe all this. Is all this really happening? It’s almost too ludicrous. I mean, if I told any of my friends back home about what was going on, they’d call the men in white coats to take me away.

See, here’s what happened. I moved in with this hot, transgender hooker with a cock the size of a submarine after an orgasm on a plane with a Dom who runs a submission school. The hot, transgender hooker ended up getting her massive cock sucked my dad who came down looking for me, so my childhood guardian sets me up in a new rent-free place, begins to fuck me, and then declares that he’s always been in love with me.

I laugh out loud as I walk.

Oh, but wait, there’s more! The rich old woman who employs the Dom – who throws weekly fetish parties – now is so desperate to hire me to seduce him back under her wing that she had the restaurant where I worked forcibly closed by the Miami police.

People sitting outdoors at other Ocean Drive restaurants are looking at me very strangely because I can’t stop laughing. I put my hand up to my mouth, but I just can’t stop.

My friends would already be on the phone to the mental clinic if I told them this story. And I didn’t even mention being fingered in a “play pen” and forced to lick the pussies of a hot cowgirl and a black girl who has twenty-seven orgasms in one hour!

What is next? Seriously, what is next?

Oh wait, I think I’ve figured all this out.

It’s a dream, isn’t it?

I’m in my apartment back in Newton. I must have been out with Amy and Sydney and somebody spiked my drink with a hallucinogen.

That’s it!

It has to be a dream! Shit like this just doesn’t happen in real life! Who would have ever thought that a fantasy about a guy’s dangling hand in the aisle of an airplane would turn into all this? It’s like it’s all being directed by somebody – somebody with a very sick mind.

As I turn the corner onto 15th Street, I decide to test my theory. I turn right instead.

Soon I’m on the beach. The night wind is fresh. Still steamy because it’s only August, but super-clean and clear.

I head toward the water.

I’m amazed at how many people are out here. Lanterns glow on little blankets all around me, not that you really need them. The multi-colored neon spectacle of Ocean Drive casts a glow all the way to the sand’s edge. Not to mention the lights from the rows of hotels to my left, strung as far as the eye can see. If I squint, they look like glowing Lego blocks.

I know it’s unsafe to walk out here at this time of night, but I’m testing my theory. I’m convinced all this might just be a dream. If it is, then if anything happens I’ll just wake up.

I take off my flats as I pause at the edge of the water.

It’s mostly darkness ahead of me, although there are enough spots of boats and cruise ships to give a sense of the horizon.

The water is warm as it splashes over my feet. Funny, back home it’s always cold even at this time of year. Seems like nothing is cold here.

Except Lukas Thorn.

Is Lorena right? Did he drop me from the school because he fell in love with me at first sight?

I laugh again, the water moving up to my ankles. The squishy sand beneath my feet loses its solidity the further I move forward.

Shit, it feels real. This is a really detailed dream.

And if this is a dream, then Miami must not even look like this in real life because I’ve never been there. So did I fabricate all this in my mind? The names of the streets and everything? Is there really a Collins Ave? A James Ave?

I need to go out further.

It must be a dream. There is no way a man like Lukas Thorn would fall for me. He’s a man who dates supermodels like Clarissa Stock, after all.

That alone is proof this is all a dream. I press forward.

The water is up to my knees. I feel a sideways rush of water.

That’s the undertow. It’s all over the news, warning swimmers to be careful. A boy drowned just last week, swept out to sea by a rough current that picked him up and threw him away.

If I go further, I’ll be tempting it.

But this is all a dream, right?

So it shouldn’t matter, right?

“Is this real?” I say out loud to nobody.

I turn and look back at the beach. The lovers and beach bums on their blankets don’t seem to notice me.

“Is this real?” I scream louder.

No answer.

I take another step forward.

Now I’m feeling it. The sense of the ocean is powerful as it swallows me up to my waist. I raise my purse up to my shoulder to keep it from getting wet.

I have a purse. If this is a dream, I wouldn’t have a purse, right? What would I be doing with a purse in a dream?

Hm, now I’m having doubts.

I’ve got admit, this feels fucking real. My heart beats faster and my skin crawls with fear.

If this is real, I’m tempting fate.

I turn and look back at the neon glow again.