As we walked farther and farther, the boats got bigger and bigger.

“Which one is it, Christos?” I asked.

“The one with all the people,” he said.

“The huge one at the end?”

“Yup.”

“OMG, it looks like a freakin’ yacht.”

“It is a yacht.” He grinned.

“Is it yours?” I gasped.

“Hardly,” he smiled.

There was a small crowd of a half-dozen people still on the dock and more on board.

“Sam!” Madison stepped out of the crowd and waved. She jogged toward me, gorgeous as ever. “So good to see you, girlfriend!”

“Mads!” We hugged like long-lost BFFs. “I didn’t know you were going to be here! You look totally Hollywood tonight, girl! You’re all glammed out!”

“Gotta dress up once in awhile,” she grinned. “Yeah, Jake made me keep it a secret.”

Jake stepped up behind her. “What up, guys.” He bumped fists with Christos before they clapped backs. “How was D.C., bro?”

“Cold as witch tits,” Christos replied.

“I hear that, bro,” Jake said knowingly.

“Why do guys always say things like that?” Madison frowned. “Have either of you ever been with a witch?”

Christos and Jake looked back and forth between me and Madison, then back at each other.

I frowned at them. “Don’t answer that.”

They both burst out laughing.

“Such boys,” Madison said, putting her arm around Jake. “Sam, I brought leashes and muzzles for them both, just in case.”

“So, Christos,” I asked, “whose boat is this?”

He put his arm lovingly around me. “Didn’t I tell you?”

Despite the festive atmosphere, I jumped as if someone had driven a dump-truck full of black cats and broken mirrors over my grave. I gasped with trepidation, “Tell me what?”

“Uhhh…” Christos mumbled, caught off guard by my sudden change in tone.

Fearing an unexpectedly ominous turn of events, I peered into Christos’ eyes. A quick flash blinked across them, then it was gone.

Why did I have the sudden conviction that with every awesome surprise came an equally earthquaking catch?

What wasn’t he telling me?

CHRISTOS

THREE MONTHS EARLIER…

Two uniformed deputies took me out of interrogation and led me to booking.

When the guy behind the camera took my mug shot, I made sure to grin. I figured if I was going to be on the cover of one of those pulp WANTED magazines you could get at 7-Eleven for a buck, I may as well flash my pearlies. Get some lovelorn hunnies writing me on the block. Shit, who was I kidding? I couldn’t wait to get processed and get the fuck out of there.

Samantha.

The female officer who led me through fingerprint scanning, DNA swab, cataloging my personals, and fitting me for a prison jumper and paper slippers, was all business. I tried joking with her when I showered and lathered up with the lice shampoo, but Sergeant Stonewall kept her back to me and didn’t peek once. She’d probably seen it all before.

Oh well. I was just trying to lighten shit up while I could.

After I toweled off and stepped into my orange jumper, Sergeant Stonewall led me through a series of bulletproof doors. She maintained the social barrier between us the entire time.

I knew from experience to harden my face before I stepped through the final door into the awaiting dormitory. There would be a dozen or more aggressive criminals inside ready to size me up. With my tats, my height, and my impressive muscles, nobody fucked with me, and that was an order.

Sergeant Stonewall signaled the guard at the far end of the hallway. The electric lock buzzed open and Stonewall opened the door for me.

Time to play.

All eyes were on me when I stood in the doorframe. They sniffed for fresh fish. I glared at them.

No dice, fuckers. I’m the bull in this ring.

Psychological intimidation beat out physical violence. There was enough ugliness in this place without me adding to it for real. The men went back to playing cards and doing pushups and wasting away.

I dropped onto an unoccupied bottom bunk, which I preferred because it blocked out the overhead lights. You had to breathe through your mouth, otherwise the smell of human desperation was overpowering. I laced my fingers behind my head and did my best to relax.

The first thing I saw when I closed my eyes was Samantha’s smiling face.

God, she was beautiful. Somewhere between Monet’s Water Lilies and one of John William Waterhouse’s river nymphs.

Memories of Samantha flooded my mind, blotting out the dreariness of my horrible surroundings. Images of her angelic innocence whisked me away to paradise. Something about her open face, the freedom with which her unbridled emotions played across it, touched my heart for the thousandth time that day.

I held in a happy laugh, keeping it safe from the harm that waited to pounce on my joy if I let any out.

I almost felt greedy, as if sharing the good vibes Samantha brought me might actually bring some positive energy to the men in the room around me, but I didn’t want any opportunists stomping on my good mood.

Normally, dudes in lock-up would go on and on about fucking countless hot chicks with legendary looks. The stories were about as believable as guys on the outside telling “I caught a fish this big” stories. Trading tall-tales about notching your bedpost was a bonding ritual worth a few laughs when the inmates weren’t fighting to survive. But those stories were mostly blustery bullshit.

Samantha, on the other hand, was truth and goodness. At that moment, I needed all the goodness I could get.

I burrowed deeper into my mind. I imagined reaching my hand out to stroke Samantha’s cheek and her leaning into it. Not that she had done that today, not even close. I mean, she gave me plenty of green lights, especially after I cleaned her car, but she’d kept me at arm’s length most of the day, sizing me up.

Her uncertainty drove me crazy. In a good way. I wasn’t used to her kind of behavior from women.

Thing was, usually, when I walked, I swaggered like my dick weighed a ton and hauling it around took gorilla strength. For some reason, Samantha made me want to drop the act. There was a moment earlier, when we’d been walking to the dorms and searching for paper towels for her car, when I’d almost cracked. For a second, all I’d wanted to do was take her hand in mine and skip along together like we were in kindergarten. Just me and her, looking for paper towels. On a mini-adventure.

Me and Samantha.

I suddenly imagined writing “Christos + Samantha” on my binder and drawing a heart around it, if I had one. Man, I was nuts. I thought only girls were supposed to do that shit.

I smiled and inhaled deeply, feeling Samantha’s energy swirl through me.

I pictured her leaning toward me, lips ready for a tender kiss. Man, was I going through puberty again? I hadn’t had thoughts like this since I was chasing chicks in junior high. But it felt wonderful. Like the first day of summer vacation. That’s what Samantha was for me, when you get down to it. A vacation from bullshit, from image, from posing, from acting whatever part I felt I needed to play at any given moment.

She was straight-up relaxation.

I must have been trancing, because I could swear I heard soft waves whispering across warm sand and felt a cool breeze kissing my toes as the sun licked my skin. Samantha was right next to me, I could feel her presence.

I almost freaked out, thinking some AC/DC inmate was trying to tongue my toes while I appeared to nap. I peeked out one eye, just to make sure I wasn’t losing it. Seeing the coast was clear, I dropped back through whatever astral portal was pulling my heart out of this place and into that distant utopia where Samantha waited for me.

A second later, I was gone from the real world completely.

Samantha and I were lying on loungers on a remote desert island somewhere on the other side of the planet, the fingers of our hands laced together while we sipped cool drinks on the diamond sand. There was not a soul around for hundreds of miles. We inhabited our own private paradise.