Fall With Me(8)
Author: Bella Forrest

For a few minutes, I let the self-pity wash over me. I sit there and wallow in it. What if these fools actually are for real and they kill me? I think of Imogen, and her lovely, perky tits, and the sad fact that I only got to spend one night getting to know them. And then there’s Harper, and her beautiful gazelle legs, and Amanda, and her tiny waist and voluptuous ass, and Stella, who really did give the best head ever, and Marion, who screamed so loud when she came that I actually had ringing in my ears for a day afterward, and Alicia, Laura, Tess, Zoe, Kelly, Rebecca, Katy, Elizabeth . . . I can’t even remember all their names. All lovely ladies.

But perhaps this is a fitting end. I mean, not to be all dramatic or anything, but I haven’t really done much in way of a positive contribution to the world. Don’t think that I don’t know it. It’s just easy to get caught up in all of it, in the lifestyle, in upholding this certain image, though what that image is I can’t quite say. All I know is, word gets out there, and people expect you to be a certain way, and, for some reason or another, you try to do exactly that.

I stand up and feel my way over to the door. I’ll just break the news to them myself. Carl Alexander III is not going to pay your ransom. He is not going to confess and he is not going to give two shits if you kill his son or not. In fact, he might even applaud you if you do, or perhaps wish he could’ve done the deed himself. Maybe they’ll let me go. Or maybe they’ll kill me like they said they would, because it would be just as fun.

I bang on the door. “Guys! Open up. I’ve got to tell you something. It’s big. You’ll want to hear this.”

There’s a moment of silence, it’s almost unreal, like someone pressed the universal mute button or something, and then I hear one of them shout—shriek, really—and the boat lurches violently one way, then the other. I lose my footing and fall to one knee before I’m able to catch myself. There’s more screaming, followed by thunderous footsteps. The door flies open a minute later.

“A f**king whale hit the boat!” Bandana screams. “Get your ass out here and help us!”

They’re trying to bail the water out, but I can tell the second I get out there that the boat’s f**ked. It’s going down, and it’s going down fast, and from the look on Bandana’s face, I’d be surprised if any of them can do more than the dog paddle.

The whale is nowhere to be seen, though I’ve heard of this happening once or twice. Some juvenile whale who breached and misjudged the distance between here and there. Like driving after you’ve skied, or on one too many hits of LSD. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.

I dive into the water. It’s cold but tolerable, and I don’t think they even notice that I’m gone. I don’t look back.

I swim.

I swam competitively all throughout school, not because I particularly loved it but because I was good at it and also because girls can’t resist a swimmer’s body. The broad shoulders, narrow waist, the tight, toned muscles. So while my parents thought I was doing it for the glory of all those championships, really, I was doing it for the glory of being with all those girls, and yes, there were plenty of them.

This is what I think about as I swim. What I try not to think about is the fact that I could be going in the wrong direction and may never see solid ground again, or that I might be headed straight for a shark or an infestation of jellyfish. No, I push those thoughts to the very back of my mind and instead think of Sadie-Heather-Jen-Tara-Gwen-Alexa-Nicole . . . the list could go on forever . . .

I stop periodically. Tread water. Dead man’s float. If something about my situation doesn’t change soon, that’s exactly what I’ll be, dead man floating. The sun is setting. My lips are dry, cracking, my muscles ache, but they’re nowhere near failing. These babies can go all night, and it’s looking like they’re going to have to. My brain buzzes from lack of sleep, but this isn’t the first time yours truly has had to do something completely strung out.

Other things I think about aside from the girls: this alleged confession my father needs to make, worth approximately the same value as 7.2 million dollars and his son’s life. Or maybe worth more than that.

My father is the CEO, president, and chairman of the Concord Frazier Group, a multinational conglomerate holding company. CFG owns a few airlines, several insurance companies, several more manufacturers, and a popular soft drink company. They even jumped on the natural food craze bandwagon a few years ago with Organica, that whole food company that touts itself as being “as natural as if you just dug it out of the ground, but as convenient as if you just pulled it out of the microwave.”

My relationship with my father wasn’t always so contentious. Somewhere, in some forgotten-about desk drawer somewhere, there might even be a photograph or two of Dad and I. Look, there I am, seven years old, at Yankees Stadium, Cam, ten years old, sandwiched between me and Dad. Or at nine, on Dad’s yacht, me with a huge grin on my face because I love being out on the water, Dad trying to look like he’s not about to toss his cookies.

Something happened, though, right around the time I turned thirteen. Maybe it’s because I grew taller than him, or because my voice got deeper than his, or any number of things, but one day it seemed like Dad woke up and decided he just didn’t like me anymore. He didn’t laugh at my jokes, he didn’t come to my swim competitions, he said he was busy with work and that was that. It’s like he made up his mind and never looked back, which is basically how he lives his life. Maybe it’s because he realized Cam could fulfill everything he wanted in a son, so I was just extra, unnecessary, a needless liability.

I’m about to start swimming again when I see movement against the sky. Birds, flying away from the setting sun. Birds fly back to land at dusk. I smile, and feel my lip split, but I don’t care. I’m going the right way. Land is near.

Chapter 6: Jill

Sitting by the campfire is basically a part of every evening, but the main event that I think most of the kids look forward to is the Beach BBQ, which starts around six-thirty and doesn’t end until well into the night, when the tired campers crawl into the tents they’ve pitched in the sand at the edge of the beach. The other part of the fun is the fact that Bill and Lorrie turn in before the party commences, leaving the supervising up to me and the other counselors.

The things that have gone on at the Beach BBQ are the stuff of legends, but the fact is, no one’s ever been hurt, lost, or gotten killed and the general consensus is that it’s the best part of the whole experience. It always takes place one week after the campers have arrived, kind of as a reward, as a way to say, Congratulations, you’ve made it this whole week—only two left to go.