Adrift

it down. He gazed up at me with a boyish wonder in his eyes, the same kind of expression when he launched one of his model rockets and it shot up forty feet in the air.
He dipped down and sucked in my nipple. He sucked so hard it hurt, but I didn’t say anything. Yes, the first time his lips touched me, they touched my breast.
He fumbled with his pants, and his erection sprung out. I’d never seen a penis before, not in person. He crawled forward on his knees while I stared. He pressed his exposed penis against my shirt and the flappy belly I didn’t want to reveal to him.
“Do you mind?” Confusion blocked all thought processes. I must have said okay. He shoved his dick between my breasts.
“Holy shit. You feel so good. Oh, my god. This is amazing. Fuck. Look at that.”
The skin of his penis felt soft in my breasts. The hairs on his belly tickled my face as I sat, legs straight out, my shirt splayed open but pulled tight below my breasts.
His body jerked hard, and I worried he might be spasming. Then a warm liquid shot below my chin and on my neck.
“Oh, fuck. Penny.”
He backed up and zipped his pants. I sat frozen.
He leaned forward and pressed his lips flat against mine. “Thank you. Let me get you something to clean up.” He got a washcloth and tossed it to me. “You might want to go to the bathroom.”
In the mirror, creamy cum dripped on a few strands of my hair. Somehow, I convinced myself that he liked me. Those kinds of scenes in his basement played out for the next four years.
The phone in my hand vibrated. I couldn’t see the screen. I swiped both eyes and waited until the words came into focus. The boater’s melodic whistle as he hosed off his boat calmed me and served to remind me I no longer lived in Louisiana.
After a good cry, because sometimes a girl needed a good cry, I blew my nose and emailed Suzette, the owner of Jules, to inquire if she had any bartending shifts open. I read the rent renewal contract and closed out of email. I couldn’t quite bring myself to decline to renew, even though I needed to. There was only so much I could do in one day.

Chapter 11
Gabe
On January 27, I should have been out for a run or exercising in my home gym. Instead, the absence of light combined with icy remnants etched along the corners of my bedroom window crushed my will to leave the warm confines of my bed. Thanks to the snowstorm that hit during the night and was forecast to continue dispersing snow periodically across the region for the rest of the day, the city outside slowed and guaranteed empty cubicles and offices.
Checking the promotional folder on my personal email account belonged in the “hardly ever” category, but that slow, snowy morning, I clicked and scanned. An email from Haven Island Realty caught my attention. I clicked on the listing of an oceanfront home. I scrolled through the photos. I checked the map and discovered it was located a few houses down from Access 42, my favorite ocean access point. The newly listed house needed a fresh coat of exterior paint, but the inside appeared move-in ready. Six bedrooms and five baths, with stunning ocean views, listed for six million. On a whim, I replied to the realtor.
Owning a place away from it all held appeal. A place to get away from the bone chilling winds that wrapped around each skyscraper and tore down avenues. A place where every TV didn’t display a stock ticker, and emergency sirens didn’t blare with regularity every single day. A place where I could lie down in bed, close my eyes, and sleep.
A few hours later, after trudging down icy sidewalks and almost busting my ass more than once in my poorly chosen dress shoes, I stepped into the deserted Belman office tower. Back at my desk, I read the response from the Realtor. Without any additional research, I responded with an offer five percent below asking.
Growing up, I’d had the best summers of my life on that island. Tate and I roamed free, checking in for lunch and dinner. Pedaling our bikes, we could go anywhere we wanted, and we never had to ask permission. Never had to ask to be driven somewhere. That island gave me my first taste of freedom.
The memory of that sensation, the sun on my face, that natural high, it created a bittersweet nostalgia that pinched at my chest. I envisioned working remotely for periods of time. And in the evenings, I planned to walk barefoot. I could almost feel the sand filter through my toes.
Both my personal lawyers and the firm’s lawyers all warned the Justice Department would soon announce a criminal investigation. They’d been sounding the alarm for months. If correct, and the Justice Department followed precedent, they would request to delay the civil suit on grounds of not revealing too much of their hand in the criminal prosecution. As one of the suited attorney’s so astutely said to me, “It’s gonna take years. You’ll be involved in this case for years.” Hell, yes, I needed a place to escape to.
I made that initial investment almost five years ago. Sold three years ago. Digging up every piece of logic and information, going through emails, wracking my brain for details on every single interaction with not only Cyr Martin but also the managing director of my firm, and knowing any wrong recollection could be construed as a sign of guilt added a layer of untold stress. I found myself reconsidering everything—my career, my city, my future. And I loved my job. Before the scandal.
Now, every time I sold a stock, I gathered data to ensure I had my rationale on hand should anyone ask. I second guessed every decision. Before, I studied