Fall With Me

mind that I wouldn’t be following in his footsteps, and he basically told me to go do whatever I wanted so long as it didn’t involve getting thrown in jail—presumably he didn’t want to have to put up the bail—or get involved in any scandals that might tarnish the public’s impression of him. I doubt he ever had a conversation like that with Cam. When I was twenty-five my trust fund would be released to me. At which point he’s probably hoping to never have to see me again.               From what I’ve gathered, Cam hasn’t touched his trust fund yet and instead has followed in Dad’s footsteps and is making money out of money. Or something. Honestly, I’m not entirely sure what either my dad or Cam do, but it’s lucrative and gives them the idea that they are somehow better than everyone else.
    Mom always liked to refer to us as her “good boy” and her “wild one.” I’ll let you decide who was who. But clearly it was apparent early on that Cam could do no wrong. In every holiday photo, he’s looking straight into the camera, perfect smile, not a hair out of place. It was always on account of me we had to do half a dozen or more retakes, my dad’s smile getting tighter and more forced with each one, until the official Alexander Family Christmas photo always resulted with Dad scowling. Somehow, though, the look on Cam’s face never faltered.
    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 fucking 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 fucked. 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,