There is a rumble of scoffing and arrogant remarks as everyone gets up from their tables.
“But I just got my food!” says a woman’s voice.
“Be quiet!” says a man’s voice.
Several people ask what happened, but the cop just repeats, “This is a police matter relating to a criminal investigation. That’s all I can say.”
I glare at Lorena, who finally lets go of my arm. “You did this?”
“Fernando did it to himself a long time ago, dear. I just expedited the process. Oh, you didn’t know the soup bins had hidden compartments in the bottom full of heroin?”
“Um, no.”
She stands up. “Well, now you do. Let me give you a ride to your new apartment in my building.”
“What?”
“I own the building, dear, remember? The rent will be a big whopping zero. I think you can afford it. Let’s go.”
Confused and bewildered, I’m about to follow Lorena when someone calls my name.
“Jayden Raye!”
I turn to see Detective Sergeant Martinez-Vallejos. “Could you stay for a minute, please? I need to ask the staff some routine questions.”
“Oh, of course,” I say.
“I’ll have my driver wait for you,” says Lorena.
“Lorena, no. Please. I need to get my things from . . . my friend Karissa’s place. How about if I just meet you tomorrow?”
“Fine, dear. Let’s say eleven. But, I’ll have my driver, Vargas, take you home.”
“No, really, Lorena. It’s okay.”
She squints, trying to figure out what I’m hiding from her. “Fine, dear. Eleven tomorrow at my place.”
“Can we make it later? Like two? I have something I need to do in the morning.”
“Fine. Two p.m. tomorrow at my place.”
She leaves with the other guests. Javier, the three other waitresses, the hostess, and I are all whisked to a table. About twenty other people, some wearing DEA vests, swarm around the restaurant. They must have taken Fernando out the back on Ocean Court.
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.