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Swimming with the Sharks
T he stranger’s lips trail down my neck as the boat rocks beneath us. I close my eyes, focusing on the sensation of his hands sliding under my dress, but it’s not enough to make me forget why I’m here. Nothing ever is.
I turn and guide the stranger’s hand from my waist to the hidden zipper of my dress. He unzips it in one motion, and my dress falls away. The cold air of the small bathroom bites my skin. My nipples stiffen, and a small moan escapes his lips. He admires the curves of my body, lost in desire. He fails to notice that no matter how beautiful I look, there’s always something missing.
“You’re so hot,” he whispers against my skin. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. They always say that, these nameless men who think they can fix me with empty compliments and eager touches. At least the sex distracts me for a while, and I’m good at pretending. He leans closer and pulls me against him. Our bodies press together as his fingers tangle in my hair. His touch doesn’t make me forget, but it’s enough to make me pretend, if only for a moment.
I push the stranger down on the covered toilet seat and straddle his lap. The bottle of expensive champagne he brought tips over, spilling across the floor. He starts to reach for it, but I grab his chin, forcing his attention back to me. “Leave it.”
His pupils are blown wide with desire as I grind against him. He’s handsome enough—all clean-cut jaw and perfectly-styled hair that screams old money. Probably another trust fund baby sent to Shark Bay University by parents who got tired of cleaning up his messes. We’re all the same here, broken toys of the elite. They send us away when we’re too messy for them, too fucked up to pretend they can fix us. This is where they come to pick up whatever pieces are left. I understand these boys better than the others. After all, I’m one of them.
Loud laughter booms through the thin door. “Ollie!” someone shouts. “Get your ass out here!”
The stranger groans. “Just ignore them,” he says between kisses. I run a hand through his hair, pulling hard enough to make him gasp. He leans into the touch, desperate for more, like an eager puppy.
“I don’t usually do this,” he pants as I unbutton his shirt. Another lie. I saw him eyeing me the moment I stepped onto the boat, recognized the practiced way he approached me with that bottle of Dom Pérignon. He’s done this before, probably with girls just like me. He isn’t even as high as the rest of them. He’s likely some small-town rich boy looking to get laid and forget his own misery. I can’t blame him. I’d probably be on drugs, too, if my parents hadn’t confiscated them.
A wave slams against the side of the boat, and the toilet squeaks with the force of it. The boat sways. Someone laughs, their voice carrying down the hall. If I close my eyes, I can imagine I’m with someone else, someone who would erase the darkness in my mind, instead of reminding me why I’m here. But those desires only last a few stolen moments.
“Shut up,” I tell him, crushing my mouth against his. I don’t want to hear his stories or his excuses. I just want to feel something—anything—that will drown out the echo of Alex’s voice in my head, begging me to stay.
I shake my head, willing the thoughts to leave. There’s no use in wishing for things I can’t have, not when I’m barely holding on as it is. When he disappears, I’ll have nothing, and no one left.
The boat rocks harder as the waves pick up, and I use the motion to my advantage, moving against this stranger in a rhythm that makes him moan.
He whimpers as I trail my mouth down the column of his neck. My tongue flickers across his skin as he pulls me harder against him.
He slips a finger inside me and groans. “You’re so wet.”
“Stop talking.”
His lips leave a trail along my neck as I pull my dress over my head and push him back against the tile. There’s a brief hesitation. The air shifts, and it almost feels like the beginning of some grandiose, heartfelt, and all too sincere speech.
“I don’t even know your name,” he gasps as I reach for his belt.
“Good.” I silence him with another kiss, rougher this time. Names mean attachment, and attachment is dangerous. My parents made that perfectly clear when they showed me those pictures of Alex—proof that they’re always watching, always ready to destroy anyone who gets too close. I can’t fail him like that again.
The stranger stills. For a moment, he studies me, confusion and desire muddling his expression, but eventually, he kisses me back. We each need something from the other tonight. Why ruin it with sob stories? I drop his belt, ignoring the clank with which it hits the floor.
I refuse to think about Alex or my parents or the fact that this boat is taking me to what amounts to a prison, no matter how prestigious its name is. Right now, there’s only this—skin against skin, pleasure without connection, control without consequence.
He grabs a condom from his back pocket and quickly shoves his pants down. I watch him roll it over his length, distracted by the thoughts swarming through my mind. Why do all my mistakes start with kisses, and why the fuck did the stranger’s smile remind me of the boy next door?
Before the stranger can say anything else, I lift myself just high enough for him to guide the tip of his cock to my opening. My breath catches as I drop onto him, my fingernails digging into his shoulders as the tension between us grows. Someone calls his name. Loud laughter. Drunken chatter. Voices drift through the walls of the bathroom, muffled by the waves and wind. I slam onto him again. I just need to drown out the voices. I close my eyes, leaning back slightly as the waves pick up. Just a few more minutes of oblivion…
As soon as we’re off this fucking boat, the inevitable panic attack will sneak up, an incurable snake ready to strike. But right now, that thought fades as well. Nothing left but sweet, sweet nothing, and bodies pressing together in an artful rhythm.
Pleasure pulses across my skin, heat twisting my core, ready to break free at any moment, and maybe tonight, this stolen moment is all I need to last another few seconds, hours, or days. Pleasure ebbs and swells, pulling me deeper into the current, forcing me to lose focus on everything that surrounds me, all the reminders, all the emptiness, and all of the monsters. There is only the movement of our bodies, the darkness in the room, and the echoes of voices just outside the door.
“Almost there,” the stranger groans, his hands sliding up my thighs. “We should?—”
“Quiet.” I press a hand against his chest, keeping him pinned to the wall. “Just shut up and let me take what I want.”
Bright lights filter in through the grimy bathroom window, and even though they flash once, twice, three times, I still ride him. Our breathing increases, our bodies moving together, his cock filling me deeper with each thrust, and his voice begins to deepen, the syllables becoming more guttural. A sense of complete desperation surges forward, as if there’s nothing more between us than shared trauma and a mutual desire to lose ourselves in one another. We’re two broken souls sharing the same experience, and in these precious moments, the space between us isn’t loneliness and despair, but the fragile thread of hope. Something so delicate, a breath away from being lost forever, but strong enough to exist anyway.
He opens his mouth to say something else, but I silence him with a roll of my hips that makes his words dissolve into a groan. I don’t want to think about our destination or what awaits me there. Instead, I lose myself in the physical—the dig of his fingers into my skin, the heat building between us, the way my body responds automatically while my mind stays carefully, blissfully blank.
The stranger’s eyes shut as his head falls back. He bites his lip, pushing into me harder. I feel my body reacting to his, the tightness curling my toes. One more thrust and the orgasm rips through me with blinding force.
“I’m going to—” The rest of his sentence chokes off. I feel him shaking under me, and then another surge that joins mine. One day, we’ll look back at this, and instead of feeling sad, or nostalgic, or any other bullshit emotion, all we’ll remember is the release. Right now, we’re just two teenagers indulging in a little misguided hedonism.
Before I can even catch my breath, the boat’s horn blares. I force myself to pull off the stranger, avoiding his gaze as I fix my dress and collect my shoes from the floor. I head for the door without looking back, but his fingers wrap around my wrist before I can make a clean escape.
“Thank you,” he says. I finally turn to meet his eyes, and my heart stops. Somehow, I’d managed to forget that moment on the sidewalk, Alex leaning over to brush his lips against mine, the taste of his kiss and the desperation in his eyes as he pulled away. “That was?—”
“That was nothing,” I cut him off with a cold smile. I grab my designer suitcase—the only thing my parents let me bring—leaving the bathroom and moving to the boat’s rail. The wind whips my hair around my face as Shark Bay University looms closer, its ancient stone walls a promise of imprisonment dressed up as opportunity. Its gothic spires rise through the morning fog.
The sight sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the ocean spray hitting my bare shoulders. A handful of stone structures, some well-manicured gardens, and a body of water stretching in front of the campus, leaving no doubt where the school got its name.
In the distance behind me, I hear the stranger zipping up his pants, muttering something that sounds like “crazy bitch” loud enough for the wind to carry it to my ears. I smile wider, letting the sharp edges show. He’s not wrong.
As the boat docks, the stranger heads downstairs, leaving me on the deck. To a new school, a new collection of well-bred, entitled rich kids who probably think I’ve earned my spot at Shark Bay through nepotism. Every year, new members of the financial elite, kids my own age who spent most of their lives being groomed for the real world, become cogs in the giant corporate machine: the lawyers, the politicians, and the businessmen and women. We’ve all turned out exactly as expected.
Spoiled and addicted.
Vile, poisonous.
“Necessary,” I whisper. What good are nightmares with no demons? After all, didn’t the founders of SBU choose the shark as a symbol because it was “a creature of opportunity and natural predator in its pursuit of prey” or whatever crap they feed the students who haven’t gotten the memo that they’re now members of a living mafia, regardless of their political leanings.
Following my fellow prisoners, I get off the boat, my heels clicking against the dock’s wooden planks. A small group of students waits at the end, all wearing the same pressed uniforms and plastic smiles. One of them steps forward, clipboard in hand, but I walk past them without a word. My legs move on their own, turning toward the manicured lawn as I stand perfectly still. I know I should keep going, lose myself in the crowd, pretend that my pulse isn’t pounding in my throat, begging me to hold on to the present moment, to cling to it with fingernails and teeth and anything else I can use to keep from being swept under. But I can’t do that. Fear swarms me, a buzzing swarm of ants biting deep and reminding me of all the horrors yet to come.
Fear has only two modes:
Run.
Don’t stop.
Unfortunately, neither of those modes work with my parents. Based on my vast experience, with them I can only follow this pattern:
Swallow.
Close your eyes.
Forget.
The cobblestone path leads up to massive oak doors that look like they belong in a medieval castle. As I approach, I catch my reflection in one of the weathered windows—black hair wild from the ocean wind, emerald eyes rimmed with smudged makeup, designer dress slightly askew. I look exactly like what I am: a girl running from her past straight into a carefully constructed cage. A beautiful prison, but a prison nonetheless. I drop my eyes before my reflection can see the terror lurking underneath it all.
The heavy doors creak open at my touch, and the musty smell of old books and older secrets washes over me. This is my new reality—a remote island school where my parents can keep me safely contained while they continue their games back on the mainland.
Once I step through those doors, I won’t be able to escape. They’ll watch my every move, take away anything that might provide a hint of normalcy. And there’s no hope of bringing him here. If I even breathe his name, they’ll disappear him for good, and any chance I have of surviving will follow. He tried to save me once, but now he’s gone. I have to do this alone.
“Welcome to Shark Bay University,” a voice calls from the shadows of the entrance hall. “We’ve been expecting you, Miss Queen.”
My name echoes through the halls. An older woman with cat-eyed glasses waves at me. “Selena Harpsons,” she says with a polite, customer service smile. She moves so that her body blocks the last-minute students hurrying by, desperate to find their rooms. “If my last name rings a bell, you’re correct—I am the founder’s great-granddaughter.”
She motions for me to follow her down a long hallway.
“We’re very pleased to have you,” she adds. A heavy wooden door opens at the end of the corridor. Her skirt swishes back and forth as she walks. “Your parents said your grades were a bit of a disappointment, though.”
“Just my grades?” I mutter, barely managing to keep my tone light. Her brows furrow slightly, and I return her plastic smile. “You must not know everything about me then.”
I walk past her, but she grabs my wrist, nails digging into my skin. “I know enough to warn you in advance to behave. This isn’t your ordinary school. Our punishments are specifically designed for each and every student. I strongly suggest you don’t step out of line, or we’ll be forced to get… creative.”
Her grip increases until my skin turns white. I blink, surprised at her reaction. There’s something dark in her eyes, as if she can see right through me and knows exactly which buttons to push. It’s not an accident that her fingers squeeze a half inch above a long-faded scar. Something inside me cracks, giving way to the emotions I’ve been holding back since my parents sat me down to present me with their elaborate threat. For an instant, my vision splits, and instead of Mrs. Harpsons, I see my father smirking down at me. But I blink, and the expression fades.
Mrs. Harpsons doesn’t know about my past. How could she? Shark Bay may be part of my parents’ world, but there are limits to what money and power can do, and snooping into students’ affairs isn’t something they’d care to risk. Unless… What if they didn’t need to snoop? I notice the ring on her finger—platinum with a distinctive shark tooth design. The same ring my father wore to every board meeting, every threat session, every carefully orchestrated destruction of someone’s life. What if my parents willingly gave them everything they needed?
They wouldn’t. Not unless…
The realization hits me like arctic water: the matching rings, her knowing smile, the way she grabbed my wrist exactly where my father would.
She’s one of them!
I shove down the emotions as quickly as they’d appeared. I’d built these walls to block my feelings, and they’ll hold, no matter how hard these people try to tear them down.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I lie. There’s more at stake here than my future. She narrows her eyes, staring hard, but whatever she sees on my face, it apparently isn’t enough to convince her that it’s just an act. Her hand loosens and she straightens her spine, a satisfied smile tugging at her red-painted lips.
“That’s what I thought.” She purses her lips and continues walking, her heels clicking against the marble floor. “Being alone is truly the best way to break one’s spirit and then remodel it into an upstanding citizen.” She glances at me over her shoulder, a grim smile hovering around her lips. “We all have our roles to play, I’m afraid.”
From the sound of it, this is one game I don’t intend to lose. If I’m smart, I can play this right. I have to. Otherwise, my biggest weakness is going to pay the price. Love is a weakness I can’t afford anymore. Not here. Not ever again.
The smell of sex and expensive champagne still clings to my skin as I slip into the persona. Like a shark sensing blood in the water, I let the predator inside me rise to the surface. My smile sharpens, my posture shifts—subtle changes that transform me from prey to hunter. It’s really quite easy and fitting. My first taste of Shark Bay is exactly what I am—beautiful and toxic, pleasure twisted up with pain until you can’t tell them apart anymore.
That’s all they need to know for now. Let them see the perfect mask, the calculated movements, the carefully crafted illusion of submission. Let them think they’ve won. And when they least expect it, I’ll show them who Luna Queen really is. These sharks are in for a wild year. It’s time they find out what real predators look like.