Nympho Shark Fuck Frenzy
Author: Christine Morgan; Susan Snyder
Date: 2024-07-04 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: He is RIPTIDE. The only great white shark successfully raised in captivity. The star attraction of Oceanview Aquarium. Feared and revered by adoring fans, he is king of his solitary realm, master of his domain. He has no knowledge of the wild, the open seas, the hunt and the kill, or others of his own kind. For him, there is only the One. Who feeds him, has cared for him since he was a pup. The One. So different, but so beautiful. He yearns for her to fulfill his new needs, urges he's just beginning to understand. Then a tragic disaster leads to him being torn from his known, safe world and hu

Madness Heart Press

2006 Idlewilde Run Dr.

Austin, Texas 78744

Copyright © 2024 Christine Morgan and Susan Snyder

Cover Art by Simone Tammetta

Interior Layout by Lori Michelle
www.TheAuthorsAlley.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

For more information, address:

john@madnessheart.press
www.madnessheart.press

This book is for John Baltisberger, who knew we would go together like Coke and Mentos but introduced us anyway. The resulting explosion of wet and wild depravity is therefore all his fault (with a few suggestions from Edward Lee).

PART ONE:

Oceanview

HE SWIMS.

Endlessly, endlessly.

Circling, circling.

Cruising the confines of his known world.

His world. His world, where he is king and master, where the lesser fish and creatures exist at his indulgence, beneath his notice, insignificant. Not even worthy of his teeth; he might occasionally snap at them out of boredom, or annoyance, but never out of hunger.

No, never out of hunger. The meat always arrives, feedings at regular intervals marking the passage of time. He does not have to hunt. He does not have to kill. He does not have to fight for his share or fend off rivals. He does not have to be wary of dangers.

He is king and master.

He is apex, alpha, ultimate.

In this world. In his world.

Oh, but there are other worlds. Strange, alien, unfamiliar worlds.

There is the outer-world, the above-world, in its insubstantial ever-changing vastness . . . sometimes heat and light, sometimes dark and cool . . . sometimes hollow and all but empty . . . sometimes teeming with busy, vital, active life. Where he senses so much excitement. So much adrenaline. So much awe, and thrill, and fear.

But even in that above-world, it is for him. All for him. Their sharp terror. Their adoration, even worship. If, here in his own world, he is king, to that world, he is both celebrity and monster. A superstar. A fucking god! And he likes it. Loves it. Basks and preens and revels in it.

But then there is the inner-world, the under-world, the nightmare-world, which he does not like. Where he is not king, not god, not monster. Where he is paralyzed and helpless, a victim. Where things are done to him. Painful things. Incomprehensible things.

His ordeals in the inner-world never last long. The things are done to him with brisk efficiency, urgency. He is held suspended, immobile, half-submerged. Not swimming, his tail stilled. Water coursing past his gasping gills. Thin, blinding beams of brightness shined into his eyes.

He sees them around him, smells their scents, hears their noises. He detects their tingling impulses. He feels their touch. Their warm, weird, fleshy touch. Their pinching and prodding. Their thin, slow, deliberate piercings and drawings.

They do not fear and worship him as the others do. Healthy caution, yes. Caution and respect. A degree of admiration. Of solemn responsibility, perhaps. So, although he is helpless and paralyzed and a victim, he is still the center of attention. It is still all for him, all about him.

And there is the One. Always, there with him in the nightmare inner-world, the One. Whose touch is comforting as well as clinical. Whose noises are sometimes soothing, tinged with both pride and affection.

The One, who is also of the above-world, who summons him to the special feedings and presents him to the ecstatic acclaim of his adoring fans. The One, who sometimes visits him within the known confines of his own world, swimming, streaming bubbles.

The One, who has been with him for as long as he can remember. Forever. Who cares for him. Cherishes him. Loves him. As long as the One is beside him, he can endure the horrors of the nightmare-world.

Even if the One is also one of them.

Like those who surround him as he hangs half-submerged and helpless, pinching and piercing, shining their bright beams. Like those who crowd to peer at him through the clear barriers. Upright, awkward, stiff-limbed stalks that they are, eyes wide, ridiculous blunt-toothed mouths gaping. Like those who clamor for his dorsal fin to cut the surface, who shriek and cheer and just about go crazy when he propels his entire body in a mighty leap from the safe sanity of the water into the empty nothing of the air, to gnash the meat of special feedings in his powerful jaws and fall back with a torrential splashing.

Like them, one of them, yes, but the One is different. Is his.

He swims, circling, cruising.

Endlessly, endlessly.

Past rocky, reefy formations he has always known. Through waving grasses and wavering plant-tendrils. As eels lurk in crevices and anemones undulate. As tiny fish flit and dart. As urchins trundle spinily across the sand, and crabs mince, and starfish creep.

Past the clear barrier, which currently reveals only a dim cavern beyond, with terraced ledges and glowing red lines over tunnel openings—EXIT. None of the others are there now, but he knows they soon will be. Peering at him, pointing at him, staring awestruck at him, shivering and thrilling when he glides close to the barrier. Sometimes, he will whip around as if to lunge, just to feel the sudden heightened spike-jolt of their terror, hear their screams, smell their hot and acrid squirts of urine.

It’s fun. He enjoys it. The way they scatter and stumble, graceless clumsy creatures that they are. He also enjoys how some of them, the smaller in particular, display their adoration by carrying idols meant to represent him, their fearsome god.

Those who clamor above do that too, but he has little chance to see them in his brief leaps, where they fill the tiered rings surrounding the surface demarcation at the top edge of his world. When, in addition to their usual noises, there will be amplified exhortations, followed by a cacophony in unison, rising in fervor.

RIP-TIDE! RIP-TIDE! RIP-TIDE!

RIP-TIDE! RIP-TIDE! RIP-TIDE!

RIP-TIDE! RIP-TIDE! RIP-TIDE!

This, he understands, is their god-name for him, and he is pleased.

The tiered rings, however, he knows will now be as empty as the cavern beyond the barrier. It is not the time yet. It will be soon, but it is not yet.

He senses, vaguely and at a distance, the wakening increase of activity. The anticipation and eagerness, the readiness and preparation. The sun-dapple on the water’s rippling surface begins to intensify. Elsewhere, nearby, unseen but sensed in their own worlds, the octopuses stir, alert and plotting. The dolphins chatter. The jellies drift, idle and unconcerned.

Movement through the barrier catches his eye. A solitary figure, shadowy in the gloom, has entered the cavern. It is not the One, merely one of the many others . . . yet, one of the others that he recognizes. A big male, thick and meaty, sour-scented, mean. The male pushes a stick around the floor, pulls a bag of guts from a squat and immobile tubelike formation, then approaches the barrier to wipe at it with some kind of pale, fibrous wad.

He cruises closer, though he is aware this male neither admires nor worships him but regards him with something akin to distaste. The male looks up, features twisting, and makes some of its sounds.

“Yeah, there you are, you ugly bastard. When they gonna put that hot-ass trainer of yours in a bikini? That’s what I wanna know. Wetsuits don’t do a damn thing for her, mashes down those titties, flattens out that ass, makes her look like some eleven-year-old boy. Wouldn’t mind gettin’ her alone for a while, sure wouldn’t, not that snooty Doctor McSmartyBitch’ll give a ‘custodial specialist’ the time of day.”

The male spits a glob of saliva and mucus onto the barrier, then smears it with the fibrous wad. The sounds aren’t always the same, but the scornful tone is.

“Naw, all she gives a shit about is some stupid fuckin’ shark.”

***

Another perfect California morning—cloudless and clear, nice breeze off the Pacific, forecast calling for highs in the upper seventies all weekend. It would have been ideal beach weather if this part of the coast had decent beaches.

But instead of smooth curves of golden sand great for sunbathing and bonfires, the shoreline around Rockshore Point was, as the name suggested, rough and ragged, comprised mostly of pebbles, gravel, broken shells, and the usual debris. Instead of even, rolling blue breakers to lure the surfers, irregular waves crashed and foamed and churned in hard-to-reach pocket coves filled with driftwood and long stringy tangles of dead seaweed.

If the nicer houses up on the hills did have pretty good views, the marina left a lot to be desired; it was more small local fishermen and low-end pleasure craft than yachts bobbing at the piers. An RV park and a few motels hardly offered five-star luxury accommodations. The downtown “tourist” district was maybe a dozen shops, one “fine dining” surf-and-turf restaurant nobody was going to write home about, a clam shack and a fish-and-chips place, and a “historic” lighthouse with attached “maritime museum.”

No, Rockshore Point was never going to be anyone’s favorite seaside vacation destination for scenic rest and relaxation. Many of those who lived there were retirees, or telecommuting work-from-homers, or were employed by the closest thing the town had to a thriving industry . . .

***

“Welcome to another sun-filled, fun-filled day at Oceanview Aquarium!” an enthusiastic voice announced over the loudspeakers. “Where you can see the wonders of the sea up close and personal, without getting your feet wet!”

The gates had opened. Early-bird visitors streamed in, while lines stretched from the ticket kiosks back toward the parking lot. Colorful flags snapped in the breeze. A bronze fountain of tropical fish and kelp fronds sprayed arcs of water to rain into a tiled, coin-strewn basin.

“Unless, that is,” the voice continued cheerfully, “you’re inside one of our clearly-marked Splash Zones! Speaking of which, Skipper and Jo-Jo will be putting on shows at the dolphin tank with Aqua-Ranger Stefano at 11:00, 2:00, and 4:00; they’ve been practicing, and they just loooooove to splash the audience!”

Kids capered eagerly, tugging at parental hands. Dutiful family members pushed strollers and wheelchairs. A mixed group of Boy and Girl Scouts gathered in obedient formation as their troop leaders reminded them of the rules. Teenagers and young singles none-too-subtly scoped each other out. It was all t-shirts and shorts, tank tops, gauzy summer-weight dresses, sandals, and sunglasses. Visor caps for the dads and grandpas, floppy hats for the moms and grannies. Masks advised but optional . . . so of course, most people opted “no.”

“You won’t want to miss Penguin Lunchtime at the Arctic Circle; that’s at noon,” the voice went on. “Fresh fish-chunks are available from 10:00 to 6:00 at the carts outside Sea Lion Cove and Otter Bay; here at Oceanview, we say, please do feed the animals!”

The prevailing overall scent was eau-de-mer, briny saltwater with unavoidable fishy undertones, but it mingled with the carnival aromas of popcorn, cotton candy, and fried dough. Adding to it was the rich, creamy pina-colada scent of SPF 50 liberally slathered over most of the visitors, as well as whiffs of sweat and B.O. and hand sanitizer.

“Now, that said, we would like to remind our guests not to throw anything else into the tanks or enclosures . . . no matter how yummy your treats are, they are not good for the animals, and we want everyone to have a healthy, happy good time!”

Souvenir stands and snack bars dotted the landscaped paths winding their way among the buildings, with benches and trashcans conveniently situated. Park maps were posted; paper maps were given out at the entrance and available at information kiosks. Helpful signage pointed toward the restrooms, the smoking area, and the various attractions.

“Aqua-Ranger Jim will be doing Hands-On presentations at the Tide Pools at the top of every hour. Over in Crustacean Nation, Aqua-Ranger Bex is hosting today’s Crabscuttle Races between 3:30 and 4:30; pick the winning crab and win a prize!”

Oceanview was no major theme park; it had no rollercoasters, no waterslides, no flume rides or monorails. The closest it came to anything of the sort was a kiddie play area, and an antique carousel with all the steeds in the form of sea creatures: orcas, dolphins, seahorses, rainbow-scaled fish, lobsters.

“Keep an eye open for photo opportunities with several of our walk-around characters, and join Aqua-Ranger Ginny at the Starfish Stage at 2:30 for the Sea Spectacular puppet show!”

So, yeah, it could hardly compete with SeaWorld down in San Diego, or even venues like Monterey Bay or Aquarium of the Pacific . . . except for Oceanview’s rare, prized, singular claim to fame.

“And, of course,” the announcer said, “at 5:00, you are cordially invited to dinner at Danger Reef, with—you know him, you love him, the only Great White shark ever to be raised in captivity—our own . . . Riptide!”

***

He swims. Circles. Cruises.

Endlessly, endlessly.

Sensing the gradual increase of activity, the growing excitement. Feeling his own anticipation.

Soon, they will fill the cavern beyond the barrier, admiring him. Fearing him. Adoring him. Their rapid heartbeats. Their heightened galvanic nerves. Their awe and terror.

He will bask in it, revel in it. He wants it, needs it, craves it. Hungers for it in a way not unlike the way he hungers for meat, devouring it, glutting himself, sating himself.

And yet . . .

Something is missing. Something else, something more. Something unfathomable, the pull of an instinct he does not understand. An absence. An urge. Something as primal as feeding.

To hunt? To fight? To kill?

Hunt what? Fight what? Kill what?

Meat is given to him, presented, provided. Cooled, lifeless slabs of it he tears at with his vicious teeth, shredding the pale flesh, the rich fat, the lingering hints of blood. Nothing challenges him here in his kingdom, his world. Nothing threatens him. He is strong, powerful, majestic! He has it all!

So, what could be missing?

He does not know, but it tugs at him, troubles him.

***

Scott clicked off the microphone, leaned back in his chair, looked at the control room ceiling, and muttered, “God, I hate this job.”

Perky event schedule announcements over the loudspeaker all day, interspersed with lost kid or found item bulletins, would so-and-so please meet their party at such-and-such, happy birthday this and happy anniversary that, a big special welcome/thank-you/congratulations to group whatever . . .

The owners wanted Oceanview to have that intimate personal touch kind of image for employees and guests alike. We’re all friends here, we’re family, we’re not one of those vast faceless, soulless corporate machines only out for profit! We really care! Education, conservation, community! The environment! The animals! Endangered species! The future!

Yeah, right.

Because a pair of doofus dolphins somersaulting through hoops and playing water-basketball was going to raise awareness. Because lobbing raw cod chunks to an obnoxious chest-slapping honker of a bull sea lion would help combat climate change. Because watching an octopus solve a Rubik’s Cube made up for millions of tons of micro-plastics dumped into the ocean each year. Because spinning quarters down a vortex funnel would preserve sea-turtle nesting grounds.

No, it was because having the only Great White successfully raised in captivity was some kind of feather in Oceanview’s cap, a hearty fuck-you to every other aquarium out there. Weeee’ve got a Great White and yoooo-ooou doh-on’t. Merchandising up the wazoo, stickers and balloons and plushies, those plastic grabber things with shark jaws, t-shirts and hoodies, souvenir drink cups.

They even had full shark-suit costumes like in that one Katy Perry video, and each day the lower-ranking interns argued and bargained and bribed to see who’d have to wear the damn things, do walk-arounds, and pose for pics with legions of snot-nosed, sunburned little kids just as likely to punch them in the nuts as hug them.

Okay, come to think of it, maybe Scott hated his job, but it sure could have been worse. It could have been worse in a lot of ways. At least he didn’t have to get nut-punched while sweltering in a shark-suit, or lug pails of cod chunks and fish guts, or hose penguin shit off the rocks. Or jerk off orcas like those poor saps at SeaWorld had to do.

Nor did he have to be an Aqua-Ranger, wearing those dorky safari-style uniforms with the jaunty neckerchiefs and little hats. Having to interact with the guests, maintaining the big smile and upbeat positive attitude, answering the same inane questions day after day, diplomatically dealing with complaints and comments—

“If one more smug tweenager comes up to ‘well akshually’ inform me penguins are from the Antarctic,” Aqua-Ranger Bobbi was wont to say, “I’m gonna punt their butt into the fish-chunker. We know, okay? We goddamn know! Tell the bosses! They’re the ones who insisted on calling it that!”

—yeah, that wasn’t for him.

Still, this was hardly what he’d had in mind when he—like so many aspiring young hopefuls before him—had followed his dreams to California’s golden shores. He hadn’t even been going for the full brass ring; he’d been realistic enough to not count on the magical Hollywood lightning strike of movie superstardom. All he wanted was a nice, stable, comfortable career as a voice actor. Animation, CGI characters, video games . . . tons of opportunities, right?

Except, wouldn’t it just fucking figure, lately the studios were more likely to go with some Big Name Prettyboy, banking on fan love and star power, whether the guy in question had a decent voice for the gig at all. Who the fuck cared what Chris Evans or Chris Pratt or any of those Chrises sounded like? What was the point of casting Bumpercars Cabbagepatch when audio distortion and special effects made him unrecognizable anyway?

Meanwhile, genuine legit voice actors—multi-talented, trained, and dedicated to their craft—got passed over again and again. Even when there’d been talk of a Riptide project, and Scott—the Voice of Oceanview! a loyal employee for years!—put in his pitch, the owners were all, like, nah, we’d have to have Jason Momoa or Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, or no deal.

Bastards.

***

It begins. The first group enters the darkened cavern, smaller figures rushing with eager squeals and cries to press against the clear barrier, the ends of their limbs splayed like starfishes, round little faces malleably mashed. Larger figures trail behind, benevolent, indulgent, authoritative.

“Here we are! Sharky time!”

“Remember, he can’t hurt you.”

“Timmy, don’t push.”

“Look, sweetie, look, this is Riptide’s house!”

“Not so fast, wait for Mommy.”

“Where—?”

“There he is! Here he comes!”

More squeals, more cries as he glides past.

“Wow!”

“Cool!”

“Awesome!”

“Jeez, he’s huge . . . ”

“Check out those teeth!”

“Come on, Sarah, let’s get closer!”

A wailing, terrified outburst. “I don’ wanna see the shark!”

“Why you gotta be such a scaredy-baby?”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, see?”

“I love you, Riptide!”

“Big . . . ol’ . . . shark, doo-doo-do—”

“No singing, Dad! You promised!”

“I bet he could chomp you right in half!”

“Yeah, well I bet he could eat you in one bite!”

“I don’ wanna see the shark! I wanna see the nice fishies!”

“Okay, come on, boys, let’s go—”

“No fair! We only just got here, and I wanna see Riptide!”

“Why’s the scaredy-baby gotta ruin everything?”

“Look, look, here he comes again. Hey, Riptide, over here!”

He circles, he cruises, he glides, he preens. They shiver under his lofty, godlike gaze. They gape in amazement at his sleek majesty. They follow him along the barrier, waving their idols. They flash lights and hold up objects like flat, oblong shells with lifeless black eyes staring at him.

Some of the creatures, of a size between the small ones and the large ones, strut and posture and bare their blunt, tiny teeth as if in challenge.

He lets them, sweeping by with an arrogant flick of his tail to circle around again. They, emboldened, tingling of bravado and juvenile testosterone, step up their antics. Taunting. Daring.

“Hey, Riptide, Riptide, over here!”

“Come at me, bro!”

“Here, fishy-fishy!”

“Yo, Riptide, bite this!” One turns and squashes twin pale fleshy mounds to the barrier, flattening them, waggling them back and forth.

“Woooooo!”

“Ha!”

“Mom, what’s that boy doing?”

“Aw yeah!”

“Brian! Pull your pants up right now, young man!”

Waggle-waggle. “Git some!”

He swings in for another pass, serene, aloof . . . then whips his body around in a sudden contortion. a deadly-swift lunge, jaws yawing to full extension.

Shrieks! Screams! Scatters! Stumbles! Sprawls! Urine! Blood! Mirthful howls and pained howls! Shock! Shame!

“Yaaa!”

“Eeeeek!”

“Holy fuck, dude!”

“I wanna go home!”

“Did you see that?”

“—piss yourself?!”

“Nooooo, don’t let it get me!”

“—my fuckin’ elbow!”

On he goes. Outwardly, he is serene again, aloof again. Inwardly, he is pleased, amused, quite satisfied. He only wishes the One could have been there to witness his triumphant moment. The One would have been proud of him, delighted by his might and prowess. The One would have made approving noises, praised him, rewarded him with juicy chunks of meat.

But the One is not here right now. The One is elsewhere, perhaps in the above-world, perhaps in the nightmare-world where the awful things are done to him. If not for the presence of the One during those times, protecting and reassuring him, he could never endure such torture.

The commotion continues beyond the barrier, then gradually settles like disturbed silt-sand. The creatures disperse, are replaced by others. They come and go, ebb and flow, bringing him their fear and awe. No more dare to mock or taunt him, and he basks in the adoration.

Yet, something is still missing.

He swims-circles-cruises-glides. Endlessly, endlessly. Wondering what more there might be that he could possibly need or want.

As he watches the lesser creatures come and go, ebb and flow, he notices how often they travel in groups, social or familial groups. Males and females, adults and young, mated pairs and families, hunting-packs, playing-packs.

Is that it? Is that what he is missing? Companionship? Others of his kind?

But there are no others of his kind. He is a lone king, a singular god, a solitary monster.

Except for the One . . . who is not of his kind but who does provide comfort and compassion and companionship. Who could, perhaps, provide more. The One feeds him, assuages his hunger for meat; why not also assuage these strange, undefined urges, which he feels but does not understand?

During a lull-time, while the foolish dolphins do their foolish tricks and hog his rightful spotlight—in every kingdom, there must be clowns and jesters—the cavern falls quiet and empty. Experience has shown him it will be that way for a while, unless the odd straggler ventures in.

He cruises to the far side of his world, to a place where a rocky overhang casts shadow and a constant cycling current courses from an aperture. Here, when the mood takes him, he can pause his ceaseless swimming and rest, holding still while the water flows past his gills.

As he does, his thoughts dwell further on The One.

There has always been the One, for as long as he can remember. The One’s noise-sounds, melodic as whalesong. The One’s warm, soothing touch. The One’s alluring, evocative melange of scents. The galvanic thrill of the One’s pulse-signals, which quicken and race at his nearness . . . as his own quicken and race at the One’s nearness.

The One . . . respectful of him, yes . . . admiring of him, yes . . . but unafraid. Trusting. The One, who descends, bubbling, into his world. Cold barrier-bars between them but permitting the occasional caress. His fins—pectoral, dorsal, caudal. The length of his side, tracing back from his gills. Sometimes, even the tip of his snout.

“Boop!” Fond. Affectionate. Loving.

He imagines them swimming together, side by side, no barrier-bars in the way, and becomes aware of a burgeoning, stiffening, tightening sensation in the vicinity of his pelvic fin, low on his belly.

If the One were to caress his pelvic fin . . .

A muscle spasm convulses his entire tail section. Shudders, not unpleasant ones, wrack his body. His gills flare as if they cannot take in sufficient oxygen from the flowing water. Although he is not sinking his teeth into a chunk of meat, his jaws gnash at nothing and his eyes briefly roll back in his head.

Shaking it off, he darts from beneath the overhang, swimming fast and erratic, and if he hadn’t known every contour of his realm by heart, he might have smacked into an outcrop and hurt himself. The lowly denizens who share his realm are startled, the eels recoiling into their crevices, the fish flitting in random panicked directions. He even propels himself surfaceward, though no crowd fills the tiered rings to cheer at the appearance of his dorsal fin slicing a foaming white wake in the water.

When he’s swum his way to a semblance of coherence, he slows and subsides to resume his normal circling pattern, then realizes the cavern beyond the barrier is no longer as quiet and empty as it was moments ago.

Two of the upright above-world creatures have appeared, their movements stealthy and sneaky and surreptitious somehow. The female is hesitant, nervous but giggling. They seem, incredibly, unaware of or oblivious to his presence, as if he is not even there, as if they are not here to admire and fear him at all.

“I don’t know about this, Joey . . . what if we get caught?”

“Babe, everyone’s over at the dolphin tank or puppet show. We’ll have the place to ourselves for at least half an hour.”

“Yeah, but, aren’t there, like, security cameras or something?”

“Nah. What for? Nothing down here to steal.”

“Well . . . ”

The male, despite only having two strange-joined arms, does a credible attempt at wrapping them around the female like an octopus. They are oblivious to his presence! Their attentions are fully occupied with themselves.

“C’mon, babe, it’s just you and me.”

Their faces merge as if feeding on each other. Their bodies move, writhing, sliding, rubbing. Their excitement escalates, their scents intensify, their noise-sounds grow hungrier and urgent.

“Mmm, ooh, Joey, really, I . . . we . . . shouldn’t . . . what if someone comes in?”

“Nobody will. Damn, I love your tits.”

“They could . . . oh yeah mmmm . . . throw us out of the park.”

“Nah.”

“They could call our parents.”

“Babe, hey. You’re so hot, I want you so bad right now . . . Feel that? Feel how much I want you?”

“Okay, okay, but be quick, okay?”

“Okay.”

“But . . . not too quick, okay?”

“You know it.”

He glides closer, curious, watching as the two peel away parts of their skins, or scales, or whatever. The male exposes an extra limb, boneless as a tubeworm but rigid and fleshy, and the female caresses it . . .

. . . and he thinks again of the One, of how it feels to have the One touch his fin or his side, of how it might feel if the One touched his pelvic fin . . . or the parts tucked protectively under it, parts he’s never paid much mind to before but are now very much at the forefront of his awareness . . . protruding just above the tapering of his tail . . . his claspers, dual claspers . . . aching to penetrate some slick secret orifice . . .

He watches as the male lowers onto the female, belly to belly. As that tubeworm-limb pushes into an opening between the female’s larger limbs, limbs which fold in their strange-jointed angular way around the male. He watches them buck and undulate, hears the heightening pitch of their air-noises and sound-noises, smells the heat-musk-sweat.

Understanding blooms in his mind.

This.

This is what he’s been missing.

This is what he hungers for, needs, craves with such consuming urgency!

Coupling, copulation, mating! A good, thorough, untamed, vigorous fuck!

SEX!!!

***

“How’s it going, ‘Marlin’?”

“Great, Bobbi.”

Dr. Marla Murphy fiddled with her keys, letting her fingers find the familiar cool steel of the one that opened Riptide’s top tank facility. Her response to Aqua-Ranger Bobbi was forced politeness. Jesus, aren’t the people who work here a tad old to be spewing nicknames for each other? Marlin? Marla. How original.

During her tenure at Oceanview, Marla had paid her dues to earn her title as the head biologist. Yet, her looks always were the focus of attention. That might work for the cameras and drooling masses, especially when you were the face of the aquarium, the tall, auburn-haired sex symbol that put paying asses in the seats, maestro of the feedings that were the main event of this aquatic insane asylum. She was still sometimes asked to expose her bikini clad tits by rolling down her wetsuit to her waist while she orchestrated the big shows. Back in the day, she’d been happy to do a little wet-and-wiggle to try to gather some excitement for this place. After all, it was her pay grade and reputation as a scientist that grew along with crowds and profits. Strange way for a PhD to get ahead, but she always worked with the gifts given to her.

Then along came Riptide.

Before him, she’d struggled to get anyone to respect her, let alone look into her eyes instead of running their own between her crotch and nipples, back and forth, like a game of fucking Pong. Now, she could at least don some more clothing while she wowed the unwashed masses. And she only did one show now. With her pride and joy, the love of her life. Who just happened to be a shark.

Marla entered the cool and humid air of the facility that held the humming filters and platformed walkways around and across Riptide’s ample holding tank. There was a permeating scent of yellowfin tuna, as his morning snack had been sliced and diced and awaited its use in the center of the main bridge. It sat about four feet above the tank’s surface and was accessible by ramps on either side, made from concrete with hollow steel railings. This was supposed to be the stage for Riptide’s behind the scenes feedings, a minimum safe distance from the gliding monster’s jaws.

They knew Marla never fed him from there. Yet, they put the bucket of fish right smack-dab in the center every damn day. And every day, Marla undressed in the curtained corner booth near the lockers. She donned a 2mm short Jane wetsuit over her naked body, having learned she disliked material between her and the neoprene. She needed some protection from the cool water, about 65 degrees Fahrenheit, yet she grew to enjoy the caress of the environment on her flesh.

Whether real or imagined, she always sensed Riptide through the water. As if she communicated with him in that way. She sometimes joked with colleagues that she must have been part shark, that she felt the electromagnetic fields and radiating life force emanate from the great fish just as he must from her. She even knew when his heartbeat increased, which seemed to happen every time she got close. Or maybe that was only her own heartbeat.

Marla crossed to the center of the bridge, grabbed the bucket, and brought it with her to the diving entry platform. Here, a stack of five metal steps descended directly into the water, into the domain of her best friend and confidant. Into the world of the only one who ever listened without judgment. The only one who came to her without expectations or vapid lip service or breast-focused ogles.

Putting his food on that bridge was management’s form of passive-aggression. Marla was thought of as a bit of a weirdo around the aquarium because of her passion for the great fish and her lack of fear in approaching him. The usual directive to the staff was to try to force her into following standard protocols for safety. It may have seemed appropriate, given that she worked hand in fin with the sea’s top apex predator. But it was based on a misguided notion that she was in any danger whatsoever.

She knew Riptide would never harm her. Sure, she had been with him from birth, raised him in captivity, saw to his comfort and needs. But that wasn’t why she thought so.

In all of their time together, she felt a strong connection, like an unseen tether, leading from her into the soul of the shark. She dumped a lot of her deepest secrets, unspoken desires, and taboo musings into these cool waters. Riptide had become, over the years, her therapist, her guru, her closest friend.

Walking over to the diving entry stairs, she descended one, two, three down until she felt the chill of the surface, just an inch or so of the water wetting her feet. The bucket of fish landed on the metal stair with a reverberating thud like the rattle of a chain link fence. She had announced her arrival to her BFF.

He already knows I’m here, she thought as she sat cross-legged on that step next to the bucket. The water lapping gently on her feet, thighs, and buttocks, she awaited him, smiling.

***

He swims close to the sandy bottom of the tank, unaffected by any sense of outside time.

He only knows time by his main feeding schedule, announced by a faint resonance of a voice once a day when the fleshy others gather in droves to pay him tribute and shout his god-name. That feeding takes some effort, as they put the large fishy treat far above the surface, dangling face down, where he can see the foggy and fuzzy outline of it rather than smell it. More than that, he hears the chanting of the creatures surrounding his domain, the volume rising into a cacophony that sometimes overwhelms him. Yet it always stirs him into action.

The tribute. His tribute. His god-name.

When the time comes, he will dive to where the turtle and moray eels dwell, the sandy bottom where he patrols at this very moment. He will circle around the center reef and give one mighty thrash of his tail, propelling himself upward, upward toward the surface.

The sounds of the creatures outside his world will grow louder and more unified.

“RIP-TIDE! RIP-TIDE!”

He’ll speed like a bullet upward until finally breaking into the outside air with all his power on display. Upward even still, until his jaws meet their target. Within a flash of a second, his lower teeth, pointed and piercing, will latch into the offering’s meat. His top jaw will extend slightly outward and clamp down like dozens of stabbing serrated steak knives. His impressive weight does the rest. The long, thin thing that held his prey will make a pop. His body will lurch sideways. He will come back down on his side into the water, a two-ton boulder of sinew and cartilage.

“RIP-TIDE! RIP-TIDE!”

Gasps and screams.

Awe and terror.

Then more screams and fluttering happier noises as the splattering splash subsides.

Down he will go, giving the rest of the spectacle to the ones in the windows to his world. His head will shake back and forth, creating a frothy cloud of tissue, scales, and blood. Bits of debris will speckle the surrounding water. Another deliberate synchronized movement of his jaws, and the meat will slide down his throat.

The creatures outside will sputter out dwindling sounds of excitement and remain around and above the tank for a few more moments. Then the bigger amplified voice will resonate, and their numbers will cull back to normal.

Best of all, there is the presence of the One for all the feedings, even when there is no audience, even when it is just the One and him. He desires those most of all.

He swims along that sandy bottom now. The moray eels have just been fed, a good smell, a tiny foretaste of his coming meal. They remain half in their crevasses and half out into the open, their toothy mouths opening and closing in a constant rhythm. The one sea turtle also has just had his meal, though that didn’t smell as appealing. It emanated a bitter smell, like the algae that grows on the reef in the center of his tank.

He always feels his hunger right before the feedings. His body knows when to expect his rewards.

Lately, though, there has been a deeper hunger as well. Not just for fish. It rises when it is almost time for the small feedings, feedings with the One and him. His body desires some reward that surpasses hunger. After all, he knows he will be fed. There is no scramble for survival in his life. This new desire is unknown to him and confusing.

Why does the One affect him this way? Why doesn’t she soothe this desire just as she does all others for him?

This desire, partnered with his hunger for fish, peaks in sensation. It is close to the time of the One. He picks up speed with a sweep of his crescent moon shaped tail. He circles up, slowly up and closer to the spot where he knows the One will be waiting for him.

He hears the rattling vibration stir his world. It causes a shudder to travel down his muscular body.

The One is here!

***

Marla couldn’t yet see Riptide approaching. The water began to gently slosh into her folded legs and lap at her waist. She knew he had just swept his caudal fin to gain some forward and upward momentum. He was coming to her.

Morning feedings were her favorite time with the white shark. No one was around to interrupt with maintenance checks or beginning the workday changing from their Birkenstocks and capris into the uniforms stored in the facility’s lockers. It was just them. This was the quiet time.

This was the time when Marla could tell Riptide about the previous night’s adventure at the local bar, The Starfish Saloon, if she even had the energy to meet her friends after a long day at Oceanview. Occasionally, she divulged a dream she had, usually erotic or fantastical, sometimes a nightmare. She often told him of her problems with her ex-boyfriend, the gaslighting narcissist, Todd, who made her come like a freight train but left her self-esteem a steaming heap of molten trash. Most of her nightmares revolved around that shitshow of a relationship.

Just sharing her woes and aspirations with this creature beat any amount of expensive counseling. There was no analysis, sure, but she didn’t want to hear that. Being allowed to talk it out, find her inner strength, and summon her own courage was exactly what she had to do to get through it all. She was supported by Riptide’s strength, his courage, his resilience. The only Great White to ever survive in captivity. The only one who was born in captivity. All odds were against him, yet he thrived, he dominated his existence.

He was her hero. And here he came.

The three-foot dorsal fin cut through the surface, a dark grey triangle slicing through like a knife through butter. Then the tip of his caudal fin, the point of the crescent-shaped tail. Beneath, the steely skin that looked marbled under the rippled water, enhanced by the intense glaring white of the facility’s lights.

The water sloshed a little more now, back and forth against her lap.

Riptide passed about four feet from the diving stairs where she sat. From her perch, she caught a glimpse of his submerged watching eye. In the harsh lighting, the crystal blue iris surrounding the jet black of his pupil was clearly seen. So beautiful.

“Good morning, gorgeous boy! You hungry? Of course you are.”

As he passed, the tank’s cool water lapped like a tide at her torso. She tossed in a chunk of tuna, about a pound and a half. Something he could swallow easily, without effort. He needed so much strength for the big show later. She wanted him to take it easy now. This was their relaxation time together.

She watched as the meat sank. By this time, the great fish had made another pass around the tank’s periphery. He spotted the tuna, opened his maw. and swallowed it, instinctively extending his upper jaw ever so slightly as he did so. All the while, that right blue iris was fixed right into her own hazel eyes. The muscle mass around his throat convulsed as the treat went down. Soft clouds of tissue emerged from his gills as he continued his circuit around the tank. Back to her. Always circling back to her.

***

The One!

Here with him, here for him.

As always.

For him, and only him. Sustaining him not merely with the offerings of meat but by sheer nearness and presence.

It occurs to him, thanks to his recent awakening of comprehension, that the One is female. He’d known that before, of course, in a detached and clinical way; those who went about in the upper world were male and female, young and old, large and small, and all things in between. Just as were the fish and other living creatures who shared his own world.

But, somehow, it means more to him now . . . just as his understanding of himself as male also means more than it did previously. He recalls the pair he saw, male and female, and what they were doing beyond the clear barrier. How they went belly-to-belly, the male’s fleshy but rigid tubeworm sinking into the female’s hidden orifice. The sounds they made, breath-sounds like whalesong, body-sounds slick and slapping. The smells they made, sweat-smells and strange fluids. Their heightening pulses, their escalated galvanic signals.

Sex. Mating. Fucking.

This was not the first time he’d observed such behaviors . . . sneaky gropings and hasty couplings in the darkened chamber . . . he’d just never paid much attention, as he’d paid little attention to the interactions of offspring and adolescents and adults.

His claspers stiffen and protrude as he circles back around toward the cold not-rock outcrop where the One’s lower limbs submerge into the water. The One’s scent, singular and unique, tantalizes his nostrils.

It also occurs to him that the males he’s seen sported only their single peculiar tubeworms . . . while he, he possesses two claspers, long and sleek and proud, far better than any feeble wrinkle-skinned appendage.

No wonder they admire and adore him! No wonder they are in awe of him and worship him as a god!

Yet . . .

Yet where are the welcoming orifices for him to thrust his claspers into? Why has that need not been met as his need for food has?

He is male.

The One is female.

Perhaps the One has been waiting for him to realize, to reach this epiphany. Or for him to make the first move.

He savors the One’s scent, savors the One’s voice. “There’s my guy, there he is.” Warm, affectionate. “Someone must’ve been hungry, all right. Going to put on another good show for them later, aren’t you?”

As he glides by, as close as the structure of the cold not-rock overhang will allow, the One leans to trail a smooth caress along his dorsal fin. Excitement tingles through him. Banking in a tight turn, he bumps his snout against the overhang, the way he bumps it against the bars of the cage within which the One sometimes fully descends, bubbling, to be with him.

With him, but not with him! Never completely with him, swimming free and graceful. Why must they be kept apart?

“Easy there, big boy . . . shook the whole platform, almost made me fall in.”

He bumps the overhang again. It creaks and shivers.

“What’s the matter? Still hungry?”

The One casts another chunk of meat, and it sinks past him, trailing another cloud of tasty morsels and particles. He ignores it and bumps the overhang a third time, harder. It squeals and shudders. The One grasps on to its side-formations, clings to it.

“Whoa, hey, okay. You break it, they’ll take it out of my salary.”

He twists and skims on his side, his eye above the surface, gaze fixed on the One’s face, the One’s beautiful face. Beautiful for all its difference, beautiful with its forward-facing orbs of black within brownish rings within white, within delicate gill-like creases fringed with dark cilia. Beautiful with its small salmon-pink mouth and blunt pearls for teeth.

“Something wrong? Or do you just want to play? Damn, I wish I could. Not fair the others get to have all the fun. Too dangerous, they say. As if you’d ever hurt me!”

To have the One swimming with him, unfettered, unconfined, shed of the coarse not-skin and rubbery false fins and bulky bubbling apparatus . . . body arching and slicing and weaving through the water alongside his . . . limbs sweeping and undulating . . . the One’s soft, pale skin sliding against his own . . .

To go belly-to-belly with the One, his stiff claspers rubbing and urgent and seeking and finding . . .

He contorts, an involuntary jerking spasm, and the One’s sounds become anxious, concerned.

“Gups? Guppy?”

It is not his god-name. It is his other-name, his pup-name, his private-name, the name only the One ever calls him. Their bond. Their secret.

“Are you feeling all right? Ohhh, don’t be getting sick, don’t be failing to thrive, not after everything we’ve been through!”

Diving into the cooler, shadowy depths helps clear his head but doesn’t do much to help his underlying agitation. He is aware of the One continuing to make voice-sounds above him, in the empty air—

“ . . . almost due for your next check-up anyway, so we’ll do some full-panel blood work and . . . ”

—as his momentum courses the water in refreshing currents over his gills, and the powerful side-to-side sweep of his caudal fin relieves some of the throbbing pressure in his underbelly.

He contemplates charging the outcrop, ramming it, smashing it, destroying the cruel and senseless obstacle between them. But that might frighten or upset the One, which is the last thing he wants.

Besides, he trusts the One. The One will fix it, will make it all better, relieve him of this discomfort, satisfy his new need to sex/mate/fuck.

The One always knows what to do.

***

Another fine, sunny day at Oceanview. Blue skies, cooling breeze, weekend crowds packing the pathways. Aqua-Rangers out in full force, doing their Aqua-Ranger things, being all chipper and educational. Squeaky dolphins, barky seals, excited kids, happy families.

Fuckin’ bullshit, if you asked Ralph.

But nobody ever did. Nobody asked him jack squat. Just ordered him around, informed him of trash bins in need of emptying and bathrooms in need of restocking and some brat puking up neon-pink sugarsludge at one of the snack bars.

Typical.

When not dealing with emergencies and his other routine duties, was he allowed to kick back and relax? Hell no, not if he wanted to be paid for his time; he’d spend the rest of his day trudging back and forth with a broom and long-handled dustpan, sweeping up litter.

Only decent part of the job was scoping the mobile scenery. A good day offered a fair amount of MILFs in sundresses, not to mention college girls and jailbait in short-shorts and bikini tops.

Some of the Aqua-Ranger chicks weren’t too bad either, despite their stupid outfits. And the peroxide cougar who ran the main gift shop was a total snooty bitch, but she was a total snooty bitch who’d celebrated her divorce with a boob job just short of epic.

Plus, of course, there was Doc Marla, when she wasn’t going around in that damn tit-and-ass-flattening wetsuit. Yeah, it was tight as a sausage casing, but it didn’t show nearly enough skin for his liking.

Speak of the devil, there went Doc Marla even then, leaving the building at the back of the shark tank with a fretful, distracted look on her face. She had a sleeveless pocketed lab coat/smock on over the wetsuit, which also didn’t do much for the eye-candy factor, and a pair of swim shoes.

He paused in his sweepings to raise a hand in cordial, neutral greeting. She ignored it, ignored him, breezed on by, too intent on whatever she was typing on her phone to give a lowly nobody like Ralph the time of day. If not for the fretful expression, he’d guess she was chatting—or maybe sexting, aw yeah.

Instead, it was probably just something to do with that goddamn shark. The way she babied and fussed over it, you’d think it was her own kid, or one of those pampered yappy-dogs, as opposed to a fuck-ugly fifteen-foot mouthful of teeth. Hell, the way she’d sit by the tank for hours on end, talking to it, you’d think it was her best friend.

For that matter, he’d overheard a few of the Aqua-Rangers joking about the shark being the reason her last boyfriend had dumped her. “Sure, she claims it was because he thought she was too fixated on work,” Aqua-Ranger Ginny had said, “but we all know what that means; he was jealous.”

“To be fair, though,” Aqua-Ranger Bex replied, “Rip’s probably not as much of an asshole as a lot of dudes are.”

“Like you’d know,” Aqua-Ranger Orlando teased.

“Like you would,” she’d given right back.

“Oh, guuurl, would I ever!” He’d done a dramatic eye roll, and they both laughed.

“Anyway,” Ginny went on, “yeah, the way she spends so much time there, after hours even? Not to mention the way she shot down Ryan—”

“Ryan is an asshole,” Bex and Orlando simultaneously said, then grinned and went “jinx” and shot finger guns at each other.

“Well, yeah,” Ginny allowed. “But he’s soooo hot . . . ”

Ralph had stopped listening at that point, partly because he’d finished mopping the break room and partly because he gave zero shits for Ginny mooning over Ryan. Who, for the record, was an asshole; jumped-up mall cop wannabe, strutting along with his taser.

He was glad Doc Marla had shot the asshole down. Didn’t mean he himself had any better of a chance; Ralph knew that all too well. Only one in the whole park he had a chance with was dumpy Dolores, who always smelled like the fish-chunks she sold outside the sea-lion habitat and had somehow gotten it into her head that Ralph might be marriage material.

Dumpy and fish-smelling or not, though, Christ could she suck a dick! Maybe if he played his cards right, he could sweet-talk her down to the shark tank observation room during the 11:00 dolphin show lull. It was one of the few places offering relative privacy, as long as Doc Marla didn’t walk in . . . or, hey, if she did . . .

Ralph hitched at his crotch, adjusting himself. Nothing wrong with a little daydreaming to get him through the shift, now, was there?

***

Marla shot out of the door to the top tank room. She didn’t even take the time to change out of her wetsuit, hastily throwing on her swim shoes and a lab coat. This wasn’t the time to concern herself with such things. Riptide was acting strange, and he was her world. She needed answers.

Ralph was outside and raised a hand, but she barely registered his presence. That guy was one of the ogling creeps anyway, and she needed to get a text off to Johnny, the divemaster of the aquarium, right away. No time for petty small talk.

Marla knew it was almost time for Riptide’s health checkup, but she also was well aware how much he hated that ordeal. Simply getting him into the cradle lift caused his body to shudder with stress. When he had still been just her little “Guppy,” a much smaller and malleable juvenile shark, he could be easily led into a hammock-like hoist, which kept him partially submerged but still enough for the biologists to swab, stick, and sometimes even ultrasound his body. They used a firm hose to keep water passing into his mouth and two others to churn water over each set of gill slits. A wet dark cloth was put over his eyes to calm him down. But it never really calmed him down.

The shaking and periodic thrashes were a pretty big cue to Marla that Riptide never grew accustomed to this perceived gross mishandling. She sensed his surges of electricity even before they could use the ultrasound to capture his heart rate, which would skyrocket to ten beats per minute. As he’d grown in maturity and size, the sling method became impossible. Marla, with the invaluable input of Johnny and his crab fisherman uncle, convinced the aquarium to spend a pretty penny on a solution. After all, most of the place’s revenue came from the shark. If they didn’t keep him alive and healthy, bye-bye money. With that fact and a little female charm, no number cruncher in the world would have denied her what she required.

Johnny’s uncle had a retired vessel used to fish for king crab in the Bering Sea back in the day. It had a cradle lift they had used to pick up fishing boats. Bingo! It was the perfect platform for Riptide, big enough for his growing mass and strong enough to hold his girth. The uncle had already been in talks to sell his boat to the Discovery Channel to be used for staging and filming pseudo-research for their yearly shark documentary extravaganza. It took more money than anyone foresaw, but they outbid those fuckers and got the boat and, more importantly, the cradle.

Johnny’s team and Marla worked closely over months designing how the cradle platform would fit into the holding tank and maneuver Riptide’s bulk in the water. Luckily, there was just enough room between the center reef and the solid rear wall of the far reaches of the tank. Most of the top tank facility was located over the back area, lacking the publicly popular viewing windows. Only about two-thirds of Riptide’s total tank was open to prying eyes. The shark was free to roam his tank in its entirety at most times, much to the disappointment of the masses when he would make the inevitable circuit to the area not easily visible to them. Clear plexiglass barriers could be lowered to restrict Riptide’s movements to the back area. It was necessary to be able to conduct research or examinations in relative privacy. But usually Riptide needed that extra room. The full tank that housed the Great White was massive, and that contributed greatly to his chance of survival in captivity.

Marla loved to tell stories to her girlfriends over drinks about sitting in a boardroom full of suit-and-tie fat cats convincing them to cough up the capital to give a Great White the home he deserved and needed. She showed up every time in a low-cut silk blouse, a push-up bra, and a short, tight skirt. Not that she needed a push-up bra, but damned if it didn’t get their complete attention. Like she would always say, work with the gifts you got.

And her gifts got those old white men investors to open their wallets. Surely, after the meeting, they all went home and opened their zippers as well.

Despite the more comfortable set up, Riptide would never get over his fear of the exam and checkup procedures. Marla would only feel him calm down if she soothingly spoke to him; if she was the one placing the hoses, now two because of his larger mouth; if she was there to caress his snout. The rest of the scientists insisted on keeping the cloth over his eyes, as if that would stop him from ripping off one of their limbs. Despite this, Marla knew Riptide was keenly aware of her and her touch, and that it was of a deep comfort to him. And to her.

***

The One left very quickly after he had bumped the overhang. He had sensed a higher pitch, an urgency to her voice sounds. He felt the vibrations of her swift movements as she unfolded her lower limbs and rattled the stairs as she left. Her scent rapidly faded.

Did he do something wrong?

The One stopped his feeding early. Stopped fulfilling his needs. There is no longer a chance for his other newly discovered primal desire to be met. Not at this time. The One is gone.

Aside from the times when he got captured and brought to the nightmare-world, the world of those who would hurt him with pokes and jabs, this is the first time he’s felt fear.

Maybe the One will never be his mate. Maybe he will never sex/mate/fuck. Maybe his advances are rejected?

***

Johnny did as Marla asked in her texts and met her outside the office of Oceanview’s General Curator, Donald Vincent. Don was an obese and comically short man with enough chest hair poking out from his inappropriately unbuttoned dress shirt that you could mistake him for wearing a sweater under there. He was in charge of the animal exhibits and was the asshole one needed to convince when asking to commandeer their prized specimen for an hour or two.

Seeing Marla in her still dripping wetsuit and a lab coat getting damper by the minute was a little alarming to Johnny. That and the quick pace she took coming toward him down the hall.

“What’s the story, Marla?”

“Riptide isn’t acting right.” Marla had a girlish lilt to her voice. “He actually . . . ” She stopped and started again in more of a whisper. “Sorry, I just don’t want Don to overhear.”

“Yeah, I get it.” Johnny placed a hand on her cold, wet shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“He started bumping the stairs. I mean, he does that once in a blue moon, but this was a few times in a row and it was a bit violent. I almost fell in,” Marla said, her eyes growing bigger as she spoke. “Then he shook, like a shudder. A seizure? I don’t know. I’m so worried.”

Johnny furrowed his brow. He had become protective of the shark too, albeit not as much as Marla was. Truth be told, he was more protective of Marla herself. He had always wanted to spend time with her outside of work, to ask her on a proper date. She was either too focused on her fishy pride and joy or too busy getting fucked by and fucked over by that Watkins twat, Todd.

She was gorgeous, that was for sure, but she was a borderline genius in her field, and to Johnny Saenz, that demanded respect. He could and would exert patience for this woman.

He wasn’t a bad looking dude himself. Average height but built like a Spartan, he kept himself muscularly ripped with deadlifts and Keto. Half Mexican and half white, he had long black hair, light brown skin, and dark but warm eyes. His work uniform, when not a wetsuit, was habitually cargo shorts, bare feet, and death metal concert tees with the sleeves torn off. He enjoyed showing off his tattooed biceps, to the delight of female staff and patrons. They weren’t his intended target, though. But Marla never seemed to pay much attention to his physique.

Johnny wished he could stop paying so much attention to hers.

He mimicked Marla’s whisper. “Move up the exam? We could do it tomorrow if I can get—”

“No!” Marla said a little too loudly. Correcting herself and lowering her tone, she took a step closer to Johnny. “No. He hates those exams. I just want to start by getting in the water with him for a while. It seems more behavioral than physiological. I need a cage dive, and I need it ASAP.”

“Oh shit. Got it.” Johnny knew he was there for back up. They would need to convince Donnie-boy to let them keep Riptide with them in the back area of his tank so they could pull off the cage dive privately. This was standard practice for the big fish, just in case something went wrong and he took a bite, or rammed the aluminum bars. Wouldn’t want little Emanuel or Soccer Mom Sue to shit their pants or spill their slushies. Cage dives done for the public happened daily in the other watery enclosure, which did not house any Great Whites, just the safer sharks like nurses, sand tigers, and browns. That was a popular feeding spectacle brought to you by the sponsorship of the good folks at Frito Lay and the ample cleavage of Aqua-Ranger Sylvia.

If Riptide was in the back with Marla, he wasn’t striking awe into the hearts of customers whose billfolds got looser with each sweep of his powerful tail. Don wouldn’t want to hear anything to the contrary.

***

“No,” Donald stated emphatically.

“Don, it is an absolute necessity so I can check on Rip—” Marla was cut off for the second time.

“No. This is a peak season for visitors, Marla, and we can’t afford any blackout periods with that shark. He needs to be on display at all operating hours. Period.”

Johnny spoke up. “May I just interject?”

“No,” Don barked. “Why are you even here? Is the gym closed or something?” Don swept his eyes over Johnny’s muscular arms.

“Don! Johnny is in charge of rigging the cage and keeping my ass safe. You know that.” Marla was taken aback by Don’s disrespect for Johnny. Pure and obvious jealousy coming from a short, fat, self-serving dictator. She suddenly felt a pang of regret for not changing out of her wetsuit. Now would have been a good time to flaunt her assets, not squish them as flat as a cardboard box.

Don’s tone softened as he addressed Marla. “I’m under a lot of pressure right now. It’s not possible. The board meets in ten days, and we need to show them some major results. They coughed up a lot for you, Marla.” He squinted slightly and leaned forward over his desk. “This is the quid pro quo, remember?”

“So now what?” Marla recovered her girly voice. “We need to put him through an agonizing and stressful medical exam ahead of schedule? I just need some time in the water with Riptide, Don. Give me an hour?”

Don stood up from his desk chair, revealing a lap full of crumbs and a golden yellow blob of dried mustard on his left thigh. He quickly brushed off the crumbs and began to gather some papers.

“Thirty minutes, and right now.” Don walked over to his office door and opened it, a not-so-subtle invitation for them to leave.

“Now? Shit. Oh okay. Thank you, Don. I really—” Marla started.

“Thirty fucking minutes in the water and not a second longer,” Don said as he did a sideways nod toward the open door. “Goodbye.”

The door closed a little too abruptly behind Marla and Johnny.

Johnny looked over at Marla’s grinning face. “Well, so much for me being any help in there,” he said.

“Yeah, but we won and we have to get our asses moving!” Marla began to jog back in the direction of the top tank facility. She spun around to face Johnny. “Thank you! I’ll see you there!” she shouted before spinning and trotting away.

She had a spring in her step. She was about to be in the water with her Guppy. In his element.

Marla’s smile widened as she picked up her pace.

***

So many vibrations. Coming from the back of his tank, the place where he and the One had their private morning time.

He hears unnatural squeals, clacks, and rattles. Not noises that belong to his kingdom. Noises of their making, of their world. However, noises not wholly unfamiliar to him.

He feels a pang of hope that these sounds mean the same as the ones he’s heard before, when the One comes down into his domain. When he can see her. All of her. Still kept from him, though. With long lines of barriers in the way and all around her. Whenever he inspected them with his mouth and teeth, they felt cold and hard and didn’t taste like anything at all.

But when he could get close, the One would touch him.

With a quick sweep of his tail, he makes a tight turn and heads for the back of his tank. He hears the ooohs and ahhhs increase in pitch from the window closest to him. He has no time for their adoration now.

With any luck, he is about to be up close with the One. He might just have another chance with her.

***

Prepping the anti-shark cage took a little longer than Marla and Johnny had hoped. Johnny would usually enlist the help of his assistant, Chris, but Chris was filling in for Aqua-Ranger Vinny today. Most likely, he was stuck in a shark costume, sweating profusely and lamenting Vinny’s lack of hygiene and love for Chili Chum Dogs sold at Windswept Wieners in the food court.

True to form, Marla pitched in, and together, they quickly went through the safety checklist. They hooked the cage to the pulley affixed to the launch crane. Marla broke away to change into her full neoprene wetsuit in the curtained changing area while Johnny maneuvered the crane to gently lower the cage into the water. He made himself stop a couple times when he found his eyes glancing over to the changing room, hoping to catch a fleeting glimpse behind the curtain.

The process was quite clamorous, and Marla knew that Riptide would hear and feel every bit of the noise. The cage sat at the water’s surface with the topside portal open, and she almost slipped on the wet concrete as she hastily made her way over with fins, weight belt, and mask in her hands.

She sat at the tank’s edge and put on her scuba fins. She didn’t anticipate needing fins. She’d be in a cage after all. But Oceanview insisted on this protocol just in case she should find herself outside the cage for some reason and needing to speedily flipper her way to safety. She was so anxious to get in the water that she jumped when Johnny touched her shoulder.

“Here you go, Miss Cousteau,” Johnny said as he handed her the low-pressure breathing regulator.

“Thanks! Oh boy!” Marla sounded like a seven-year-old girl who just heard the approaching melody of the local ice cream truck. Johnny laughed and patted her lightly on the head.

There wasn’t a need for SCUBA tanks since the air was provided via a hose connected to the electric hookah air compressor in the facility. She wrapped the weight belt around her waist, which not only kept her from buoyantly bobbing to the surface but was also the attachment point for the down-line hose that provided the air. She scooted closer to the water’s edge and threw her legs over and into the cage opening. She dipped the mask in the water and then, as was their ritual, faked spitting into the mask and looked over at Johnny.

“Ain’t got no spit,” she said, impersonating Richard Dreyfuss’s Matt Hooper character in Jaws.

Johnny smiled down at her. “Get on with it, girl. I’m pulling you up in thirty whether you like it or not. Don’t want to piss off Donnie-boy.”

Marla gave him the thumbs-up, actually spit in her mask, wiped it around with a finger, and dunked it once more into the drink. She put it on, stuck the regulator in her mouth, and wriggled and pushed herself off the concrete and into the cage with a splash. Popping back up, she threw Johnny an OK hand gesture and closed the topside hatch.

She was submerged in Riptide’s realm now, and she couldn’t think of any place she’d rather be. It was tranquil, with the only sound being the bubbling coming from the tank’s filtration unit and from her own breathing.

***

As he approaches the back area of his tank, he sees the hazy outline of the familiar barrier thing floating near the surface, close to where the above-world creatures dwell. The piercing and clanking noises have died down as he swims closer and closer.

Then he sees her.

The form of her body enters the water, but very briefly, the One’s top half popping back above the surface again. For a moment, he can just see her lower limbs with funny looking ends on them that remind him of the fish swimming around the central reef.

He passes on the far side of the reef. There is another banging vibration, and then, as he circles around to the other side, there she is. The One.

All of her.

A strange and sudden surge of energy passes through his body. It is beyond his control. A feeling of excitement unlike the other times he’s encountered her like this.

He flicks his caudal fin and speeds past the One and her barrier. Realizing he overshot his mark, he quickly makes a circuit around the reef and heads back.

This time he will make a slow pass. This time he will see her. All of her.

He will keep himself near her. Close to her. So close that she can touch his skin.

***

Whoa there, big boy!

Marla was surprised to see Riptide fly past her with a high rate of speed. He seemed overly anxious or perhaps excited. During most encounters, he would cruise by with minimal effort and his characteristic curiosity. Always passing and circling back. Passing and circling back.

She watched him swim off and around the reef and approach her in a much more calm manner. He bumped the top left corner of the cage with his snout. Riptide always did this as a first encounter when she was in the cage. After all, he had no hands and he couldn’t speak. Part “hello” and part exploratory. She wondered if he was checking to see if the cage was still a solid object or if it had morphed into a different form than last time. Maybe it was now edible?

Her mouth smiled under her regulator at the thought of Riptide’s primitive notions. That’s my Guppy.

***

He approaches the thing containing the One slowly. His frustration at the thing grows in intensity. It is holding her away from him.

He bumps it with his snout. This time it may be easy to get out of the way. This time he might be able to scare it off like an inferior rival. It is his competition. It is keeping the One from totally being with him.

It is hard like the last time. It is cold like the last time. It doesn’t give way to the pressure exerted by his snout. Just like the last time.

Momentarily defeated, he swims off to circle the reef and make another pass.

A closer pass.

***

Riptide came around the reef from the left to make another pass in front of the cage. This was a closer one than she could remember him ever doing before. In past dives, he would bump and then remain a bit stand-offish until he got comfortable and relaxed. Given the time restraint, Marla was thrilled that he was getting right into it. But why the weird change in his usual behavior? It made her worry about him even more.

His conical snout was speckled with deep pores, the Ampullae of Lorenzini, used as electroreceptors to sense electric vibrations in his surroundings.

Then came his vibrant blue right eye, fixed on her.

His slightly gaping mouth, directly beneath the eyes, formed almost a grin, exposing the tips of his lower teeth.

The beautiful coloration of his denticled skin. Grey from his pectoral fins and above and rippled with the gorgeous play of the overhead lights with the water. White below. A miracle of evolution in color. In the wild, prey would have a hard time seeing him looking up against the sunlight. If he were swimming at the sea floor, he would mix well with the darker colors there. A sea lion at the surface looking down would barely register the shark, which contributed greatly to Great Whites’ proficiency of the ambush breach attack.

Next, his five gill slits passed her, followed by his right pectoral fin, just after and below those. She reached out and took hold of his fin, giving it a slight vertical movement similar to a handshake.

At this touch, Riptide’s entire body shuddered. She saw a wave of current snake down the length of him. It was almost like goosebumps in a human. His tail fin smacked into the cage as he swam off in a hurry, rocking the cage and causing a racket.

She knew Johnny would let this rendezvous go without interfering. He knew she wasn’t in danger. And he knew she didn’t want to be interrupted.

***

The One is covered in her dark skin. He knows this is just an outer skin. He sees her head, neck, and hands are of a lighter color, a thinner layer. Yet he remains disappointed to see that outer skin covering what lay beneath.

Teasing. Inviting.

He wants to see her full exposed form.

His eye meets her eyes. He wonders if she can sense his advances. Does she know of his intentions, his desires? If she does, won’t she fulfill them? The One always caters to his needs.

As his pectoral fin passes in front of her, the One touches him.

She has done this before during the other times they met like this. But this time . . . this time!

He feels a flash of an uncontrollable and warm ripple of energy course down his entire body. The touch and the instinct reaction to it startle him. He flies off and away with a mighty sweep of his tail, slapping the barrier thing in the process.

Swimming to the other side of the central reef, he gathers his composure. Did the tail slap scare off the One? Would she still be there when he circled back?

But the touch. The touch.

Below his pelvic fins, he feels a surging, painful pressure in his claspers. His pace might have slowed to normal, but the intensity of the interaction inflames him.

Sex/mating/fucking.

It has never felt like this before when the One touched him. He liked it. But not in the way he likes it now.

Sex/mating/fucking.

It is unbearable. He wants to destroy that barrier between him and the One. He wants to tear the outer dark skin from her lighter pinker true skin. He wants to thrust both his claspers into the opening between her two larger lower limbs. Just like he saw the above creatures doing before.

If only he could enter her.

***

Marla’s bubbles sped up as her breathing became erratic from the abruptness of Riptide’s movement and with her worry at his bizarre behaviors. She composed herself and calmed her breathing. She needed to examine the rest of him closely before she had to leave the cage.

Please let him pass close again. She fretted that he might have spooked himself a bit.

But then there he came.

He seemed to have recovered from his spasm and was moving in a relaxed way. He passed oddly close to the cage again.

Thanks, Guppy. You always know what I need you to do.

Now, she reinspected his head but focused more on his trunk and tail areas for this run. His dorsal fin, a foot and half tall, seemed normal. His torso and regional underbelly also showed no signs of injury, infection, parasites, distension, or discoloration.

Then his pelvic fins came by, which flanked his two genital claspers. Riptide was still a sub-adult and had not reached full sexual maturity. Marla expected to see softer and smaller claspers like she had seen a thousand times before on her shark.

He seemed to slow his pass even more as his genital area moved into front and center. It was as if he wanted her to take a good hard look at his claspers.

Before his tail area went out of her view, she did get a good hard look. What she saw sped her bubbles up a great deal.

Riptide’s genital claspers had become engorged and swollen to the size befitting a fully adult Great White! The length of each was approximately 15 inches with a 3-inch diameter. One thing that had not changed was his lack of full calcification, deposits that over time accumulated to contribute to the rigidity of the appendages. Adult sharks had full calcification, and their claspers were very firm and unyielding during mating. Riptide still had adolescent flexibility in his.

But swelling to this size at such an early age? That was only seen in adults during active mating seasons. What was happening?

Marla was so taken aback by this discovery that she barely registered Riptide’s departure. Making another circuit around the tank and hopefully back to her. She needed a closer look.

***

Thought after thought just makes his claspers more swollen. Larger. It is both excruciating and invigorating. He feels big and majestic. Powerful. He feels that he will get what he desires at any cost.

He is Riptide. He is a god. No female will deny him.

He will pass her again. Show her his sexual prowess again. Surely, she will be impressed. She must concede.

***

Within moments, the shark approached her again. Instead of taking the same route with his right side in front of the cage, Riptide dipped down deeper and unhurriedly moved up from below. His underbelly was now the focus, moving so she could see under his jaw, giving her a perfect view as he swam upward.

Because it was not possible for him to stop swimming, she had very little time. Plus, she was close to her allotted thirty minutes. She couldn’t afford Johnny interrupting this session to tell her it was time to get out.

Clearly, there was a problem with Riptide and it centered around his sexual maturity. That would explain his strange antics. When his enormous claspers entered her view, Marla took hold of them through the bars of the cage. One in each hand. She grabbed his sexual organs to get a tactile feel, to gain some insight into the problem.

Her hands gripped at the tips of the organs and slid down and around them as he continued upward in front of her. For a second, it reminded her of hand jobs she used to give to Todd after a night out drinking with the girls. Too tired or tipsy to fuck. Too much lust to do nothing. She blushed slightly under her mask and regulator.

The whole maneuver lasted about three or four seconds. Not nearly enough time to work out if she could feel any abnormalities with his claspers.

But those four seconds were enough to send Riptide into a frenzy.

***

The One’s firm grasp, combined with the softness of her skin, makes Riptide feel a torrent ripple down the length of his bulk. The One has clearly accepted his advances. Given him a sign that she is willing to open, to give herself to him!

He has presented himself, displayed his throbbing and swollen dual claspers, and she has taken them!

Success! Acceptance!

It is only he who has two majestic organs to present to her, not the single tubeworm appendage those of her kind can offer.

He is a god. He is a king.

The One always takes care of his needs. Always fulfills his desires. This will be no different. The One has shown him her willingness to submit to what he wants. What he needs, he craves.

Sex/mating/fucking!

He has never been touched there before. He has never known the hunger that lingers deep in the shadows of his mind and body.

It teases him.

It daunts him.

It has eluded him.

Until now. Now, he is overcome with a flooding of sexual adrenaline that courses through every artery, throbbing in tandem with the pulsing of his heartbeat. A clandestine part of him, hidden from him all his life, is now exposed and means to be experienced.

This is it. This is what he has been waiting for.

But as quickly as his rage of lust took over with her caress, it is over. She lets go. The touch ceases.

No undulating in delirious union. No euphoric sensation as her pink skin rubs along his white underbelly. No ecstasy of pleasure with the One, his One.

Must swim.

He explodes into a storm of convulsions.

The encounter is too short, the touch too brief. He has had no release. She does not shed her outer dark skin and join him in the open water. The confinement prevents her from spreading her lower limbs and accepting his claspers, both of them, into her hidden orifice.

He violently contorts out of his upward motion with a powerful flick of his tail. He tries to make a fast circuit around the reef and back to her, back to the One. She will come through in her signal to mate. She will be there, as he rounds the reef. Away from that cage, naked and bared for him, limbs spread.

Sex!

Fucking!

Inviting him. Becoming a sheath for his hard and trembling claspers. Joining him in this feeling, this explosion of sensation that borders on agony.

But when he comes around the central reef, the One is gone.

Gone back to the upper-world. Just an empty cage swings along with the waves made by his movements.

He cannot understand. He has presented, offered, courted her. She has accepted, hasn’t she? She has created this frenzy of sex/mating/fucking, hasn’t she? Why else would she grasp him at the very source of this urge, this need?

The One has left him.

He is overcome by not only lust but confusion, which has interwoven into a tapestry with rage. By the time he has begun to process the absence of the One, he has made yet another circuit around the reef. His shudders have become more pronounced. His muscles contract and release. He throws his head side to side as if shredding tuna at mealtime. But there is nothing to feed upon. Nothing to alleviate this hunger. Not this time.

Wanting!

Needing!

His jaws open and come down again. Over and over, as he retracts his upper lip and extends his upper jaws, he is perplexed by the muddling of so many instincts and passions. He knows how to feed but not how to hunt. He is infiltrated by a lust for mating, but his mate, his teacher, his One, has abandoned him at his most crucial moment. There is no food waiting for him. There are no spread limbs yearning for him.

He continues to thrash and gnaw, twisting his massive body, shaking his conical snout back and forth. But his sinew and muscles begin to tire. He ceases his aimless gnashing, his body sore and tense.

Yet those urges remain. Those urges cloud his mind like sand from the tank’s floor.

Where did the One go? Why did she go?

Was he rejected?

Or did he scare her off?

He knows what to do. He knows what could soothe him even as the primal desires swirl in his brain.

He is a king! He is a god!

He will put himself on display for the awe-struck beings who gape their mouths and expulse sounds of admiration and wonder. He will find himself again, within his routine of tribute and accolades.

He is Riptide!

***

Parker couldn’t get out of the car fast enough, and not because he was eager to spend the day at the fucking aquarium.

“I’ll pick you up at 6:30,” Mom said.

“Okay.”

“6:30 sharp.”

“Got it.”

“Right here in front of the main gate.”

“Yeah, Mom, I got it!”

Meanwhile, Jeremy and his jerk-ola friends, who were eager to spend the day at the fucking aquarium, spilled out of the back seats and milled around, high-fiving each other and saying how cool and rad and awesome this was gonna be.

“You have your phone?”

Parker tried really hard not to roll his eyes; she hated that, and he was already on thin ice anyway. “I have my phone.”

“Jeremy? You have your phone?”

The little shit waved it proudly, flashing its screen in the sun. Brand-new, top-of-the-line, an early birthday present. Hardly seemed fair; when Parker’d turned thirteen, he got a bike.

“Hang on to it, don’t lose it.”

“I will and I won’t!”

“That’s my good boy.”

Jeremy did his “aw-shucks,” foot-scuffing smile. “Thanks, Mom.”

Parker dared to hope she was done, but no such luck; her attention swung back to him. “Now, don’t think this changes anything,” she said. “You’re still grounded, mister.”

“I know.”

“Look after the boys, keep them out of trouble.”

“I know! Jeez!”

She arched a warning eyebrow. “Parker?”

He sighed. “Sorry.”

“That’s better.” Her gaze swept the group. “Everybody set? Sunscreen? Money? Water bottles?”

“Check, check, and check!” Ted, the kissbutt, gave her a double thumbs-up. “We got this, Mrs. A!”

“Okay, then. You all have fun!”

“Sure will!” Eric, the wiseass, mimicked Ted’s tone and gesture.

Caleb, the weird quiet one, smirked to himself and avoided eye contact. God, he gave Parker the creeps. If any of his brother’s “posse” was gonna grow up to be a serial killer or something, Caleb was the one.

“Call me if there’s any problems,” Mom said. She gave Parker a final stern look that was an entire lecture unto itself, then drove away, leaving the five of them standing by the big bronze fountain with the OCEANVIEW sign arching above.

Call if there’s any problems, yeah right . . . Parker thought, knowing full well she was on her way to a spa day and would be far too immersed in mud baths, seaweed wraps, massages, saunas, and margaritas to even check her messages.

But she was gone. She was gone, and he drew a long, deep breath and let it out in an unburdening exhalation. One more year. Then he’d be eighteen. Thinking U.C. Irvine. Major in whatever required the least actual effort, spend the next four years partying on his parents’ dime—whatever else, they had set him up with a decent college fund. After that? Freedom. He could go anywhere, do anything. No more rules, No more getting grounded over stupid shit that didn’t even matter. No more being saddled with his obnoxious shit of a little brother.

“Dude,” his buddy Alex had said when Parker told him of his oh-so-exciting weekend plans. “Babysitting a bunch of twelve-year-olds? You’re just like that guy from Stranger Things, only without the bitchin’ ’80s hair.”

They joined a line threading toward the ticket kiosks, paid their admission, got their starfish hand-stamps—Ted admiring his as if it was a legit tattoo—and filed through the gates into Oceanview proper.

It opened up before them in all its splendor, signposts marking pathways, lush landscaping, snack bars, souvenir stands, some poor dope in a shark suit being mobbed by grade-schoolers, some other poor dope trying to wrangle a tour group of senior citizens. An announcer who sounded like he should be doing movie trailers broadcast the day’s scheduled events. A cute blonde Aqua-Ranger handed out glossy full-color maps—Parker took one even though he didn’t need it.

“Woohoo, Oceanview!” whooped Jeremy. “Best birthday ever!”

He and the jerk-olas did another round of high-fives, reiterating their earlier litany of cools, awesomes, and rads, with a couple hell-yeahs and one baller thrown in. It’d been the same last year at the skatepark, and the year before that at mini-golf, and the year before that at the pizza arcade . . .

“Awright, losers,” Parker said. “Back here by six, or I’ll kick your butts; you hear me?”

“You and what army?” sneered Eric.

“Uh, excuse me, who’s the loser?” Jeremy waggled his new phone again, preening.

“Wait, you’re not coming with us?” asked Ted.

Caleb, member in good standing of Future Serial Killers of America, said nothing. Weirdo probably had a shoebox full of dead birds under his bed.

“Not having you dicks-for-brains following me around all day.”

“But your mom said—”

“Ahhh, leave it.” Jeremy looped an arm around Ted’s neck. “My lame-o big brother ain’t cool enough to run with the posse, you dig, dawg?”

“Fuckin-A,” Eric added. “Let him go chase after some outta-his-league pussy so he’ll have something to cry over while he sad-wanks it later.”

“Bite me, fuckface,” Parker said.

“Bite this!” Eric hiked at his crotch.

Just like that guy from Stranger Things? Not even, bitchin’ ’80s hair or no bitchin’ ’80s hair.

“You’re not worth it,” he told Eric, then looked at Jeremy. “Here. Six.”

Jeremy eyerolled. “Here. Six. Duh.”

“Are we really gonna go by oursel—?” began Ted.

“Man up, mofo,” Eric said. “Come on.”

They went, loud and obnoxious, jostling each other, joking, ignoring or relishing the disapproving huffs they got from adults. Parker shook his head, then did another deep inhale-exhale, and let it chill. Jeremy’s fucking Jekyll-and-Hyde act was getting old; if Mom could see the way her precious golden boy and his nice polite friends behaved when she wasn’t around . . .

One more year. College. Freedom.

Yeah.

Until then . . . well, Eric had been partly right about one thing . . .

Running his fingers through his hair, which may not have been ’80s bitchin’ but still pretty stylin’, he strolled casually after a group of girls he recognized from school, already planning his opening lines.

***

“Your brother sure is a major pain in the balls,” Eric said.

“I know, right?” Jeremy made a face, then took another slurp of blue raspberry slushie from a tall plastic Riptide cup molded in the form of a shark, the straw protruding from between toothy jaws.

The two of them were kicking back at a picnic table in a shady spot, taking up the whole thing despite the family of seven giving them impatient move-along looks, while Ted and Caleb waited in line at the fish-chunk shack.

Eric tossed back a fistful of kettle corn. “Glad he fucked off; didn’t need him dogging our asses, ruining our good time.”

“Yeah, no shit. And lucky my dad had that business trip, or else he would’ve wanted to come along. I don’t know how much more of his ‘hey there, sport!’ crap I can take before I, like, snap or something.”

“Nah, you won’t snap. You’re ice, man.”

“At least he gave me this sweet phone before he split for Salt Lake.” Jeremy took it out to admire again, held up his Riptide cup and shot a selfie, then aimed it at Eric. “Say cheese!”

“Dickcheese!” Eric popped his middle fingers at the camera.

Checking the pic, they both burst out laughing, and were still doing so when Ted and Caleb returned. The impatient family had given up and moved on; the nearest adult was some grumpy bastard emptying a trash can.

“We got ‘em!” Ted announced, coming back with a pair of semi-rectangular paper containers heaping with raw fish-chunks, the meat glistening pale pink, the scales glistening pale silver. He sounded so proud, you’d think he’d caught and chopped up the fish himself, instead of buying it from some dumpy old frump who looked like a lunch-lady.

“Cool,” said Jeremy. “Otters first, or sea lions?”

“Sea lions,” Eric said. “That one big chonker cracks me up.”

Even from here, they could hear that one big chonker, honk-barking imperiously and slapping his flabby sea lion man boobs with his flappy flippers until someone lobbed him a bite. The others just sort of swam laps, poking their heads above the water, catching whatever was tossed their way, but not him; he lounged on his fake rock like Jabba the Hutt, demanding tribute.

They went inside, passing the educational exhibits and informative displays without pause—who cared about species distribution range or the effects the commercial fishing industry had on their population?—to push their way to the front rail. The panels were thick glass, letting people watch the sea lions swoop and roll and dive. Funny how graceful they were in the water but then flopping clumsy wallowers once they were out of it.

And yes, there he was, honking and chonking on his rocky throne. He had bristly whiskers and blobby rolls of fat and mean little black eyes.

Ted offered one of the containers of fish-chunks to Eric, who scoffed and slagged him off. “If I wanted my hands to smell like tuna, I’d fingerbang your slut sister!”

“You’d . . . what? My . . . who . . . Kara? Kara’s not a slut . . . is she?”

“Oh, Ted, Ted, Teddy-bear, my man,” said Jeremy as Eric and Caleb howled with laughter. “Could you be any more of a dweeb? It’s a good thing you got us, or you would have no hope!”

“I don’t get it. What did he say? What did he mean?”

“Never mind,” chortled Eric. “Just throw some damn fish before Chonky has a heart attack.”

So, they threw fish, Caleb in particular enjoying chucking the chunks just out of Chonky’s easy reach, the big sea lion rippling gelatinously all along his length and hefty girth as he tried to lunge and catch. The smaller, quicker ones also enjoyed it, swerving and darting to nab what he missed.

All too soon, they were out of fish-chunks, the big sea lion looking at them like a middle-school vice principal who’d called them into his office for farting during the Pledge of Allegiance. Ted was in favor of going back for more, but the others vetoed him.

“Lots yet to see,” Jeremy said. “We can stop by again later.”

“Yeah,” said Eric. “Won’t hurt him to miss a meal.”

Not that he would; the same family from before had just entered the sea lion enclosure, giving Eric and Jeremy the stink-eye again. They were glad enough to move on, checking out the manta rays and the jellyfish and the tankful of piranhas from the Amazon and seahorses with their tiny tails curled around stalks of seagrass.

“Boy seahorses carry the babies,” Ted said, reading one of the informative signs.

Eric put his nose to the glass and squinted at a seahorse with a bloated belly full of eggs. “Gaaaaaay.”

“You want gay, check these out.” Jeremy indicated another tank, where orange-and-white striped clownfish flitted among coral. “Says here they start off male, then turn female when they get older.”

“No way!” Eric shoved in for a squint through that glass instead. “Trannyfish? For real?”

“Oh, come on, no,” Ted said, distressed. “Those are the ones from Finding Nemo.”

“Are you, like, seven?” asked Jeremy. “What next? Minions?”

“What’s wrong with Minions?”

At that, even Caleb made a noise of exasperation and jerked his head toward the exit in a “let’s go” gesture.

“Yeah.” Jeremy nodded. “Let’s go. It’s time to check out some sharks!”

***

“Parker?”

Glancing up from his phone, acting surprised, he said, “Staci? Hi!”

He’d called it and timed it just right, getting ahead of them so it seemed like they’d run into him and not as if he’d been following or stalking or anything. Now, here was Staci Richardson, looking genuinely glad to see him. With her were Amber Casey, Lynette Marsh, and some younger girl he didn’t know.

“Amber, Lynette, hey,” he added with a nod. “And, sorry . . . ?”

“My cousin Phoebe,” Amber said. “She’s visiting from Idaho.”

Phoebe was gawky and awkward with braces, wearing baggy shorts and an oversized tee with dolphins on it. Amber’s shorts were lots shorter, showing looooong athletic legs, and he was pretty sure she was braless under her white Rockshore High gym shirt. Lynette had snug capris hugging her full hips, and a halter top straining at the strings. And Staci, whom he’d been checking out since freshman year, wore a sleeveless lowcut tennis-style dress with the kind of pleated miniskirt just begging for a panty shot.

“Hey,” he said to Phoebe. “Nice to meet you.”

“This is Parker,” Staci said. “He goes to our school.” Turning to him, her smile dazzling in the sunshine, she added, “I thought I heard you got grounded.”

His heart thrilled; she was not only glad to see him, she was interested enough to keep up on the dirt? “Well, yeah. but, you know.” He shrugged. “It was only weed, it was Alex’s, and it’s legal now anyway.”

Amber perked up. “Is Alex with you?”

“Nah, sorry,” he said. “Just me.”

“What are you doing here all by yourself?” asked Staci, and maybe it was wishful thinking but damned if she didn’t sound flirty!

The real story almost came out of his mouth, but he bit it back. However cool that Stranger Things guy might be, somehow, he didn’t expect announcing he was here babysitting his kid brother would make the right impression. Especially since Jeremy and the jerk-olas were nowhere to be seen.

“Uh, you know,” he said, stalling and casting about wildly for a plausible excuse. His gaze happened upon the mural covering one wall of the marine-reptiles-and-amphibians building. “Just, really into the whole . . . ocean conservation thing . . . cleaning up the beaches where the sea turtles lay their eggs, that kind of stuff.” He offered her an abashed grin. “Yeah, maybe it’s totally nerdy, but I was thinking of volunteering for one of those crews this summer.”

Bingo. Slam dunk. Aces. Solid win.

“I don’t think it’s nerdy at all!” she gushed, putting a hand on his arm. Her fingernails had sparkly purple polish. “That’s great! I mean, the environment is so important, and all that plastic, and trash . . . ”

“So, I figured this was a good place to get some information.” He shifted gears before he backed himself into a corner. “How about you?”

“The dolphins!” Phoebe enthused before Staci could reply. She stretched out her shirt, then showed him a bangly bracelet with dolphin-shaped charms. “They are just the most amazing creatures! Super-intelligent, and so . . . so spiritual!”

Amber did a wry, amused stage-aside. “They don’t have a lot of dolphins in Idaho.”

“I guess not.” Parker once again bit back everything he could have said on the subject; this was not the time to bring up pufferfish drug use, murdered baby seals, and certainly not that infamous dolphin-gang-bang video on the internet. He checked his phone again for the time. “So, you going to the 11:00 show?”

“And the 2:00 show!” Phoebe giggled. “And the 4:00 show, if we stay that long.”

“We might hang around a while,” Staci said.

And, holy shit, she twirled a lock of her hair as she looked at him; that was a signal if ever there was one, that was a green light full speed ahead!

“Mind if I tag along?” he asked, then lied, “Gotta love dolphins, right?”

“Right!” Staci beamed at him, though he had the impression she couldn’t care less about the dolphins.

“But we have to sit right up front,” Phoebe said.

“Splash Zone, absolutely,” he agreed.

“They just better not mess up my makeup,” Lynette teased.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Amber retorted.

They headed for the arena, its entrance flanked by giant Skipper and Jo-Jo banners. Phoebe talked the whole way, pausing only to gasp with glee when she got her first look at the smooth topaz-blue tank, the platforms and hoops on poles, the volleyball net, the bin of toys. She kept on talking once they’d secured ringside seats, detailing her plans to get a dolphin tattoo as soon as her parents would let her, and how she planned to go swimming with dolphins in Baja someday.

Parker yet again bit back his personal opinions on the matter. Judging by Lynette’s askance expression, he wasn’t alone. Dolphins, man, frat-boys of the sea.

Sure, there’d been that incident with Jo-Jo and the baby; that one had made the national news, the dolphin becoming all agitated, chittering and chirping and ignoring her trainer’s commands, fixated on a pregnant woman at the petting tank . . . the pregnant woman who’d mistaken the early onset of labor for ordinary back pains due to waddling around Oceanview all day . . . at first, everyone thought it was just so cute, until suddenly, the woman’s water broke and the real contractions set in . . . the trainer had radioed for the park medics, and it’d been crazy chaos, a race to see if the baby or the ambulance arrived first . . . all while Jo-Jo hovered at the edge of the tank, damn near tried to launch herself out of the tank and would have if the trainer hadn’t intervened . . . then the ambulance came and whisked the imminently-expectant mother away . . . and poor Jo-Jo had been anxious and disconsolate for days, off her feed, unwilling to do her tricks, constantly returning to the petting tank as if to look for the woman, cheeping plaintively, a fucking heartbreaking tragedy . . . so the aquarium contacted the mother, who brought the newborn to show to Jo-Jo . . . reporters and cameras there to capture the scene of the dolphin’s excitement upon recognizing the woman . . . the incredibly tender and gentle way she’d nudged the baby with her bottlenose . . . her joyful chattering as she tail-danced backwards across the tank, then swam giddy circles and did a flip. The owners of Oceanview, soaking up the free publicity, making a big production out of presenting the woman and her daughter free lifetime admission passes and engraving their names on a plaque.

Okay, yeah, it did make for a d’awww touching human interest story, and Phoebe went all starry-eyed as she related it—as if her audience didn’t live right here in Rockshore where it had happened and hadn’t heard it umpteen times over the years—but Parker was still more inclined to go with the frat-boys of the sea theory.

***

World of Sharks was basically a ginormous cylindrical tank sunk deep into the ground, housed in a ginormous silo-shaped building with a geodesic dome top of glass skylights to let in the sunlight. Circular walkways surrounded it at ten-foot levels all the way down, which could be reached either by connecting stairs, ramps, or an elevator for wheelchairs and strollers and old people.

The water glimmered a weird and wavery blue, brighter turquoise toward the top, darker sapphire toward the bottom. Discreet spotlights provided additional illumination, as well as tracing the walkways and indicating the exits. Everything sounded hollow and echoey and kind of too loud, like being in some church or cathedral where you were supposed to keep quiet.

Not that anybody kept very quiet, least of all Jeremy and Eric. Hollering to each other, they ran back and forth pointing out the different kinds of sharks and other freaky fish doing laps inside the glass. Other people—including that same family, mom and dad and grandparents and three little kids, still giving them the stink-eye—went ooh and ahh and commented. Someone’s phone rang HIT ME BABY ONE MORE TIME really loud, eliciting muffled laughter.

A rocky-looking fake mountain rose in the middle of the tank, its wide base tapering upward from a sandy bottom, with all sorts of nooks and crannies and outcrops for smaller fish to hide. Various ocean plants and anemones and urchins and stuff added dashes of color to the deepening watery shades of blue. Starfish and snails clung to the glass.

The sharks were the ordinary kinds you could see at any aquarium, the small ones and the stripey ones and the kind that looked imposing but were basically harmless. Cool, yeah. Just not rad-awesome-baller-epic cool, not Great Whites, not like Riptide!

Riptide rated his own private building, didn’t have to share his space with these wannabes. Riptide was a rockstar! These ones didn’t get their own slushie cups or lunchboxes or backpacks. They didn’t have cheering crowds at dinnertime.

But, for all of that, they were still pretty cool. Cool enough to be the warm-up act for the main event. Cool enough to shoot some selfies with as they glided past.

“So, you really gonna do it?” Eric asked as Jeremy waited for a nurse shark to complete its slow circuit.

“Shit yeah, I’m gonna do it,” he said, nettled. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

“We should all do it. Be four times as famous.”

“You think?”

“No doubt.”

He considered. Four times as famous? Well, three times, maybe, unless they could convince Ted to go along.

As if reading his mind, Eric said, “Don’t worry about Ted, leave him to me.”

“What about Caleb?”

“What about ‘what about Caleb?’” Caleb himself asked from right behind them.

“Jeez! How long were you standing there?” The nurse shark passed by, but Jeremy missed it.

Caleb hitched a shoulder in a half-shrug. He didn’t talk often, even when called on in class—which their teachers tended to stop doing after the first few weeks of each new school year—and whenever he actually did say something, it startled Jeremy all over again. Sometimes the other kids called him Kenny, like from South Park, who never talked much either.

“This hashtag TikTok challenge thing Jer’s planning,” Eric said, answering Caleb’s initial question. “I was just telling him we all should do it, you know, a group shot.” Wrinkling his nose, he frowned. “Didn’t you wash your hands after feeding the sea lions? Whew, man.”

“I used hand sanitizer.”

“Okay, whatevs; you might want to use more next time.”

“Hey, speaking of that,” Jeremy cut in after a surreptitious glance to make sure Ted wasn’t within earshot, “is it true, what you said about Kara being a slut?”

Eric bobbed his head, grinning wickedly. “I heard she and Nate Wallace got caught doing it in the bathroom at Frosty Palace!”

“No way!”

“Way.”

“Hope they washed their hands,” Caleb deadpanned.

As Jeremy and Eric busted a gut, Ted rushed over, clamoring to know what was so funny, guys, what’s the joke, what’s so funny? Which only made them laugh all the harder.

***

“Daaamn,” Lynette murmured appreciatively. “Aqua-Ranger Stefano’s got him some moves!”

Which, Parker had to admit, the guy did. Lean and lithe as a gymnast, toned bod displayed almost too well in a low-slung skin-tight knee-length pair of indigo neoprene wetsuit-shorts, he put on as much of a show as the dolphins.

Put on a show with the dolphins; coaching Jo-Jo and Skipper through their choreographed routines was part performance art, part interpretive dance, and part vaudeville act. All three of them looked to be having just the most fantastic time, as if this was pure play, pure joy, anything but work.

“He is wasting his talents here,” Amber said. “Should be in the Olympics.”

“Or on Dancing with the Stars,” Staci added.

Lynette winked. “Or in my bed!”

“Whoa,” said Parker as Staci and Amber gasped and giggled.

Phoebe, of course, had eyes only for the dolphins. She sat rapt, exalted; Parker wasn’t sure she’d blinked or even breathed as they arched through hoops, snout-punched volleyballs, did synchronized somersault-leaps, and raced side-by-side with Stefano balancing with a foot upon each of their sleek grey backs.

When, after Jo-Jo whistle-warbled a passable rendition of the Jurassic Park theme, Stefano asked for a volunteer from the audience to help with Skipper’s next trick, Phoebe was on her feet in a micro-instant, jumping up and down, waving with both arms.

Stefano pretended not to see her, shading his eyes and scanning the crowd, also pretending not to see the other eager hopefuls. “Anyone? Doesn’t anyone want to volunteer for a Skipper-smooch?”

“Me me me me!” Phoebe flailed so wildly she looked like an epileptic being electrocuted, screaming her head off.

“Jesus, Pheebs,” Amber laughed, but got out her phone to capture the scene.

“This young lady in the front row might be interested,” Stefano said to Skipper, who was half up out of the water, slapping the surface with his fins. “What do you think? Want to give her a smooch?”

“Ee-ee-ee-ee!” chittered Skipper, sounding remarkably like Phoebe, bobbing his head.

“Well, all right, then . . . come on down!”

An assistant Aqua-Ranger beckoned her over to the gate, ushered her in, and showed her where to stand, on a small elevated platform girded by a waist-high railing. Stefano asked her name, then gave her some instructions.

“Omigod, Amber, your cousin is going to kiss a dolphin,” Staci said.

“She better watch out,” said Lynette. “May be all cute with those big happy smiles, but they are total horndogs.”

“What? No, eew!” protested Staci.

“Yeah, she’s right,” Parker said, feeling vindicated on his earlier suspicion Lynette might have seen, or at least heard of, the infamous video too. “They can be pretty gross.”

Phoebe, though, judging by her expression, probably wouldn’t have cared if Skipper did knock her over and start humping away like a dog on a leg. As directed, she stood leaning forward, gripping the railing, chin up and lips puckered.

“I don’t think she’s even kissed a guy yet,” Amber said, zooming in.

“Phoebe’s First Kiss!” Staci clasped her hands over her bosom. “Not sure if that’s adorable or . . . kinda sad.”

At Stefano’s signal, Skipper chirped agreeably, dove in a wide spiral, and then propelled his wet, streamlined body straight up out of the water. The tip of his snout lightly bumped Phoebe’s face. He remained suspended for a decent hang-time second, then splashed down to the cheers of the crowd, while Phoebe went as ecstatic-bonkers as if she’d been singled out and called up onstage at a BTS concert.

“Let’s hear it for Phoebe!” Stefano cried.

Even Skipper and Jo-Jo got in on that, rearing up on their tails and whapping their fins in applause.

Phoebe skipped back to her seat, giddy and damn near glowing. “Did you see? Did you? This is the greatest day of my life, oh-em-gee! Nobody’s gonna believe it!”

“Yes, they will,” said Amber, holding up her phone.

“You got it? Thank you, cuz, you’re the best, I love you I love you!” Phoebe flung her arms around Amber.

“Okay, okay,” she said, laughing. “Take it easy! Also, fish-breath much?”

“Want a Tic Tac?” Lynette dug a plastic box from her purse and rattled it.

“He did smell a little fishy,” Phoebe admitted, popping some Tic Tacs. “More salty, though.”

“Now, we’re getting close to the end of the show . . . ” Stefano raised his hands at a wave of disappointed noises. “We’ll be here again at 2:00 and 4:00 if you still haven’t had enough! But, before we go, Skipper and Jo-Jo would like to do something special, especially for our friends in the front rows . . . Give it up for Splash-O-Mania!”

The dolphins squealed, then submerged together and sped around the tank in tandem, pouring it on, building momentum, then skimmed the surface at the edge of the tank, throwing up twin huge jetboat fantails of water.

The four girls shrieked and Parker yelled, even though they’d all known it was coming. Same for everybody else in the clearly-marked Splash Zone. Lynette covered her face with both hands to protect her makeup. Amber yelped “shit!”, shielding her phone. Staci twisted her upper body and glommed onto Parker, about which he sure as hell wasn’t going to complain.

The dolphins weren’t done yet; there followed a flurry of more sporadic deluges as they dipped nose-down to thrash with their tails, leaped five feet into the air and landed broadside with torrential splashes, and churned a modest whirlpool before tail-dancing backward toward their tank gate, whistling and waving.

“Enjoy the rest of your day at Oceanview!” Stefano called. “From Skipper and Jo-Jo, myself, and my assistant Aqua-Rangers, thank you and goodbye!”

***

A short passageway lined with sharky murals led from the World of Sharks silo into Shark Central, a spacious museum-type room filled with various exhibits and displays.

Such as:

—The obligatory life-size cutout of Megalodon jaws, where people could pose for photo-ops

—Silhouette outlines comparing the sizes of the different shark species to the average human

—The wired-together weird cartilage-y skeleton of a whale shark suspended from the ceiling

—Pickled cookie-cutter sharks and nightmare-fuel goblin sharks in specimen jars of murky yellow fluid

—A case of neatly-labeled fossilized shark teeth

—An “information center” featuring the history of shark-hunting, examples of the crazy shit that had been found in shark stomachs, maps of shark population concentrations and shark attacks, and other fun-facts

—Slideshow screens showing shark pics and video clips, plus a little theater where they ran nonstop shark documentaries

—One dorky-outfitted Aqua-Ranger leading a make-a-paper-shark-puppet craft activity for little kids

—And another dorky-outfitted Aqua-Ranger giving a presentation on more bizarre kinds like carpet sharks and some that could fin-walk on land.

Jeremy and his friends poked around a bit, goofed around a bit, watched part of a documentary about hammerheads, then debated which awesome-bad shark movies they should watch at the birthday sleepover that night.

“Who cares? Long as it’s got lots of boobs and butts and blood and guts!” was Eric’s opinion, with which Caleb and Jeremy heartily agreed and Ted didn’t dare object.

Exiting Shark Central put them in an open-sky courtyard of converging pathways, dominated by the majestic edifice of Danger Reef. Its exterior was dark and porous and made to look like coral formations, with a dramatic arch leading into the amphitheater ringing the outdoor section of Riptide’s tank. Next to the arch was a souvenir shop packed with nothing but Riptide / Danger Reef merch, everything from keychains and postcards on up to a ten-foot-long plushie Great White you could crawl into and use as a combo sleeping bag and tent.

They hit up the squashed-penny machine, sent some quarters whirling down a Save-the-Habitats donation vortex more to watch them than because they cared, bought a bag of gummi sharks to share, and made their way into the amphitheater.

At the moment, it was basically rows of empty bleachers and the shimmering expanse of the tank’s surface reflecting glints of sunlight. A clear plexiglass wall rose up and curved outward, making it so nobody could fall in or throw stuff. Making it also so there was no Splash Zone. A whitewashed metal gantry kind of thing of ladders and platforms and control booths towered high, angling out above the water. It was topped with a swiveling construction-crane arm with a chain, ending in a pincher hook like those claw machine games that were always such a cheat.

Ted peered up at it. “Is that where they feed him from?”

“Duh,” said Eric. “What else would it be?”

“I thought you’d been here before,” Jeremy said.

“Well yeah, but we never watched the shark feeding. My mom wouldn’t let us. She called it ‘animal cruelty.’”

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “It’s not like they sling a whole live cow out there or something! It’s a slab of dead fish, tuna maybe.”

“A live cow would be pretty cool,” Caleb said.

Eric cackled ghoulishly. “Yeah, but they’re not gonna show that to a bunch of old people and nice housewives and little kids.”

“Is it gross? I mean, with the dead fish?” Ted asked.

“No grosser than the fish-chunks you threw to the sea lions,” Jeremy said. “Come on, you guys, this is Riptide! Sure, he looks fierce, but he’s totally tame. He wouldn’t know how to kill a cow if they did dangle one for him.”

“Tame?” echoed Caleb, eyebrows raised. “He’s a Great White.”

“Totally not tame,” added Eric.

“Guys,” Jeremy said again, patiently, trying not to sound too know-it-all. “They’ve had him here since he was a baby. He’s tame, trained, same as the dolphins. It’s an act.”

Ted looked like he’d just found out Santa Claus wasn’t real. Eric scrinched up his face, dubious-like, as if it had never occurred to him but, now that you mention it . . .

Caleb tilted his head, regarding Jeremy. “Then why are you so set on doing this?”

“Uggggggghhhhh,” he groaned. “Because, everyone else thinks the same way you guys do! To them, it’ll seem legit, risking my life for real!”

***

Frat-boys of the sea or not, infamous gang-bang videos notwithstanding, Splash-O-Mania fucking ruled!

And not just because the cool salt water felt so refreshing after sitting an hour in the summer sun . . . oh, no, that was only a welcome bonus . . .

Main result? The girls were drenched. Lynette’s halter top clung to her ample curves like a coat of paint. Staci’s lightweight dress might as well have been wet tissue paper molded over the outline of a skimpy, lace-patterned bra. And the state of Amber’s white gym shirt clearly advertised her bralessness, talk about good things in small packages!

Parker almost strained an eye-muscle trying not to stare, or at least not be too obvious about it. Yeah, he was drenched too, and the squishing of sodden socks inside his sneakers wasn’t a great sensation, but under the circumstances, who cared? He was able to sneak plenty of peeks as they checked their hair and makeup and purses and phones.

Phoebe, at the railing gazing wistfully in the direction of the gate through which Skipper and Jo-Jo had disappeared, wrung a streamlet of water from her oversized dolphin tee. She still had that dazed and dreamy starstruck look. He could just imagine her writing about it in her diary or posting on her blog later.

The audience filtered out, the crowds dispersing, and before long, the five of them were huddled around Parker’s map, trying to decide where to go next.

Well, four out of the five of them were . . . Parker, with Staci squeezed right up next to him, had views of both cleavage and sideboob to contend with and had to hope his own wet clothes weren’t highlighting what was going on in his pants.

Down, boy, he thought.

It now being shortly past noon, most of Oceanview’s attendees made for the snack bars and other eateries. Didn’t seem like a bad idea, so, after some consultation, they split up to grab their respective preferences—Amber wanted a veggie wrap, Lynette wanted loaded curly fries, etc.—leaving Phoebe to camp a picnic table.

“Bring me fish-n-chips!” she called after them. “And a Sprite!”

Any notions Parker may have had of using the opportunity to get his libido under control were promptly foiled when Staci took his arm. “Buy me a Baja Blast float?” she asked with a conspiratorial twinkle, as if suggesting something naughty.

“You got it,” he said, sure as hell not about to refuse.

With her holding his arm, he could feel the warm, firm jiggly pressure of her left breast against his bicep, which was even better than the view. Her swaying hip, bumping him as they walked, was an added distraction.

“So, uh . . . ” he began, then inwardly winced. Smooth. Suave. Not.

“Hmm?”

“You . . . seeing anyone?” Stupid question; of course she was, she had to be, girls like her were never single . . . she’d have some jock or prep boyfriend, maybe even an older guy, a college guy, with his own place and his own car and . . .

Staci glanced away. “Actually, I’m not. I was, but he turned out to be a cheaty jackass, so I kicked him to the curb.”

“Oh,” said Parker, not sure how he was supposed to respond to that. On the one hand, a sympathetic gee-that’s-too-bad vibe seemed called for, but on the other hand, a dual-fisted YESSSS!!! resounded in his head.

“What about you?” she asked.

“Me? No. I, uh . . . no.”

“Huh,” she said in a noncommittal way that might’ve meant huh-yeah-I-figured or huh-that’s-strange.

The Float Boat, specializing in soft-serve ice cream swirled with your choice of soda, was just ahead. Not a huge line, not deserted. He bit the bullet and took the plunge before he overthought or put his foot in his mouth.

“So hey, some of us, me and Alex and some friends, we’re doing a bonfire next Friday night down at Driftwood Cove. Would you want to go?”

“With you?”

“Uh . . . yeah?”

“Like, a date?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I would!” Turning to him, she went up on tippy-toe, squooshing both her breasts against his arm, and pecked him a kiss on the cheek.

They got their floats, hers Baja Blast and his he had no damn clue what he’d ordered, and returned to the picnic table to meet the others.

***

“Maybe he’s not in there,” Ted said after a while.

“Of course he’s in there, dinkbrain; where the hell else would he be?” Eric stuffed another gummi shark into his mouth and chomped down, gooshing blue-white sludge between his teeth.

“Yeah,” said Jeremy. “Not like he could hop out and go for a walk.”

“But shouldn’t we have seen him come up for air by now?”

“How old are you?” Caleb asked. “Sharks are fish.”

“I knew that,” Ted mumbled, chastened, hunching his shoulders.

Sometimes, tbh, Jeremy wondered how Ted even managed to dress himself in the mornings. Or maybe his mommy did that for him too. Ever since the divorce, when Ted’s dad had split for Texas or Arizona or whichever it was, she’d babied the kid as if he were . . . well . . . a baby. As for the dad, Ted kept claiming he’d be going to visit him, but a string of increasingly bullshit-sounding excuses didn’t make it seem like it’d happen any time soon. Kind of pathetic, really.

But despite Riptide being a fish and not needing to come up for air, they still hadn’t seen jack squat in terms of shark-sign. The tank’s surface remained glassy-smooth, no triangle fin slicing through, no spectacular leaping breaches. With the sun shining on it, the glare obscured any possible gliding shapes deeper in the water. Nothing. Not even any ominous dah-dum music. All they could hear was the idle chatter of a few other people scoping the amphitheater and the Oceanview DJ paging so-and-so to please meet their party at the such-and-such.

“Let’s go below and take a look,” he said. “Make sure he is there.”

“Where the hell else would he be?” snarked Ted, surprising them all—probably himself the most—not only with an uncanny Eric impression but the fact he’d done it out loud.

Jeremy laughed and socked Ted playfully in the arm. Might be hope for him at that! Eric glowered and made as if to also sock Ted, only not so playfully.

“I mean,” Jeremy explained when finished laughing, “they could have taken him to the shark-vet for a checkup or something. If he’s calling in sick for the day, though, they better announce it early, or everyone’s gonna be majorly pissed.”

“Riptide, not rip-off,” said Caleb.

A shallow-sloping tunnel ramp led from the upper level to the lower, its walls lined with a gallery of framed photos and articles and other stuff chronicling Riptide’s history. Blah-de-blah injured female Great White tangled in a fishing net, the valiant struggle to save her and her unborn pups, but only one survived . . . the marine biologist determined not to lose him too . . . they made it sound like the girl and the runt piglet from Charlotte’s Web, only without the helpful spider . . . dedication, against all odds, special bond, yada-yada . . . until Oceanview could boast its very own superstar, the only Great White raised and successfully kept in captivity . . . triumphant saga for the ages . . . soon to be a major motion picture directed by that Titanic guy and narrated by Morgan Freeman.

Okay, not that last part, not yet anyway, but he wouldn’t put it past them.

Still, it’d serve his purpose nicely. Anybody could get a selfie with some rando shark; he, Jeremy Abbott, had his sights set higher. He was gonna get his with a famous celebrity!

Though, really, he wasn’t wild about Eric’s suggestion the four of them take one together. It had been his idea, was his birthday; why should they share the glory? Piggybacking on his reacts and retweets, hogging part of his fame?

Sure, he could ’shop them out if he had to, but the more he edited the pic, the more chance there’d be for trolls and haters to cry fake. Maybe he’d also take one alone, and then tell the other guys something went wrong with the first. They’d be salty about it, but, too bad.

The spacious viewing chamber was shadowy, bathed in shifting blue light from tank-filtered sunshine through the floor-to-ceiling panorama window. And beyond . . .

“Oh yeah, there he is!” Eric crowed.

Riptide cruised into view like a boss, the size of a Ferrari and every bit as aerodynamic. Steel-grey on top, paler underbelly, electric silver-blue eyes, rows of scalpel-sharp ivory-white daggers bared in a vicious grin. His tail moved in slow, arrogant side-to-side sweeps. His gills flared and relaxed, fluttering in the coursing water. He passed within inches of the glass, gliding along in absolute, regal silence, seeming both aloof and aware of the awestruck puny humans gaping at him, seeming to appear indifferent while also posing for their eager cameras and phones.

Cool. Superior. Badass. Stylin’. Just like an ultra movie star crossing the red carpet in front of screaming fans and throngs of paparazzi.

“Wow . . . ” breathed Ted. “So big!”

“That’s what she said,” replied Eric.

“Who?”

“Never mind, jeez,” He shot a glance at Jeremy. “Looks like you’re not the only one with the same plan.”

Caleb snorted a little. “Yeah, Jer. Check out the competition.”

At the window, a dozen people jockeyed for prime selfie-angle position, including a stupid-happy couple holding up a stupid-fat baby in a shark costume, two ancient beaming grandmas, and a beefy beardy dude wearing a “chicks want me fish FEAR me” t-shirt.

“He’s coming around again!” someone called. “Be ready!”

Jeremy made a sour face. “Well, I’m not gonna do that,” he said. “Anybody could do that.”

A curvy blonde in jean shorts and a bikini top went all theatrical “eeeek!” like she was about to be lunch in one of those bad movies. Riptide even played along, twisting his body and gnashing his jaws. She jumped, jiggling wildly, then giggling.

“I mean, who wouldn’t want to take a bite?” Eric leered. “Boobs and butts and blood and guts, amirite?”

“You think he’d really bite her on the boobies?” Ted snickered into cupped hands.

“Implants,” Caleb said. “They’d pop like water balloons.”

“How the hell do you know?” Jeremy asked.

“Who the hell cares?” Eric leered some more and made a rude jackin’ it gesture.

The blonde either noticed or heard them, or both, and glowered in their direction. The guy with her, all bad news and tattoos, turned to follow her gaze. His eyes narrowed into slits.

“Wuh-oh.” Putting on his most innocent who, me? look, which had never worked, not once in all the years they’d known him, Eric sidled for the exit, and the rest of them wasted no time following suit.

They emerged into daylight again, viewing the expanse of the tank from another angle. The bleachers were still empty, the other stragglers had moved on. For the moment, they had the place to themselves.

“Anyway,” Eric said, resuming his bravado once the coast was clear, “now we know Rip’s home, so . . . let’s hear it, Jer . . . whatcha got in mind?”

***

Several passing guys flashed Parker envious looks, and a couple flashed him surreptitious thumbs-ups, as he sat there having lunch with four hot girls.

Well, three hot girls and Phoebe, because Phoebe was really still just a kid, not much older than Jeremy and the jerk-olas. And far from hot, though endearing and kind of adorkable in her gawky enthusiasm.

Everyone shared around their various food choices in a companionable potluck. Lynette’s order of loaded curly fries turned out to be a greasy brick of spiralized potatoes, smothered in cheese sauce and grilled onions and bacon bits and topped with shredded cheese—heart attack waiting to happen, but they all dug in anyway. Even Amber, despite her vegetarian leanings. She in turn offered up her veggie wrap, while the fish in Phoebe’s fish-and-chips came in two enormous battered slabs, with yet more greasy fries and a pickle wedge the size of a boomerang. They each took slurps from Parker’s and Staci’s floats, never mind germs or swapping spit.

It was the best.

It was even better when Staci looped an arm around Parker’s neck and pulled him in for a cheery selfie, which she then promptly posted—great day at the O.V.!—and tagged him, and his phone started blowing up with heart reacts and responses . . .

d’aww super cute!

who’s the hottie? *winky face*

OMG you on a DATE?!!?

Lookin’ good homegirl!

have fun!

Wait is that Parker Abbott?

soooo jelly!

. . . in an onslaught of attention both daunting and ego-boosting. They hadn’t even been on a real date yet, just made plans to go to the bonfire next weekend, but did this make them official? Already? Did he have a girlfriend now, just, bam, like that? He wasn’t about to complain, far from, but talk about a whirlwind!

After lunch, their clothes and hair mostly dry, they meandered around, checking out the penguins and the otters and the Tide Pools, poking at prickly sea urchins and pebbly starfish. Parker barely noticed or cared about the aquatic animal antics; he had Staci holding his hand, smiling at him, and it felt so right and natural! Like the universe had just been waiting for this to happen.

True, technically he was still grounded and wasn’t supposed to be going to the bonfire, but he would find a way, even if he had to jump out his bedroom window!

At Phoebe’s insistence, they rode the carousel, despite being too old for such things, and it was ridiculous fun. She chose a dolphin steed, of course. Lynette boosted herself side-saddle onto an anglerfish with a freaky underbite and freakier glow-ball at the end of a head-tendril. Amber swung astride a lithe seahorse. And Staci coaxed Parker—not that he needed any coaxing—to climb up behind her on a goat-mermaid Capricorn thing, which may have been scientifically inaccurate but looked cool.

Around and around they went to old-timey calliope music. Around and around, arching up and down. Him snugged right up against Staci’s back with his arms around her waist, Staci’s bottom pressing warm and firm into his crotch, giving him an immediate world-class hard-on. If she noticed—she had to notice; damn; he was practically nestled between her delectable butt-cheeks, stiff and thick as one of the brass carousel bars holding the sea-creatures in place—she sure wasn’t objecting. If anything, she deliberately rocked and wiggled her ass until Parker was about to come in his pants.

And she immortalized the moment, not just with another selfie but with a quick video clip. “Just couldn’t resist,” she informed the internet with a mischievous giggle. “Had to take this bad boy for a ride!”

***

“That,” Jeremy said in answer to Eric’s question, indicating the metal gantry-structure craning at jointed angles over the tank. “I get out on that and take the pic while Riptide’s circling under.”

“Are you nuts?” Caleb asked, sounding more academically curious than disparaging.

“We,” said Eric. “We get out on that.”

“I should go first to make sure—”

“Balls. We all go.”

“But but but guys,” stammered Ted. “There’s a sign. See? On the gate. ‘Employees Only.’ We’re not supposed to go past there.”

“Balls,” Eric repeated. “We’re not supposed to do any of it, so, big whoop.”

“We’ll get in trouble—”

“Seriously, I should go first,” Jeremy tried again.

Eric, meanwhile, rounded on Ted. “We’re gonna do this. All of us. Including you, dinkbrain, or I will tell everyone at school about the time you wet the bed when we went on that campout.”

Ted blanched. “No fair! We were, like, six!”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll still tell everyone, and we’ll all call you Teddy-Teddy-Wet-The-Beddy forever.”

“Knock it off!” Jeremy raised his voice. “Look, okay, if we’re gonna do this, let’s do it before someone shows up! Come on.”

Without waiting to see if they’d follow, he went for the gate. Which did indeed have an EMPLOYEES ONLY sign on it and was secured with a padlock for good measure, but he clambered up it easily enough and dropped down on the other side.

They did follow, Ted needing encouragement—well, bullying—and a boost but Eric and Caleb also managing it just fine. The gantry itself, with plenty of ladder rungs and platforms and handholds, wasn’t much different from a jungle gym, and in a matter of seconds, they were crowded onto a little metal ledge jutting over the water. The cable and claw-grabber for delivering Riptide’s meals swayed nearby; the handlers would usually attach half a tuna to it and drag it along the surface so he’d do a breach and then dangle the other half several feet up to make him really leap for it.

“I don’t see him,” said Eric, scanning the tank.

“Well, we know he’s in there,” said Jeremy, jockeying around in search of an angle that’d let him take a self-selfie instead of or as well as a group one.

“Guys, guys, I don’t wanna,” Ted whined, hanging back.

“Better hurry.” Caleb nodded toward the other side of the bleachers, where some people had emerged and were peering across at them. “Here. This might help.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a sodden napkin wadded around a few chunks of leftover fish from the sea-lion feeding.

“You’ve had that in your pocket all day?” Eric whooped. “No wonder you smell like a dead hooker!”

Ignoring him, Caleb tossed the fish-chunks into the water—plip, plip, plop—and leaned precariously, scanning the depths. “Think I see him.”

Jeremy hitched himself into position, leaning even more precariously than Caleb, raising his phone. Beyond his own image, there did appear to be a long bullet-shaped shadow moving in their direction.

Gimme a fin, he thought/wished/prayed, a fin at least, or his whole head sticking up, show some teeth, make it look real!

“Get up here!” Eric grabbed Ted and tugged, but Ted resisted, yanking free with surprising strength. The recoil sent Eric staggering, and he whanged his head a good one on part of the gantry. “Mother-fuck!”

“Gong! Taco Bell!” Jeremy shouted by rote, even though it sounded like it might’ve really hurt. He glanced at Eric and winced. “Ouch, man, dude, you’re bleeding.”

Eric swiped his brow with one hand, regarded the blood, and shook it off in a spatter of droplets as he gave Ted the death-glare. “Get your stupid butt up here now, Teddy, or—”

“Here he comes!” said Caleb.

“Hey!” called another voice, an adult voice. “Hey! You kids can’t be up there! Hey!”

“Shit-shit-shit!” Eric chanted, blood trickling from his split eyebrow.

A man in a security guard uniform ran toward them. Other people babbled and pointed. A lady screamed.

But below, the shadowy bullet-shape was very close, the tip of a triangular fin slicing a white wake along the surface.

“Ready?” asked Caleb.

Almost . . . almost . . . thought Jeremy, still not wild about anyone else being in the pic with him but not about to give up his only chance. And . . . now!

Just then, Eric went to push his way between Jeremy and Caleb but stumbled smack into them and bowled all three of them over the edge.

***

God, the way Staci rocked and rubbed against him! She had to know the effect it was having, couldn’t miss it! Must even have been enjoying it, because she sure as shit didn’t seem offended.

He wanted, desperately wanted to make some move of his own. Something with his hands, which were around her waist. It’d be so easy to slip them up to cup her tits—the thought of that skimpy, lacy bra beneath the thin fabric! Or down; her flirty skirt was so short, bare thighs right there—skimpy, lacy panties to match the bra? Maybe a little finger-action?

Would she let him? Would she like it? Would he find silky bush, or neatly trimmed, or smooth as a peach? Would she be wet and welcoming and squirm with delight?

Such thoughts, of course, didn’t help his efforts to not come in his pants. Talk about Splash Zone; he’d soak through his clothes and hers! Geyser it clear to the carousel’s brass levers raising and lowering their goat-mermaid in its slow-mo gallop.

And okay yeah, she might also get mad, yell and slap and call him a creep, never want to see him again, tell the entire internet he was a gropey pervo . . . but he didn’t think that’d happen.

More likely, though, the carousel operator—who had already been giving them a suspicious look—would see and have them arrested for public indecency, or thrown out of Oceanview at the very least.

And how he’d explain that to his mom when he was supposed to be keeping tabs on Jeremy and the jerk-olas . . .

‘Round and ‘round the ride went, calliope music and Staci’s ass, and Amber smirking over at them from her seahorse like she knew exactly what was going on, until the music ended and the steeds stilled.

“That was wonderful,” Staci said, tilting her head back to rest on his shoulder. “Thank you!”

“Anytime,” he replied, voice on the strained side.

He dismounted, trying to be discreet about his rock-hard erection. Blue balls for days, but worth it! Staci swung her leg over and then hopped lightly to the carousel’s deck, the front of her skirt flipping just enough to give him a glimpse of the very panties he’d envisioned—skimpy, lacy, clearly outlining the delicate contours beneath.

It occurred to him she could just be playing, teasing and tormenting to make a fool of him . . . mean-girl stuff she’d mock him for later and laugh about with her friends . . . but he didn’t think so. They had a genuine connection; they really did. Had to be. He’d never felt this way before.

The exit from the carousel pavilion, in the best theme park tradition, led through a souvenir stand, where Lynette and Staci paused to examine a display of charm-bracelet-type jewelry and Phoebe found a plastic snow globe with dolphins. Parker used the distraction to try and adjust himself, only to find Amber beside him, still smirking.

She nudged him. “You okay there, cowboy?”

“Heh, ha,” he managed.

“Need a cold shower?”

“I’m good.”

“Oh you are, are you?” Her eyes glinted with what he hoped was more mischief than malice.

“No complaints yet,” he said, regretting it immediately.

But to his relief, she let it go, asking, “So, yeah, hey, you and Alex, you’re pretty tight?”

“Since, like, third grade, sure.”

“Think you could score me an invite to that bonfire on Friday?” The smirk became a grin. “I’ll even bring the tequila.”

***

On some dumb level, even though he knew better, the cold salty shock of the water surprised him. As if he would have expected a shark tank to be like a swimming pool, heated and chlorinated.

My phone!

Jeremy popped to the surface, gasping for breath, and hastily lifted his arm, phone securely in his grip.

His dad hadn’t skimped on it, he knew that much . . . it was supposed to be impact-resistant, waterproof, and damn near indestructible, if you believed the commercials. They even suggested it could stop a bullet, the way a gunslinger’s whiskey flask might in some old western movie.

It seemed fine, still working, and the breath he’d gasped for escaped in a relieved whoosh. As long as he held on to it, he was good. If he lost it, however, especially so soon after getting it, his folks would pitch a fit.

Eric surfaced beside him, sputtering. “What the fuck?”

“Knocked us in, you klutz!” It was one of his great-grandma’s words, one he didn’t think he’d ever said out loud, but it felt right.

Caleb also surfaced, a few feet away, flinging wet hair out of his eyes. “Where’s the shark?”

Above them, clinging to the gantry-thing like a fucking spider monkey, Ted was screeching his damn head off. People were running and shouting all over the place.

“Think we scared him off,” Jeremy said. He laughed. “I told you he was tame.”

“Yeah, a big fishy pussy,” said Eric, though he looked around nervously. “Still, we should get out of here. We’re gonna be in some deep shi—”

He jerked and went under, hands flailing into the air.

“Ha, ha, asshole, very funn—” Jeremy began.

Then the water bloomed billowing crimson, and Eric surfaced again, shrieking and thrashing like crazy, with real pain and terror in his eyes, and suddenly, it wasn’t very funny anymore, wasn’t funny at all. His wild gaze met Jeremy’s a split second before another hard jerk pulled him down. More crimson billowed, seething in a roiling turbulence.

Above them, Ted kept on screeching and the screaming lady kept on screaming and people kept running and shouting and the security guard simultaneously fought with the gate’s padlock while hollering into a radio and it was total panic. A few feet away, Caleb took off swimming super-fast, far faster than Jeremy would have guessed him capable of, kicking up big fans of water as he beelined for . . . for what, Jeremy didn’t know; there were no handy steel ladders or tiled concrete stairs or ledges like at a pool either.

Or lifeguards, or those white and red floaty donuts, or anything!

But there was a shark!

A real shark, a Great White, apex predator, deadliest hunter of the deep! And he’d been wrong, okay, sorry, jeez, sorry, he’d been wrong, all the stuff about Riptide being tame and trained and not dangerous; he’d been full of it and now Riptide was full of it, full of Eric-meat, and maybe still hungry for more—

Eric was dead; must have been, still hadn’t come back up . . . not a sign of him except for a dissipating pinkish froth.

Jeremy held absolutely still, or as absolutely still as he could while keeping his head—and phone—above water. He tried to tell himself it was on purpose, that Riptide couldn’t see him if he didn’t move, the way T-Rexes weren’t supposed to be able to . . . except they’d disproved that, hadn’t they? Really, though, he was too terrified to move, too terrified to do anything but watch as Caleb gained on the tank wall—for all the good that would do, with no way up to safety.

Riptide exploded out of the water in a sudden vicious breaching lunge, launching himself into the air, fifteen feet of power and muscle and teeth, with Caleb’s torso clamped in his jaws. They hung suspended briefly, Riptide lashing his tail, whipping his head side-to-side, shaking Caleb the way a dog shook a rag, blood spraying in gaudy pinwheels, then crashed back down with a secondary explosion of whitecaps and foam.

The screaming and pandemonium continued above, but to Jeremy, it seemed all very faint and far away. His ears rang with a high, tinny whine. Minuscule uncontrollable shivers raced over his skin. He bobbed in place—cork-bobbing, an instructor had called it at swimming lessons so very long ago—sipping air through his nose, letting the shallow inhalations and exhalations raise and lower him rather than pedaling his legs and fanning his arms to tread water.

Eric was dead and now Caleb was dead and his whole birthday was basically ruined. Only Ted was left, baby Teddy, Teddy-Teddy-Wet-The-Beddy, and—

A subtle rolling surge gently buffeted him. As of something large moving nearby, pushing the water out of its way.

Displacement, he remembered from science class, though he wasn’t sure if it was correct.

It happened again, stronger, from below. He squeezed his eyes shut, positive that if he looked down, he’d see the massive bullet-shaped shadow circling underneath his motionless feet.

A meek little squirt of pee leaked out of him, its cloud of yellow warmth dissipating the way the crimson had.

Teddy-Teddy-Wet-The-Beddy, hadn’t he just been thinking?

Mortified, he told himself this was different, this wasn’t wetting the bed, this was more like just peeing in the pool, so what, everyone did that, no big deal—

The surge hit a third time, and even as his mind registered it, fistfuls of knives tore into his thigh. An immense force yanked him downward. Cold salt water flooded his mouth, nose, and throat.

And . . .

My phone! he thought again, with real anguish, as it slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers and seesawed away into the red-tinged depths.

***

Alex: dude r u shittin me?

Parker’s thumbs tappety-tapped away as he texted back, assuring Alex he was not in fact shitting him. He followed up with links to Staci’s posts—the barrage of reacts and replies had escalated, especially in response to the “take this bad boy for a ride” clip.

He had a few moments’ privacy; at Lynette’s suggestion they get out of the sun for a while, they’d ducked into Octopus Garden. It was in a cool and shadowy air-conditioned building, with windows like magic mirrors into watery worlds where boneless blob-headed alien tentacled forms slithered, oozed, and lurked among coral formations and aquatic greenery.

Otters, penguins, starfish, seals, okay. Even dolphins, no matter how gang-bangy they might be. Manta rays, fine. Not to mention sea turtles . . . he may have been pulling his earlier remarks out of nowhere, but they were kind of awesome.

Cephalopods, though? Yeah nope, not a fan.

Especially since they could be freakishly smart too. Problem-solving smart, beyond just opening jars or doing Rubik’s Cube party tricks. He’d heard of them escaping their tanks, turning lights off and on, stealing items, manipulating tools and technology. Sooner or later, some yo-yo might teach them how to type, or one would get ahold of a gun, and then it was game over for humanity. Squiggly mf’ers would take over the world.

So, while the girls were engrossed in an Aqua-Ranger presentation, including demonstrations by a giant Pacific octopus named Einstein, he’d stepped aside to check his phone, as well as get his dick under control.

No messages from Mom, not that he’d been expecting any. A couple from Dad, including a shot of him and his business-trip buddies about to go zip-lining as a “team building exercise.” Bunch of middle-aged out-of-shape types looking like total dorks against a scenic Utah landscape.

Nothing from Jeremy either, which he also wouldn’t have expected, or welcomed anyway. At some point, he’d have to let on to Staci that his pain-in-the-butt kid brother was here too, but he was hoping to put that off as long as possible.

Which basically left just this exchange with Alex. Who seemed to be having trouble wrapping his brain around the idea that Amber, the health-food jock, would be interested in bringing tequila and maybe hooking up with the school stoner at a weekend bonfire.

Eventually, the presentation wrapped up, the Aqua-Ranger handing out stickers while Einstein slithered back into the nooks and crannies of the rock formations in his tank. The girls spent some time cooing over a cluster of baby squidlings encased in translucent jellylike eggs, marveled over the color-changing properties of a softball-sized stubby-tentacled octopus that could almost have been considered cute, then rejoined Parker and they emerged into daylight again.

Right away, though, something seemed off. A vibe in the air, a vague but hectic spreading sense of anxiety, a strange overall general agitation.

“What’s going on?” Phoebe summed it up for all of them. “Why’s everyone so worked up?”

“Dunno,” said Amber, frowning.

“Hear that?” Lynette cocked her head. “Sounds like yelling and screaming, and not the fun kind.”

People rushed around, the anxious tension jumping from person to person and group to group like a virus. Their movements had a conflicting tidal ebb and flow, as if half the crowd tried to get away from the source of the disturbance while the other half wanted to get closer.

“Look!” Staci, arm-in-arm with Parker again, used her free hand to point at a trio of Oceanview service vehicles—eco-friendly hybrid golf cart type things—weaving through the pedestrians, beep-honking for them to get out of the way. Two were dark blue with SECURITY stamped on the doors. The third was white with a red cross, a mini mockup ambulance from the park’s dinky first aid station.

“Somebody must have gotten hurt,” Lynette said.

“Heart attack, maybe,” Amber suggested. “Or heatstroke.”

Drawn by the pull of morbid curiosity, they joined the upstream half of the tidal flow, following the souped-up golf carts. Snippets of excited conversation reached them, increasingly crazy speculations and rumors—fight broke out at the Tide Pools, couple of dads getting into it because one’s brat threw a sea urchin at the other one’s brat . . . lady went into labor by the dolphin tank, like that time with Jo-Jo, probably did it on purpose to obtain lifetime passes . . . accident at World of Sharks, a diver bitten . . . no, it was at Danger Reef, someone fell / jumped / was pushed . . . Riptide . . . killed, torn to pieces, blood everywhere, eaten . . . the window of the viewing chamber had broken and flooded in, crushed-cut-drowned, plus big angry chomping shark . . . dozens dead . . . a stabbing, a shooting, a bomb threat, terrorists . . .

“Jeez,” Parker muttered. “They need to calm the hell down; they’ll be saying it’s the zombie apocalypse next.”

***

The observation window had not in fact broken, flooding the chamber with hundreds of gallons of salt water and an extremely aggravated Great White. Nobody in there got cut, drowned, bitten, or eaten.

A few did get hurt, though, in the resultant stampede of shocked, horrified, stricken onlookers.

Families with impressionable little children who’d just had an up-close view of actual predation bulldozed over anything in their paths to get away from the sight of ragged adolescent body parts drifting amid swirls of blood. They pushed and shoved with mad abandon as their children shrieked and cried. People were elbowed, knocked down, tripped over, trampled.

A kindly grandma and her walker went down with a crash, brittle old bones snapping like pretzels. Her friend, her sweet blue-haired bestie for more than seventy years, suffered a mild stroke and collapsed in a seizure.

The busty blonde who, a few minutes earlier, had been putting on her best bad-monster-movie act did it for real, her ear-splitting scream hitting notes so high Skipper and Jo-Jo at the dolphin tank went nuts. As she frantically backpedaled in high-heel strappy sandals not made for such maneuvers, both ankles made walnut-cracking noises and her ass hit the floor so hard her own enormous boobs smacked her in the face.

Her tattooed tough-guy boyfriend, who’d been ready to tune up on the little pricks cracking smart about his woman, gaped as the upper half of one of those selfsame little pricks cartwheeled slowly past the glass, trailing purplish silly-string tangles of mangled intestine leaking ribbons of liquefied shit. Gaped, then puked and passed out, and got abjectly steamrollered by a mom with an all-terrain twin-stroller, one of the heavy-duty wheels partially crushing his larynx.

The stroller-mom, without so much as a second look at whatever speed-bump she’d gone over, barreled for the EXIT sign full-speed-ahead and never mind the logjam of bodies already blocking the doorway. Never mind Nina had dropped “Mr Toofles” and was having the tantrum to end all tantrums about it. Never mind her husband was still back there someplace; coming here had been his damn idea! What kind of asshole lets three-year-olds watch Shark Week anyway?

At the glass, overlooked or forgotten as that kid in the Home Alone movies, a boy of about five stood with his thumb in his mouth and tears streaming down his chubby cheeks, his wide-eyed gaze fixed on a sneaker lazily twirling in an eddy. It had a Nike swoosh on the side and the raw maroon stump of a foot still caught in it.

Also at the glass, also overlooked, despite his bulk and his “chicks want me fish FEAR me” t-shirt, a burly beardy guy dropped to his knees in a puddle of his own piss, gibbering and praying, as a severed head streaming blood and bubbles sank past the window . . . until Riptide shot by in a graceful swoop and scarfed it up, swallowing it whole in a single bite.

***

The scene topside, at the tank’s surface, was rather more . . . sanguine. In the “mood” sense of the word, that was; very little in the way of bodily fluids and other fleshy detritus remained visible from above. The spectators up there had witnessed the attacks, including that spectacular leaping breach, but all of their attention now was on a potential rescue effort underway.

“Come on, kid!” Ryan urged. “Come on, I got you, take my hand, let’s get you down, it’s okay.”

The kid, still clinging to the apparatus like a fucking spider monkey, shook his head and held on tighter, his eyes squinched shut. He had finally stopped screaming, breathing instead in hitching, hysterical gusts.

Several quick-thinking aquarium guests formed a human chain to anchor Ryan as he gingerly clambered closer, all too aware of the drop beneath him and the killing-machine menace gliding around in the depths.

He hated sharks. He had, not once in his tenure at Oceanview, ever anticipated his job would involve a shitshow like this. Reminding people of the no-smoking policy, making sure nobody robbed the gift shop, busting hooligans who smuggled in booze or spray-painted rude graffiti, sure. All in a day’s work.

Climbing out over a goddamn death tank to try and save some numbnuts pre-teen whose numbnuts pre-teen friends had been reduced to spare parts? While a dozen tourists aimed their phones at him? If he screwed up, if this kid fell in and got chomped, it’d be his ass on the line.

Probably would be anyway; there’d be a thorough investigation: how had the boys made it past the gate, weren’t there precautions in place against exactly this sort of fuckery, whose fault was it? Oceanview’s owners would scapegoat their own mothers, let alone some lowly security guard.

But if he could save the kid, maybe he’d come out of it looking good. Maybe even a hero, once all those videos hit the media.

If he could save the kid.

“It’s okay,” he repeated. “I’m right here, come on, just reach over, give me your hand.”

The kid whimpered. Each of their movements, while not threatening the integrity of the gantry, made it vibrate and occasionally creak or clunk, which only served to further entice that monstrous mouthful of teeth.

“I’m Ryan,” he said, trying a different tack. “What’s your name?”

“T-t-t Ted,” squeaked the kid.

“All right. Good. That’s good. Listen to me, Ted. We’re going to get you down from there. We’re going to get you safe. How’s that sound? That sound good? Yeah? Safe on dry land?”

“Christ’s sake, man, just grab him!” someone in the human chain said.

Someone else in the human chain told them to shut their damn trap.

Ryan ignored them both, focused on the kid and his own precarious position as he stretched his arm as far toward Ted as it would go.

And where the fuck was Doc Marla? It wasn’t normal, a woman that sexy and smart being so attached to a shark, but maybe she could call off her pet nightmare!

“Okay, Ted, I need you to scoot toward me, just a little.”

“Noooo, he’ll get me!”

“I won’t let him get you. Scoot just a little.”

A cacophony of shouts—oh shit, fin, fin, fin, shark! there’s the fin there he is here he comes—erupted from the onlookers. In a sudden spurt of adrenaline and terror, Ted lunged for Ryan . . . who, despite everything, hadn’t been expecting it, so he almost missed the catch. But then his arm was around the shaking kid, the shaking kid’s arms were around his neck damn near throttling him, and the human chain reeled/guided his backward scramble to safety.

The cacophony of shouts turned into a cacophony of cheers as Ryan set the sobbing Ted safely on dry land, then collapsed flat on his back, looking up at the blameless blue California sky, thinking they didn’t pay him enough for this.

***

“Attention, Oceanview guests, your attention please . . . this announcement is to inform you that Danger Reef is temporarily closed—repeat, closed—due to technical difficulties and security concerns. Please vacate the area in a calm and orderly fashion as directed by park personnel. We appreciate your cooperation and apologize for any inconvenience.”

***

Parker and the girls shared around a skeptical look. The announcer guy, who usually came across as smooth as butter and professional as a radio DJ, this time didn’t.

“Is it just me,” said Lynette, “or does he sound kinda shook?”

“Shook,” Staci agreed.

“Totes shook,” added Phoebe. “Isn’t Danger Reef where they keep the Great White?”

“Yeah, Riptide,” Parker said.

“Something serious really must be going down,” Amber said. “You don’t think anybody did fall into the shark tank or something, do you?”

“God, could you imagine?” Staci shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself.

Parker pulled out his phone, figuring he better at least touch base with Jeremy; Mom was gonna have an absolute cow when she heard about this.

Up ahead, in the direction of Danger Reef . . .

“Calm and orderly fashion, my butt,” scoffed Lynette.

As many people appeared to be trying to get into the area as vacate it, and yeah, none of it was either calm or orderly. Those leaving were pale, sobbing, hysterical, freaked, occasionally puke-splattered, and, in a few instances, limping or bruised and abraded or otherwise minorly injured. Those wanting in had an attitude of ghoulish FOMO excitement; whatever had hit the fan, they needed to know the gory deets.

Meanwhile, Aqua-Rangers and random staff hastily recruited from snack bars and souvenir stands attempted to get the scene under some sort of control. The two SECURITY golf carts seen earlier now blocked the main archway into the Danger Reef courtyard, the first aid one stopped further inside by the entrance to the building proper. There, some other, and clearly more severely injured, people were being triaged by a pair of harried-looking Oceanview medics whose typical shifts probably consisted primarily of dispensing Band-Aids and lollipops to little kids who skinned their knees.

Jeremy still hadn’t replied, so Parker sent another text: for real where ARE you, answer me, dickhead.

“I hear sirens,” Phoebe said. “Lots of sirens.”

The Aqua-Rangers had their hands full, bombarded from all sides, everything from frantic queries about family members who’d become separated in the chaos to “Whaddaya mean, closed? We came all the way from Bakersfield to see that fuckin’ shark!” They obviously didn’t know much either, the wild rumors continuing to grow and spread.

“ . . . jumped right out of the water all yaaaah with the guy in his mouth, whipping him back and forth like when they snag a seal on Shark Week . . . ”

“ . . . guard hollering for them to get down from there but . . . ”

“ . . . trying to take a selfie or something . . . ”

“ . . . yanked him under in this big cloud of blood . . . ”

“ . . . past the window, guts hanging out . . . ”

“ . . . twelve feet in the air and then KA-SPLASH . . . ”

“ . . . trampling this old lady . . . ”

“ . . . five years old, seeing that? Be messed up the rest of your life!”

“ . . . didn’t fall in, hung on to the crane . . . ”

“ . . . still had a foot in it, I swear to God . . . ”

“ . . . screaming, eating them alive . . . ”

“ . . . gnarliest thing ever, so gross, worse than any movie . . . ”

Jeremy still hadn’t responded, and a nervous qualm stirred in Parker’s midsection. Jesus, what if . . . No, no, even he wouldn’t do anything that dumb . . . He told himself Jeremy and the jerk-olas were just somewhere in the crowd, as eager as everybody else for a glimpse of whatever had happened, maybe hoping to see blood or body parts or body bags or . . .

Text me back RTF NOW JER

To further hammer the point home, he did what he never freakin’ did and actually called . . . but Jeremy’s phone rang and rang and then went to voicemail.

“Parker, what’s the matter?” Staci asked. “Are you okay?”

He exhaled through his teeth. “Fuuuuuck . . . I didn’t mention it earlier, but my kid brother and some of his friends are here today too, and . . . and now I can’t get ahold of the little shit . . . ”

“Fuck me, you don’t think—?” Amber craned her neck for a better view into the courtyard.

“No, hey, no,” said Staci, setting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure they’re fine. Probably just checking things out.”

“Yeah,” said Lynette, though she didn’t sound very convinced or convincing.

“How old are they?” asked Phoebe.

“Twelve. Or, uh, Jeremy’s thirteen; it’s his birthday. Or Ted might only be eleven, I don’t know?”

“There’s a kid over there looks about that age,” Amber reported, up on tiptoe using her height to advantage. “Really upset, crying . . . security guard’s got him with the medics—”

“Where?” He looked, choked, and bolted, charging through the crowd like a varsity football player, only to be stopped short by an Aqua-Ranger.

“Sir, need you to stay back—”

“Fuck you!” Parker waved his arms, hollering. “Ted! TED!!! HEY!!! TED!!!”

“Parker?!?” Ted pulled away from the security guard and started running toward him.

The Aqua-Ranger made an executive decision and stepped aside. Ted and Parker met halfway across the courtyard, Ted slamming into him. His face was a mess of snot and tears, there was a damp patch on the front of his shorts, and he latched on to Parker in a desperate death-grip.

“Ted!” Parker yelled, seizing him by the upper arms and giving him a hard shake. “Ted, where’s Jeremy? And the others? Where are they?”

“Riiiiiiptiiiiiide,” Ted wailed, blubbering afresh. “Riptide got them, they fell in and he got them, he got them all!”

***

As for where the fuck was Doc Marla? . . .

. . . she was in her office, surrounded by shark books and scientific journals, tabs to a dozen different websites and articles open on one screen, an impromptu live Zoom conference mosaic occupying another.

The Hollywood Squares / Brady Bunch tile images showed a who’s who of marine biologists, shark behaviorists, researchers, and other experts in all matters sharky. Some, like Marla herself, were in California. Others were in Florida, Texas, Australia, South Africa, New England, Japan, the Gulf of Mexico, and along the coasts of Central and South America. Many would have been familiar to viewers of various documentaries and expedition/adventure shows. One lovely, lucky older lady even had a hands-on encounter with Chris Hemsworth’s muscles while filming, and could anyone blame her for squeezing him like a melon in the supermarket?

The amount of favors Marla had called in and good will she’d drawn upon to make this happen was staggering, but she didn’t regret it for a second. She needed the input of specialists in the field, sounding boards to bounce her theories off, fellow minds who understood and shared her obsession.

And, to be fair, she was something of a who’s who among them in her own right; successfully raising a Great White in captivity was nothing to be sneezed at. If Discovery Channel or Nat Geo ever wanted to send Chris Hemsworth around to interview her, well, far be it from her to protest!

Understanding and sharing her obsession did still only go so far . . . she kept vague on the specifics of some details of her recent encounters with Riptide. They didn’t exactly need to know she had—however briefly—double-fisted both of his claspers. These people were professionals, not depraved sickos like the guys from Shark Lords.

They certainly didn’t need to know how she couldn’t get the moment out of her mind. Let alone that dream she’d had the other night . . .

So, yeah, keeping it vague! Just looking to pick their brains, get some opinions and perspectives. This was all kind of uncharted waters; no one else had such—

((intimate))

—extensive personal experience with a Great White.

They agreed with her on the likelihood of early sexual maturity; Riptide growing up in a secure environment with no threats or stressors gave him an edge over sharks in the wild. He didn’t have to hunt, never went hungry, had no rivals or competition. The entirety of his energy and resources could be put toward his development.

What to do about it, however, posed its own set of problems. Not as if she could contact another aquarium and arrange a breeding program. No hiring her Guppy out for stud services or setting up a shark booty call.

“OnlyFins,” someone joked, and everyone laughed.

When the chat finished, Marla still didn’t have any clear answers, but she felt better for having communed with her tribe. Johnny may have been cool, and some of the Aqua-Rangers were all right, but none of them were quite on her level . . . and she was hardly about to go to Don or any of Oceanview’s other executive types with her concerns.

Doc Wilma, maybe . . . the park’s general veterinarian was a weathered old battleaxe who’d worked on farms and at zoos for forty-plus years. Very little could shock Doc Wilma. “Once you’ve been shoulder-deep up a giraffe’s hoo-hah trying to turn a stuck baby,” she liked to say, “you’ve pretty much seen everything.”

Even so, she couldn’t quite imagine asking Wilma’s advice in this case. Probably because Wilma would suggest something crudely prosaic, bring up Margaret Howe Lovatt and her dolphin or the dubious “collection” practices used on SeaWorld’s orcas.

Anyway, it wasn’t the same. They weren’t dealing with cetaceans here. Her Guppy was different . . . unique . . . special.

She leaned back in her chair, massaging temples with fingertips in hopes of staving off a headache and trying not to remember how his claspers had felt in her hands. Their length and heft and girth, each almost twice what Todd had been so proud of. Their texture, the pale skin slick and slippery. The way he’d responded . . .

Trying not to remember and think about that! Not!

Marla drained the rest of a now-flat-and-tepid energy drink, shook her head to clear it, and took a deep breath. Didn’t need to be thinking about or remembering Todd either, no matter how good he’d been at . . .

Damn it!

Sighing, she leaned toward the computer again just as her office door flew open without so much as a knock and two Aqua-Rangers barged in.

She spun her chair, but the sharp retort rising to her lips evaporated when she saw their expressions.

“What?” she asked in sudden trepidation.

“Your boi ate some kids,” Aqua-Ranger Bex said.

“What?!?”

***

The meat!

The blood!

The life!

Everything is different. Everything has changed.

It has been changing for a while, building toward something strange and new . . . then had come the moment . . . the moment when the One touched him . . . touched him in the way he wanted/needed/craved . . . her warm, smooth skin . . . her grip, firm and slick and tight upon his claspers . . .

That moment! So brief, so fleeting, so intense! Sensations bursting through him he’d never known or suspected! Overwhelming! Galvanizing! Almost unbearable, the surging urgent rush of raw and primal pleasure! Driving him wild with lusts and yearnings beyond all expectations!

The sudden involuntary convulsion of his body had dislodged him from her grasp, sent him into a writhing frenzy of mad, blind swimming. Twisting, veering, diving, rolling. His tail churning the water, his jaws snapping furiously at nothing.

By the time he had recovered, the One was gone from the hateful cage-thing, and a flash of hope had shot through him that she would be there unobstructed, free and loose and with him, shed of her outer skin, soft and lush and beautiful, ready for him, opening for him!

But she hadn’t been.

She’d fled back to the above-world, where he heard her alarmed sound-noises and felt the tingle of her adrenaline and caught intoxicating particles of her scent. Was she as affected as he was? As shocked and overwhelmed?

Shuddering, he’d weaved a course around the familiar formations, past the blank barrier with emptiness beyond.

So much! Too much!

Not enough!

More! More! More!

The One would return, would go belly-to-belly with him, his claspers sinking deep into her orifice!

But she still hadn’t.

Did he sense fear along with her alarm and concern? Fear and something else?

Shame? Arousal?

Maddening, enticing!

But the One still did not return. Time passed as if he were to simply resume his ordinary routine, as if his entire world had not undergone a transformation! When everything was different now, everything had changed!

Which it had . . . because then, there was this. This feeding.

The meat.

The blood.

The life.

He’d been swimming along like normal, the way he always did, trying to behave as if nothing had happened. Swimming past the clear barrier, cruising majestic before his awestruck worshipers with their idols and likenesses. Granting them the displays they clamored for, baring his teeth, basking in their dread and adoration.

Until . . .

Until a disturbance, unfamiliar noises and vibrations from the feeding-structure although it was not yet feeding-time. Until he’d seen, through the wavery ripples, figures clambering about in the bright dryness above, clumsy and excited.

Curious but wary, he’d kept his distance. A few tiny lumps of fish plipped into the water—not enough to bother with, not even a token-feeding. Still, it must have had some sort of intention, so he circled closer.

And then . . .

And then, more change and strangeness.

And then, chaos and disruption.

The figures falling, splashing, flailing. No feeding had ever been like this before. So active. So noisy.

But everything was different now, so he’d gone for a bite, a quick taste, just to find out.

!!!!!!

The heat! The bursting gush of hot, red, living blood! Warm and fatty flesh shredding between his teeth! The flavor of it! The feel of it! The jolts of panic and terror and pain from his prey!

Prey!

Meat!

No other feeding has ever been like this!

Ripping and tearing, wrenching his head savagely side to side, crimson clouding the water! Further inflaming him, awakening a ravenous hunger he’s also never known! As potent and powerful but different from what he’d felt when the One caressed his claspers.

Has it driven him to a similar-but-different maddened state? Sent him on a frenzy? Hunting, killing, feasting, glutting! Breaching with a struggling body seized in his mighty jaws! Bones crushing and cracking! Stringy sinew and rich, dense, slippery organs!

Some of their outer skins are fibrous and unappetizing. Some parts of them are chewy but inedible. Most of them, though . . . most of them . . . oh, this was what it was to be a predator, a hunter, a killer, a god!

All those previous feedings had been mere rote and meaningless gestures. Food for the sake of eating, of survival. Not like this! Never like this!

Tattered pieces spin and drift as he savages the sweet, hot, tender meat. He is aware of great commotions beyond the clear barrier and in the above-world; if they had been in awe of him before, let them be all the more so now!

He is a god, a killing god, voracious and unstoppable!

How proud of him the One will be! How pleased and delighted!

***

Ate some KIDS?!

Marla hesitated for a second at the blatant statement that was just spat in her face. Were they kidding? But the tone in Aqua-Ranger Bex’s sentence was dead serious and not at all the usual sarcastic “Weeelcome to Oceanviiiieeew” tone Bex usually carried around. Not to mention the fact that she’d bolted out the door immediately after her delivery, as if to fly back into dealing with an ongoing crisis.

But Marla knew. She knew. That mental tether that connected her to her Guppy was tingling. A gut-wrenching feeling hit her like a right hook to her stomach. She flew out of the open door of her office so fast that she left her chair spinning.

When she reached the door to the top tank facility, she could barely force her fingers to find the key, let alone get her trembling hand to work it into the lock.

Ate some kids?!

Marla paused before stepping through the heavy grey door and took in a deep breath. This could not be real. Riptide would never do that, never attack a human. How would he even get near any damn kids? No, this had to be a mistake. This had to be a misunderstanding of some natural behavior.

Hell, the idiots that worked here were consistently coming to her with wild tales of sharky misconduct that turned out to be completely normal.

They’d say, for instance, “Marla, your little fishy is trying to break the glass in the viewing room!” When Riptide had just been bumping the top metal frame holding the glass in place, not to break it but because he was attracted to the electromagnetism the rusty metal gave off. He was exploring. Christ, he had no hands! What else was he going to do?

Yes, this had to be a mistake. Because if what she heard Aqua-Ranger Bex say was even close to being true . . .

She dashed through the door, out of the insulation of the concrete hallway and into a faint din of commotion coming from beyond the backstage area. She could barely hear, but she heard. Shouting, screaming, crying, and, further in the distance, sirens.

She didn’t see any sign of Riptide there. No fin slicing the surface. No agitation of the water. Where is he?

Panicked, she backtracked into the hallway and raced to the public area of the aquarium, where the frenzy seemed to be taking place. She had to know what was going on. Abruptly, she stopped as a pang of nausea overcame her, accompanied by the nagging thoughts of what could happen to her Guppy if this was true.

But it couldn’t be true.

Marla took in a deep breath and resumed her pace. She pushed open the metal double doors a little more violently than usual. The noise level rose to a deafening roar. Aqua-Rangers, security personnel, police, paramedics, visitors, all seemed to be speaking or yelling at once and moving both into the viewing area and rushing out of it toward the exit.

Shoving and dodging around the melee, she made her way to an open spot in front of the plexiglass and peered into the tank. As she did, she noticed out of the corner of her eye a little squadron of aquarium personnel, including Don, Doc Wilma, and even Johnny. They hadn’t seemed to have spotted her yet. They were in a deep and heated discussion.

Shit. This is not good.

Marla searched the tank for signs of her shark. The water seemed cloudier than normal, laced with floating white debris and scraps of what looked to be fabric or cloth. Out of the gloom, Riptide’s silhouette began to appear.

Right then, she heard Johnny’s raised voice. “Just back off, Don! Let me speak with her first! Just give her a goddamn minute!”

Riptide emerged into view, coming straight to Marla. His tail swept confidently from side to side. She still couldn’t see him clearly through the unusual fog of the water.

A hand touched her upper arm. Johnny. Marla turned to glance at him. He looked like he had seen a ghost; his dark brown face had become a little less dark brown, and his eyes were as huge as serving platters. Johnny was staring into the tank, his mouth dropping agape. His hand squeezed her arm too tightly.

She whipped her head back to see Riptide, her Guppy, had come right up to the plexiglass. And he had brought her a little gift.

“Oh my God,” Johnny whispered.

Marla didn’t quite register what she saw at first. From behind and all around, the bellows of chaos and horror increased in magnitude. A woman let out a blood-curdling scream.

Then she recognized it. An arm. A small arm, not that of an adult. That of a child.

As Riptide turned and swam laterally in front of her, a reddish haze trailed from his gill slits. The arm dangled from the side of his maw, the back of the little hand clearly visible. The fingers had frozen into the form of a claw in mid-grasp.

Riptide swam by slowly, so slowly. His blue iris reflected off the viewing room’s lights, normally dimmed for dramatic effect, now full-on glaring in their exposure. His eye fixed onto her. He presented himself to her as if he was the lead float at a victory parade. He was a proud dog showing off his conquest to his master. His mouth’s naturally aligned grin seemed to widen, seemed to smile.

More screams. More gasps. More intense shuffling of position. The noises seemed to both fade away and scurry closer.

Marla’s hands raised, and she put her palms to the plexiglass. A swirl of dizzying understanding was entering her, getting all too comfortable in her psyche.

It’s true. He ate some fucking kids.

Loud words from behind her.

“—boy’s arm!—”

“Holy shit!”

“Somebody do something!”

“Move! I can’t see!”

“Get a gun and shoot it!”

“That’s enough! Move toward the exit now!”

“—kill that thing! Who has a—”

“Murderer!”

“—before someone—”

“KILL IT!”

There it was. The consequence. The horrific nightmare that had to accompany this. Public outcry. Demand for revenge. The ghastly pain of grieving families. The very real possibility that the powers that be would decide to euthanize her Guppy.

They would want to kill him.

Through a well of tears, Marla watched as Riptide made a tight circle to come back again. He wanted her approval, adoration, her blessing. She pressed her hands more firmly on the window. She yearned to touch him, even in this moment of gore and terror. Even more so at this moment. She wanted to comfort him. Protect her friend, her confidant, her love.

Marla couldn’t move. Riptide bumped the plexiglass close to her hands. He made a turn and met her gaze one more time. With a frustrated slap of his tail on the window, he sped away and out of view, leaving a mist of blood and tissue behind him.

She knew he was disappointed in her inaction, her lack of awe and veneration. Yet Marla was frozen into place. A thousand foreboding images and thoughts spun in her head. That wave of nausea crept back into her gut.

Because as he had made his final pass, the back of the boy’s hand scraped along the window, presented to Marla but laid out for all to see. There, softly grating as it was dragged by, was the clear bright starfish hand stamp of admission to the Oceanview Aquarium.

***

Diane low-key grooved along to her relaxation playlist as she drove, feeling mellow and serene and at peace with the world. If Stuart or either of the boys had been in the car with her, they would have voiced strenuous objection to her musical choices . . . but Stuart was in Salt Lake City, and she had a few more minutes before she got to the aquarium.

Her spa day had been pure indulgent bliss. Well-deserved, long-overdue bliss. She ached pleasantly from a deep tissue and hot stone massage, her skin was satiny and rejuvenated, a host of toxins had been flushed from her body, and although she didn’t put much stock in chakras, hers felt nicely realigned.

She was determined to keep the mood going the rest of the night, even after she picked up the boys. It’d just be a matter of swinging by The Smokehouse for take-out—the Family Feast, pre-ordered: ribs, wings, pulled pork, burnt ends, potato salad, ‘slaw, mac-and-cheese, cornmeal biscuits—and heading for home. Jeremy’s birthday cake—an Oreo mint chip ice cream cake, again by request—waited in the freezer, plenty of snacks and sodas were on standby, and they’d all said cereal and toast would be fine for breakfast.

So, after they were fed, Jeremy and his friends could hang out and watch movies and play video games and stay up as late as they liked . . . Parker could sulk in his room, griping on social media about being grounded . . . and she could retire to the master suite for a long bubble bath, a bottle of chilled wine, the gourmet chocolates she’d been hoarding, and a baggie of confiscated contraband. Which, yes, technically was legal, but not for seventeen-year-olds.

Maybe, if she was in the mood, she’d bust out the special toy she’d purchased on the sly and kept hidden away for special occasions. What Stuart didn’t know wouldn’t hurt his ego.

Speaking of Stuart, she’d have to give him a call at some point, once her phone had charged. They really needed to get one of those car phone-holder gadgets that automatically did it because she could never remember where she’d left the damn cord.

Ah, well. It’d been on silent in her locker at the spa all day anyway. Any important messages or voicemails would still be there later.

Traffic was lighter than she expected as she neared Oceanview, and the sprawling parking lot complex looked eerily empty for a Saturday late-afternoon. The sky had gone a gorgeous honey-azure, the sun a hazy coin languidly sinking toward the Pacific.

Traffic really was light, and the parking lot really was eerily empty . . . you’d think the place had already closed down for the night, though it stayed open until at least 8:30 during the summer.

Slow ticket sales? Crowds left early to catch the season finale of America’s Top Attention Whore? Something big on the news, some new tragedy or scandal she’d missed hearing about while busy relaxing? Or just people with other stuff to do, better stuff to do, than hang around the aquarium all day?

On the one hand, it meant she didn’t have to endure the clogged exodus of minivans and SUVs navigating to the exits. On the other, it was unsettling, almost spooky, a subtle sense of abandonment and desertion.

As she neared the front gates, she saw clusters of vehicles and exhaled in relief; for a moment there, that weird abandoned emptiness had been threatening to harsh her hard-earned mellow.

Then she drew closer still, noticed the vehicles were mostly cop cars and news vans, noticed a helicopter whop-whopping overhead. She slowed, apprehension prickling the nape of her neck. People stood around in tense, urgent clusters of strangely inactive activity, as if everybody was anxious to do something but nobody knew what to do.

A pair of uniformed officers stepped into her path, waving her down. She coasted to a stop, that prickle of apprehension spreading, and opened her window.

Under other circumstances, she would have taken a moment to appreciate the sight—they could play good-cop/bad-cop with her anytime!—but her nerves had other ideas.

Something’s wrong, she thought. Something’s seriously, majorly wrong.

“Sorry, ma’am, park’s closed,” one of the officers said. “There’s been a . . . ” He paused and threw his partner a helpless the-fuck-do-I-say? look.

“Security incident,” the second cop said.

“Security incident, yes. There’s been a security incident. The park’s closed.”

A cold hollow filled Diane’s midsection. They mean a shooting, another mass shooting, some nutbar with a grudge and an assault rifle, a shooting, oh my God, the boys!

Her day’s hard-earned relaxation evaporated, muscles tightening, gut clenching, hands gripping the steering wheel for dear life.

If I don’t freak out, if I stay cool, it’ll be okay, she told herself. The universe won’t let anything bad happen if I don’t let it see me scared.

Fighting to keep her voice calm and level, she said, “I’m just here to pick up my sons and their friends. They’re supposed to meet me outside the front gate at 6:30.”

The cops exchanged another look, weighted and somehow grim. The second one took a half-step toward the car. “Are you . . . Mrs. Abbott?”

A thin, shrill whine escaped her throat. Her bladder loosened, but right then, the prospect of pissing herself was the least of her worries.

“I . . . I’m Diane Abbott,” she said, hoping she’d misheard, they’d mentioned some other name, a name that had nothing to do with her or her family.

The cop drew a deep breath. “Ma’am, we’ll need you to come with us.”

***

“Oh, Guppy. Oh, Guppy, Guppy, what have you done?”

Marla’s words were muffled by her own hands, pressed to her mouth in dismay as she watched the vet-techs muscle fifteen feet of inert, drugged Great White from the winch-sling into the exam tank.

Normally, she would have stepped in and hooked up the circulation hoses herself, to keep a steady stream of oxygenated water coursing through his gills and to keep his mouth and eyes and skin from drying out. But in her stunned state, she made no objection when Doc Wilma took over with level-headed battlefield aplomb.

Just as well, really; when they’d hauled him up, he’d still had that grisly trophy gripped in his teeth. The arm. The child’s arm, with its freckles and its starfish admission stamp, and its stringy maroon stump with protruding nubs of bone where the elbow used to be.

He’d been holding it so carefully too. Gingerly, like he didn’t want to damage it further, like he wanted to present his prize in the best possible condition.

Carefully and gingerly was also how Wilma removed the arm once he was fully sedated. She set it in a long stainless-steel basin and draped a cloth over it before turning her attention to more remnants lodged between all those knife-sharp ivory triangles. Ragged chunks of rubber from shoe-soles, scraps of shredded denim, a hairy patch of scalp with part of an ear still attached . . .

Some of the others had to turn away, but Marla, despite her shellshock, made herself watch.

Your boi ate some kids.

He had. He really had. Hunted, killed, and eaten. Following his instincts, though he’d never been in the wild, never been given live prey.

Announcements over the park-wide loudspeakers informed the guests that, due to unforeseen circumstances, Oceanview needed to close early, if they would please all make their way to the exits in a calm and orderly fashion. Scott, usually smooth as a radio host, sounded strained and shaken, clearly reading from some hastily thrown-together script. Something something ticket refunds or vouchers, visit the website, download the code, or call such-and-such phone number . . .

Of course, management would already be busting their balls to cover their asses. Would already be running the numbers and griping about how much those refunds and vouchers would cut into profits. They’d have to close the aquarium to the public, at least for a few days. They’d try to spin it as out of respect for the families and all those affected by the tragedy, make themselves look compassionate . . . even if they’d just as soon stay open and bank upon the crowds of morbid thrill-seekers the sudden notoriety would bring.

But closing the aquarium to the public didn’t mean shutting the whole thing down; they couldn’t do that. The animals still had to be fed and cared for. Only staff with guest-centric positions—ticket booths, gift shops, snack bars, etc.—would be told to stay home. Paid? Unpaid? Required to use their leave-time? There’d also be internal memos, instructions on dealing with media inquiries, thinly-veiled threats. Leave the statement-making to the designated company representative . . .

Which would probably be Don, of all people, and didn’t that just suck the big one? That pompous windbag in front of the cameras, on the news, speaking on behalf of everyone at Oceanview?

And what about Riptide? Her poor, dear, innocent Guppy? He hadn’t known he was doing anything bad! How could he have known?

***

The emergency department of Rockshore Point Community Hospital had become a fucking loony bin.

Even on a Saturday, the place was usually fairly mellow until later in the evening when the nightlife revved up and the bars closed. None of the staff or the patients there for mundane reasons were prepared for the onslaught from Oceanview. Injuries from minor to major, chest pains, panic attacks, and more filled the waiting room. So did concerned friends and family members, police and press, and a horde of lookie-loos as word spread through the grapevine some serious shit had gone down at the aquarium.

Parker Abbott sat not in an exam room but in a smallish combo locker and break room, holding an ice pack to the left side of his face and trying to figure out how the hell his day had gone so crazy wrong so fast.

One minute, there he’d been, hanging out with Staci and the other girls, having a great time . . . the next, his dumbass kid brother gets chomped by a fucking shark?!? Not just chomped but killed? Killed and eaten? Along with two of his jerk-ola buddies?

Didn’t seem possible. Didn’t seem real.

Jeremy, Eric, and Caleb . . . dead?

But it was true. Plenty of people had witnessed it. More than a few had captured some of it on video.

Dead.

Torn to pieces.

Eaten.

There at Danger Reef, once the hysterical Ted had gotten ahold of Parker, he wasn’t about to let go, not even when the paramedics tried to pry him off so they could take him to the hospital to be checked over, treat him for shock or something. So, Parker went with him—because what the hell else could he do? Stand around waiting for them to dredge up whatever was left of Jeremy?—and only once Ted was securely ensconced in a private room with a hefty dose of sedative shot into his arm did he relax his death-grip on Parker’s hand.

Moments later, Ted had been totally zonked, oblivious as nurses cleaned him up and swapped his pee-stained clothes for one of those gowns that flapped open in the back, and Parker was able to sidle into the hall to try yet again to reach Mom or Dad.

No luck on either. He would have tried calling the spa but didn’t know which one Mom went to . . . did call the hotel where Dad was staying but was told they were still off on their team-building exercises.

He left urgent voicemails, texts, and messages, then didn’t know what the hell else to do. Call his grandparents? Uncle Joe? Was it on TV and the internet yet? Probably. Breaking news! But not with names, right? They wouldn’t go public with names until the families were informed; wasn’t that how it worked? Pending notification of next-of-kin, that kind of thing?

A hustle-bustle heralded the hasty arrival of Ted’s mom in her work-smock from the beauty parlor where she picked up extra shifts on weekends. She rushed down the hall, barely listening to anything the nurse was trying to tell her, intent only on seeing her son. “Ted? Teddy? Teddy-bear, it’s Mommy; I’m here!”

Parker winced, embarrassed by proxy for the kid, who was at least too out of it to notice. Mrs. Nessom threw Parker a single hectic glance, her face blanched and eyes round as saucers, then blasted past him in a whiff of shampoo and perm solution.

“Oh, Teddy, my poor Teddy! My baby-baby!”

Wincing anew, Parker left her to it. He headed for the elevator, trying Mom and Dad again as he rode it to the ground floor, where the waiting room was already halfway overrun and a hospital administrator fought vainly to establish order.

What about Eric’s folks and Caleb’s dad? Had anyone contacted them yet? Were they also frantically dialing and redialing with no response? Should he . . . ? Not like he had their info . . . shit, he wasn’t even sure he knew Caleb’s last name . . . they were Jeremy’s friends, not his. He only knew Ted’s because Ted’s big sister Kara Nessom, who’d been a couple years ahead of Parker in school, was damn near a local legend.

And why was he thinking about all that anyway?

His brother was dead!

On his fucking birthday, no less! Mom had that ice cream cake chilling in the freezer and everything!

A fit of the shakes sent Parker staggering. For a minute, he thought he was going to keel over, puke, cry, or all three. His phone clattered to the tile floor as he steadied himself with both hands against a wall.

No matter how much an annoying, obnoxious little shithead Jeremy was, nobody deserved to die on their own fucking birthday! Let alone die so horribly!

He’d only just gotten himself more or less together when the ER’s automatic doors wheezed open again and in came Eric’s family, raising holy hell. Well, Eric’s dad was, anyway; a short, brawny bulldog of a dude with a temperament to match, he started bellowing for answers RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!

“Where’s he at? I wanna see my boy! Eric! Get your ass out here!”

Eric’s mom, looking stricken, hurried behind him, wrangling the rest of their brood; there were a bunch of them, ranging in age from maybe-eight to maybe-two. All were clearly upset and confused, some in tears. People rubbernecked eagerly at the new drama, soaking it in.

The hospital administrator moved to intercept. “Sir, I need to ask you to calm down—”

“Kiss my ass! I’m not doing nothing until I’ve seen my boy! What’d he do? Police calling me at home on my day off with some bullshit about a shark attack? ERIC!”

“Sir, please—” the administrator tried again, but Eric’s dad rudely elbowed past.

“Where is he? He hurt?”

“Honey—”

“Shut your face, woman!” Then Eric’s dad’s gaze fell on Parker and zeroed in. “Hey! You! You’re the other Abbott kid, the brother, ain’t’cha? Were you with ‘em? What the hell happened?”

Before Parker could reply—not that he had any idea what he’d say—two cops and a doctor intervened, ushering Eric’s family into a side conference room. Presumably to give them the bad news in private, but it didn’t stay private for long.

“Dead? Whaddaya mean, dead? That’s bullshit!” Eric’s dad’s shout rang clearly audible even through the closed door. A split-second later, he tore it open and stormed out again, hollering, “Don’t you tell me that, you fuckin’ quack! I want a second opinion!”

More than one person snort-laughed at that, morbidly inappropriate though it was, then did their best to cover it with fake coughs or ducking behind magazines or bending intently over their phones.

“Do . . . ” Eric’s mom gulped, bouncing the sobbing maybe-two-year-old in her arms, “do we need to . . . to . . . identify his body?”

Nobody seemed to know what to say to that hot potato; as the cops grimaced at each other and the doctor shuffled his feet, Eric’s dad bulled his way over to where Parker still leaned shakily against the wall.

“This true?” he demanded. “Huh? This true, what they’re telling us? You were with ‘em, weren’t’cha? Wasn’t that the plan?”

“I . . . ”

“Well? Weren’t’cha?”

“Uh, no. I mean, I was at Oceanview, yeah, but they went off by themselves—” He flushed, suffused with renewed guilt, feeling everybody in the emergency room staring at him.

“Are you shittin’ me? You let them—”

“Okay, hey, okay,” said one of the cops, making his way toward them. “How about we all just step back for a minute, take it down a notch—”

“Take it down a notch?” roared Eric’s dad. “They’re telling me my boy is dead, and you want me to take it down a notch? When it’s this asshole’s fault?”

“I didn’t know they were going to go do something stupid!”

With an inarticulate snarl, Eric’s dad lunged for Parker. It took the cop and two beefy interns to haul him off, at which point he turned his rage on them. A violent scuffle ensued, ending only when the second cop tasered Eric’s dad and sent him twitching to the floor. Eric’s mom started wailing along with her kids. A voice on the hospital intercom was paging Dr. Armstrong to the ER stat.

Parker found himself slouched dazed and sideways, his head a walloping mass of pain. His left eye was squeezed shut, watering. His cheekbone throbbed. He tasted blood and wasn’t sure if he still had all his teeth.

A matronly nurse waded through the pandemonium and helped him to his feet. “Come on, kiddo,” she said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

He was in no position to argue, stumbling woozily as she led him to a little room with lockers on one wall, a kitchenette on another, and a scattering of tables and chairs. After depositing him into one of the chairs, she examined him.

“Not too bad,” she informed him. “Doesn’t look like anything’s broken. A couple stitches, some Tylenol, you’ll be good to go.”

Which was how he came to be sitting there, pressing an ice pack to his face, only then realizing he’d lost his phone.

***

Johnny wriggled into his wetsuit with far less than his usual enthusiasm.

He didn’t want to go in there.

It wasn’t because of Riptide. For one, Rip had been tranked, slinged, winched, and transferred to the exam tank in the lab, instead of prowling his watery domain. For two, he’d dived with sharks plenty of times, with cage and without, in aquarium environs as well as the wild blue sea.

This time, though . . .

Fuuuuuck.

But someone had to do it, and he wasn’t about to foist off the chore on one of his other divers. Nor was he going to wait on however long it took the county to get their act together. If they needed to do the whole CSI thing, draining the tank and scouring every inch for evidence, that’d be its own major undertaking requiring relocating an entire ecosystem of the variety of sea life sharing Riptide’s habitat. It’d be a nightmare shitstorm and a colossal pain in the ass, on top of the nightmare shitstorm and colossal pain in the ass Oceanview was already facing.

Most of that was above his pay grade and not his concern. Technically, his current endeavor might also be, but, yeah, it had to be done. It had to be done, and someone had to do it, and . . .

And, damn it, he was stalling.

He finished suiting up, checked everything over, slid into the water, and submerged. After a moment acclimating and getting his bearings, he slow-kicked smoothly toward the bottom, where most of the . . .

Fuuuuuuck.

Detritus?

Yeah, go with that; it was moderately better than “remains” and miles better than “mangled body parts.”

Double-fuuuuuck. His breaths were too shallow and too fast, spooking himself, freaking himself out, but anybody would have to admit this was goddamn grisly. Worst Easter Egg hunt ever. Collecting—not by hand, no way, no fucking way by hand; he used a grabber—scraps of clothes, a sneaker with a foot still in it, chunks of waterlogged bloodless flesh with splintered ends of bone poking out, something he suspected was a kidney, other less-identifiable bits and pieces . . .

Kids. They’d just been kids, for Christ’s sake.

Stupid reckless ones, maybe, who should have known better, yet . . .

Triple-fuuuuuuck. What they must have gone through . . . what their families must be going through . . .

Not to mention Marla; Marla had to be absolutely losing her shit. The way Riptide brought her a fucking souvenir like a cat bringing a dead mouse to its owner. Look at me, praise me, the mighty hunter!

She could lose her job over this. Hell, they all could if Oceanview had to close. He didn’t think it was very likely, but who knew what the owners and board of directors would decide to do? Right now, they were probably also losing their shit, scrambling for damage control, hoping to mitigate a total PR disaster.

Yeah, good luck with that. Johnny hadn’t missed the news choppers buzzing overhead. Or the break room television with its scrolling LIVE COVERAGE from the front gates, reporters bathed in the flashing lights of police cars and emergency vehicles. Or every social media platform blowing up. It’d be the trending top story until the next mass shooting or political clusterfuck or celebrity scandal.

He supposed he should be just as glad dusk had fallen by the time he did this morbid salvage dive. Sure, even the fanciest cameras with the best zoom lenses shouldn’t be able to reach into the depths of the tank and film him trying not to puke into his regulator as the grabber plucked a crinkly length of pinkish-grey intestine from around a rock formation, but who knew?

Then there was the matter of the other critters down here, who were used to finishing off the smaller fragments and particles left over from Riptide’s meals. Such as the strutting fiddler crab with a finger pinched in its oversized major claw, waving the trophy triumphantly, lording it over the lesser crabs.

Sorry, bud, he thought, closing the grabber on the finger.

But the crab would not let go. It snapped its other claw at him in a quick flurry of clicks, as if to say, Buzz off, buster; I got this fair and square. Even when Johnny raised the grabber, the crab held on, its many legs lifting from the sandy bottom in a seething indignant little dance.

Can’t believe I’m fighting with a crab over a kid’s severed finger, he thought.

Aqua-Ranger Bex probably would have told him to just leave it; who’d miss just one finger? Let the crab-friend have his lunch. Of course, Aqua-Ranger Bex also had pet hermit crabs with 3-D printed shells in the shape of human skulls, so . . .

He finally had to set down the grabber and engage with both hands, prying apart the big claw enough to pluck the finger free, seal it in a zip-top, and add it to his dive bag. The whole time, the fiddler crab pranced around in a cheated, pissed-off threat display. Johnny couldn’t help a guilty cringe; he’d never felt so much reproach from an invertebrate.

Moving on, he continued gathering whatever he could find. Riptide must’ve gorged himself to capacity, and the opportunistic scavengers had cleaned up most of the rest. Of the organics, anyway; along with the scraps of clothes and chewed-on shoes, there were wallets, cell phones, keys, and assorted pocket-junk.

Whether any of it would be a comfort to grieving parents or an even more devastating blow, he had no idea.

***

The matronly nurse’s nametag read “Shauna,” and she came back to check on Parker after doing her rounds.

“How’re the stitches doing, kiddo?”

“A little sore, not too bad.” He prodded at the bandage. The numbing agent she’d used had prevented him from feeling much more than a weird jabbing and tugging, but as it wore off, an aching tightness took up the left half of his face. “Will I have a scar?”

“If you do, it’ll be the badass duelist kind girls dig.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, absolutely. I know my business. Here, brought you a ginger ale and some graham crackers, and a couple Tylenol.”

“Thanks. Hey, do I need to, I dunno, fill out forms or anything?”

“Right now, this is off the books, just between you and me. It’s such a zoo out there, it’ll take weeks to sort everything out. Though you will need to decide if you want to press charges.”

“You mean against Eric’s dad?”

“Probably not necessary; he’s already on the hook for assaulting police officers. But it’s always good to cover your bases.”

“Yeah, but, well . . . ”

“Him being distraught is no excuse. He had no reason to go blaming you.”

“I was there, though; I was supposed to—”

“Tsst.” She made a shut-it gesture. “You’ve got enough to deal with. The rest of it can wait. I’ve told them we’re holding you for observation to rule out a concussion, and you won’t be talking to anyone or answering any questions until your folks get here.”

“My dad’s in Utah on a business thing, and Mom was having a spa day; I haven’t been able to reach either of them! And I dropped my phone somewhere out there; it probably got stepped on or stolen. They’re gonna kill me.” He realized what he’d said and flinched.

“Take it easy,” Shauna said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll look around, check lost-and-found, see what I can see. In the meantime, you sit tight, okay? Try to relax.”

“Why are you being so nice?” he asked with a sudden burst of shame. “I let my little brother get—”

“Hey.” She crouched in front of him, holding his gaze. “Parker. Listen to me. It is not your fault. A lot of people may try to tell you otherwise, even your own parents, but that’s only because they’re hurting and lashing out. It is not your fault.”

“But I ditched them, left them to go off on their own; if I’d stuck with them—”

“Part of that was their decision too, though, wasn’t it? Hell, when I was their age, I was babysitting neighbor kids all the time, and had been latchkeying it since I was nine.”

“But Mom said—”

Shauna hoisted an eyebrow. “And someone could make the argument she should have been there instead of dumping it on you. Did you sign up to be a babysitter?”

“No, but . . . ”

“Seriously, you can’t beat yourself up over this. It’s terrible, yes, and it’s going to keep being terrible for a long time. No need to make it worse. You deserved to have a nice day too.” She paused and added with a slight grin, “Which it sure seemed like you were.”

“Huh? How . . . who did . . . ?”

She patted his arm. “Saw you on my niece’s socials.”

“Wait . . . you’re . . . you’re Staci’s aunt?”

“Don’t worry; I’m the fun, cool one. Nobody else in the family even follows her; my brother and his wife are not up to speed. Your secret’s safe with me.” Her hospital pager warbled; she glanced at it and clucked her tongue. “Duty calls. Drink that, eat that, take those, stay put. I’ll see if I can track down your phone and be back soon.”

***

No!

No, no, no!

His struggles are weak, sluggish, futile.

He is held. Suspended. Helpless.

Being tortured!

Why? Whyyyyyy?

It goes on and on!

Far longer than usual. Surrounded by far more emotion and agitation than usual.

There is shouting. There is anger.

There is the One, distraught, in distress. He feels her touch resting upon his side, near his dorsal fin. A gesture he recognizes, meant to be comforting and reassuring. Meant to let him know the One is here with him, looking after him, taking care of him, making sure he is all right. Telling him he is safe, he is not alone. Promising him the ordeal will be over soon.

But the One’s touch is different now. Not different in the way it was upon his claspers, no . . . different with trembling and anxiety, her pulse-beat so rapid. The One’s sound-noises are also different, taut and strained.

There are also others. Many more others than usual during these horrendous visits to the nightmare upper-world. Others, angry and arguing, fearful and fretting. Making their own sound-noises—louder and louder, competing, arguing.

Somehow, he has displeased them. He has displeased the One; rather than being proud of his offering, rather than rewarding him with praise, she seemed repulsed. Horrified.

Yet, that same offering is here, is nearby. He smells it, the meat, the flesh. They have done something to it, wrapped it and sealed it behind a hard, cold barrier, but he can still smell it. Does the One intend to save it for later consumption?

The harsh lights blur his vision. His body is numb, slack, inert. And heavy. So heavy, especially in his gut . . . did he eat too much? Is it even possible to eat too much? Perhaps it is. Perhaps he did. His stomach feels full, full to capacity and beyond. Bloated. Glutted.

The meat, the flesh, the blood, the bone! The heat and gush of it! The hunt, the thrill, the kill!

Followed, though, by this.

This torture.

This . . . punishment?

Is he being punished?

That the One would do such a thing—

No!

The One would not.

The One defends him. He knows it from her touch, from her sound-noises. However repulsed and horrified she was by his offered gift, she cares for him. Loves him. Is his, first and foremost and forever. His.

And yet, even the One is unable to stop or prevent this cruel indignity. She must allow it for reasons he cannot fully comprehend. Allow it, but mitigate it, do her best to protect him.

“We are not euthanizing him; are you crazy?”

“Marla, let’s not be hasty—”

“Hasty? You’re ready to pull the plug on him this very minute, and you call me hasty?”

“I understand where you’re coming from, but you can’t let your personal feelings get in the way of—”

“It isn’t about my personal feelings! It’s about his life! Great Whites are already endangered; he’s the only one successfully raised in captivity—”

“And, be real, the park’s main moneymaker—” Sound-noises from another source, lower, muttered, but clearly audible.

He fades in and out of consciousness, peripherally aware of the artificial current rushing water past his gills. Peripherally aware of the One and the others, continuing their angry clamor.

“ . . . public outcry—”

“—goes both ways; if you kill him—”

“—dead kids!”

“—blame him for going on instinct?”

“—families; the lawsuits alone—”

“—a shark, doing what sharks do!”

“—not going to see it that way, and you know it—”

“—think you won’t have animal rights activists all over your ass—”

“—happened to the tiger that attacked Siegfried and Roy?”

“—fell into the gorilla enclosure at the zoo and—”

“Oh yeah, I remember that! Dicks out for Harambe!”

“—please just shut up? You’re not helping!”

“—can’t even have proper goddamn funerals; what’ve they got, one fucking arm and whatever else Johnny dredges out of the tank?”

“Save on burial expenses, at least—”

“Don’t you start too!”

“Okay, okay, sorry.”

“—enough for DNA testing to identify—”

The One’s touch, quivering with pent-up energy, moves to his dorsal fin, clutches it. “So, what, you want to kill him, haul him upside down by the tail, cut him open, and let it all spill out on the docks? Like those asshole poachers do, making a big deal out of finding beer cans and license plates?”

“‘Asshole Poachers’ sounds like a—”

“Shut up!”

“—got to have something; what, we wait for him to shit out the—”

“Gastric eversion.”

This sudden sound-noise is from another voice he recognizes, an older female often present at these nightmare sessions, whose pokes and prods are always brusque but respectful, matter-of-fact. The One, he knows, has positive regard for this older female, and at her interruption, the One’s grip on his dorsal fin squeezes. In hope? Excitement?

“Gastric eversion!” the One echoes.

“You mean, make him puke?”

“Can sharks even puke?”

“It’s not so much puking as . . . well . . . ”

“—eject their stomachs inside-out through their mouths, expelling—”

“Gross!”

“—not a bad idea anyway; having all that in there can’t be good for him—”

“They hork up their whole stomachs? Don’t they die?”

“—heard of barfing your guts, but—”

“—all the way out, no; then they gulp it back in once it’s empty—”

“—get him to do it?”

“—in the wild sometimes if they’ve overeaten or eaten something bad for them—”

“—or confronted by a predator, with the two-fold purpose of losing the extra ballast and hopefully distracting the predator with an easier meal—”

“—kind of predator would a Great White—”

“—bigger Great White?”

“Which would then eat the pre-chewed, half-digested puke instead? Okay, that really is gross.”

“—pod of orcas; there’ve been lots of reports of orcas attacking sharks—”

“—basically the same as chumming the waters, I guess—”

“—to induce it, Wilma? Like ipecac or castor oil?”

“—on the internet how you can use hydrogen peroxide—”

“Yeah nope!”

“—whip something up, combination of an emetic and orca pheromones to trigger the threat response—”

He fades again, into a restless torpor where their sound-noises dwindle to a background drone and the rushing of the current over his gills barely registers. Whatever they are doing to him seems remote and far away, though he remains keenly attuned to the presence of the One.

Her nearness. Her gentle, consoling touch. Stroking his back. Patting his head. Her reassuring tones. “It’s okay, Guppy. It’s okay. I won’t let them hurt you. I know you couldn’t help it, didn’t mean it, didn’t know. It’ll be okay, I promise. I’m here. I’m with you. I won’t leave you. We’ll get through this. Just a little longer. Just a little more. This next part . . . this next part won’t be very nice, but once it’s over with, you’ll feel a lot better . . . ”

The One still cares for him, still loves him. Has forgiven him for whatever transgression he may have committed. He trusts her. The One will fix this. The One will end the nightmare-time and return him to his own world. The One will swim with him. Lithe and warm and supple. The One will stay with him. Be with him. Forever.

“Ready?”

“Ready as we’re gonna be. Let’s give it a try.”

Unfamiliar clinking sounds. Unfamiliar acrid scents.

“Rest of you might want to stand back. This’ll get messy.”

An unfamiliar taste, thick and vile, spreading through his mouth, oozing down his gullet, coating everything in a loathsome, oily residue . . .

And then, another scent. A hateful scent, abrupt and invasive!

A scent he doesn’t know, but knows he should know!

Should flee, should fight, should fear!

Danger!

Claiming his every nerve and synapse with instinctive, atavistic reaction!

Deadly, immediate danger!

His innards clench and twist and churn. His inert and immobile body heaves, wracked with an involuntary convulsion. It is like when the One held his claspers; it is nothing like when the One held his claspers! That was jolting ecstasy, unimaginable pleasure . . . this is the opposite! Painful and debilitating, an upheaval deep within him! Forcing his guts up into his gullet, up and out, stretching his jaws wider than ever, the reverse of swallowing, a violent expulsion, an agonizing purge!

***

Staci.

Shit, Staci!

However cool her aunt might be being about this whole mess, Parker glumly figured he’d gone and blown it big-time.

Staci wasn’t going to have a thing to do with him now. A guy who’d ditched out on his kid brother, then let his kid brother go and get eaten by a shark? Along with two other kids? She would drop him like a hot beat, when they hadn’t really even much more than gotten started.

And maybe it was horribly selfish of him to be sitting here moping about losing his chance with Staci while people were dead, but what the hell else was he supposed to do? Sit here and mope about the stitches in his face? About what his parents were going to say? Or do? He’d already been grounded; what next? House arrest?

If and when his parents ever even fucking showed up. Had anybody gotten ahold of either of them yet? Did they know?

He’d taken Nurse Shauna’s advice and not left the break room where she’d stashed him. By what he could hear when he cracked the door and put his ear to the gap, it was still Clusterfuck City out there. He no longer heard Eric’s dad raising the roof, but that was probably because Eric’s dad had been hauled off by the cops, and presumably, Eric’s mom and the rest of their brood had tagged along after.

Caleb’s dad? From what Parker knew of him, he wasn’t the raise-the-roof type . . . was the nondescript quiet type, so average and normal to be all but invisible. Which, in a way both eerily like and entirely unlike his weirdo son, gave off creepy serial killer vibes. The kind where, years later, neighbors would be on TV saying how he’d always seemed so nice and who could have guessed he had a basement full of freezers loaded with chopped-up hookers and hobos.

Grody thought.

Parker moved away from the door and sank into his chair again, pressing the ice-pack to his cheek. His head thumped with pain despite the pills Shauna had given him. What was it she’d said? Under observation to rule out concussion? For all he could tell, he did have a concussion. He felt queasy despite the ginger ale and graham crackers too, though his none-too-helpful imagination no doubt also had something to do with that.

Jeez, he’d seen his share of shark movies; who hadn’t? From the realistic ones to the wacky crap they showed on SyFy. He’d watched plenty of Shark Week specials. He vividly remembered a video clip of a Great White ambushing some poor fucker of a seal from below, launching itself up and out of the water with no warning, the sleek furry body clamped in a giant beartrap of teeth, shaking it like a dog with a rag, blood flying everywhere.

Was that what had happened to Jeremy? Had it at least been . . . quick? Had it hurt?

He moaned, lowering his forehead into his hands, eyes shut, waiting to see if he was gonna hurl or cry or scream. Hoping for none of the above; wasn’t he enough of a wreck already?

A tap at the door made him raise his head. It inched open, and Shauna peeked in. “Hey, kiddo, how’s it going?”

“Pretty rough, I guess.”

“I got some good news and some bad news.” She held up his phone. “Here’s the good news. Someone turned it in to lost-and-found. Screen’s not even cracked.”

He took it, grimacing when he saw the barrage of notifications. Missed calls, voicemails, texts. Some from Alex, of the WTF at the OV, dude you good? variety. Some from other friends. Some from—

From Staci! His heart skipped a beat.

OMG Parker I’m so sorry, worried about U, pls call or txt me when you can, was the best day hanging out, pls be ok <3

A dopey grin made the stitches in his cheek twinge with pain. He stifled it, glancing at Shauna, remembering the rest of what she’d said. “Uh . . . and the bad news?”

“Your mother’s here.”

***

Gastric eversion.

Rarely witnessed, even more rarely filmed.

Marla had only seen hasty, poor-quality footage captured by divers who happened to be in the right—or, arguably, wrong—place at the time. She’d never expected to see it in person.

Especially up-close-and-personal in person. Let alone from her own Guppy, and let alone with contents like this.

The sight was as impressive as it was horrible—a chunky pinkish slurry of salt water, blood, digestive fluids, flesh, bones, and offal. Erupting in a torrent, a horizontal geyser, fountaining through Riptide’s gaping jaws. Pushed, and followed, by the pulsating grey-purple bulge of his stomach, turning inside-out like a sock in its regurgitating convulsion.

The sound was wet, organic, and beyond description.

Then the stench hit. Which was also wet, organic, and beyond description. Briny slaughterhouse only scratched the surface. Meaty, fishy, shitty, acidic.

Everyone in the lab, Marla included, cried out or gagged or recoiled or some combination thereof. More than a few lost their own lunches in helpless blurts.

Also . . .

“Oh, fuck, SPLASH ZONE!” someone hollered.

Oh, fuck, splash zone indeed. As Riptide’s body involuntarily jerked, most of the vomitous gout went up and over the side of the tank, spewing projectile gore in a wide cone. Those gathered at the head-end, so to speak, caught it, ranging from a mild spatter to a full-on Carrie-at-the-prom drenching.

Marla, luckily, had still been by Riptide’s side, petting his dorsal and right pectoral fins in an effort to comfort him and show him she was there. Her gorge surged with a thick, bilious hiccup, stinging the back of her throat and her sinuses with the dregs of the energy drink she’d finished in her office, but she managed not to hurl. Barely.

Oh, Guppy . . . she thought again, stricken.

Only Doc Wilma, who’d gotten a point-blank dousing, took it in stride . . . though even she faltered a little as the liquids began sluicing away toward the floor drains to more clearly reveal the larger solids.

Larger solids?

The pieces of dead kids! Body parts! Organs! Gallons of adolescent gumbo!

Marla swayed on her feet, clinging to Riptide now as much for her own support as his comfort. The world spun and blurred. A rushing ringing in her ears drowned out the exclamations and retching of her colleagues. She was going to faint, just fold like a cheap lawn chair . . .

Keep it together! she drill-sergeant barked at herself.

But . . . but . . . that rounded bowling-ball-sized thing . . . with sodden, matted hair . . . and bulging hazel eyes . . . rolling unevenly across the tiles, wobbling slowly to a stop . . .

Wilma clapped her gloved hands in front of Marla’s face, dashing her with a misting of unthinkable droplets. “Snap out of it! Need your help here, or we’re gonna lose him!”

Jolted back to her senses, she looked around, blinking. “Huh? What?”

“We triggered the eversion, but he’s got to swallow it back down, clear the obstruction before he chokes on his own stomach.”

Marla wasn’t sure if that was technically correct, but she understood the gist of it—they’d triggered the eversion with chemical stimuli, the emetic and the orca pheromones; with him still sedated, his system might not be able to handle the second stage of the process. Even if the blockage didn’t interfere with the oxygen intake from his gills, he couldn’t survive long with half his guts hanging out of his mouth.

Ignoring the rest of the team—who were pretty much useless at the moment anyway, freaking out over the sight-sound-stench and the splash zone and the gooey human jigsaw puzzles slopped around the lab—she joined Wilma at Riptide’s head, staring in revolted fascination at the bulging protrusion filling his maw.

Some trick of nature prevented his razor-sharp teeth from slicing into the glistening tissue of the stomach lining. Just another apex predator adaptation that had kept sharks at the top of the aquatic food chain for hundreds of millions of years—if it ain’t broke, why evolve out of it? Perfect killing machine, survived even when the dinosaurs hadn’t . . . how could anyone not regard them with admiration, humility, and awe?

Now wasn’t the time, though.

Wilma donned chainmesh gloves over her rubber ones—sedated was fine and well and all, but better safe than sorry when it came to reaching into a shark’s mouth—then a pair of extra-large surgical ones over those. She gathered up the protruding stomach to cradle it with businesslike efficiency.

“Are you going to . . . ” Marla trailed off, not sure how to phrase what she was envisioning.

“Cram it down his throat?”

“ . . . one way to put it, I guess . . . ”

“Nah, hopefully he only needs a little encouragement. Hold his head steady, and if you can get a hand under him, rub the underside of his neck. You know, like when you give your cat a pill.”

“I don’t have a cat.” But she did as instructed, one palm pressed gently but firmly atop Riptide’s head, the other sliding beneath his bulk. Her fingertips detected the jump and twitch of his throat muscles, and it did seem reminiscent of a choking victim. His gill slits fluttered, frantic, suffocating, as if desperately gasping.

“Come on, big boy,” Wilma urged. “Suck it in.”

Under other circumstances, that might have elicited laughs, jokes, or smartass remarks, but everyone else was still too occupied with their own reactions. Some were trying to wipe away bloody sludge but only smearing it around. Others were bent double or down on all fours, hacking and spitting, with long stringers of puke/snot/tears/saliva dribbling. One of the vet techs bolted from the lab, yelling, “Fuck this, I’m out, I quit, shark barfing a fucking head at me, fuck the ocean, I’m moving someplace landlocked!” At least two people had fainted, which made Marla not feel so bad about her own near-miss on that score.

Riptide shuddered. His right eye, nearest Marla, rolled ice-blue but cloudy, like a murky diamond. She leaned closer, half-embracing him, not sure if he could see her but hoping he could hear her voice, was aware of her touch and her presence.

“Guppy, I’m here, it’s me, it’s okay . . . we’re trying to help you . . . I won’t let anybody hurt you . . . ”

Did his eye clear a bit? Did his shudders ease? Was it because he was relaxing? Or . . . or something else?

“Don’t you leave me,” she said, trying not to cry. “Don’t you dare.”

She rubbed his throat harder as Wilma maneuvered the slippery inverted stomach further into his mouth, muttering, “Told you about the breech-birth giraffe calf, didn’t I? Gotta admit, this might top even that one.”

Right then, Marla couldn’t have cared less about giraffe calves or lion necropsies or any of Wilma’s other war stories; her sole focus was on Riptide, her Guppy. Memories flooded her mind of him as an orphan preemie pup, so tiny—okay, fine, he’d been three feet long already, but only a baby!—and how anxious she’d been, how worried for him. How overwhelmed with relief when she first got him to eat, when he swam more steadily, as he got bigger and stronger.

Even the experts hadn’t expected him to live or to last long in captivity. Failure to thrive, they called it, and cautioned her to be prepared. It would be no reflection on her skill, education, or abilities, they assured her; these things just happened.

And she hadn’t become so invested due to any ambition, any desire to gain status or make a name for herself. All the stress and pressure she’d been under . . . long hours, no days off, many a night spent on a cot by the holding tank . . . came from a sense of responsibility. Something more than parental. A duty almost sacred. She had been given this chance, this gift, and for his sake far more than her own, she’d so fervently wanted to not fuck it up.

She leaned closer yet, rested her head atop his, her cheek pressed to his sandpapery-smooth skin. “Please,” she murmured. “Please, Guppy?”

He bucked and heaved. His gills fluttered. His eye rolled. His throat clenched.

The sound, again, was wet and organic and beyond description . . . a sickening sort of SCHLORRRRP . . . as he gulped his stomach back down his gullet to where it belonged.

***

A candlelight vigil quickly formed in front of Oceanview’s main gates, which still swarmed with assorted police and emergency vehicles as well as news vans. A similar but much smaller scene took place outside the hospital where many of the victims had been taken.

There were live interviews with witnesses, park guests who’d sustained minor injuries in the chaos, relatives of those who’d sustained more major injuries, first responders, emergency room personnel.

There were snippets of camera-phone videos released to the media, most prefaced with “difficult to watch” and “may be distressing” . . . and they were, despite strategic pixel-blurring of faces and the more graphic bits. They were very fucking difficult to watch, very fucking distressing.

“So we’re at the aquarium, at Danger Reef where they have the big shark,” one narrator could be heard to say, “and a bunch of kids jumped the gate to climb out on that ladder-platform thing, looks like they’re trying to get a selfie or something, and the security guard’s yelling at them to get down, and oh [bleep]!” The video joggled crazily as voices in the background erupted with alarmed outcries. “[Bleep,] they fell in, they fell into the tank—”

Parker, finally at home in his own room, should have been sleeping . . . but physically exhausted as he was, sleep was not in the forecast. How could he sleep with all this going on? It was all over the TV, all over social media. How could he stop watching the video clips, not follow the livestreams from the vigils?

How could he focus on anything else? With Jeremy dead?

With Jeremy dead while his goddamn birthday ice cream cake still sat in the freezer?

He’d seen it there when he ventured downstairs around 9:00, not hungry but knowing he should try to eat; Nurse Shauna had made him promise. With desultory thoughts of nuking a Hot Pocket or something—dinner had been a non-happener, and no wonder—he’d opened the freezer and boom! there it was.

Until that moment, he’d held up mostly okay, even after Mom tearing into him at the hospital. He’d held up mostly okay all the way back to the house and through a “Parker, what the hell is going on?” call from Dad. He’d held up mostly okay replying to Alex and Staci.

But seeing the damn cake undid him, and he broke down crying like a baby right there in the fucking kitchen. Mint chip Oreo, with HAPPY BIRTHDAY JEREMY scrolled across the top in chocolate fudge icing.

Jeremy would never eat that ice cream cake. He’d never play video games again, ride his bike, hog the Cheetos, make fun of Grandpa Pete’s dentures. He’d never learn to drive, touch a girl’s boob, get totally shitfaced on cheap beer.

Sure, he’d been a little shit, but he’d been his brother!

So, Parker had cried, cried like a baby, cried like a sniveling mess, sitting at the table bawling his stupid eyes out. It hurt his face, but he didn’t care.

At least nobody saw it. Nobody knew. Nobody had to know. Mom had locked herself in the master suite with wine and Xanax, and the earliest flight back Dad could find on short notice wouldn’t get in until mid-morning. One set of grandparents was in Florida, the other in Chicago. Uncle Joe was on his way down from Redding, but even without traffic, the drive would be a rough all-nighter after working the whole day already.

So, yeah, he cried, and he cried alone. When he was finished, or too drained to cry any more, he decided to forget the Hot Pockets, grabbed a Tupperware of leftover something from the fridge, returned to his room, and ate it cold without caring how it tasted.

Now, well past midnight, he sprawled on his bed in the screenlight of various devices, morbidly refreshing and doomscrolling as the vigil grew. Staci had asked if he wanted her to come over—and he did, oh, damn, did he ever!—but despite Mom’s wine-and-Xanax coma, he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea. Still, he was glad for the offer; he’d been so sure she’d have nothing to do with him after this, when instead she was way more sympathetic and caring and compassionate than anyone in his own family.

***

By noon on Sunday, the vigil had expanded a thousandfold. People brought flowers, photos of the dead and injured whose identities had been made public, notes, handmade posters, paper lanterns, stuffed animals. Some, in either well-intentioned but tone-deaf bad taste, or deliberate dickery, brought shark plushies.

Crowdfunding organizers were on the case, collecting donations for the families and funeral expenses; a few of them were even legit and not opportunistic scammers. The local media and representatives from national news networks turned out in full force, interviewing anyone and everyone in hopes of snagging the ideal juicy soundbite or eyewitness account.

Political tub-thumpers and city officials made statements. So did representatives for the aquarium, mostly of the “thoughts and prayers” and “no other comments at this time” variety. Police touted “ongoing investigations.” The county medical examiner promised more details after “thoroughly assessing the situation.”

And, of course, the protesters rolled in. Animal rights activists of all sorts, railing against imprisonment and mistreatment in everything from zoos and aquariums to puppy mills, factory farms, rodeos, county fair pig races, and circus acts. PETA had a hastily set-up booth. So did several charities—save the whales, sponsor an elephant, for just sixty cents a day YOU could save the life of a suffering shelter dog.

Occasional shouting matches, scuffles, and at least one fistfight broke out between factions demanding Riptide be put down immediately and those in favor of sparing him. This group claimed he should be released into the wild. That group wanted him locked away in the shark equivalent of Guantanamo Bay for the rest of his life.

One guy got up on, not a literal soapbox but a literal crate like a soapbox, ranting about how cops shot and killed both his Rottie-mixes, who hadn’t done nothing but snap at a punk-ass hoodlum trespassing on his property. When the old lady down the street had a bunch of them little yappy fuckers biting neighbors and the mailman all the time, but they got let off? Where was the justice in that?

Then there were the rando weirdos with their own causes to tout and axes to grind, not even connected to the current event but eager to grab any sliver of any spotlight—meat is murder, abortion is murder, my body my choice, black/blue/trans/all lives matter, ACAB, still not asking for it, MAGA, Jesus-freaks, the works.

Within Oceanview, the atmosphere was subdued. Most of the staff had been told to stay home—and asked, in the form of politely-veiled threats, not to talk to the media until the board had decided on a unified position. A skeleton crew, entering by way of a discreet employees-only parking lot and gate, saw to the most essential tasks. Those Aqua-Rangers called upon to report for duty did so in casual clothes rather than their jaunty uniforms. Nobody had to put on the walk-around shark suit, which was fine by them because nobody wanted to anyway.

The carousel stood still and silent. The curtains remained drawn at Starfish Stage. The ticket booths stayed dark and shuttered, the gift shops and snack bars closed. No announcements issued from the park-wide loudspeakers.

Most of Oceanview’s denizens went about their aquatic routines oblivious to anything out of the ordinary. It was business as usual at the immense cylindrical World of Sharks, the Tide Pools, Crustacean Nation. The jellyfish drifted serene as ever, the penguins waddled and squawked, the seahorses and lionfish and eels did their own things, the otters goofed around the way otters do, the sea turtles didn’t give a damn.

Some, though, picked up on it. Skipper and Jo-Jo were agitated and upset, whistling for reassurance, nudging toys toward their trainers, bobbing by the entrance to their performance tank like kids worried they’d be late for school. Einstein, the octopus, bonelessly oiled his way around coral formations, his glossy inhuman eyes fixed intently on whoever he could see through the glass; the intelligence in that otherworldly gaze, the awareness, the knowing, had never struck them half so creepy as it did then. Otis, the big bull sea lion, had a lot to say about the lack of fish-chunks being lobbed at him, his belligerent honking increasingly vociferous as the day went on.

And Danger Reef?

Cordoned off. Crawling with cops and forensic techs. Every inch of the viewing chamber, where several innocent spectators had been caught in the panicked crush, was photographed and cataloged. The gate by the feeding gantry was gone over with a fine-tooth comb, from the presence and visibility of the sign to the locked latching mechanism; people tried clambering over it to see just how difficult it might have been for a group of twelve-year-olds.

Police divers descended into the main tank itself, scouring for any further evidence the park’s divemaster might have missed—anything not already cleaned up by the smaller fish and bottom feeders, anyway. There wasn’t much, only some scraps of inorganic material. Nature was tidy that way.

Three phones had been recovered, but two of the three were inoperable from the salt water. The third, a brand-new high-end everything-proof model, still worked fine. The most recent image on its camera roll was a crowded not-very-good selfie of four boys awkwardly crammed into frame. One looked impassive, one looked scared, one flashed a big shit-eating grin, and the central figure smiled tight-lipped as if annoyed. The angle was skewed and precarious, the background a shining blue blur with a triangular fin jutting up through the water and the shadowy torpedo-shape of a very large shark discernible below.

Many other pics and videos from park-goers had already been added to the growing collection. Most were not suitable for public viewing and would never be shown in their entirety on the news; the jurors who’d eventually have to watch them in the course of the numerous sure-to-result court cases might need therapy after . . . but, naturally, none of that stopped some people from slapping the content onto social media, where it got shared around as fast as it could get blocked or banned, and soon made its way to grisly archives on the dark web.

They were . . . graphic.

One clip of the Great White breaching, had it been a seal in its jaws, might have won every nature-photography award there was. It caught Riptide beautifully, in perfect focus, launching more than his own body length up from the water, with impressive hang-time. The sleek flexion of his powerful musculature as he thrashed his prey side-to-side was majestic. The blood spray and water droplets glimmered in the air like a cascade of rubies and diamonds. Every nuance of the prey’s terror and agony came through with palpable, emphatic, empathetic frisson.

But, yeah, no . . . that wasn’t a seal. Rather than fame, fortune, and accolades, the amateur videographer earned instant notoriety. Plus an unfair share of blame from critics aghast someone would stand there and film it, instead of . . .

Instead of what? others countered. Jumping in to try and save the kid? How? When, by then, it was already far too late?

Which wasn’t the point, the critics would mutter. And the blame-game went on, because, of course, everybody was armchair-quarterbacking the fuck out of the incident with woulda-coulda-shouldas.

The Oceanview security guard who’d gotten the fourth boy down from the feeding gantry was hailed as the hero of the hour, along with the impromptu human-chain volunteers who’d swung into motion to help. Snippets from an interview with the boy and his overwhelmingly thankful mother aired just about every hour on every network; rumor had it Good Morning America had already been in touch.

Snippets of interviews with the other boys’ families were another story. The father who’d been jailed for assaulting police officers was released, only to be promptly jailed again for slugging a reporter from Channel 9 News on the steps outside the station; the reporter had gone at him with “How does it feel to know your son was mauled to death by a shark?” . . . and, really, the majority of viewers would agree, he had it comin’.

Then there were the two sweet little old ladies, inseparable best friends for over seventy years, who’d gone to the aquarium for a nice outing and now shared a hospital room. They’d been in the viewing chamber at the time of the attack, one of them suffering a stroke, the other trampled in the exodus stampede. With their beds pushed close enough together so they could link wizened hands, it was exactly the kind of sappy human-interest story the public lapped right up.

Sympathy proved somewhat less for the blonde bimbo with the busted ankles, and far less for her tatted tough-guy boyfriend, who’d been run over by a frantic mom’s all-terrain stroller and rasped through his semi-crushed larynx that he was gonna “sue the bitch to the moon and back.”

The most pressing issue, however, the most urgent question on everyone’s tongue, the most fiercely-debated point of contention, remained unresolved . . .

What was going to happen to Riptide?

***

Marla entered the top tank facility early in the morning. She, of course, was part of the skeleton crew of staff needed to show up at Oceanview while the whirlwind of chaos was happening all around. She needed to care for her shark, however demonized he may be.

Riptide’s usual haunting ground was now void of its infamous resident. After the gastric eversion procedure, Doc Wilma insisted he be moved into the smaller holding tank, the one where little Guppy had initially fought and won his bid for survival. Marla knew it was a necessary evil. The forensics divers were still scouring the tank for bits of evidence and bits of boys. They weren’t too keen on having the “killer shark” joining them in their efforts.

Riptide was about three times bigger than the last time he’d been in that little tank. Located at the rear of the top tank facility, hidden behind another locked door, the place had been a one-time source of inspiration for Marla. Now, it was a waking nightmare. Just barely large enough for the shark to swim the circumference and filtered well enough to keep him alive, it was not a fitting environment for Riptide to thrive. Not now. Not after he’d triumphed in survival. Not after he’d gotten accustomed to his pampered existence in his ample domain.

These days, the tank had mostly been used as a temporary holding unit for creatures undergoing veterinary protocols or the occasional stranded porpoise found along the local coastline. There they would stay until deemed healthy enough for release back into the aquarium or back into the wild. The tank wasn’t in the best of shape. The walls were beginning to deteriorate from age, and the old filtration system, chugging along with an audible effort, needed to be replaced years ago.

She unlocked the door and walked into the dimly lit access room. Just as she did, she heard a thump as Riptide’s snout bumped into a spot of corrosion on the tank’s perimeter. She flinched as she heard it. The miserly bastards in charge at Oceanview had never restored that area. Well, they claimed, it didn’t bother any other creatures that had a temporary stay in it. But it deeply affected her shark. The failing metal emitted an electromagnetic current that was a fucking beacon for his sensitive system. He had no control over it. With each swim around the little tank, he’d bump that damn spot. His snout had become raw and crusted with tissue in the process of scarring.

There was no walkway over this tank, no accessible platform for her to use in her feedings. Only a set of metal stairs that led down into the water from the concrete floor surrounding it. Marla wanted desperately to just get in there with her Guppy, to give him some comfort. Given the recent events, however, even she threw that idea out. And it broke her heart.

Placing the bucket of tuna chunks down, she reached in and chose a particularly bloody piece. She tossed it into the water without her usual fanfare of “Hi, sweet boy!” and “You must be so hunngie!” It wasn’t that her sentiments had changed for him. She was just numb. Her brain had not yet processed the events. Not the attacks. And not the strange feelings she had after the incident with the claspers. She felt as if she had been hit over the head with a baseball bat after being slipped a mickey. Numb.

Riptide ignored the tuna as it sank down to the barren bottom of the tank.

God, he is as numb as I am. He doesn’t understand any of this.

As the shark passed in front of her feet, Marla reached down and took hold of the tip of his dorsal fin, giving it a quick shake. Riptide shuddered at this contact, whipped his caudal fin to speed up his swimming, and accidentally, or not, slapped her hand away in the process. Then THUMP! He bumped his damned snout into that brown fucking rust spot again.

Marla felt herself tearing up but had no time to allow this to happen.

Then the door flew open and Johnny came in like a man on a mission.

“There you are!” He seemed relieved to have found her, but the look on his face gave off a vibe that suggested Marla was not going to like why he was looking for her.

“What is it?” Marla sniffed and wiped her nose, not wanting to be too obvious that she had just been on the verge of a sob fest.

But Johnny knew. He always knew when something was wrong with her. And to be honest, under these circumstances, it wasn’t a huge leap to figure that she would be about to lose her shit.

Johnny walked around the tank to where Marla stood. Thump! He threw a look over at Riptide and then back to Marla.

“He’s at that spot again?”

Another sniff and Marla looked into Johnny’s kind brown eyes. Under different conditions, she might have embraced him right then and there. He knew her. He understood her shark. He understood, somewhat, her relationship with Riptide. Perhaps she’d overlooked a man that was right under her nose all this time? No time to think about that now. Instead of letting him wrap his tattooed, muscular arms around her, she just nodded.

Johnny let out a sigh before speaking. “Donnie-boy needs you to attend a press conference.”

“What? What the fuck? When?”

Johnny glanced at his watch. “In two hours.”

Marla’s jaw dropped open. She’d known this was inevitable. She just didn’t want to deal with it.

Just as another thump came from the tank, her cell phone rang. She thought she had turned the ringer off, silencing the blow up of incoming texts and calls since the incident. She winced at the combination of Riptide’s distress and her Jaws-themed ringtone. She let it go to voicemail.

“You okay?” Johnny asked.

She groaned as she checked the screen to see who’d called. “Todd? Ugh, I don’t have time for his shit. Or any of this! I have to feed—”

Johnny picked up the bucket of fish. “I got it. Go get changed.”

“Thank you . . . for everything. Will you be at . . . ?”

“I’ll be there. Now go.”

***

Ryan, the security guy, had to manually unlock the front door of the aquarium to allow Marla to exit into a windy, sunny, and bustling scene. She heard the lock click behind her. They weren’t taking any chances that some activist, journalist, or wacko trying to make a name on Instagram got in. Management had hired extra security to be stationed at any possible entrance to Oceanview.

Of course, being the hero du jour, Ryan put himself dead center into the best possible place to be photographed. Right at the front door. Right behind the podium that usually sat covered in dust and random papers in the corner of Don’s cramped office, moved outside and all cleaned up for this occasion. Poor old podium had never seen so much action.

Marla grabbed the hem of her skirt, part of a smart, white business ensemble she had stashed in her office. She wore a black sleeveless tank top underneath the fitted blazer and black Mary Janes with a low heel. She kept her appearance modest, knowing that this event required her to be respected and heard. The wind was strong, and the last thing she wanted was to flash the hordes of reporters, cameramen, lookie-loos, aquarium personnel, and, most of all, the boys’ families.

Her appearance still caused quite the stir. Flashes went off like someone turned on a strobe in Studio 54. Shouting came from the crowd. She didn’t really want to hear what was being said, and most shouts and yells combined into an indiscernible background noise. Of course, it was a given that some of this was photogs jostling for a good angle, reporters jumping the gun to be the first to score the gold star of flawless journalistic questions, and security attempting crowd control.

But she heard some things.

“Shark lover!”

“—murderer just like that fish!”

“Behind the barricade, please, people!”

“Save Riptide!”

“Is it dead yet?”

“Fucking bitch!”

“Okay, everyone, let’s calm down!”

“—hear what she has to say!”

Donnie-boy was already out of his folding chair and trotting toward the podium as Marla approached. There had to be about 25 microphones set up all around the thing, sporting the initialisms of various news stations and websites and even a couple of logos she didn’t recognize. The parking lot had been cleared of the hodgepodge of booths and tables featuring the vast assortment of activists and causes. They had been replaced by a herd of news vans and the vehicles of the civilian folks that came for the big show.

The big takedown, Marla thought. She had the feeling of being walked to the gallows for a mass-spectacle of an execution. She was a bit surprised she hadn’t been hit by stones or a rotten tomato by now.

Not a good day to wear white.

Plus, who was she kidding? She was Dr. Marla Murphy, the shark slut, the Hester Prynne of marine biology, the mother of the spawn of Satan, Rosemary and her aquatic baby. But she steeled herself for the crucifixion. Riptide depended on her, and she was damn sure going to defend his life. Whatever it took.

***

“Thank you all for coming,” Don announced. Then, to get heard over the din of the crowd, “THANK YOU FOR COMING!”

The ruckus settled down enough for him to start. The flashes and clicks of cameras kept on rolling.

“I’m Donald Vincent, General Curator here at Oceanview. We are here today to answer questions regarding the recent incident which resulted in the deaths of these young and vibrant boys.”

“You mean the murder of these boys?” This came from a local news reporter, who immediately stopped when a security guard began approaching her.

“Please be respectful. We at Oceanview are as shocked and appalled as you are.” Don was showing beads of sweat along his brow, even as the sea breeze lifted the top of his toupee a bit off his head.

His comment seemed to stir up the crowd again. One security guard blew a whistle as Don kept up with the “Please, people; please, people” while throwing his hands out in a “whoa nelly” signal. He looked over at Marla with pleading eyes.

Getting the hint, she took the podium. Don returned to his folding chair, smoothing out his toupee and loosening his collar.

When the audience saw Marla was taking center stage, they quieted. She was a bit of a local celebrity, or at least she once was, for bringing the superstar shark into the limelight and lining a lot of pockets from the uptick in tourism. Even through this shitstorm, she held some sway. Plus, there was always the obligatory politeness that inherently comes when a lady is present.

We’ll see how long that lasts, Marla thought as she cleared her throat. As she introduced herself, which was a rote and instinctual thing at this point in her career, having done countless interviews and lectures, she visually scanned the attendees.

Other than the scores of journalists, randos, and personnel, she saw a small group sporting PETA tees, Johnny over to one side of the barricade looking protective as usual, and then she saw a woman sitting in the front row wearing all black and shooting her a look that bordered on homicidal. She was seated by a man who was rubbing her back and patting her knee. Another woman sat on her other side, lifting her sunglasses to wipe her eyes with a tissue. A man beside her held his face impassive and unreadable.

Oh god, the families.

Marla already knew one of the fathers was in jail for assaulting some officers and the brother of one of the other boys. Johnny had given her the details about the wife, rumored to be abused, being stuck with their remaining gaggle of children while he awaited his day in court in the county jail. Marla was very glad he wasn’t out and about and available to attend this media circus. God only knew what he would have done to her in person.

She swallowed hard and continued. “Please think back to when Riptide came into our lives, our community. He was just a baby, alone. No Great White shark has ever survived in captivity. But he did. He did thanks to the support and dedication of Oceanview and all of you.”

“—kind of guilt trip is this?”

“Oh please!”

“—are you going to do with him?”

Another whistle from “Officer Blows-A-Lot,” and the yelling paused once again. More flashes and clicks. The seated woman in black began to sob. More back rubbing and knee petting from her hubby.

“Riptide is a miracle, and we shouldn’t just discard that. He is a survivor. But he is also, inherently, a shark. For some reason, his instincts took over momentarily and a horrific tragedy occurred. I am making sure we get to the bottom of this and understand how and why it happened and how this can be prevented from happening again.”

“Kill him!”

“—brought to justice, just like anyone else?”

“—can’t be trusted!”

“—blood lust!”

“People please be quiet!”

“Have some respect!”

“An eye for an eye!”

As the tirade of heckling slowly began to sputter out, Marla glanced over at Johnny and saw him intensely staring into the back of the crowd, behind the rows of chairs and beyond the sprawl of news vans. Marla followed his gaze and . . .

Todd.

I do not fucking need this right now.

Even with her avoiding his calls, the asshole showed up at what was possibly the worst possible time in her life? Typical Todd. He stood in a tight white tee, faded denim jeans, and a trucker hat that sported a logo for a cheap brand of beer. And he still looked damn good, damn him. Tanned muscular arms, long blond hair under that stupid hat.

No time for that bullshit now. She had her Guppy’s life to save.

Don appeared at her side so quickly that he made her jump. He took her by the shoulder and guided her away from the podium.

WTF?

He addressed the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! Please. Thank you. We will be making a decision regarding Riptide this afternoon, and we will be reporting our decision as soon as it is made.”

Marla couldn’t help herself, whirling as if to charge. Don flinched, seeing the anger in her eyes, but hustled her out of range of the bouquet of hot microphones.

“Don, what the hell?!”

“I know, I know, shh.”

The crowd had gone absolutely wild at his announcement. Reporters and camera people rallied and spread out in various places in the parking lot, either going live or recording some piece to spread the news that everyone would soon know the sentence for the killer shark. A few photogs slithered closer to Don and Marla, snapping away or streaming for their vlogs and websites and already concocting what they were discussing so they could tell a riveting story of crap to their followers.

“No shh! What are you—?”

He leaned close and squeezed her upper arm just a bit too firmly. “Marla, please. You have to understand the pressure—”

“This is the first time I am hearing this, Don!”

“It has to be dealt with, with the utmost haste—”

“Do I even have a say?”

“Of course, of course, Marla! I was going to tell you as soon as . . . ”

His eyes suddenly got really big. Marla turned around to see the woman in black coming toward them, not letting her husband or anyone else deter her. Don let go of Marla and stepped forward to meet her.

“Mrs. Abbott! I was just about to reach out—”

She pushed right past him, fixed on Marla.

Marla stammered for words. What could she even say? She hadn’t thought that she would be directly confronted by the families. But it was stupid to think this fucked-up excuse for management would protect her in any way. Shit, they would just as rather throw her to the wolves to take the heat off themselves.

Before Marla could even get out, “Ma’am, I’m so sorry for your . . . ” the woman struck her across the face, a hard open-handed slap to her left cheek.

It stopped everything, like the moment churning water flash-froze into solid ice. The voices, clicks, and clamor that had risen into a feeding frenzy cut off. You could have heard a pin drop.

Marla’s cheek stung, but that was the least of the shock and pain. She forced herself to hold back tears.

What should she say? What could she say? Her tongue felt arid and heavy. She tasted a hint of her own blood, a split lip or the inside of her cheek gouged by her teeth.

Don, of course, just stood there, mouth agape, and did absolutely nothing. Typical.

Further on, she saw both Todd and Johnny, as well as Ryan the security guard, starting toward her.

Mrs. Abbott glared at her a split-second longer, then turned and stalked away. Cameras followed the distraught mother as she passed. Microphones were shoved at her, questions shouted. Strangers reached out as if to comfort her with a pat on the arm or back. They followed like a school of piranha, out toward the back of the lot, where she and her husband got into a black SUV and drove off.

“Jesus, Marla, are you okay?” Johnny had finally reached her.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

Ryan joined them. “Let’s go before this gets uglier.” He unlocked the front entrance to the aquarium lobby and hurried Marla, Johnny, and Don through.

Glancing back, Marla saw Todd near the glass doors, looking in at her. He lifted his hand to his ear in the “call me” gesture, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Marla licked the corner of her mouth and tasted that bit of blood again. It made her angry. It made her scared. It made her want to take action.

That little taste of blood. Wasn’t that exactly what happened to Riptide? One little taste could set off a chain of events that changed a life forever.

***

“Damn, dude, your mom just went Will Smith on the shark-lady,” Alex said.

A hell of a smack too. On live TV and everything.

Parker wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. Half “fuck yeah, go Mom!” vindictive pride, and half “whoa, hey, wait what?” because the shark-lady probably hadn’t deserved it any more than he’d deserved to have Eric’s dad try to bust his jaw.

Which was still bruised and sore days later, if no longer as swollen. At least the stitches were out, though the scar was kind of gross and oozy.

His parents had refused to let him attend the press conference. He hadn’t argued. Last thing he needed was more people clamoring at him, wanting to know how it felt having your kid brother eaten by a shark and how much he blamed himself. Yeah, no thanks. Much rather stay at home and watch it on the news. And they had agreed to let Alex come over to keep him company, grounded or not.

This whole shitshow was already the biggest thing to ever happen in Rockshore Point, and now Mom was gonna be the new viral video of the week. Unless something even more sensational and dramatic happened at the triple-funeral, which was scheduled for Sunday.

Funeral. Yeah, right.

Well, it’d save money on coffins and burial plots. The families had agreed on a shared memorial plaque to be placed in the cemetery, and a local glass artist had volunteered to sculpt a decorative sphere swirled with their combined ashes. Which made it seem all thoughtful and meaningful instead of the fact of the matter being it was easier to cremate everything together rather than trying to sort out and DNA-analyze the various leftover pieces.

Parker shuddered.

Alex noticed. “You, uh, wanna, like, talk about it?”

“No.”

“’Kay. Because I wouldn’t know what the fuck to say anyway.”

“Me either.”

“Sucks, though.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it sure does.”

The news, meanwhile, kept running the instant replay, for those viewers just tuning in. Mom squaring off with the shark-lady, giving her the steely-eyed gunslinger stare. The shark-lady, looking distressed and on the verge of tears, starting to offer condolences. “I’m so sorry for your—” and then WHACKO! as Mom hauled off and let her have it. The shark-lady’s shocked, hurt, astonished gasp. The people around them flat-out thunderstruck, Parker’s dad included. Mom shooting her a final next time I see you, you’re dead, bitch glare, before turning away and marching outta there like a boss, with Dad trailing uncertainly in her wake.

“So, uh, hey,” said Alex as it went to commercial—not an Oceanview ad, thankfully; the network had some basic decency. “You still on for tomorrow?”

“Huh? Oh, the bonfire?”

“Totally cool if you’re not.”

“No, I’ll be there.” Parker took a deep, not-entirely-unshaky breath and nodded. “I’ll be there. Promised Staci. And I’ve got to get out of this fucking house.”

Because Staci, incredibly, still wanted to see him, was sympathetic and supportive. Didn’t judge or blame him for what had happened to Jeremy. Defended him, online and at school, against those who did. Not that he’d been back to school since; her aunt, Nurse Shauna, had maybe played up the seriousness of his injuries a little, which had also helped convince his parents to go easier on him than they otherwise might’ve done.

He and Staci texted several times a day and video-chatted every night but had not been together in person. Having Alex over, he figured, he could get away with, even if Alex was a bad influence and the one who’d gotten him grounded in the first place. Having a girl over, especially the girl from the carousel clip—which some haters were using as evidence against him: “See what this asshole was doing while his little brother was being eaten by a shark?!”—would not have gone over well.

Not to mention, the grandparents were flying in on Saturday, Uncle Joe was coming back from Redding, other relatives would be showing up . . . if he had to face the gauntlet of the funeral and all that attention, he needed a night out. To drink, and smoke, and fool around as far as Staci would let him go. To watch the leaping flames, hear the crashing surf, and not think about Jeremy.

***

He swims, but it is not the same.

He circles in tighter, smaller, closer confinement. Stark and plain. Bereft of rock formations, plant life, coral, and the lower denizens with whom he shared his former domain.

Little room to maneuver. A scant body-length or two before he must turn. Barely any depth. No endless wide above-world of sun and sky and clouds . . . no clear barriers . . . no feeding platform . . . no freedom.

Punishment. Torment. Suffering. This, added to the indignities and agonies he’s already endured! The isolation! The deprivation!

And that aggravating spot, the discolored blemish on the wall he returns to again and again, wanting to eradicate it but only bumping his snout, abrading his skin. Again, and again. Even as it pains and infuriates him, he cannot stop returning to it, cannot leave it alone.

The One has been here with him, but not with him in the way that he wants, that he craves, that he needs. She stays out of the water, plunking in desultory lumps of cold, dead fish-flesh. Her noises are fraught, unhappy. When she touches him, it is anxious and fearful, absent of delicious heat and yearning.

Now the One has also left him, left another to feed him. A male, this other, a male whose scent and signals suggest he, too, desires the One, hungers for the caress of her body. Who would also seek to go belly-to-belly with her and push whatever pitiable tubeworm he possesses into the hidden orifice between the One’s lower limbs.

It will not, must not be so. The One is for him, Riptide the god/king! The One’s own and only beloved Guppy! Him and him alone!

And these feeble offerings of cold, dead, bloodless fish-flesh are an insult. That he has been, all this time, denied in that way as well? Denied the heat of the meat, the rich red torrent, the hunt and the thrill and the kill?

Then, when he finally seized it for himself, gorging and glutting on live meat . . .

Humiliation! Torture! Forced to empty his stomach of its hard-won contents, to spew it all out in wracking convulsions, leaving him hollow, aching in some deep, internal, sick-feeling way. Loose and strained and distended.

They expect him to just go back to cold, dead, bloodless fish-flesh? Tossed from a bucket, plopping into the water, sinking and inert?

As they also seem to expect him to go back to swimming his endless circles untouched, after the One gripped both of his stiff claspers, sending surges of ecstatic sensation through him?

He swims, and he swims, until the sounds and vibrations herald the approach of the One. But quick, agitated, her noises high-pitched and urgent and shrill.

“—heard what Don said! ‘Decide,’ my ass; they’re going to fucking kill him!”

“I did, I know, but come on, Marla, you’ve got to—”

“After everything he’s been through, everything he’s brought to this damn place! Oceanview would have gone under years ago without Riptide!”

“I know, hey, I know.”

The male.

Resting the appendages of upper limbs upon the One! Close to her!

How dare he . . .

If Riptide had more space, the room to build up momentum and speed, he could lunge, he could breach, he could clamp his jaws onto that unworthy, insolent rival! Shred his pathetic little tubeworm into strips! Savage that meaty torso, the blood pouring, the rich organs puncturing between his rows of teeth! Hear the screams, taste the terror!

“I can’t let them hurt him, Johnny!”

The One . . . pressing herself to the male? Wrapping her own upper limbs around him? Bleating strange, wet cries as he holds and pats and soothes?

“It’ll be okay, Marla. We’ll figure something out.”

Their bodies molded together, upright? Belly-to-belly?!?

With a violent muscular contraction, his tail whips the water, propelling him in a fast surge. Too fast and with nowhere to go, leaving him flailing and thrashing, biting wildly at nothing, battering his fins and snout and head against the barriers, churning up immense splashes and spray. Raging, he attacks that maddening spot, gnashing at it, snapping off several teeth at the gumline with brief little flicks of pain he barely notices.

He will chew his way out of here if he has to, bodily fling himself into the dry upper-world if that’s what it takes—

“—wrong with him? Jesus, he’s going nuts!”

“Guppy! No! Guppy! Stop!”

“ . . . trank dart?”

“ . . . sedate him again already, when he hasn’t fully recovered from . . . ”

“ . . . quick, before he bashes himself to death!”

“Fine, do it, just do it, oh my God . . . ”

A pfft, a thunk, a sharp, piercing sting near his gills.

He knows these familiar sensations too, and goes into an even greater frenzy, whipping back and forth as if to catch hold of the hated needle-thing, yank it out before . . .

. . . before . . .

. . . before the One’s voice follows him into the different dark depths, where he doesn’t swim but . . . drifts . . . gliding aimlessly . . . slipping away . . .

“ . . . sorry, so sorry, my poor sweet boy . . . ”

***

Johnny, as stoic of a man as he was, flinched at the power with which Marla slammed her office door. At least he was already inside when she did it. They needed to talk.

“Marla, we can sort this out. There has to be something we can do.”

Marla was unbuttoning her white blazer as she headed for her chair. She plopped down and let out a loud sigh.

“Look, I know these people,” she said. “I’ve worked with them for a long time. They will do whatever it takes to save face. They know they’d make a shitload of money by housing a killer shark. Putting him on display as a monster. But that’s clearly not the way they are leaning. And they can’t now. Not now. Bad press. Not a good look for Donnie-boy and his precious tourist trap.”

Johnny pulled a wheeled stool close to the front of Marla’s desk and had a seat. He wanted to be closer to her. To hold her again. Yet he knew she would probably clock him a good one if he approached. She was highly aroused, and not in a good way.

Marla grabbed a tissue from a box decorated with ocean animals and blue waves, and dabbed at the cut on her mouth. She looked at the red spot on the tissue, wadded it up, and threw it across her desk. “Can’t blame her for that, I guess.”

“It’s a shit situation for a lot of people.”

“It’s the worst situation for Riptide! There is no chance they will let him live. Not a chance. Fuck, I don’t even have a say!”

“Don said he would listen—”

“Don said nothing of the sort. He was going to ‘inform me’ of their decision. Inform me? I’m sure they’re sitting in the conference room right now, without me, sentencing my Guppy to death. Fuck this. I have to do something, Johnny. There has to be something!”

She stood up and headed for the door.

“Hey, you’re not gonna barge in on them, are you?”

Her tone got suddenly somber. “I want to be with him. He is still alive, and he still needs me, needs to be fed. I can’t explain it, but I feel like if I can just be there, I will know what to do.”

“Want some company?”

Marla opened the door and shook her head. Then she walked out. No slamming this time. She closed the door quietly and slowly.

Johnny rubbed his temples and began to think about what had happened earlier. The train wreck of a press conference. The slap. That “call me” gesture from Todd.

She wouldn’t, probably wouldn’t, reach out to him. Although people did do strange shit during stressful times. But Todd could still call her. And that pissed Johnny off.

***

The refrigerator in the tank facility was empty. No bucket full of fish chunks waiting to be fed to Riptide. Just layers of deboned and filleted tuna wrapped in plastic. Not a good sign if the staff had already been told not to prepare his meals.

Or maybe they’d just overlooked it in the craziness of everything else going on. Maybe.

Marla took off her blazer and threw it on the damp concrete floor. Fuck this suit, she thought.

She took out two fillets and threw them on the table. Luckily, there were a few butcher knives in the drying rack next to the utility sink. She got to work cutting up the fish and throwing the pieces into a tin bucket.

Riptide had recovered from his earlier sedation. He seemed to be swimming calmly, probably still a little loopy, around the tiny perimeter of the holding tank. Still, he bumped that rusted brown spot every damn time he made his rounds. His snout was covered in layers of pink and dark red, with some greyish scabbing forming around the edges of the wounds. He was already down a couple teeth, although there were rows waiting to step up and replace them.

Marla kicked off her shoes and hiked up her white skirt. She sat cross legged at the edge of the tank with the bucket beside her, placing her phone nearby. Normally, she would have left it outside the room, preferring to have quiet time with her best friend.

Given the circumstances, though, she expected a call any minute from Don, groveling and falsely apologetic as he told her the gavel had come down.

“Hey, baby boy.” She spoke softly, almost cooing.

Through the water, she could see Riptide’s beautiful blue eyes had registered her presence. He tail-swept as he made another round, and bumped that damned spot again.

“We’ll figure this out, baby. I promise.” Trying to convince herself as much as her Guppy, she grabbed a piece of tuna and was about to throw it to the shark when her phone rang.

As expected, the display showed it was Don.

THUMP! Riptide hit the spot again.

She let it ring a few times as she focused on feeding the first couple of fish bits, which Riptide ignored. They bobbed and sank, uneaten. His gaze stayed directly upon her.

Keeping her eyes fixed right back on Riptide, she inhaled deeply and finally answered the call.

“Yes?”

“Marla, first I want to explain that we gave this a lot of thought. But unfortunately—”

She hit the End button.

That was it then.

She had no desire to respond. She had nothing to say. Her stomach churned, and her face felt hot, almost to the boiling point. Tears welled up.

THUMP!

For a fleeting moment, she imagined flinging herself into the tank with her Guppy. Letting whatever happened happen. Would he consume her like he did the boys? Would he allow her to caress and comfort him? Would he ignore her?

Would he try to fuck her?

That thought surprised her, and she wasn’t quite sure where it even came from.

Then the phone rang again.

If it was Donnie-boy calling back, this time he was going to get an earful. But a glance at the screen showed it wasn’t that fat bastard after all.

It was Todd.

She wasn’t sure why she started crying, but she did. Anger, helplessness, confusion. He was calling her now? Now? Why? Everything was already overwhelming.

Well, Todd, since I didn’t unleash on Donnie-boy, you’re getting the earful, you prick.

She sniffed and wiped her eyes, not caring that her fingers were sticky with fish juice. Then she answered.

“What the fuck do you want?”

THUMP!

***

Todd paced back and forth beside the rig, phone in one hand, the other fidgeting and fitful. He raked fingers through his shaggy blond hair, drummed and patted random beats against his denim-clad thigh, jingled at the keys hanging from his belt, and gave the overall impression of a strung-out junkie trying to strike a bargain with his dealer.

Not that Todd did the heavy stuff, beyond the occasional snort or toke called for during social or business meetings. His substance abuse of choice was alcohol, preferably cheap and clear and potent enough to serve as jet-fuel. He could out-drink big bruisers three times his size, fought mean, and could bounce back from a punch that would have flattened anyone else, only to grin like a maniac and spit one of his own bleeding teeth into his opponent’s eye.

Skate and Yellow, observing from halfway across the warehouse, had seen him do stuff like that often enough. Dude prided himself on being a badass motherfucker who walked big, talked big, and took shit from nobody.

Listening to him grovel and wheedle and try to make nicey-nice to his ex was, therefore, fucking hilarious, and it was all they could do not to bust up.

“Babe, wait, come on, babe . . . Marla, sorry, Marla . . . just hear me out, huh? Yeah, I understand it’s a bad time, but that’s why I’m calling. I want to help . . . No, seriously, I know how much you care about him; shit, if anyone does, it’s me . . . ”

They, of course, did not dare bust up, laugh aloud, say a single word, or even smirk in his direction. Not because they were scared of pissing him off—well, Yellow was, but Yellow had earned his nickname for a reason—but because this was too important. This could be big. If they could pull this off . . .

“ . . . yeah, okay, I admit it . . . it wasn’t just your work and the long hours, I was jealous, all right? It was stupid and childish, but I was jealous of that damn shark, always felt like you loved him more than me . . . Hey, no, hey, it’s cool, I’m over it.”

Like hell, he’s over it, Skate thought, keeping her attention studiously fixed on the gear strewn across the worktables. Pumps and air compressors and hoses, masks and fins, tranquilizer darts, a contraption of Kevlar straps and titanium clasps like either a giant dog muzzle or a bondage harness (both of which she’d also seen often enough in her line of work), clusters of mini electro-pulse grenades, two spear-guns, a really bitchin’ machete-sized dive knife in case all else failed, other assorted gadgets.

“ . . . need me to tell you it’s not gonna go good for him, babe . . . Yeah, it sucks, it’s not fair, it’s not right, not for him or for you . . . Right, their profits and public image . . . throw you both under the fuckin’ bus, exactly . . . ”

They had hustled their butts off to get everything together on short notice, and she could only hope against hope they had it all covered. It was crazy, oh, she was well aware of that. Crazy and risky. Illegal on many levels. Potentially fatal.

But, if they could do it . . .

“ . . . here’s the thing,” Todd was saying. “I got a way we can save him—Marla, babe, no, really, I’m not messing with you! Look, I know some people, okay? Yyyeah, like, animal rights activists, but . . . No, not protests and petitions; they’re the, uh, more, uh, militant kind . . . Right, right, from circuses and testing labs . . . ”

Yellow leaned closer than Skate normally would have cared for, his breath and his sweat in a race to see which could be the more rancid as he whispered, “Think she’s buying it?”

“She better be,” Skate whispered back. “We have one shot at this. Otherwise, they’re gonna crucify that damn shark.”

“ . . . you remember that thing on the news with the, what were they, minks at a fur farm?” Todd paced more vigorously. “And the group that took on those poachers in Africa? Yeah, like them.”

Skate stifled a snort. The poachers in Africa; that mission had been a disaster. They’d lost two guys and come out of it with one scraggly-ass lion, but at least the boss had been pleased.

“ . . . exactly what I’m saying, they can get him out of there, take him someplace—babe, no, I know, couldn’t survive in the wild, you told me, but . . . no, not another aquarium, more like a . . . nature preserve.”

Nature preserve? That was one way to put it, she supposed.

Yellow cackled a little, and she kicked him under the table.

“ . . . least he’d be alive, and safe . . . probably cost you your job, but let’s face facts, your job’s gonna be toast anyway . . . ” He paused, nodding intently. “Right, right, yeah, be no reason for you to stay even if they didn’t, with the shark gone . . . any other place would hire you after this? I know! I know. I hate to say it, but, c’mon, it’s true. Your whole career’s about to go straight down the shitter whether you save him or not.”

She hadn’t told him to fuck off and hung up on him yet; Skate figured that was a good sign. They’d seen the press conference, where it’d been obvious to anyone with even an ounce of compassion how devastated Todd’s sexy ex was, having raised that shark since birth. They’d also seen the countless replays all day of the dead kid’s mom stepping up and walloping the bejesus out of her.

“ . . . that crane with the sling you told me about,” Todd was saying. “The one you use to move him from one tank to another, over short distances . . . No, they’ve got a portable rig . . . tractor-trailer kind of thing . . . converted from an oil tanker . . . Ha, yeah, no, can you imagine that cruising along the 101? Huh? No, to a boat, and then from there . . . yeah . . . no . . . of course, right . . . Babe, give me some credit here, as much as you’d talk about it . . . circulating oxygenated water through his gills, I know, you told me a hundred times . . . and these people, they’re specialists, okay? This ain’t their first rodeo.”

Specialists. Skate had to bite her own lip and kick Yellow again. So, that’s what they were? Specialists? As for first rodeo? Oh, lordy, if they only knew.

“ . . . need you to get us in, though, and have him ready to go. Yeah. You figure they’re gonna do their big decision announcement on Saturday? Uh-huh. And the place will be packed with protesters after that, so we’ve got to go before. Tomorrow night, late. We’ll have him long gone by the time anyone even realizes he’s missing.”

Todd turned toward Skate and Yellow with a grin as wide and predatory as any shark’s. The hand not pressing the phone to his ear flicked them a triumphant thumbs-up.

“You bet, babe. No, hey, I just hope this helps make up some for what a dick I was. Yeah. Okay. Okay. Noon. Sounds good. See you then.”

***

The Starfish Saloon was practically empty at noon on a Friday, the majority of the regulars working or home with the kids. Within a few hours, though, the place would be hopping, locals and tourists alike hitting up the only decent bar in town, slapping down their cash and credit cards so they could steamroll right into a little fun and a little regret.

And, as always, set to the Saloon’s chosen soundtrack of 80s hair metal and classic rock.

Marla pulled open the door and was greeted by Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust.” It wasn’t quite blasting yet, thank god. It just filled the room at a tolerable background noise level.

Two bartenders were clanking about, arranging bottles, while a server wiped down tables with something that smelled like a mixture of dirty water and a swimming pool. A guy from a local brewery was making a delivery of kegs to the walk-in behind the bar. Only a few die-hard patrons had turned up this early.

And Todd.

He sat in a booth in the corner, one of those where you have to slide into the seat around an oval table. Of course he wouldn’t choose a regular table with chairs. He liked to be able to slide in, so to speak, at any given time. Typical Todd.

Even after everything they’d gone through and the turbulent breakup, Marla still felt a pang of attraction when she saw him. The tan. The exposed muscles in his short-sleeved Metallica tee. His dirty blond hair flowing to his shoulders. No goofy trucker hat today. He smiled at her and waved her over with thick fingers, some adorned with silver skulls and demon rings.

Fingers that, as she recalled all too vividly, could do some pretty amazing things . . .

No.

This wasn’t a date. There was no prospect for romance or even a drunken hookup here. She was not in the mood to be charmed out of her pants today. She was on fire with passion, all right. But it was to save her Guppy.

She shook it off and went over to the table. Todd patted the red vinyl of the semi-circular seat as an invitation. “Hey, babe. You look—”

“Get to it, Todd,” she said without sitting.

Though, damn it, she still felt herself blushing at the compliment she would have received if she hadn’t shut him down. Even in the troubled times of the moment, they had history. He knew how to get to her. She would have to be on guard.

“I thought maybe we could have a beer and settle our nerves a bit?” He smiled in a boyish, pleading kind of way and raised his glass. Of course, he already had a beer.

No dice, Todd.

“Get to it,” she repeated.

“All right, all right! Look, here’s a picture of that converted oil tanker I told you about.” He pulled out his phone. “Now, you really need to sit so you can see this shit. I will behave, promise.”

Marla acquiesced and perched on the very edge. Todd scooted in closer to her, phone in hand, letting her catch a hint of body heat and more than a hint of the Old Spice “Deep Sea” scented body wash and deodorant he must’ve remembered she liked. She’d given him a gift-pack of it for his birthday one year.

The mental note to stay on guard went up a level.

“See? The top of it has been cut off so it’s like a big portable holding tank. These people know what they’re doing. They already have the proper equipment to keep Riptide—”

“Shhh!” Marla hissed. She shot a look around the bar to see if anyone was peeping or eavesdropping. No one seemed to be, but she wasn’t about to take any chances.

Todd let out a snort laugh. “Pffft. As I was saying, they have equipment to keep him oxygenated for the duration. And you must have shit you can steal from the aquarium too. I mean, you’re stealing him, you may as well take what you need from those fuckers.”

She rolled her eyes, but she knew he was right. If she was really thinking about doing this, really thinking about saving her Guppy’s life, she’d need to do what she needed to do. No matter what. As much as she despised trusting Todd to help facilitate the great escape plan, she didn’t have much choice.

This had to happen fast. Tonight. Before Doc Wilma got sent in with a syringe full of poison to execute poor Riptide, his dying body spiraling and twitching toward the bottom of his tiny prison.

Dead. He would be dead.

Marla felt a wave of panic rush through her bloodstream, and she gripped the edge of the table with white-knuckled hands.

***

They were going to kill the fucking shark.

Good.

Diane Abbott hung up her phone and poured another glass of wine.

Kill the fucking shark. Good.

It wouldn’t bring her boy back, wouldn’t bring any of their boys back, but, good. Yes. Kill him. Execute his fishy ass.

Except, they weren’t really going to execute him, now, were they? Not the way they should. Not the way Jeremy and his friends, and their families, and the entire community deserved.

No, they’d just have the vet slip him a lethal injection, like putting down a dog, and he’d drift off into painless oblivion. Privately. Discreetly. Behind closed doors.

Damn it, they ought to do it in public! Or at least let the loved ones of the victims be there for the satisfaction of seeing the fucker die. And forget the painless injection; he should be stabbed and slashed, viciously harpoon-gunned! Let him feel it! Let him suffer! Let him go out in bleeding agony the way her son had!

Shit, for that matter, give her the harpoon-gun! She’d nail him good, somewhere it’d really hurt, somewhere it wouldn’t be over too quick.

Or how about a slow, terrible suffocation? Beach him, dump him on dry land and watch him thrash and gasp with his useless gills flapping.

Didn’t seem right, letting him off easy. Sure, it would be closure, of a sort. Justice, even.

But satisfaction?

Not even close.

Still, even through the now-perpetual haze of drugs and alcohol, she understood—albeit grudgingly—that it was the best they were going to get.

Well, that and the absolute buttfucking unit of a lawsuit they’d be slapping Oceanview with, dead shark or no dead shark. Through her haze, she also understood the suits were hoping this would placate the families, this would be enough to mollify the outrage. Which was why the one smarmy dick had called her in the first place, making like he was doing her a favor, wasn’t really supposed to be telling her anything before the official announcement tomorrow, as if it’d put them on the same side and make her less likely to sue their balls off.

Shark dead, good. Step One.

Oceanview bankrupt, closed down, and razed to the ground? Step Two.

A dead shark and a closed, bankrupt aquarium would go a ways toward making things . . . not all right; nothing could ever make things all right again . . . at least slightly more tolerable.

For an approximation of real closure, though, personal closure, she still needed more.

The same smarmy dick who’d called had even had the gall to play magnanimous by telling her the aquarium and the marine biologist bitch weren’t going to press charges for the very-well-documented slap.

Well, bully for them. Who cared? Everyone would have been on her side anyway. Not one single person was going to say she, a grieving mother, was in the wrong. She could hunt that murderous shark-loving cunt down and shoot her in the face in front of a crowd of reporters, witnesses, kindergartners, and nuns, and they’d deem it vindicated.

Call it Step Three.

Yeah, then and only then, she might be able to sleep at night without pounding the Xanax, might be able to actually talk to her husband or move about the house without crying over every single little object or reminder, might be able to start putting her life back together.

Steps Four through Seven?

Of course, there was also the matter of her other son to consider, and whether she’d ever be able to forgive him or look him in the eye again, but right now that was way down the list of priorities.

Step Twenty, at least.

***

“So, who are these people?” Marla asked.

“Like I told you,” Todd said, keeping his tone placid; he already knew he had her hooked but still needed to play it careful. “Eco-warrior types. Ya know, like the ones that chained themselves to trees and battled those poachers . . . ”

“In Africa. Yeah. You said. But who are they exactly? Who will be in on this with us? Who’s in charge?”

“I haven’t met the main guy, one of those rich do-gooder types who prefers to stay out of the spotlight and keep his name out of the papers because sometimes things get a little . . . touchy. Doesn’t want to get sued by the slaughterhouses or corporations for doing the right thing, yeah? But I know a couple folks high up in the organization. I’ve known them for a while, helped them out a few times. They’re good people.”

Todd internally chuckled at the idea of calling the likes of Skate and Yellow “good people.” But he was laying it on thick, putting on this show for a reason. Mostly, the reason that would line his pockets. If they could pull it off.

“But we need you to make sure we’ve got whatever other gear we need to help Rip . . . him stay alive until he gets to his safe space. A shark’s a little more than they’re used to dealing with.”

“That’s okay; I’ll be there to—”

“Hey, hang on, no, babe, no way, you’re not going with!”

“Excuse me?” Marla’s voice rose toward the danger zone. “What the fuck do you mean by that? Of course I’m going with!”

He wasn’t really surprised; he’d kind of expected something like this. And, damn, was she at her most sexy when she got a stick up her ass! But if she came along, there would be too many complications, especially if she got wind of the actual purpose of their little endeavor. Keeping her totally unaware would be next to impossible.

And way too much money was on the line to fuck this up. Too much potential fame.

“Marla, you can’t. There’s no way. You have to trust us to take care of this. Trust me.”

Her eyes were huge and virtually shooting out laser beams. She took a deep breath and leaned right into his face, her voice lowered to a whisper.

“Listen to me very carefully.” She put her hand on Todd’s forearm and gave it a generous squeeze, her fingernails digging into his flesh. “Either I come along and take care of my shark, or I will ruin your fucking life. Do you understand me?”

Todd scoffed by natural instinct before it dawned on him that might not be the best idea right now.

“I will get him ready,” she continued, “and we will do what we need to do to carry out this fucking plan of yours. Because I have no choice but to trust you.” Her nails dug deeper into Todd’s arm. “But I’ll be goddamned if I’m left out of this. He needs me there for the whole thing. I trust you’ll get us where we need to go, but I do not fucking trust you or these mystery activists of yours to care for my shark the way he needs to be cared for.”

“Well, it’s that or he’ll be dead anyway—”

SMACK!

He let out a startled yelp and put a hand to his face.

What the shit; she’d never taken a swing at him before! Paying it forward from the soccer mom slap at the press conference, maybe . . . or she really was that heated up! He’d have to tread even more carefully if this was going to have any chance at succeeding.

The server had stopped wiping tables and looked over at them. Marla noticed, quickly resetting her composure. Todd gave the server a sheepish smile and a wave. After a moment’s pause, the server went back to work to the sounds of Motley Crue’s “Shout at the Devil.”

Despite her outward show of calm, Marla was still shooting fire from her eyes. “Todd, I will fucking die if anything happens to him. I’ll kill myself. Hell, I’ll kill you, then myself.”

“Nothing will happen, babe!” His words took on the whining, wheedling tone of a boy pleading with his mom after being caught doing something bad. “I’ll make sure—”

“No, I’ll make sure of it. I am going, Todd. If I don’t go, you don’t get my shark. If you don’t get my shark, he dies. Then you die. Then I die. Do we understand each other?”

Todd leaned back into the booth with a sigh. “Yeah, babe. I understand.”

Fuck, he thought. Yellow and Skate are not gonna be happy about this.

Marla stood up. “I’ll call you in a couple hours to go over the details for tonight. I need to talk to Johnny and get this planned out.”

“Johnny?” He sat forward again. “The dive guy? That guy? Hold the phone; what’s he got to do with anything?”

“Managing the sling is a two-person job at minimum. He’ll help. I know he will. He may not like it, may not agree, but he will help.”

Todd hid a glower, not wanting to think about how she knew or why the dive guy might be willing to go out on such a limb for her and wasn’t about to say so.

“Okay, babe, but, look, he’s definitely not going with. This shit’s already gone too far off the rails for comfort.”

“Right.” She exhaled, nodding. “And I wouldn’t ask him to go that far. He’ll be risking enough as is.”

“Right.” He finished his beer.

She bent over, fists on the table. “You better not fuck me on this, Todd. I’m trusting you to follow through.”

“I got this, babe. I’m just trying to help, ya know?” He gave her a hurt look, wounded, not quite pouting.

And, son of a bitch, she fell for it again, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . ”

Todd squeezed back, smiling. “I know. I’ll call you soon.”

As soon as she left, his smile faded. He picked up his cell and dialed Skate’s number.

“Skate, uh, hey, slight change of plans . . . ”

***

The name Driftwood Cove made the place sound all scenic and picturesque, like a trendy B&B or maybe some upscale retirement community. It conjured images of long, romantic hand-in-hand strolls on silky sandy beaches and hunting for glass fisherman’s floats among sea-smoothed sculptures of sun-bleached wood.

When, really, it was a rough inlet wave-carved into the rearing rocky bluffs, only a “cove” in the most liberal stretch of the term. The only actual beach part was a semi-circle of coarse sand and weathered pebbles amid jagged formations slick with wet algae and gull shit. Instead of glass fisherman’s floats, pieces of broken bottles—mostly beer and cheap booze—glinted dully, the edges of the older ones partially worn down by churning surf.

While there was driftwood, describing it as “sea-smoothed and sun-bleached sculptures” would have also been a stretch. Washed-up heaps and tangles strung with garlands of rotting kelp would be closer to the mark. Along with the usual sodden clumps of plastic, picked-over fish carcasses and crab shells, and the occasional half-eaten dead seal.

Still and all, it’d been one of the de facto gathering places for Rockshore Point teens since time immemorial. A place they could smoke, drink, party, and fuck, far from the prying eyes of adults who liked to pretend they certainly hadn’t spent their fair share of disreputable time there when they were that age. By unspoken tacit agreement, everyone knew about it but nobody talked about it. It was tradition, rite of passage, just one of those things.

Accessible only by a somewhat less-than-safe trail down from a roadside turnout parking area, partially sheltered by outcrops and overhangs, the stone-ringed bonfire pit could have been its own archaeological treasure-trove, layers of ash preserving generations of cigarette butts, roach clips, beer cans, bottlecaps, and used condoms. Larger logs, hauled into position decades ago, provided ample seating. Makeshift driftwood shacks provided storage for coolers, folding chairs, and whatever else had been lugged and left at the cove over the years.

Maybe a dozen people, Alex among them, were already there when Parker arrived. He hadn’t had to climb out his window after all; with everything else going on, relatives arriving tomorrow and the funeral on Sunday, his parents were too stressed out and distracted to care. His mother had been damn near ignoring him for days, like he didn’t exist, like she didn’t even care enough about him to be mad anymore.

His friends had a decent fire going, decent music playing. The dress code leaned more toward sweats and hoodies than swimsuits—you didn’t even try to get in the water here; the slippery rocks and churning surf made sure of that—but a roaring blaze and excessive consumption usually led to some shedding of clothes.

He knew, or at least recognized from school, everyone there. And they sure all recognized him; however familiar they’d been with him before, he was a reluctant celebrity now. Parker Abbott, the guy whose brother was one of the kids chomped by Riptide, the guy whose mom bitch-slapped a marine biologist on live TV, the guy who’d been sucker-punched by the dad of one of the other chomped kids.

The first few moments, as he stood there on the fringes of the firelight, felt a little awkward. The rest of them seemed to be evaluating how much of a buzzkill his presence was going to be, what they could and couldn’t talk about, whether it’d put a damper on the evening.

But Alex came over with a big show of friendly greeting, a bro-hug, and a beer. “Yo, dude! Glad you made it! You good, you cool?”

“Yeah,” said Parker. “Yeah, I’m good, I’m cool.” He took the beer, chugged it, crushed the can, chucked it into the fire, and grinned. “Let’s have some fun tonight, huh? What do you say?”

“I say, hell yes!”

The mood relaxed, not totally back to normal but a lot closer. His scar had scabbed over and wasn’t too gross; the swelling and bruising and pain had decreased. And he’d much rather be the Parker Abbott seen on social media getting cozy with Staci Richardson, anyway.

Who, along with Amber, showed up about half an hour later. The crowd had grown to about twenty by then, people bringing hot dogs and chips, sodas, bags of ice, more beer.

“Ohmigod there you are!” Staci cried, running right to Parker and damn near leaping into his arms.

“Whoa, hey!” Laughing, he managed not to drop his beer, but wouldn’t have minded if he had; even in sweats and a hoodie, she was a knockout and a luscious warm armful.

She hugged him, boobs pushing full and jiggly-firm against his chest, then drew back enough to regard his face. “Aww,” she cooed, lightly tracing beside the scar with a fingertip. “Does it hurt?”

“Nah, not so bad.” To prove it, emboldened by the beer and the onlookers, he pulled her close and went in for a kiss. A real kiss, no little smooch or peck on the cheek. The kind with open lips and lots of tongue action. And she was as into it as he was, as their friends whooped and hooted.

Which, of course, made him instantly hard, but Staci sure didn’t seem to mind. If anything, she pressed her hips more snugly to him and gave a little wiggle-shimmy. When the kiss ended, she held his gaze, smiling. “More later?”

“Oh, yeah!” Right then, he would have agreed to anything she wanted; if she’d suggested they go for a swim, slippery rocks and churning surf or not, he would have done it.

They parted and did the rounds, saying hi, making introductions where necessary. Amber, once again with a nod to her vegetarianism, had brought a fruit and veggie tray, but she’d also—as promised—brought tequila, complete with salt and lime wedges.

“To do it right,” she said. “Classy, like.”

“Classy,” Alex agreed, looking her over with evident appreciation and a hint of am-I-dreaming, as if he still couldn’t believe his luck.

Parker didn’t blame him; Amber was a knockout too, in her athletic way. Her lightweight sweats clung to her long legs, her hoodie was partway unzipped to reveal a sports bra or tank top, and when she bent over to put the fruit and veggie tray on the picnic blanket with the rest of the food, her taut, trim ass was flawless.

“So . . . ” Straightening up, she turned to Alex. “I hear you got the good stuff.”

“You know it,” he said with a broad grin. “Just say the word; I’m your guy.”

***

Another sharp pain to his skin. Again.

Riptide knows what this means now. It has happened too often lately. The sharp pain. Then the unavoidable sluggishness. He cannot be his majestic self. Cannot relish in his recent conquest of flesh and bone. It washes him away into a dreamlike trance.

Despite his wishes, his movements slow down. He still swims. Always. Has to. The water still flows enough over his gills to sustain him.

This pain followed by lethargy is not without its blessings. He can’t feel the aching in his claspers anymore. He can forget about the sore and engorged areas. Forget about the craving, the longing. Forget about the dire confinement he has been forced to endure.

The One is here. He is lucid enough to sense her, smell her, see her. She did not inflict this pain. It was the dark-skinned male. The male who also craves mating with the One. The male who pressed his belly against hers, who wrapped his limbs around her.

His competitor!

Slower and slower his movements become. Then he stops. No, he does not stop. He is stopped.

He feels something wrap around him. Enclose and confine him. This, too, is not unfamiliar to him. This leads to his nightmare times. The times in the above-world where he is no longer king.

He is lifted. He still has enough power in his muscles to resist.

Thrashing. Gnawing.

Still, he is lifted, up and up and out of the water. There is a grinding noise, like the sounds ever present in the above-world around him. But much louder now.

He realizes he is not thrashing and gnawing after all. Only intending to. But his massive bulk does not obey his commands. He lies helpless and immobile within this thing around his skin. Squeezing him tight.

The noise pauses for a moment. Then starts again. He goes not up but sideways. He is not able to move. Now, he is not able to breathe. No water flows over his gills. He tries again to gnash and writhe, thrash and gnaw. Nothing happens.

His heart begins to race. He feels his skin drying in the air.

Who does this to him? Why? Is it the dark-skinned male trying to conquer him?

While the One is here? And she allows this treatment? Will he die here, in this strange embrace, starved of his life-giving environment?

Why?

Suddenly, he is lowered. Down into water again. Down out of this dryness. Tube-like things get forced into his mouth, one on each side. Water flows from them, bringing his breath back. Bringing his life back.

This is not his usual place. Not the grand habitat of his home and not the puny prison tank where he has spent the last days. This is something totally unfamiliar. Much smaller.

Much worse!

His exposed skin, the skin not wrapped up with the stuff around him, feels the full impact of the cool water. His nerves and receptors take in the structure surrounding him, rippling with electromagnetic current. The structure’s walls are too close. Too closed in. Yet, he can breathe through the tubes.

He is alive. The male has not conquered him! Could never conquer him!

And the One is near. Very near.

He cannot hear the One. The noises are too loud. He just feels her, smells her, senses her.

Thrashing! Gnashing! Gnawing! He should be, but can do nothing instead. He floats in a puny prison, assaulted by its walls, unable to move or protest.

The One will not let him die. The One will protect him from whatever this is.

More noise. Vibrations. The water in the tiny tank begins sloshing around him. Something comes down over his head, his eyes. He can no longer see.

A panic grips him. He cannot thrash or gnash of his own will. Yet, he has the sensation of movement. The water sloshes and roils. The vibrations dance. The noises chug and roar.

He is being moved somewhere, taken somewhere. And there is nothing he can do about it.

***

Eventually, inevitably, conversation turned to that topic. How could it not? Biggest thing to happen in Rockshore Point in years. Current events. All over the news. Hot button, high-emotion subject. Blame game and finger pointing. Everyone had opinions.

Out of consideration for Parker, however—they were teenagers but not total assholes—they kept the talk away from the actual gory details and sensational spectacle, and more on what would, or should, happen next.

It helped he had Staci sitting next to him, his arm around her and her hand resting on his knee, doing reassuring rubs and comforting squeezes whenever the subject veered a little too close to home. The beer, weed, and a couple shots of tequila also helped. Most of all, though, the sense of understanding and acceptance helped, and the way nobody pushed or questioned him.

And he understood their point of view too . . . shit, if it hadn’t been his own brother, if it hadn’t personally affected him and his family . . . if it had been some stranger kids, tourist kids . . .

But it hadn’t.

Still, did that mean Riptide deserved to die? For being a shark, for doing what sharks do? Animal instinct, the law of the wild; nobody had told him it was right or wrong; he had no way of knowing. For that, he should be executed?

“I mean, half the time, mass shooters don’t even get the death penalty, and they know what they’re doing—”

“Except when they off themselves or the cops gun them down.”

“That’s the other half the time, what I’m saying.”

“No, yeah, especially when they’re straight white guys.”

“So they should let Riptide slide because he’s a Great White guy?”

“Ouch, hey, don’t!”

“What?”

“Just . . . don’t!”

“Yeah, come on, let’s not.”

“But my point is, he’s a shark; it’s like when they go on about surfers getting bit in ‘shark-infested’ waters . . . infested, bullshit; that’s where they live!”

“Take it easy, willya? They’re not gonna kill him.”

“Why not, because he’s an endangered species?”

“So are young black males, and that never stops—”

“Valid but not now, okay?”

“Because money, hell-lo! Oceanview was going nowhere before they got Riptide; remember? He’s their big bucks, especially with all the merch.”

Staci leaned closer. “Hey,” she said quietly into Parker’s ear, sliding her palm up and down his thigh. “Want to go for a walk or something? Take a break from all this?”

He nodded, tense and not quite trusting himself to speak, though he also wasn’t sure what he might have said.

They got up, catching the notice of the others, but Amber—did they have a signal, or were girls just telepathic?—provided a distraction, choosing that moment to also stand, announcing it was getting pretty toasty as she removed her hoodie. Just a sports bra beneath, and those lightweight sweats rode low enough on her lean hips to make you wonder what, if anything, she wore under them.

“Toasty, sure is,” said Alex, shucking his own hoodie and t-shirt in a single over-the-head motion. He may have been a stoner, but he wasn’t the soft and flabby kind; he stretched in the firelight, showing off a decent upper bod.

“Nice tats!” Amber wasted no time moving in to inspect the intricate flaming marijuana leaf inked onto his left pec.

With all attention now on those two, Staci and Parker slipped away from the blazing bonfire. Which had been getting a little toasty, yeah; the night’s coolness rushed in as fast as the darkness, and they had to pause to let their eyes adjust, grateful for a roundish moon to keep them from blundering off the trail.

“You okay?” she asked.

He nodded again.

“They didn’t mean—”

“I know. And, well, I get it, I get what they’re saying. It wasn’t his fault.”

“Like it wasn’t yours either.”

“Maybe not quite the same, but, yeah.”

Stepping with care, they made their way toward the waterline, where a jut of bluff divided Driftwood Cove from the only stretch of shoreline that could almost have passed for something like a proper beach. There’d even been a small seaside park / picnic area and marina once, at least before erosion and rockslides had pretty much demolished everything but the old concrete quay itself.

With the rushing surf covering the noises of music and voices, well out of sight of any prying eyes, Staci tugged Parker into a convenient shadowy nook and slid her arms around his neck. “Now, where were we?”

“Uh, right around here, I think,” he said, and went in for another kiss.

Then, damn, she was all over him . . . he was all over her . . . they were all over each other . . . making out like crazy, groping and gasping. It was too chilly to undress, but she let him get both hands up under her hoodie and shirt—no bra—while she grabbed his butt and ground herself against his erection. Just as he was about to helplessly blow his load, she seized his wrist, shoved his hand down her sweats, and guided him to finger her through her panties—skimpy and damp—as she moaned and bucked her hips and tossed her head, and it was the hottest thing ever, and he came so hard he thought he was gonna pass out.

“Oh, oh, oh, Parker, yes, ooh god that’s so good!”

Some sort of inarticulate caveman grunting groan was the best he could do, holding her, his knees threatening to give way. When he finally caught his breath and could manage coherent speech, he kissed her again, leaned his forehead to hers, and murmured, “Wow . . . you’re amazing.”

And yeah, he had a wet, sticky mess to deal with, but so the hell what? Worth it. Totally worth it.

“I’ll have you know, though,” she said coquettishly as they disengaged and rearranged, “I usually don’t go this far on the first date.”

“Technically, if you count the other day at Oceanview, this could be our second date.” He winced as soon as the words were out, hardly able to believe he’d uttered them—joking about the day Jeremy died? for real, dude? what kind of shithead big brother are you?—and braced for her to recoil and call him a disgusting insensitive bastard.

“Hmm,” she mused instead, her eyes twinkling in the moonlight. “Well, that’s all right, then.”

“Can’t wait for our third,” he added.

Staci made a playful nip at his lower lip. “Slow down, there, naughty boy; don’t want you to think I’m easy!”

He raised his palms, affecting an innocent look. “Never.”

She crinkled her nose at him—damn, both gorgeous and cute! Then her gaze shifted past him, and the cute nose-crinkle turned into a quizzical frown. “Hey, look . . . there’s a boat at the old quay.”

Parker turned. Sure enough, a sizable craft was moored to the concrete structure, as well as a truck, a big rig, slowly backing its oil-tanker-looking trailer down the gravel slope which had once served as a boat launch.

“Weird,” he said. “They don’t have their lights on either. I wonder what they’re up to.”

***

Marla followed a little too closely behind the semi-truck in her SUV. She was constantly reminded of this by Johnny, who was in the passenger seat.

“If that thing slams on its brakes, we are in big trouble.”

“Enough, buddy,” came Todd’s voice from the back seat.

Johnny whipped around and snapped, “I’m not your buddy, you dick!”

Todd threw up his hands in an I give up gesture and chuckled.

It was not an ideal situation. Not by a long shot.

Todd had called her a couple hours after their meeting at The Starfish Saloon, as he had promised. The plan was to meet up in the service entrance of the aquarium at midnight. With the staff being cut down to a skeleton crew, there were not any prying eyes around to catch anything. As for security, the only one working that night was a slacker named Doug who spent his on-duty time napping in the break room. He never took out his earbuds either; even the prospect of getting fired wouldn’t shake that need.

This bought the time window they needed to sneak into Oceanview and haul Riptide out of there without being seen. Or even heard. Oceanview management had never sprung for working security cameras in the back. Only in the public areas. For once, their tight pockets worked to someone’s advantage.

Johnny’d gone in first as the big rig stayed out of sight on the side street adjacent to the aquarium. He ran into the holding tank facility to administer the tranquilizer dart and get the big guy sedated before the rest of them sprang into action.

Todd had a crew of three burly men, dressed in black, crammed into the cab of the semi, ready to help with the transfer of the shark. Activists, he said. Marla didn’t ask, and they didn’t volunteer anything more.

The whole ordeal took about an hour, but then Riptide was safely in the converted oil tanker, fitted with hoses to feed a steady supply of oxygen. The dock was a relatively short ride from Oceanview. Their only hope was to pray that a cop or nosy local didn’t notice this fucked-up caravan heading toward the fucked-up boat that waited.

Marla wouldn’t back off her tailgating of the semi. Her Guppy was in there, and it was critical that they get him to wherever the fuck they were going . . . a nature preserve off the coast of the Baja peninsula, according to Todd.

They needed to get him there fast. The driving was the riskiest part for Riptide. Marla couldn’t be there with him until they reached the dock. Even then, everyone needed to hustle to keep those hoses flowing and keep that shark alive. She despised every bit of this cockamamie escape plan, but she had no other options. If she didn’t at least try? Well, the consequences were unbearable.

Todd perked up in the back seat. “Here we go. We’re here.”

***

Whatever the people at the quay were up to, Parker figured, it didn’t look very legit. Skulking around in the middle of the night with hardly any lights on and a furtive air of hasty secrecy about their movements? Yeah, not very legit at all.

The big rig had completed its ponderous reverse down the sloped launch, sliding the oil-tanker-trailer-thing into the shallows. It wallowed there, not fully sinking but not floating either, a clumsy submarine with its uppermost curve and top hatchway a few feet above the lapping, sloshing surface. Several guys in dark outfits appeared to be attaching it by tow-chains to the moored boat.

Other guys, also in dark outfits, lugged a bunch of crates and bundles from a smaller truck to the gangway, loading them aboard under the supervision of a burly, surly woman with the build of a pro wrestler.

“Drugs, maybe?” Staci wondered aloud. “The bad stuff, I mean. Heroin or that fentanyl crap?”

“Maybe. Some kind of smuggling operation, anyway. Weapons, electronics . . . Hey, what are you doing?”

She’d taken her phone from her pocket and zoomed in with the camera. “Trying to get a better look.”

“This is probably not something we want to be messing around in, Stace.”

“What if they’re human traffickers?”

“In Rockshore Point?” he asked askance.

“It could happen.”

“I guess, but . . . ”

Another vehicle, a compact SUV, rolled up. Two more guys and another woman piled out, and even from here, it was clear they were in the middle of a heated argument.

“Hey, wait, what the hell?” Staci elbowed Parker and angled the phone so he could see. “Isn’t that . . . the lady from Oceanview, the marine biologist, the one . . . ?”

“The one my mom bitch-slapped on live TV? Yeah, yeah it is.”

Looking majorly agitated too. As well as majorly distraught, and majorly pissed at both of the guys with her. Who—it was obvious—absolutely hated each other’s guts and would have been glad for any excuse to mix it up then and there. All three of them were shouting, over-talking, gesturing, interrupting. At this distance, Parker couldn’t hear them, but he didn’t have to be a lip-reader to guess at some of their exchanged words.

“Oh, my God,” Staci whispered. “They’ve got the shark. Riptide.”

“What? Where?”

“In that oil-tank thing. I bet you a million bucks.”

“Holy shit,” Parker said. “I bet you’re right. They snuck him out! It’s a fucking aquarium jailbreak!”

“Can they do that?”

“Can or not, they are! Helping him escape!”

“Like, turning him loose?”

“I dunno, or taking him somewhere else? Getting him out of here before the Oceanview bigshots have him killed, either way.”

“Shark-trafficking,” Staci said, quelling a nervous giggle. “But . . . why?”

He focused on the marine biologist lady again. One of the men—who he thought also worked at Oceanview, a scuba diver or Aqua-Ranger—appeared to be imploring her to come to her senses, be logical, be reasonable, let’s think this through. She was having none of it, punctuating her rebuttal with decisive headshakes and vehement X-slicing hand motions. When the second guy tried to add his two cents, she rounded on him and jabbed a finger at his face, an emphatic don’t you even goddamn start that made him shrug and step back, all, hey, okay, I tried.

“Because he’s her shark,” Parker said. “She raised him from a baby. No way she’s gonna stand by and watch him die. She’s gonna save his life, whatever it takes.”

“That’s . . . I . . . I can’t decide if that’s crazy or . . . ”

“Yeah.”

The three-way argument went on, resolving to nobody’s complete satisfaction. They saw the marine biologist take hold of the scuba diver guy by the upper arms, facing him, serious, some sort of I have to do this, please speech. They saw his grudging all right, I don’t like it, but, all right acquiescence and his warning if anything happens to her glare at the sneering shaggy-blond other dude . . . whose sneer only sneered more sneeringly.

Even Parker, with no damn clue who he was, wanted to pop him one. Jerk.

***

As the driver backed the big rig’s precious cargo down the boat launch and into the water, a tall, well-built woman flew into action, unleashing a small brigade of men who started affixing the tank to the side of the boat and loading the rest of the gear.

Marla would have immediately high-tailed it over to the tanker, but Johnny and Todd intervened, heading her off before she could get very far.

Though they despised each other, they both had the same goal, if for different reasons . . . to convince her not to go.

Todd took Marla by the arm, and she jerked away.

“Get off me!”

“Babe, think this through.”

Him calling her “babe” just annoyed Johnny all the more; he angled himself a little closer to Marla, ready to step in if necessary.

“You should stay here,” Todd continued. “Manage the fallout when they realize the big guy’s gone.”

“The fallout? Jesus, Todd, I could be arrested!” She got in his face. “What do I have to stay behind for? I’m already sure to lose my job, and my reputation!”

Johnny held his tongue, wanting to see where this was going. He couldn’t quite figure why Todd would be encouraging her to stay. Wouldn’t he want to get her on that boat so he could manipulate her into rekindling their bullshit romance? Wasn’t that why he’d shown up out of nowhere, offering to help out in the first place? It sure as shit wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart or some newfound passion for marine life. Nah, he was definitely up to something, and whatever it was, Johnny didn’t like it.

Still, if it kept Marla from getting on that boat and throwing her whole life and career away . . . maybe it wasn’t entirely bad.

Todd reached for her arm again and again was thwarted. “Come on, hey. Calm down. We have a full crew. It’s not a huge vessel; look at it. There’s no extra room for you.”

“I’ll sleep on the deck! I won’t get in anybody’s way!”

“We’ll take care of the shark and get him where he needs to go. These activists do not joke around, babe. It could get a little dicey with the authorities. You don’t need to get involved with that. You need to trust me!”

Marla’s eyes widened. Johnny knew Todd was about to get smacked, verbally or physically.

But he didn’t want her to go either, and it sure as hell wasn’t like he could tag along. He had to stay. He needed his job, and no matter what calamity was about to come down on Oceanview, he knew they’d still need him to keep up with day-to-day operations. If Marla was here, he could keep a supportive eye on her, help her get through this nightmare.

Maybe even finally break through her shell and get her to realize he was the one, the man who never fucked her over. Unlike this other guy, this scheming asshole.

Still up in Todd’s face, Marla barked, “Trust you? Are you fucking kidding me? I’m going with you. I don’t give a shit. I don’t care what happens to me. Riptide is not going anywhere without me! Got it?”

Todd looked more frustrated than ever, and kind of stuck. Whatever else, it was clear he was fond of Marla, didn’t want to put her in danger or piss her off any further. But he also had the rest of the crew eyeballing them urgently; they had to get this shitshow on the road. Pronto.

Johnny didn’t want to think about that. If Doug woke up for some reason and realized Oceanview’s prize exhibit and/or doomed convict had somehow flown the coop, they’d all have a world of hurt coming down upon them.

Her getting on that boat, though . . . her leaving with Todd and these people . . .

He pushed past Todd, none too gently, though nowhere near as roughly as he would have liked. “Marla, you don’t have to do this,” he said, meeting and holding her gaze. “We’ll figure out how to deal with the press, with Don.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m saying it, but I agree with Todd. You shouldn’t be involved in this any more than you already are. Let these guys take the heat. That’s what they do. They know what they’re doing.”

He shot Todd a you goddamn better know what you’re doing warning glare. Todd responded with a curt nod and wisely chose not to open his mouth.

“Johnny! You of all people should know that I am not leaving my Guppy in their hands! I’m his caretaker. I’m the fucking marine biologist here! You know that I have to go. You know it!”

Johnny felt a pang of regret for pushing the issue. Maybe he’d blown it already, should have just kept his trap shut.

Todd, meanwhile, was walking toward the boat with his hands in the air in a gesture that seemed to indicate he had decided to throw in the towel. Judging by the are you shitting me? look on the face of the other woman, the one some of the guys had referred to as Skate, he was far from done with arguments for tonight.

His problem.

Johnny followed Marla to the back of her SUV, where she was taking out two large duffel bags full of equipment. She slammed the trunk and handed him her keys, a heavy set, including work, car, and home. The fob was a rubberized aqua-blue plastic casing, an Oceanview souvenir embossed with the park logo framing a promo photo of Riptide.

“Please take my car back?” she asked. “Maybe check in on my condo once a week or so? I probably have some stuff in the fridge that will go bad . . . ”

Johnny took the hand holding the keys, then pulled her in and gave her a hug. He half expected her to recoil, but she hugged him back and held on tight.

“I got it,” he said. “I’ll be checking in too, and you better fucking answer your phone. Okay?”

“Thank you. Thank you for everything.” Breaking the embrace, she picked up her duffel bags. “I’ll miss you, Johnny.”

“I’ll miss you too. Take care of yourself . . . and that damn shark.”

***

The marine biologist headed for the boat, pausing by the oil-tanker-thing long enough to rest a hand on its curved hull in an it’s okay, I know, I’m sorry, it’ll be okay posture that confirmed 100% yep, contents may include fugitive Great White. The scuba diver guy hung back, leaning against the SUV with arms crossed and expression grim.

A flurry of final activity followed—last crates loaded, crew/passengers boarding, engines rumbling in preparation, mooring lines being cast off.

“They’re leaving,” said Staci. “What do we do? Call someone? The police? The . . . the Coast Guard?”

He didn’t answer. At the boat’s stern, the marine biologist gripped the rail, her stricken gaze fixed on the giant metal cylinder set to be towed off to wherever the hell they were going. Uncertain future, uncertain fate. Throwing away her job, possibly her freedom. Giving up everything. Risking it all.

For what?

For a shark.

“Parker?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“Don’t call anybody.”

“But they’re leaving. They’re getting away.”

“Yeah.”

“Are . . . are you sure? I mean, your brother and . . . ”

“Killing Riptide won’t bring Jeremy back. He’s a shark. He didn’t know any better. Let her save him. Let them go.”

She moved closer, curling her arm through his, resting her head on his shoulder. “Okay.”

They stood in silence, watching the boat chug out to sea until the night’s vast blackness swallowed it whole.

PART TWO:

Laguna Cortez

TODD SULKED INTO the ship’s mess and plunked himself down at the far end of the table, looking disgruntled.

Skate, feeling none too gruntled herself about the mess he and his dick had gotten them all into, shot him a wry glance. “So, how’s it going, lover boy?” she asked. “Said your goodbyes yet?”

“Fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know damn well what it means.”

In the galley, Yellow—who could cook, had to give him some credit, and who was also scrawny enough to maneuver in the absurdly close confines—discreetly turned down his music. The better to eavesdrop, maybe, but Skate was just as glad for the reprieve. Not that she had anything against opera per se; it just got old pretty fast, people warbling in Italian or some shit. Also, about the last thing she would have expected someone like Yellow to be into. Still, here they were, strange but true.

“Yeah, okay.” Todd raked the fingers of both hands through his shaggy blond hair, then laid his palms flat on the tabletop and fixed her with an earnest expression. “I’ve been thinking, and—”

“Ahh, fuck.” Skate pinched the bridge of her nose, in the divot between two of the bumps left over from old breaks. “You’ve been thinking. With your brain this time?”

He bristled. “Hey, I got us this far, didn’t I? We’ve got the shark! Didn’t even cost us anything outside the standard operation either.”

“Except for an extra passenger who could blow the whole deal.”

“Right, well, that’s what I’ve been thinking about—”

“With your brain?” she repeated.

Yellow snickered from the galley and turned it into a cough.

Todd glanced around as if to make sure it was still only the three of them within earshot. Which, of course, it was; the captain was a close-mouthed son of a fuck who expected his crew to follow orders and mind their own business. He cared about his ship first and his profits second, and would’ve been right at home in the olden days when flogging or keelhauling were accepted disciplinary measures. The crew, well aware of this, and well aware of the hefty bonuses awaiting them if they pulled this job off successfully, were only too glad to oblige.

Most of the hired muscle had been left behind at Rockshore Point to deal with the big rig and warehouse and other sundry bits of cleanup to cover their trail. Only a couple of others, regulars Skate had worked with before, were along for this little pleasure cruise.

Then, of course, there was Todd. All things being equal, now that they actually had the shark secured and en route, she would’ve been just as happy to cut his throat and throw his cocky ass overboard . . . but the boss had this thing about honoring his word and keeping his promises.

Todd’s sexy ex, whose tagging along had not been part of the plan, was another matter. No way in hell she’d stand for it once she found out what they were really all about.

“Look, just listen,” wheedled Todd. “Come on, hear me out—”

“Same lines you used on her? If you call me ‘babe,’ I’m gonna feed you your own ear.”

He blinked as if he still, after all they’d been through, couldn’t quite wrap his head around the notion of any woman being able to resist his bad-boy charms. Even one old enough to be his mother and capable of cracking his head like a walnut in the crook of her arm.

“Skate,” he said, all serious now. “Here’s the thing; I’m saying, maybe we don’t have to kill her.”

“Uh-huh?” She raised her right eyebrow, the scar-split one.

“Well, see, she can help us.”

“Help us?” The eyebrow went higher.

“With the shark, I mean. Getting him there alive. She was right; this isn’t the same as a moose or a lion or whatever. He needs special care. There’s a reason these bastards don’t survive in captivity. If we pull up with fifteen feet of dead fish in a tank, the boss won’t be happy.”

Skate pursed her lips. “What are you suggesting, then? We take her with us all the way to Laguna Cortez, and then, what? Let her go? She just walks away and leaves her precious sharky-poo?”

Todd squirmed. “I dunno, maybe the boss can work out a deal, hire her or something—”

“Hire her?!” Skate whooped.

“What? He’s got other animal-wranglers—”

“Yeah, who aren’t personally attached to the damn things.”

Yellow poked his head out of the galley. “Yanno,” he said, “she is pretty hot, a mighty fine piece. And you did say she loves the shark—”

“Gross!” yelled Todd, springing up. “No fucking way! I oughta—”

“You oughta,” said Skate, “sit your butt back down before you do something stupid. Stupider.”

“But he—” Todd waved wildly at the tiny doorway where Yellow had hastily withdrawn his head like a turtle tucking into its shell.

“Butt. Down. Sit.”

He did, and managed to refrain from spouting off any further nonsense, only aiming a sullen, sulky pout in her direction. Which also wasn’t going to work on her; if anything, it made her want to pop him one in the chops all the more.

However, she had to admit, he did have a point. The boss expected a return on his initial investment and certainly wouldn’t pay out the big buck bonuses if they failed to deliver. A dead shark would be no use to him or to anybody . . . and a dead marine biologist may well lead to a dead shark.

“Fine,” she said. “We’ll leave it up to the boss to decide what to do with her when we get there.”

Todd’s shoulders sagged in relief.

“But she already knows too much,” Skate went on. “We sure as fuck don’t need her finding out any more or sharing what she knows. You deal with her phone—swipe it, disable it, make it look like an accident, whatever—and keep her focused on the shark instead of asking questions. Can you do that?”

“I can do that.”

“Good. You better. She’s your responsibility . . . until and unless you fuck up and you both become mine.”

***

“If you could see me now, old man!” Simon Klim lifted his glass in an ironic toast, the balcony’s marble railing sun-warmed beneath his other hand, a fresh sea breeze fluttering the hem of his brightly-patterned tropical shirt.

Part of the irony being, of course, that even if his old man could see him now, the crusty bastard still wouldn’t approve.

Never mind the private mansion on the private island overlooking the private lagoon. Never mind the tax-free millions secreted in various offshore accounts. Never mind the float-plane, the yacht, the luxurious landscaping, the expensive objets d’art. Never mind the gold Rolex, the heavy ruby-and-diamond ring. Never mind the personal five-star chef, the wine-cellar, the menagerie of exotic animals, the topless women cavorting in the infinity pool. Never mind the long list of notable names in his address book, a veritable who’s who of politicians, celebrities, media moguls, and captains of industry.

Nope, none of that would mean jack-shit to the old man. If anything, it’d only further his scorn, his conviction his son was a worthless, useless, no-good little wanker.

Daddy issues, and weren’t they fun?

You’d think, Simon being in his damn sixties now, it’d be better. He’d be over it. No longer feeling like he had to prove something to the old man, or live up to unrealistic expectations, or make him proud. As if any of that ever would have happened.

And as if it mattered anymore; the old man was currently pushing ninety, pissing and dribbling the dwindling years of his miserable life away in some state-run nursing home, cataract-blinded and out of his head.

Didn’t stop Simon from kind of wishing he could rub the old man’s nose in it, even if just a little. Look at me, look at me, the one you said would never amount to anything! Rich and successful beyond your wildest dreams!

Ah, well. No point. By now, the old man might not even remember he had a son.

A son who, yes, was in his damn sixties, without a wife or kids or grandkids to show for it . . . which suited him just fine. He’d realized early on that marriage was a trap, that family was trouble. Burdens, obligations, expense. This was no kind of world in which to make lasting attachments, anyway. A world in which terrible shit went on all the time. A world where the more people you cared about, the more leverage other people had against you.

If his years were starting to catch up with him—and let’s be honest, they were—well, so what? He’d enjoyed them greatly, at least the years since he’d discovered and embraced his true calling. His childhood, teens, and young adulthood, stifled by the old man, were best forgotten. The hedonistic here-and-now was what counted, for as long as he could make it last.

Yeah, he’d paid for his lifestyle in various ways. His heart, health, and liver sure weren’t what they’d once been. The brightly-patterned tropical shirt, one of many in his wardrobe, was less eccentricity and more to hide his gut. Likewise, the Hemingway-style straw hat’s primary purpose was no longer as fashion accessory but to compensate for a receding hairline. His favorite foods gave him indigestion more often than not, a good satisfying shit was cause for celebration, and he chugged and puffed his way up a flight of stairs like a locomotive climbing a mountain.

No regrets.

Except maybe for his dick. These days, just to get it to half-mast required boner pills and a gadget pumped up by a squeezy-bulb. Having it stay at attention long enough to do anything with it was another matter, as was being able to do enough with it to manage even a lackluster nut. Really, sometimes, it didn’t seem worth the effort.

Not that he’d let it affect his work. After all, Beethoven had been stone-deaf, but that hadn’t stopped him composing great symphonies, enduring and eternal masterpieces sure to resonate forever down through the ages.

True, something like Barnyard Beauties was no “Für Elise,” and few would liken Lion Cuntry Safari to “Ode to Joy,” but art was still art!

***

The advent of the internet and reality show culture, Honey thought, sure had changed things in the wonderful world of adult entertainment.

Ruining it, some said.

The same some who’d bitched about how home video and amateur sex tapes were sure to be the downfall of commercial porn. Whose predecessors had bitched about how movies were going to destroy skin-mags, whose predecessors before them had bitched about photography heralding the doom of painted nudes and private boudoir sketches.

Follow the line back far enough, she figured, and you’d find Neanderthals bitching that those sculpted fertility goddess totems meant nobody would care about boobies drawn in red ocher on cave walls anymore. Follow the line forward, it’d be future beings bitching about alien orgasmo-beams and AI pleasure bots rendering everything else obsolete.

Yeah, well, there’d been dildos and melons with holes cut in them since prehistoric times too, and sex toys still hadn’t brought about the end of good ol’ in-person flesh-on-flesh fucking. Nor would it ever, unless humanity evolved to . . . what, sentient energy wavelengths? Who knew. And even then, even then, Honey would bet the house and lot, there’d still be ways to get down and dirty.

Her, she wasn’t going to hold her breath or wring her hands about it. Society would adapt. Smut, like life in those dinosaur movies, would find a way. “Basic human nature, innit?” as Derek would say. Always going to be the naughty, the pervy, the taboo. Always going to be someone providing it and someone willing to pay for it.

“An’ that’s our bread an’ butter, love,” Derek would also say. “We just ride the tide, roll with the punches, oi?”

He was right, of course. Still, the business sure had changed since they got their start; there was no denying that. Lots more competition out there now. Used to be, you’d have to go deliberately searching for porn, often along illicit and dangerous avenues. Nowadays, you about had to wade through it, shoving it out of the way, just trying to find whatever you really were looking for.

So much to choose from. An abundance, a glut. Overload. Anyone with a camera and a computer could put whatever they wanted online.

What it meant, as Simon often told them, was that to succeed, to shine, to rise above and stand out, you had to be special. Had to bring something different to the table. Had to be willing to spend money to make money, produce a good product, take pride in your work. Push the limits, be avant-garde.

Not that there was anything new, special, different, or avant-garde about bestiality, Honey supposed. People had been doing that, and depicting it, since the dawn of time too. It was in classical mythology, chicks getting banged by swans and bulls. It was in history, from trained leopards in the Roman coliseum to lonely shepherds giving it to their sheep, to the probably-rumor about Catherine the Great and the horse. Shit, hadn’t one of the Tarzan movies even included the Lord of the Apes humping a she-gorilla? Which, really, made sense when you thought about it. Didn’t an entire subset of incels devoutly believe women preferred actual alpha-dog dogs to weak-chinned omega losers like themselves? Which, maybe, also made sense when you thought about it . . .

“As a species,” Simon maintained, “we’re basically sick and depraved and deeply fucked-up. If it’s out there, someone will want to stick something in it or stick it in someone . . . and someone else will want to watch. A lot of someone elses will want to watch. As well as pay handsomely for the privilege.”

What it boiled down to, though, was that the current crop of aspiring would-be starlets gathered at Laguna Cortez in hope of appearing in the next Simon Klim underground blockbuster were a far cry from the kind of “talent” who’d tended to feature in such flicks in the old days. No strung-out junkies here, dead-eyed, desperate to do anything for a fix. No crack-whores and malnourished alley-skanks to be humiliated and debased. Not for Simon Klim. He didn’t go in for that.

“Victimization isn’t my vibe,” he declared. “True, some customers do prefer it; to each their own, more power to them. Me, I want my actors to be willing, and happy, and enjoy their work. While, yes, okay, also being sick and depraved and deeply fucked-up.”

And that, according to Simon, was where the internet and reality show culture had indeed changed the wonderful world of adult entertainment . . . for the better.

Indeed, as Honey lounged poolside in the shade of an umbrella, sipping a fruity rum drink and pretending to leaf through a copy of Cosmo while observing these latest hopefuls from behind overlarge sunglasses, she had to agree he had a point.

They were a lot younger, healthier, vibrant, and prettier than might have been seen in most dog-and-pony shows a decade ago. Such, back then, had tended to be more the domain of the desperate junkies or way-past-their-prime porn queens reduced to taking whatever they could get before fading into obscurity. Not first-class pieces of ass like this.

But these girls, raised on a steady eyes-on-the-prize diet of American Idol and The Bachelor . . . addicted to likes, followers, and subscribers instead of coke or heroin . . . they knew beauty was a dime a dozen and it took more than a sexy smile and a nice pair of tits to make it big. It was all about competition. All about going further, doing more, than the next girl. They had their Instagrams and their OnlyFans, they sold their panties and bathwater to eager patrons. They did dares, took challenges. Anything for fame and attention. Anything to proudly demonstrate their own ownership of their bodies and beauty, if perhaps with underlying notes of defiant flipping-the-bird to overly controlling parents and patriarchal society.

Even now, their conversation was like listening to an X-rated game of “Can You Top This” as they took turns boasting about their on-camera sexual exploits. As if awards would be given out in various categories: Longest Dick Taken, Thickest Dick Taken, Most Dicks at Once, Superior Achievement in Bukkake, Best Lesbian Scene, Weirdest Object Used as a Sex Toy. They compared fetishes they’d indulged by viewer request: food porn, fisting, spankings, water sports, foot stuff—

“Okay yeah, for foot stuff?” a multi-tatted, multi-pierced girl who called herself Flex cut in. “Check this.” She then, peeling off her skimpy bikini bottoms and sitting on the edge of the hot tub, underwent an act of such acrobatic contortion as to defy belief, bending her legs in a manner that left her sucking one of her own big toes like a first-rate fellatrix while inserting the toes of her other foot into her shaved and tattooed snatch.

A flurry of “No way!” and “What the shit!?” outcries arose from the others, some of whom backed away from Flex like she’d suddenly shed her human skin to reveal a triple-jointed giant spider or something.

Honey dropped her copy of Cosmo, almost choked on a sip of fruity rum drink, and made a mental note to tell Simon they’d have to write that one into a script.

***

Kaelinn did the polite fake-smile pageant clap as Flex re-contorted herself, rose in an angular marionette pirouette, took a bow, and then jumped into the pool.

“That was fucking unreal!” redheaded twins Doni and Dani enthused in unison when Flex surfaced, flinging water droplets from her spiky hair.

“That was fucking disturbing,” said girl-next-door Brooke, who’d retreated as far as the lounge chairs, hugging herself.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” asked pigtailed Reenie, in her lispy lolita little-girl voice.

“Nah.” Flex rolled her shoulders, interlaced her fingers, then bent her arms into an elbow-twisting pretzel. “I’ve had lots of practice.”

“Maybe so, at that,” said Kaelinn, “but do you really think you belong here?”

“Excuse me?” Flex turned to her—they all turned to her; she had the regal, almost haughty queen-bee bearing to go with her Malibu Barbie perfection.

With a slight oh please scoffing, Kaelinn gestured at their surroundings. The lavish house, the lush gardens, the blemishless blue sky and spectacular scenery. “This isn’t some circus sideshow, you know.”

“Uh . . . ” Nyonne held up a finger, a scholarly index finger rather than the emphatic middle finger Flex looked ready to pop. “You do,” she said to Kaelinn, “realize we’re here to make pornos, don’t you?”

“Not just any pornos either,” said Doni.

“Simon Klim pornos!” added Dani.

They squealed and jiggled at each other, the same way they’d probably done as excited tweens. Only most tweens didn’t have matched sets of H-cups and correspondingly curvy asses. There was a lot, a lot, of creamy skin on display. Yay, body positivity and all that, but if they hadn’t slathered on the sunscreen, they were going to fry like slabs of bacon.

“I am well aware,” Kaelinn loftily informed them.

“Simon Klim,” Brooke said. “Director of Kennel Club Cuties, The True Story of Goldilocks, Patty at the Petting Zoo—”

“Animals.” Flex boosted herself onto the edge of the pool. “For real. Not special effects, not dudes in fursuits. Actually fucking actual fucking animals.”

“Eeeeee!” chorused Dani and Doni. Their sentences overlapped in giddy glee—“can’t wait / wonder what / remember the pony? / Lancelot! / Mom and Dad were so mad”—until they noticed everyone else staring at them. They giggled, cherubic but with impish gleams in their eyes.

“We asked to hire a pony for our birthday party one year,” Doni explained.

“Lancelot,” Dani said. “A palomino Shetland; he was the fuzziest most adorable baby you ever saw!”

After a dubious, evaluating pause, Nyonne asked it. “Did you fuck him?”

“No.” Dani sighed. “Mom caught us before we could.”

“We touched his dick, though!” Doni jiggled and giggled again. “It was huge.”

“Huge.” Dani nodded. “Ever see a chunk of pork tenderloin at the butcher shop? Huge like that, pinkish-purple, and slippery.”

Reenie raised a hand. “I taught my cockapoo how to lick my coochie. My followers loved it!” She simpered shyly. “I did too!”

“I almost got fucked by a goat once,” Brooke volunteered.

“Black Philip live deliciously kind of deal?” asked Flex.

“I wish! No, 4-H, at the county fair. Big hairy, horny billy goat. He knocked me over in his pen. I went to get up, on my hands and knees, and next I know he’s on top of me, bleating and grunting and going to town. If it hadn’t been for my jeans . . . ”

“How was it?” Dani and Doni leaned forward, avid in stereo.

“Kinda gross, really. He spit, and he stank, and he came all over my back.”

“My Halloween stream last year?” Flex chortled. “I set this goal where, if we hit twenty thousand dollars, I’d stick a live snake up my vag, right?”

Even Kaelinn paused at that. “Did you hit the goal?” she asked.

“Blew past it. Fifty thousand. So, I took two snakes—”

“Oh no, no!” wailed Reenie, laughing.

“—one up my vag, one up my ass. And I’m not talking skinny little danger noodle garter snakes; my roommate had pet corn snakes, maybe three feet long.”

“And your roommate let you do that?” Nyonne asked.

“I didn’t stick them head-first or anything. Tail-first, about halfway, and then let them slither the rest of the way out on camera.” Snakelike herself, she flicked her tongue across her lips. “Lemme tell you, when they were wiggling around in there? Ohhhh man! People went nuts!”

“Yeah?” Dani and Doni leaned further forward.

“Freak,” sneered Kaelinn.

Flex rounded on her again. “Well then, what’s your story, princess?”

She hesitated, then said, “You know that dolphin gang-bang video?”

Uproar ensued. “No!” / “Fuck me!” / “That was you?!”

Kaelinn shook her head. “It wasn’t me, all right? It wasn’t me. But my sister went to school with the girl it really happened to.”

“I heard she denied any . . . ” Brooke made a circle with her forefinger and thumb, and poked her other forefinger at it. “Y’know, penetration.”

“Bet that’s a lie,” Flex said. “Bet it got all the way up in there, but she didn’t want to admit it.”

“Maybe she liked it,” Doni said.

“I would,” Dani said. “Dolphins are sexy.”

“I heard,” said Reenie, “she tried to kill herself later.”

An awkward silence fell with a thud.

“Buzzkill,” Flex said after a moment.

“Sorry.”

“Anyway, though,” Nyonne said, looking back at Kaelinn. “I don’t think friend-of-a-friend hearsay counts for much.”

Kaelinn, affronted, set her fists on her hips, proud raspberry-nippled 38 Cs jutting. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to see what happens, then, won’t we?”

***

Honey pretended to be immersed in the Cosmo quiz, glad for the oversized sunglasses to conceal her eyerolls and the magazine to cover her smirk.

They were so cute. Innocent, even, in their way.

Fondling a birthday party pony?

A coochie-lapping cockapoo?

Awww. How sweet.

Brooke’s goat story, now, that could’ve been something, if it’d gone anywhere except all over her back and the seat of her jeans. And the snake thing, she had to admit, points for creativity there; Flex had interesting potential.

As for Nyonne, her sleek greyhound and silky afghan videos were beautiful and artistic and romantic . . . they just needed more than graceful nudity and interpretive dance.

And Kaelinn? In Honey’s estimation, likely all talk and no action, at least in the bestiality department. Probably did believe it was special effects and dudes in fursuits. Witnessing her rude awakening promised to be a hoot.

Seriously, this wasn’t amateur hour. Especially if Simon’s latest project panned out. Even she, once known as Honey Potts, star of Caravan Camel Sluts and Tiger Bait, wondered if he might be going too far this time.

To these new girls, she was just some aging bimbo here to play den mother and keep their hissy-pissy catfights from getting out of hand. Still with a rockin’ bod—three cheers for gravity-defying silicone, ass-lifts, and tummy tucks—but, she had to admit, her face was starting to show the years . . . and her cunt, the mileage. Didn’t mean she couldn’t fuck rings around the rest of them, though. Just, the majority of Simon’s discerning clientele, and Simon himself, preferred variety, novelty, and fresh young blood.

Speak of the devil, guess who had descended from his balcony on high? Crossing the patio, flip-flops flapping, garish parrots on his shirt, the ever-present Panama perched atop his balding head. He looked more like a portly Midwesterner retiree on holiday than the king of niche animal porn.

“Ladies!” he hailed, spreading his arms in an expansive gesture. “I take it you’re settling in well?”

The girls immediately flocked to him, commencing with the adoration, adulation, and ass-kissing. He basked in it, slanting Honey a wry smile past the jostle of lithe supple bodies. She nodded back, fanning herself with the magazine.

Oh, they’d gotten up to some sexual athletics in their day, all right. Fucked each other senseless more than once. It mellowed into companionable complacency and familiarity over the years; they could have passed for an old married couple, the Midwestern retiree and his surgically-enhanced trophy wife.

“Now, now,” he said, laughing. “Let’s save some for later, shall we? I have news you might like to hear.”

The girls fell quiet, and Honey perked an ear.

“I’m delighted to tell you, your potential co-star is en route! Should be here within a few days, and we’ll hopefully begin filming shortly thereafter!”

A clamor of eager questions arose, which Simon quelled with a raised hand.

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. Suffice to say, this will be unlike any of my previous productions . . . and . . . ” He swept them with a wicked, mischievous twinkle. “He’s even something of a celebrity!”

“Oh my god, like when you had the dog from the Air Bud movies?” Reenie hopped up and down, pigtails and pert titties bouncing, clapping her hands.

Which, technically, they hadn’t . . . one golden retriever was pretty much like any other . . . but the legend persisted, the way similar legends about Lassie and Rin Tin Tin and Roy Rogers’s horse Trigger did.

“Not quite, not quite! But, I promise, it’s gonna be big!”

“Big,” tittered Doni and Dani.

Simon tipped them a wink. “That too, oh yes!”

“Can you at least tell us what kind—” Nyonne began, but he shushed her with a no-no-no finger wag.

“I’ll give you a hint,” he allowed in the tone of an indulgent uncle. “It’s good that you all know how to swim!”

Another clamor arose, Simon beaming benignly but refusing to eke out an iota more. He played them well; he always did. Hell, he’d played her well, thirty-some years ago, when he’d first broached the subject of maybe taking the movie-making in a different direction.

“In the meantime,” he said, “I also wanted to let you know, we’re having company this evening. A modest little get-together of some . . . important, influential . . . guests.”

Nobody needed further hints to know what that meant. The girls gasped and grinned and shared excited glances.

“So,” he continued, “I suggest you rest up, refresh, make yourselves ready. It could be a busy night!”

They dashed off, seizing towels and discarded bikini tops and personal effects along the way. Simon watched them go—so did Honey; quite a cavalcade of rumps it was—and then plunked with a heavy groan onto the lounge chair beside her.

“Whoremonger,” Honey said.

He placed a hand to his heart. “That hurts my feelings.”

She snerked.

“And it’s not fair,” he added. “It’s not prostitution as such.”

“As such.”

“Oh, you.”

“I take it,” she said, sliding down her sunglasses to peer at him over the top rims, “you’ve heard from my sister.”

“Yes, yes I have.” Simon lifted his Panama enough to wipe his brow.

“Has she had to kill anybody yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“She must be disappointed.”

“Now, now. Skate’s just as much a professional in her field as we are in ours.”

“You hardly need to tell me,” Honey said.

Separated by a decade and a half, she and Skate were about as far from the Doni/Dani twin dynamic as Pluto was from the sun, but they did have similar work ethics, and not entirely dissimilar early job experiences. Stripping and roller-derby weren’t all that different; both were highly physical occupations involving fitness, endurance, and the ability to put on a good show for the paying customers.

If, from there, okay, Honey had gone on to become a camel-fucking porn star while Skate became a knee-breaker mercenary, well, it still held true enough.

Simon’s gaze roved to the infinity pool, and the spectacular lagoon beyond, ringed by an atoll of coral reefs and smaller islets. The crystal-blue depths would have been ideal for snorkeling and scuba diving, had the island’s previous owner not been a gun-running drug-lord who’d stocked it with sharks and used it for a body-drop.

“But,” he said pensively, “there is a slight . . . complication.”

***

They swim.

Endlessly, endlessly.

The sun shines; the sun sets.

The rains come; the rains go.

The tides rise; the tides fall.

And endlessly, endlessly, they swim.

Fewer of them now than there were. Fewer and fewer as time passes by.

Not lost to hunger; the tide and the currents bring prey, washing it over the jagged coral, through the shallows, through narrow crevices in the rock. No, not to hunger.

Though, in the memories of the longest-lived, there once was other prey, prey dropped from floating structures above. Sometimes, dead prey, perhaps already dismembered. Sometimes, live prey, hot-blooded, alive and kicking, alive and thrashing, alive and screaming and struggling, reeking of terror.

Such prey has become scarce. To the younglings, it is as much a myth as that of the vast open oceans beyond. The oceans from whence their ancestors came. The oceans, wide and teeming, into which, only by the highest of tides in the greatest of storms, are others of their number occasionally swept.

Never to be seen again. Smelled and sensed? Perhaps, but far and faintly. Just enough to suggest the myths might be true.

Hunger has taken none. The ocean, not many.

Time itself? Age and infirmity, the creeping slow and weak decline?

Yes.

Then, there have been the killings. Rage and revenge. Disputes over prey, territory, mates.

Mates . . .

To the younglings, this may as well also be myth.

And there will be no more younglings soon enough.

The last mature males, battle-scarred and harrowed from the savagery of several seasons, of frenzied females in need, in the grip of biological imperative to fuck and breed, are no more. The last male pups, rarer and smaller and weaker than their sisters, were torn apart in utero or devoured by birth-maddened mothers.

Now, only females remain. Each solitary, aware but wary, keeping to her own portion of the spacious lagoon. Cruising through crystal-blue waters, gliding aquamarine expanses, diving indigo depths.

Endlessly, endlessly.

They swim.

***

“Sorry, mate,” Derek said. “Grotto’s closed. Undergoin’ a bit o’ reno, innit?”

There were signs posted to that very effect, and the doors were locked, but Simon had asked him if he’d mind stationing down there for the evening to further deter any wandering guests. Many of whom—bunch o’ spoiled rich cunts—simply weren’t used to not having anything they wanted offered up on a silver platter, let alone being told no.

So, damn right he didn’t mind standing guard, even if it meant missing the party. Being able to look ‘em in the eye, deny ‘em . . . seeing it dawn on ‘em that there weren’t nothin’ they could do about it . . . like pouty kids being told for the first time in their lives they couldn’t have more cake . . . a totally unaccustomed experience for them, and not one they cared for or knew how to deal with.

Fuckin’ priceless, that.

All their wealth, power, and influence, but them being turned away and sent off same as common rabble anybody else?

Did Derek himself a world of good, though he was careful not to flaunt it or let it show. Lording it over them might’ve been satisfying, but in the long run, it could well bite him in the ass. And not in the fun way.

Besides, a little peace and quiet down guarding the grotto struck him a better way to spend his evening than slogging through another of Simon’s posh and fancy to-dos. Give him a lager and basket of greasy chips over frou-frou fizzy wine and caviar any day. A chummy pub with a game on the telly, a round or two of darts, rather than wheeling and dealing and manipulative scheming.

He did wonder how the new girls were getting on. How long would it take for the dazzle to wear off or for them to realize they had more chance of being singled out by some podgy old Wall Street or Washington windbag than striking lucky with a rockstar or Hollywood A-lister.

Ah, well, they’d get through it. Most of them usually did. Depended on how bad they wanted it, their big opportunity, their golden ticket. By the time they’d come this far, the in-for-a-penny mentality tended to take over . . . that, and peer pressure, and spite.

The one currently serving as arm-candy to the blustering politico trying to tell Derek he was a valued guest and a very close personal friend of Simon Klim and therefore should be allowed to make use of any amenities as he saw fit? She was a looker, all right. Which, of course, they all were, and he wouldn’t kick none of them out of bed, but this one’s ebony grace and elegance made for a real head-turner. She watched Derek with cool, evaluating eyes as he repeated his message.

“Main pool’s open,” he added. “And the private soakers on the west terrace, if that’s more your cuppa. Like I said, though, mate, sorry . . . grotto’s closed for reno.”

“Why?” the politico demanded, as if he had a right to know.

Derek shrugged, briefly caught the girl’s gaze, and figured he could spill a bean or two. “Gonna serve as the primary set for Mr. Klim’s next feature, innit?”

“Is that so? Do tell!”

“Dunno much more than that, mate,” he said, which was a baldfaced lie. “Just work here, don’t I? One o’ the help.” Which was a little closer to the truth, if falling far short. He hadn’t been simply one o’ the help going on a good decade now.

His tone of apologetic servility, fake though it was, mollified the politico’s ego. Waxing magnanimous, the smarmy cock accepted Derek was only doing his job and sour-grapesed it like he hadn’t been so set on visiting the grotto anyway. Groping a hand that had never done a hard day’s labor in his life to the girl’s sleekly evening-gowned hip, calling her “my dear” because he’d probably forgotten her name if he’d even bothered to ask it in the first place, he suggested they avail themselves of one of the private soaking pools on the west terrace instead.

All the same, they were, every last one of them.

The girl murmured agreeably, but as they turned to go, she slid Derek a look conveying she’d likely be back to talk to him later.

Well, didn’t mind that either, did he? Not that he could say much to her, though; Simon was an easygoing enough boss in many ways, but he treasured his surprises and loved capturing reaction shots on camera at the moments the girls realized what they’d signed up for.

This time? This time oughta be a fuckin’ doozy.

Insane, really. Flat-out bonkers. Not to mention dangerous, if not downright deadly. Simon had pushed it pretty far in the past—a particular incident during the filming of Lion Cuntry Safari still woke Derek with cold-sweat nightmares—but thus far, none of their cinematic endeavors had proved fatal.

Whole other genre, that, and one Simon Klim steered clear of. Not that he looked down on snuff much. Just weren’t his thing.

Big risk, this one. Biggest yet. Most difficult and challenging in myriad ways. Could be the apex of Klim’s career and legacy, if they could pull it off. Or, could be absolute disaster.

By the sounds of it, the party was well into its next phase, and no further guests had ventured to the subterranean sub-level housing the grotto. Derek hadn’t seen the day’s progress so figured he’d slip in for a look-see.

He unlocked the door, then made sure to lock it again behind him before surveying the scene.

Under normal circumstances, the space would have been liquidly lit with rippling blues and greens to create an underwater effect. The floor, walls, and ceiling were done up like a shimmering sea-cave, with sculpted natural-looking contours and convenient formations in place of furniture. A long swim-spa style pool, the kind that made a constant current so you could do laps without actually going anywhere, had been designed to resemble a cove at the bottom of a waterfall, said waterfall pouring from a high ledge. The swim-spa’s outlet flowed into a meandering lazy-river kind of feature, perfect for drifting along, pocked with smaller pool-nooks. The outermost curve of wall consisted primarily of a curved, panoramic picture window with a stunning view of the lagoon . . . but not any ordinary view of the lagoon . . . the lagoon from well below the surface, an aquarium view, a window into kelp and coral and ocean life.

At the moment, however, the serene blue-green mood lighting was off, and stark construction-zone LEDs cast everything in a harsh, unflattering glare, turning the panoramic window into a sheeting reflective blur. Wrecked the illusion, robbed the magic and mystery, made the whole place look shoddy and ugly and fake. Like seeing behind the scenes inside a theme park ride.

Still, had to be done.

As soon as Simon had received word the operation was—so far—a success, he’d sprung into action, or had the workmen spring into action, beginning the necessary adjustments and accommodations. All went as planned, and in a few days, they’d be trucking one bloody huge toothy hunk of cargo in through the access tunnel to take up residence.

Then the fun would really start.

***

Simon’s least favorite part of these gatherings was the requisite private screening of the blooper reels. He would have personally just as soon destroyed the lot, but by now, it’d become tradition. His guests expected—nay, demanded!—it, especially due to his adamant refusal to make copies available.

“Missing out, man,” they’d tell him. “People would pay a fortune to own this.”

Maybe so, but, (1) he already had a fortune, more fortune than he’d ever need, enough to keep him in the lap of luxury for the rest of his life . . . and, (2) whyyyyy? He just didn’t get the appeal, though his discerning connoisseurs invariably found them fucking uproariously hilarious.

It felt, even if he knew damn well it wasn’t true, like they were laughing at him. At his mistakes, his failures. As if a big wet fart or big wet shit in the middle of a scene, or a premature ejaculation or a fluffer-resistant flaccidity, or one of the talent preferring to try and have a go at the cameraman, or any of a number of oopsies were somehow his fault. As if he were single-handedly responsible for when that 450-pound porker collapsed on top of an actress and it took most of the crew to haul her out from under before she was crushed to death . . . or the time the Great Dane’s dog-knot got stuck really tight and the dog freaked out and took off running, dragging his screaming co-star ass-backwards around the entire set . . .

Sometimes, stuff happened, stuff beyond anyone’s control. But the main name in the credits was Simon Klim. Ergo, like it or not, he had to take the bad with the good.

At least, at least—and thank whatever dirty-minded gods looked out for pornographers—he’d kept the gone-wrong lion scenes off the blooper reel and had never let anyone outside the immediate crew so much as glimpse them.

On that, despite pleas and threats and bribes once the rumors spread, he’d held his ground. Nothing funny about those scenes. Horrific, yes. Hilarious, no. If the rumors did send sales of Lion Cuntry Safari through the roof and increase his already notorious reputation, well, fine . . . but he wasn’t going to exploit some poor young woman’s terror and trauma. He didn’t do those kinds of movies.

Admittedly, he could have; there’d been a point early on in his budding career when he’d considered it. And he certainly had not lacked for inspiration. Not with the windfall of perversion, atrocity, and depravity that’d landed in his lap—perhaps another gift from the dirty-minded gods—so many decades ago.

In a way, he even supposed he owed it all to his old man. There he’d been, fresh out of high school, no college prospects, damn sure not about to join the military, informed by his father his freeloading days were done and he needed to get off his ass and get a job in the real world. As a generous concession, the old man was willing to go out on a limb for him—once—and put in a good word with a bowling buddy who owned a self-storage business.

This being back before auctioning off unclaimed storage units became a reality show craze, along with pawn shop wars and antique hunts, part of Simon’s job that summer involved clearing out and disposing of the troves of abandoned crap people left behind when they stopped paying the rent. Anything arguably “valuable,” his boss took the bigger cut, but he’d turn a blind eye to whatever he deemed worthless junk.

Such as the contents of Unit 12-B. All these years later, Simon remembered. The place where his life had forever changed, his destiny made, his future set. Cutting the decrepit lock, the rusty, corrugated door rattling up. His initial hopeful anticipation sinking into disappointment at the sight of nothing but box after box of VHS cassette tapes with hand-written labels scrawled in black marker . . . and then—oh, and then!—the breathless astonishment of reading the labels and realizing he’d stumbled into the Fort Knox of really, really nasty homemade porn.

Really, severely, illegally nasty.

Like rape and incest nasty, little-kids nasty, cripples-and-retards nasty, animal-fuck nasty, torture and mutilation and goddamn snuff-flick nasty!

None of it faked. All of it real.

Unit 12-B was sicko heaven, was Ali-Baba’s open-sesame cave of treasures and Aladdin’s magical lamp rolled into one. And as a stunned young Simon Klim would quickly learn, the name of the wondrous wish-granting genie behind it all was Paulie Vinchetti.

Vinchetti, a mobster and hitman and all-around loathsome person, had gained infamy back in the 1970s for not only committing a bunch of heinous revenge-crimes and send-a-message crimes but filming them. He’d send copies of the tapes to whoever’d hired him, to targets, even to the surviving loved ones of victims. The quality of the films may have been rough at first but improved with practice. And the inventiveness of the films’ contents . . . often had to be seen to be believed.

Someone—Simon never did find out who—had amassed themselves a VHS archive of Vinchetti’s works, stashed it in a storage unit, and then just . . . left it there. Or, as was probably more likely under the circumstances, gone and gotten themselves killed without letting anybody else know of the archive’s existence.

The right thing to do would have been to go straight to the police with the find. Who knew how many disappearances, murders, and other cold cases could be solved by the evidence that’d turn up on those tapes?

The right thing to do. The right, noble, decent, honorable thing.

Which, obviously, the young Simon Klim had not done.

Most of the films were not to his taste. Plenty made him puke, gave him nightmares, or both. He wasn’t interested in 101 creative uses for power tools, seeing people scared and hurt and crying, made to drink piss or eat shit or vomit on each other. The ones with kids—sometimes babies!—were worse than anything he ever could have imagined; every “dead baby” joke he and his friends told in junior high came back to haunt him.

The animal ones, though . . . something about the animal ones had just . . . spoken to him, resonated with him, touched his soul. He’d right-away understood how such films could be done, how much wilder and kinkier and sexier they could be.

Over the next few years, selling the majority of the archive to collectors—and managing, despite a couple too-close-for-comfort calls, to not get arrested—he’d bankrolled his way into being able to finance his own first few films, and from then on out, he’d been happily making dreams into reality.

***

The whole trip . . . the whole ship . . . made Marla uncomfortable. She was lucky enough to have secured a place to sleep, a pull-down bed from the ceiling in a tiny room in the aft of the boat. It smelled like dust, rust, and brine, and she barely had room to lay down, but it was something. She had to access it with a stepladder that was sitting in the corner. No one else seemed to use the room, and the only items in there were some old engine parts and yellowing instruction manuals.

Most importantly, it was close to where Riptide was.

When she wasn’t sleeping, she was either at the holding tank with her Guppy or sitting on the aft deck watching him. He was distressed, to say the least. Yet the combination of the hoses, which had to be monitored to keep them from slipping out of his jaws, and the ship’s wake splashing into the tank and over the shark kept his respiration stable and his body wet. There was no possibility of feedings with him in this confined state, but Great Whites could go six weeks or more without food.

Marla just wanted to get there. There. Wherever the fuck that was. This nebulous sanctuary. This lagoon of reprieve she was promised. Riptide was alive, sure, but this was not sustainable for long. But what was the alternative? Death? Releasing him into the deep blue sea without any experience in the wild?

When Todd or any of the rag tag crew even bothered to speak to her, she was told it would be another day or so, give or take, until they reached their destination. Every time she entered a room or stepped out on a deck, conversations stopped and people walked away like she had a contagious disease. She was on her own on this vessel. Fine with her. She had one job and that was to care for her Guppy.

Numerous calls to and from Johnny failed due to the lack of a signal on the open ocean. Once, the phone rang and Johnny picked up, only to disconnect after Marla heard a nervous “Marla! What is . . . ” amid the crackle of static. She was desperate to reach him. What was happening? The consequences of what they’d done must be causing chaos at this point. What would she go back to? Would she even try to go back?

Marla was lonely, isolated. She didn’t dare have her heart-to-heart talks with Riptide. There were too many shady ears to overhear her. And what would she even tell her shark to comfort him? Besides her usual mantras of “It will be okay, Guppy” and “I’m here. I’m right here.” She had no fucking clue what was really going on, what his fate really was.

Now, she sat cross-legged on the aft deck and watched her Guppy. Her phone was connected to the portable charger she brought with her. There was still juice in it, but at some point, she’d need to get to an outlet and sit with it as it charged up. Marla knew she couldn’t leave her only method of communication in the open or unattended. She didn’t trust any of these fuckers. Especially the big scarred woman they called Skate. Marla had exchanged no words with her, only fiery glares as they passed each other in the galley or the tight stairways. Todd swore she was an ally, a badass animal rights advocate who got shit done.

One thing was for certain. Marla did not trust that bitch.

So she sat and she watched her stressed out shark alone. Then a thought entered her head like a thunderbolt. What if this entire thing was a con? She put her faith in Todd, a man who fucked her over as much as he actually fucked her. He was a master at using her weaknesses to manipulate her into what he wanted. And what bigger weakness existed than Riptide?

The tendrils of this thought had been there since their meeting at The Starfish Saloon. But now, it overwhelmed her. The instinct to protect her shark made every cell in her body tense into a closed fist poised to strike.

She kept staring at her Guppy. The thought was morphing into a call to action. She wanted answers and she wanted them now. She stood, grabbed her phone and charger, and prepared herself to storm off to the mess hall, where she hoped she would find Todd. She would demand a full explanation, and she wouldn’t stop until she got one.

“I’ll find out, Guppy,” she whispered. “Hang in there.”

***

Marla found Todd, as expected, sitting at the end of the table in the small mess hall. Unfortunately, she also found someone else sitting with him . . . Skate.

The duo was involved in some heated conversation, and they didn’t notice her presence in the doorway right away.

“ . . . Simon will respect our decision either way,” Todd said.

Skate responded with, “As long as we get that shark to him and do it fast.”

“Who’s Simon?” Marla blurted out as she walked into the mess, startling Todd and Skate into silence.

Skate instinctually turned her cell phone face down on the table and leaned back into the seat. She had the hint of a smile on her lips, and her scarred eyebrow cocked upward. Todd looked like he had seen a ghost. His tanned, chiseled cheekbones went a bit pale.

“Oh look, Todd! It’s your sexy ex!” Skate threw her hands down on the table and heaved her large form up and scooted out of her seat. She snatched her phone and turned to Todd. “I’ll let you two have your little reunion. Remember what I said, Romeo.”

Skate headed toward the doorway, bumping Marla hard in the shoulder as she passed. Skate had about fifty pounds of muscle over Marla’s slim body, and Marla had to catch herself on the wall to keep from toppling over.

Todd hopped up and ran over to her. “Shit, babe. I’m sorry. She’s just a little worked up right now.” He wrapped his arm around Marla’s waist to help her gain her footing.

Marla shoved him off as hard as she could. Her cell phone and portable charger fell out of her hand and hit the thin dirty carpet with a clack and a clang. As she bent down to retrieve them, Todd manhandled her again, taking hold of her arm. Marla threw him off a second time.

“Get off me!”

“Babe, I was just—”

“Who’s Simon?” Marla hadn’t heard that name mentioned, and judging by the bit of conversation she walked into, he seemed to be important enough that she should have heard the name before.

Todd’s eyes turned to the floor as he hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his denim cut offs. He shrugged.

Marla tried again, this time with more demand. “Who the fuck is Simon, Todd?”

Todd was clearly working out his answer. Marla could practically hear the gears grinding in his little brain. That did not help to reassure her about this mysterious Simon.

Again, but sweeter this time. Maybe she’d manipulate Todd the way he did her. “Babe?” She placed her hand on his exposed bicep and rubbed his arm. “Who is he? Please tell me.”

Todd let go of his belt loops and took her hand in both of his. He gave a gentle squeeze.

“Let’s go sit down and I’ll explain.”

***

Marla let him lead her over to the table, and she sat down. Todd took a chair over to sit next to her.

“Okay. Here’s the situation,” he began as he lowered his head to run his fingers through his sandy blond locks. As he did, he turned his head slightly to see Marla’s cell phone and charger laying sprawled on the floor close to the doorway. The actions of his hands masked where he was looking, and Marla didn’t seem to notice.

“Simon is the guy who owns . . . um . . . oversees the lagoon where Riptide will be. He’s one of the good guys.”

Marla nodded her head. “I see. And why does he need the shark and need him fast?”

Shit, Todd thought. He’d need to weasel out of this quickly.

“No, no, that’s not what we were saying! It’s just that he knows it’s not great to have Riptide transported this way and he’s worried about his safety and care. That’s all.” Todd locked eyes with Marla and gave her a sheepish grin, effusing all the innocence and boyish charm of a London schoolboy. “He wants us to get there fast. Ya know, for the sake of the shark.”

“Uh huh. Well, I want that too, Todd.”

“Yeah, of course you do. We all do, babe.”

“And where exactly is this place? Where is he going to end up?”

Todd made a valiant effort to keep his eyes focused on Marla. He couldn’t afford to falter here. He needed her to keep that damn fish alive and well. He needed her to keep trusting him. At least for now. Hell, once they finished the job, it wouldn’t be their problem anymore. They could chuck Riptide into the drink for all he cared. Let him figure out how to be a real fucking shark. Whatever.

What Todd really didn’t want to happen was for Marla to die. Despite what Skate said, there had to be a way to keep her alive. To get her on board with the plan. She wasn’t going to like what would be done with her fish, but she definitely wouldn’t want him to croak.

If he could just get her to understand how much money they could make! They could have a new life after this. They could pull this off without anyone getting hurt. Well, not that hurt, anyway. Maybe she could even visit Riptide in the lagoon like fucking Flipper or Free Willy.

Happily ever after.

Todd exhaled. “Like I told you, it’s a protected lagoon. He’ll be able to survive without a lot of, ya know, predators and poachers fucking with him. This Simon, he lives right there. He can watch out for him, make sure no one gets in. Make sure he is safe.”

“Simon owns this lagoon, is that what you’re saying?”

“Yeah, well, yeah, he owns it, I guess.”

“What is in this for him? Fuck, Todd, what is in this for you?” Marla’s agitation was clearly increasing. None of this was making sense to her.

“He’s an animal rights guy. He just wants to help. Shit, everyone in the world knows about what happened with that shark. There are actually some people on your side, babe. They don’t think he deserves to die.”

“So this,” she motioned toward their current setting with her hands. “This is all out of the kindness of his heart? What does he want, publicity?”

Boy does he ever, Todd thought. Publicity and money. Stacks and stacks of money.

“Sort of, yeah. I mean, after he films him, he’ll—”

“FILMS him?” Marla looked like she was getting ready to punch at this point. “What the fuck do you mean? Like a documentary?”

Shit! Todd clammed up. He’d said too much already. He had to find a way out of this conversation and do it quick. He imagined Skate’s voice screaming at him before she turned her wrath toward Marla. Fuck. Marla mentioned a documentary? Well, a doc it is then.

“Simon thinks it will help the public understand why it was good to save Riptide. Um, the proceeds could help keep him alive and well. In the lagoon. It’s not a big thing.”

Todd didn’t think he sounded convincing enough. What the hell did he even know about documentaries and lagoons?

“Why am I just now hearing this? This entire thing seems like it’s been done behind my back! This is my shark, Todd! My shark!”

“Would you rather he be dead? I mean, that’s what would have happened if we didn’t step in and help you out, right? So there will be a little movie made about it. Is that such a big deal? Think about it.”

Marla stood up. “What else have you kept from me?”

Just then, Skate strolled back into the mess hall. Marla and Todd both whipped their heads to look at her. Skate must have had the distinct feeling that she got there just in time, before Todd fucked up and spilled his guts all over his sexy ex’s neoprene.

Marla’s phone and charger also caught Skate’s eye as soon as she entered the room. She bent down and scooped them up with one large hand. Marla took a few steps toward Skate to retrieve her belongings before Todd caught her by the arm and stopped her.

“Marla, don’t,” he said softly and seriously.

“Yeah, Marla. Don’t.” Skate grinned. “I don’t know what the fuck this imbecile told you, but whatever it was, you ain’t blabbing about it to anyone. You got me?”

Marla froze, confused. “Hey, give me my things, please.”

Skate ignored her plea and shot a hard and mean look to Todd, who was sheepishly looking down at the floor again.

“We’ll talk later, fuckface. In the meantime . . . ” she glanced at the items in her hand, “let’s have a little insurance, shall we?”

Skate turned and went out a side door, which opened directly onto the ship’s starboard deck. Marla and Todd watched as she stood at the side of the boat and held the phone and charger over the railing. Skate looked back at them. Marla again started to move forward until Todd grabbed her, this time not letting go of her arm as she struggled to get loose.

“No! Please!” Marla screamed.

Skate scoffed and tossed Marla’s last hope of communication with Johnny, her connection to the world outside this shit show, into the open ocean.

***

Torture. Confinement.

Endless. Unrelenting.

What has he done to deserve days of isolation in this tank? Not even a tank. Too small to be a tank. Not at all like his tank at home. His beautiful and elegant home, surrounding the vibrant reef in the center, teeming with other creatures, bubbling and familiar. Home, where the faces of the others gaped and ogled him with awe and wonder.

Home, where the One had touched him. Where there was a possibility to finally be with the One. The way he desired.

Now the One never touches him. She crouches at the edge of this not-tank and makes motions with her mouth. Though he never could understand the true meaning of the One’s mouth noises, he can’t even hear them now over the rush of the water, the rumbling vibrations, the rough slaps of waves over his body.

Yet he remembers the noises she made to him at home. He knew those noises by heart. All the combinations of them. Never knowing the true meaning other than the tone of them.

Comfort. Assurance. Love.

“It’ll be okay, Guppy.”

“I’ll always be here for you.”

“There you are, big guy!”

Through the stream of running water over his eyes, Riptide can see the One now.

Crouched. Sitting. Her mouth unmoving.

His vision is sharp and acute at this distance. He sees water streaming from her eyes, just as water streams over his, causing a maddeningly constant flutter of his nictating membrane.

Yet he can see the One. The fluttering vision of the One. Sad.

Something is wrong.

Besides the irritating slap and sputter of water. Besides the rumbling and roaring. Besides being jostled, sometimes violently, against the cold, cramped walls of the not-tank.

Something is very wrong.

He is moving through a vast expanse that makes even his home seem tiny and inadequate.

Filled with unknown sensations, vibrations, communications.

He has heard whalesong. Similar to the frequencies he heard coming from outside the windows of his home, piped in through a room lit up in rippling blue water colors. The whale sounds were high or low pitched enough to pierce through the cacophony of rumbles and splashes.

He has heard the sporadic clicking and squealing of dolphins. Another familiar sound, but here it scares him. These creatures are not known to him. They sound wilder, untamed.

Sometimes he smells blood. Blood far away in this gigantic water world he is moving through, fleeting and faint. But it causes an unsatisfied hunger to churn in his gut. He remembers the blood of those small others he consumed. The texture and taste of their flesh. His skin ripples and twitches with the memory.

When all things changed for him. Leading to this torture, this confinement.

He must have done something wrong.

But how could it have been wrong? It felt instinctual. Natural. Inevitable.

It satiated one of his underlying desires. One of the urges tugging at him insistently.

But the other urge. The other desire. Unfulfilled. Teased.

Something is happening on his journey in this minuscule not-tank. He senses something else in the surrounding aquatic universe that splashes and churns around him. Around the sensory ampullae that pepper his snout.

And as every hour passes, he feels it get stronger, pulling on him like he is following a trail of blood to its source.

A scent of sex. Mating. A scent that promises a solution to his problem. A release.

He is not accustomed to this particular scent. Back home, in his familiar domain, he has sensed the other creatures releasing their pheromones. Communicating silently with each other about their needs and wants.

To mate. To fuck.

But here, now, in this giant unending water world, he is assaulted by the same type of wants and needs . . . from females . . . females of his own kind!

His claspers swell and expand beneath him, pressing hard against his soft white underbelly. Trapped and crushed under his own girth.

Still, they throb in response to this signal. Where it emanates from, he does not know. He cannot know.

It becomes stronger and more potent with every passing hour. He is getting closer to them. To the beckoning message of these females. So strong. Coming from multiple sources. Multiple females.

Stronger and stronger.

It gives him a glimpse of hope that his torture might end. That there may be a resolution to this, once he reaches the destination where these females await him. Want him.

The mechanism that propels him closer, rumbling and vibrating, seems to follow the trail of these hormones exactly.

Stronger and stronger.

Whatever mysterious end to this torture awaits him, he will arrive there soon.

***

In the movies, girl-on-girl was hot; some catfighting, some hair-pulling, some strategically torn clothing, a lot of rolling around wrestling.

In real life, not so much. Yellow had come on deck just in time to see Todd’s sexy ex, majorly pissed, burst out of the galley and rush at Skate, who, by the looks of it, had just tossed something in the drink.

She got as far as, “You crazy bitch! That was my phone!” before Skate hip-checked her, spun her into the rail with one arm wrenched high behind her back, and bent her halfway over so her head aimed at the foamy wake slicing along the hull.

“Okay, listen up, Little Mermaid,” Skate said, digging an elbow into the base of Marla’s spine for extra emphasis. “I’ve put up with your shit long enough, and it’s about time you realized who’s in charge here. We are taking that shark to our boss one way or another. Whether you make it the rest of the way to our destination is up to you. Now you either agree to calm your tits and do as you’re told, or you can go look for your phone yourself. What’s it gonna be?”

“Jesus, Skate—” began Todd, in the galley doorway.

“Not a fuckin’ word, Romeo,” she snarled without so much as a glance. “You had your shot. Time to do things my way.”

Marla, clearly shocked and in pain, nonetheless managed a snarl of her own. “Okay, who the fuck are you people? For real?”

“That’s not an answer to my question.” Skate cranked Marla’s arm higher. “Dislocate this shoulder with one good pop, see how well you swim then.”

“Aaagh! Shit! Fine, fine, whatever you say! Just don’t hurt him! Please!”

Skate yanked and spun and released, leaving a staggering and disheveled Marla clutching at the rail for balance. “Nobody’s gonna hurt him. We need him in one piece, the happier and healthier, the better. So, you concentrate on keeping him happy and healthy, and let us do our jobs.” So saying, she started for the galley and, when Todd moved to sidle past her, clamped an iron grip around his bicep to steer him back inside. “Oh, no you don’t; you and me, we need to have a chat.”

The door slammed, and Yellow realized none of them had noticed him. The fact he’d automatically ducked behind a pile of equipment at the first sign of raised voices probably had a lot to do with that, but hey, a guy couldn’t help his instincts. Conflict and confrontation were not his jam.

He felt kind of bad for Marla, though, who was working her shoulder with a pained grimace. The look she directed at the galley was pure venom and acid, but it was pent-up frustrated venom and acid with nowhere to go. Instead, she slumped in defeat, hair hanging in her face.

Man, it sucked when innocent people got drawn unawares into this shit. Usually, everyone on the team was either in the know and okay with it or didn’t care past their paycheck.

Marla snuffled, caught a breath, and straightened up, turning into the sea wind with her tear-dampened eyes closed. She seriously was pretty, and in an honest, natural way, not tarted up like the legions of would-be starlets who passed through Laguna Cortez. Those women, they were spectacular, but they were scary, as dangerous as Skate in their own ways. He never felt bad for them, even when they did sometimes get into more than they’d bargained for.

And she, Marla, she hadn’t bargained for anything except her shark’s life. Maybe it was stupid, but there was something . . . sweet about it, something noble . . . like those stories of firefighters rescuing kittens from a burning building, or faithful lost dogs somehow making long journeys to find their owners. He always choked up over stories like that, though he hated when the other guys found out and gave him shit.

This job was stressful enough without team members having bad blood amongst themselves. They needed to stick together; there were plenty of others who’d be glad to rough them up or worse if the opportunity presented. Like the dad of that one actress, the one from Gorillas in the Miss, who’d made some half-assed attempt to play Liam Neeson and rescue his angelic daughter from the hairy arms of depravity. Did a surprisingly decent job of it at first, or so it had sounded from where Yellow had hidden in a cupboard when the gunshots started, but in the end, ol’ Liam’s luck had run out.

He watched Marla go sit in her accustomed spot at the stern, where she could see into the tank. They hadn’t had more than the most cursory conversations, usually the “please pass the rolls” type in the mess hall, and most of the time, she was ice-cold off-putting to pretty much everyone, but right now, she seemed just . . . tired, and sad, and vulnerable. Under other circumstances, i.e. him not being a total buck-buck intimidated even by unattractive women, he might’ve . . .

His foot skidded on a wet patch of deck planking and he banged his knee on an oil drum, not hard enough to hurt but loud enough to get her attention. She whipped around, eyes wild, then relaxed a bit when she saw it was him. Who, he figured she assumed, was only the ship’s cook and chief bottle-washer and all-around gofer.

“What?” she snapped.

Yellow winced. “Sorry, uh, yeah, sorry, you okay?”

She glared at him a hot second, then relented. “Yeah, no, I’m sorry. It’s just . . . ”

“Yeah. Stress. Messes with people’s heads.” He inched a step closer, nerves tingling and balls tightening as he hazarded a peek into the tank. “Your, um, your shark doing all right?”

She barked a combination laugh-sob. “How the hell should I know? I’m doing what I can, but this whole situation is so crazy!”

“Look, for . . . for what it’s worth . . . they really are gonna do their best to take care of him.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Not . . . ” He flapped a hand at the tank. “Not this, but I’ve been on some of the other runs. A shark, though. I mean, wow, that’s next-level.”

She studied him, evaluating him. “Yellow . . . is that your actual name?”

“Might as well be.” He grinned weakly. “Been called that since I was a kid.”

“Why?”

“Stuff scares me.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“All kinds of stuff,” he said with a shrug, then nodded toward the tank. “Stuff like that, I mean, shit, they’re enormous, and those teeth, and those dead-black psycho eyes—”

“Ah-ah-ah,” she corrected like a schoolteacher. “Their eyes are blue, and quite expressive. The dead-black psycho thing is all Hollywood.”

Yellow mulled it over. “But the teeth . . . ”

“Yeah, the teeth.”

He perched his narrow butt on a crate, peering again into the tank and the confined torpedo-shape of death. “The summer I was, maybe, eight,” he said, “me and my cousins and friends, we’d go to the community swim center. We had this game we played, made up, like part Marco Polo, part tag. We called it pool-shark. Because, at the time, none of us knew what ‘pool-shark’ actually meant; we thought . . . ”

“I think that’s legit,” said Marla, with the hint of a smile.

“Whoever was ‘it,’ see, they were the shark, and we’d . . . I dunno, it was a dumb game. Anyway, though, it got into my head. Started having nightmares. I’d jump into the pool, open my eyes, and there’d be this shark, grinning at me with all these teeth. I stopped wanting to go to the swim center. Heck, I stopped taking baths. And forget any kind of lake vacation or beach trip.”

“But now you’re here.”

“How’s that for screwy? On a boat, towing a shark to an island with a lagoon full of more sharks.”

“Have you been there before?”

“The island? Oh, sure.” He let his gaze rove the receding, widening triangle of the wake. “It’s where the boss lives and works, so, I got my own suite and everything. Though I only even got the job because he owed my uncle a favor, and the rest of the family wanted me out from underfoot.”

“What’s it like? This place we’re going?”

“Way ritzy. A lot ritzier than this tub, that’s for sure. A mansion and the whole deal.”

“On a nature preserve?”

“I . . . guess you could kind of call it that. Habitats a lot ritzier than any zoo I’ve ever seen.”

“So it’s not a nature preserve?”

Yellow shuffled his feet. “I probably shouldn’t be talking about it this much.”

“I don’t mind.” The smile that time was more than a hint. “It’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

“Yeah,” he said, then caught himself with a twitch. What was he doing? Shouldn’t be talking about it this much? Shouldn’t be talking to her at all, no matter how nice she was. Skate would chew his ass ragged! “But, uh, but I better get to the galley. Gonna be a lot of hungry deckhands wanting their dinner.”

He scrambled up and scooted off before she could say anything else.

***

Stronger and stronger.

Closer and closer.

Powerful and alluring enough to almost—almost!—distract him from the One.

But the One’s worry, fear, and distress are stronger still, stronger than the tantalizing seaborne whiffs of pheromones, of ready and eager females of his own kind.

He is torn.

These strange females offer worlds of possibility that, just as the prospect and thrill of the hunt and the kill, have never occurred to him before. Yet they also, in some vague way he does not quite understand, could be challenging. Dangerous. He is enticed, intrigued, and uncertain.

While the One, a constant, a known, is with him. Always. Faithful. Caring. If not for the One’s presence, her soothing voice-sounds, her familiar scent, he would not be able to withstand this inexplicable confinement.

Worse, so much worse, than his previous experiences in the nightmarish above . . . those, at least, were brief! Those invariably ended, and he’d find himself once again restored to his watery domain, with his servile lesser creatures and the awestruck throngs regarding him with admiration and terror.

This . . . this confinement goes on, and on. There is a biggerness around him, a biggerness so vast, so full and teeming, so alien and hostile and strange, as to be beyond comprehension. He wants to explore it, to conquer and rule it and make it his. Instead, he is afforded only teasing hints.

Why does the One allow it to continue?

Is he still being punished? Is she still displeased? He senses nothing of the sort from her, only her anxiety and concern, her caring.

Her fear. Her distress.

As if . . . as if she, the One, his One, is also a prisoner, also being punished? Being tortured and harmed?

Then . . . then everything changes . . . again.

***

Marla hoped, after her brief but weird conversation with Yellow, she’d finally found an opening. An opportunity, a weak link, maybe even an ally. Whatever information she could glean from him—without letting Todd, or especially that fucking ogress Skate, catch on—the better.

She certainly wasn’t above laying on some charm if she had to; he didn’t seem like the type who did well with women, and so what if it was manipulative? All bets were off when it came to her Guppy.

And this whole situation kept feeling more and more what the younger Aqua-Rangers would have called “sus” or “sketch.”

“Nature preserve, my ass,” she muttered, confident no one was near enough to overhear through the rumble of the ship’s engine and the splash-crash of the waves.

Habitats, he’d said. Ritzier than any zoo.

Some kind of exotic menagerie or exclusive theme park? Was it all nothing more than showoffy billionaire bullshit? Right up there with solid gold toilets and space tourism? Who was this “boss” of theirs, anyway? Todd’s lines about a “rich do-gooder” hadn’t rung true the first time around, but she’d been grasping at straws too much to quibble just then.

Her hopes to get Yellow alone and wheedle some more details out of him were dashed the next afternoon, when a renewed bustle of activity among the crew suggested their arrival was imminent. She’d been so taken up with thoughts of Guppy, she hadn’t paid much attention to the passage of time, or the scenery, or the warming weather, but she now realized they’d long since left stateside California behind.

In fact, dead ahead, rising from the variegated blue waters like a vacation picture-postcard, was the island that could only be their destination. Its northern point was occupied by a modest marina, where some smaller pleasure craft bobbed at pristine bleached-wood docks. On its westward side, golden sand beaches gave way to low bluffs of lush greenery and tropical flowers, cut by hiking trails and set with gazebo-shaded scenic overlooks. Atop the bluffs sprawled not a mansion but the sort of palatial extravagance usually only seen on shows about celebrity excess.

“Holy fuck,” Marla heard herself murmur, partly in envy, partly in disgust.

“Rich do-gooder”? Activist? Conservationist? Eccentric philanthropist?

When she took a look through a pair of binocs she’d scrounged from one of the storage compartments, she was pretty sure she saw guard towers, security fencing, and . . . gun emplacements?!

No way. No fucking way. Getting much more into “drug lord” or goddamn Bond villain territory now.

If that bonehead cocksucker Todd had tricked her into delivering Riptide to a wannabe Goldfinger or whatever, with a shark tank to suspend enemy agents above while monologuing out his evil master plan . . .

She kept the binocs trained on the island as the ship chugged around to its southern stretch of coastline, which was rugged and rockier, with the surf surging foamily against a breakwater shielding a channel leading to what appeared to be . . .

“You have got to be shitting me,” she said, surveying the huge metal grate security gate barring the mouth of a sea cave.

And that, of course, was where the ship was going. Which, of course, no doubt connected to a secret subterranean compound. Probably with a submarine and a float-plane moored inside, for all she knew. Plus a helipad on the roof.

“Todd, I ought to kick you right in the dick.”

From this angle, she couldn’t see much of the island’s eastern expanse, but it did give the impression of curving inward to form a large, sheltered cove, ringed at its outer edge by a miniature archipelago of islets and the shallows of coral reefs.

The lagoon? Must be. Which Todd had led her to believe was a protected shark sanctuary, somewhere Riptide could safely acclimate, like a halfway house between the aquarium and the open ocean. There were such places, she knew, including some where isolated pocket populations of species had survived for decades, though climate change was threatening to upset, or already had done, their delicate balance.

“Hey, babe.”

Wouldn’t it just fucking figure . . . and yes, while she ought to kick him right in the dick, while Lord knew she wanted to kick him right in the dick, this wasn’t the time. Not with Skate up overseeing everything from the walkway around the wheelhouse. The crew went to and fro, following her orders. Of Yellow, Marla saw no sign; she still wasn’t sure quite how he fit into the scheme of things.

For Todd, though, obviously, he wasn’t an actual member of the crew any more than was Marla herself. A temporary part of the team at most, an independent contractor for this one mission, whatever the hell it turned out to be. It wasn’t as if they were going to trust him with anything important like the actual running of the vessel.

Shirtless and in board shorts, his shaggy blond hair tied back, bronzing up nicely in the sun, he looked annoyingly good. More annoyingly, he looked like he knew it, and like he knew that she knew it. He ambled up next to her with a casual disregard for her personal space, plucked the binocs from her hands, and lifted them to his own eyes. He let out a low whistle as he surveyed the mansion.

“Some digs, huh? Hey, remember how we always talked about going to Cabo? Damn if this ain’t better . . . and free!”

“We’re not on vacation, Todd.”

“Well no, but, just sayin’, there’s bound to be downtime; we can get in some R&R while we’re here.”

“You still haven’t told me what’s really going on.”

He lowered the binocs and looked at her. “What’s really going on? Wow, babe, paranoid much?”

“It’s my shark we’re talking about, remember?”

“Yeah, sure, that’s the whole point. Getting him somewhere safe, where he can live the good life.”

“Then why all the secrecy?”

“It’s just the way they do things, okay? They got their badass image to protect.”

“That . . . woman,” Marla said, through gritted teeth, “threw my phone overboard and damn near dislocated my shoulder.”

“All for show. Hey, you know she used to be a roller-derby chick? Besides . . . ” He leaned close, flashing a grin she remembered all too well, a grin she’d let coax her into plenty of questionable decisions. “ . . . you ask me, she’s jealous. Having a hottie like you around?”

“Ha ha, yeah, no, I don’t think that’s it.”

Resuming his study of the mansion, less visible though it was as the ship neared the sea-gate, Todd shook his head in admiration and envy. “Man, I been in the wrong line of work. Can’t wait to see what it looks like on the inside.”

“You haven’t been here before?”

“Oh, shit, no; told you, I haven’t met the boss in person yet. Only talked to him a couple times, and one of those video chat things.”

“So, who is he?” she pressed. “You said he makes nature documentaries? Is he with Nat Geo? Animal Planet? What?”

“Nah, babe. Independent films, more like. Nothing you would’ve seen.”

Something in his tone revived the dick-kicking urge, but she resisted.

“Check it out,” Todd said, pointing. “They’re opening up. Reminds me of that dinosaur movie.”

The gates, aside from their size, were nothing similar. Marla held her tongue as the ship, towing its precious cargo, inched along the channel the way ocean liners navigated the Panama Canal. She glanced back to check on her Guppy, noting his agitation at the altered sounds and vibrations.

Not much longer, she tried to send her thought at him. Not much longer, big boy, and we’ll have you out of there.

***

“I thought we were here to make movies,” Flex grumbled. “When’s that gonna start? Dunno about the rest of you, but I didn’t sign on just to make nicey-nice with rich drunk old white guys.”

“And so gross,” said Reenie, squinching her face. “Just nasty and gross, treating us like pieces of meat.”

“Ours was okay,” Dani said, bobbling in the shallow end.

“Yeah, he mostly just wanted to watch.” Doni snickered. “Which was fine by me. Tiny limp wrinkle-dick.”

“Mine passed out,” said Brooke, idly kicking past on a pool floatie shaped like a dolphin.

“Lucky,” said Kaelinn, fanning herself in the shade. “Mine wanted me to spank him.”

“Eew,” the twins chorused.

“But, like, still,” Flex persisted, “we’re not hookers!”

“Are you not getting paid for being here?” asked Nyonne. She had her head wrapped in a white cotton turban, eyes shut, face turned toward the sun.

“Not for that!”

“Still, though,” said Doni, “how about some real dick for a change?”

“Derek-dick?” Dani suggested, licking plump lips.

“Ohmigod I wish! Do you remember him from the Goldilocks movie?”

“Hel-lo, huntsman! Though I don’t remember there being a huntsman in the original story.”

“Me neither, but who cares?”

“Hate to interrupt this riveting discussion,” said Honey, sauntering down from the patio. “But Simon was wondering if you ladies might enjoy going out.”

“Out?” Kaelinn perked up. “Out where?”

“Jorge’s heading over to Perlita Rosa.” She smirked lewdly. “It’s small, and a lot of guys can’t find it, but Jorge never misses.”

Some of them laughed, some looked blank until Nyonne explained, “Perlita Rosa translates roughly as ‘little pink pearl.’”

Then they got it, and they all laughed.

“But yeah,” Honey went on. “Gorgeous place, right on a cove. Hardly crowded at all, unless one of the cruise ships is in dock. Lots of shops and boutiques, some excellent bars—”

“You had me at shops!” chirped Reenie.

“You had me at bars,” said Flex.

“And, here.” Honey dug into the big straw tote slung at her shoulder, pulling out a fistful of zippered cloth envelopes in tropical patterns much less garish than the majority of Simon’s shirts. “Some extra spending money for each of you. Consider it a bonus in advance.”

They clustered around her eagerly, accepting the cash-fat envelopes.

“Jorge will meet you at the marina,” she told them. “We’ll be getting prepped to start filming in the next couple days. So, enjoy your afternoon off, ladies, because soon, the real work begins.”

***

Marla found herself conflicted between relief at arriving at their destination, as shady and nefarious as it seemed, and increasing concern on transporting her Guppy out and over to the alleged “sanctuary” of the island.

The boat was docked and running rampant with crew under the omnipresent management of that douchey Skate, who barked orders from the upper deck as her drones scuttled about. Yellow and Todd materialized with the sling they would use to move Riptide from the towing tank to the transport tank, which sat on another, smaller boat with a floating flatbed behind it. They didn’t have far to go to make it through the gated entrance to this gaudy excuse for a compound. But the large vessel they were currently on was definitely not going to fit in there.

Todd greeted her, arms draped with fabric and ropes, with his typical “Hey, babe.” Yellow trailed on his heels carrying his own assortment of attachments and rattling chains. There was no greeting from Yellow. He didn’t even make eye contact with Marla.

Shit, she thought. They got to him. I’m not getting any info out of this guy now.

Never mind. Not the concern at the moment. It was time to get her shark up and out of here. She glanced at the railing above her and saw the buff bulk of Skate staring down at them.

“It’s showtime, guys! Get the sling fucker set up, and I’m coming down to help. Now, let’s MOVE!”

A few more guys came running over, and the lot of them proceeded to arrange and affix the pulleys and sling. Todd broke off from the pack and approached Marla with a contraption of long straps and buckles.

“Is this what we need? Ya know, to keep his mouth shut?”

Marla furrowed her brow and shot him a look. “That’s a fucked-up way to put it, Todd. But yes, that will have to do. He’s already thrashing and agitated, so I can’t guarantee there wouldn’t be some injuries without it. We need to cover his eyes too. Can you grab me a large cloth? A towel or something?”

“Sure thing, babe.”

As Todd ran off, Skate bellowed down to him as she came down the ladder to where they were.

“Where the fuck are you going, lover boy?” She leapt off the third step and landed on the deck with a thud.

“Cloth. To cover his face.”

Skate glanced at Marla and back to Todd. She gave an approving nod, and Todd scampered away. Then she turned to Marla again. “Does this fish need a diaper too? It’s not like we have enough fucking things to do, is it, sweetie?”

Marla took a few brave steps toward Skate. “Can we just put our bullshit to rest for a few hours and get my shark to where he needs to go? Safely? Do you think you might be able to do that, Skate?”

Skate paused, impressed by Marla’s sudden strong attitude. This chick might have a backbone after all. Maybe she’d be more useful to them than Skate originally thought. Even if she wasn’t, no matter. She’d be just as happy ripping off her tits and throwing her in the drink as she would watching her fuck her precious fish on video. Well, her doing the nasty with her “Guppy” might be too much to hope for. But there were a gaggle of horny idiots on the island who would make it happen with or without that smug doctor bitch.

Skate gave Marla a smirk and gestured toward the shark with her left arm. “Have at it, missy.”

With everything in place, Marla, Todd, and two beefy dudes hopped into the tank with Riptide. Dodging tail slaps and violent wiggles, they all managed to get the shark muzzled and the sling around his girth. Well almost all. One of the henchmen bailed out and ran before strapping up his side of the sling. Guess not everyone was as comfortable wrangling a Great White shark. Marla quickly flew over and finished the deed.

Todd ripped the hose out of the shark’s mouth after the muzzle was buckled into place. This caused a tongue-lashing from both Skate and Marla alike, a shocking display of solidarity between the two women. If that was the only thing that went wrong in this shitshow operation, then Marla would be a happy camper.

Riptide was lifted out of the towing tank and placed into the tiny transport tank on the flatbed boat. Quickly, Marla, Todd, Skate, and even Yellow hopped onto the vessel. They managed the short distance over to the gate that yawned open at their approach.

Todd was right. It totally resembled the one in that dinosaur movie. She only hoped, for Riptide’s sake, life really did find a way.

As they passed through and into the underground interior of the island, Marla looked up to see a variety of surveillance spying on their activities—CCTV cameras, motion tracking laser beams, a semi-circular “eye in the sky” when they passed under a walking bridge.

Gotta be our elusive host, Marla thought. Wonder what kind of Dr. No James Bond villain this guy will turn out to be. She had long given up on the idea of a philanthropist animal rights warrior.

The vessel came to a stop at another, smaller subterranean dock. Several more men came to greet them, and once again, the group burst into action.

Another man, older but gym-fit and not bad-looking, reached for her hand and assisted her onto the dock. “‘Ello, love!” he said with a strong accent. “I’m Derek; at your service.”

“Uh, yeah. Hi there.” Marla brushed past him and resumed assisting in the transport operation.

The sling swung up and out of the towing tank, carried by a massive piece of machinery that resembled part Sherman tank and part bulldozer. It backed away from the dock, pivoted on a dime, and moved rapidly over to the grotto.

Which was, she saw, surprisingly large and roomy. Sure, it wasn’t her Guppy’s comfortable home at the aquarium, but she knew it was a temporary transition before he would get released into the lagoon.

As the sling was being lowered into the ornate pool, they all worked together to detach the sling and slide it out from under the wriggling shark. Marla did the honors of removing the blindfold cloth and unbuckling the muzzle, whipping it out from around his head. Immediately, Riptide gave a defiant thrash and splash, causing everyone but her to take a jump back, then he settled down into what looked like an exhausted stupor.

As the tank/dozer machine drove off to god-knew-where, the droning rhythm of the swim spa current became the only thing audible aside from some piped-in sounds-of-the-ocean background noise.

Marla had a moment of reprieve to take a look at Guppy’s new, albeit temporary, digs. The grotto utilized the ambient seawater, which flowed nicely past and over the shark, oxygenating his gills. There was not a lot of room for her Guppy to move around, but it was a lot better than those ghastly metal holding tanks. The formations around the water features were sculpted to resemble rocky outcrops and coral.

She supposed this would be considered “classy” if she were visiting the Playboy Mansion. But in this scenario, it struck her as tacky and barely suited for the task at hand. She just prayed to whatever god might hear her that the mysterious host didn’t turn out to actually be Hugh fucking Hefner. Sure, Hef was, by now, what, six or seven years dead? But as crazy as everything else had gotten, at this point, she wouldn’t really be surprised.

What did this guy have in mind for Riptide? What “film” was about to take place? Whatever was going to happen had better happen soon. The shark needed freedom after all the stress and distress of the past weeks. He needed to thrive, to roam, to acclimate.

Marla couldn’t quite make it out, but it looked like there was a clear partition set into one outer wall. Was that a window into the lagoon itself? Kind of like the viewing chamber at Danger Reef but in reverse?

Before she could investigate further, she turned to see someone who looked like the old gent from those dinosaur movies cosplaying as a wanna-be Hemingway, with a tropical-print shirt as gaudy as everything else around here and a Panama hat. He was grinning like a giddy schoolboy and accompanied by a mature but well-maintained buxom bimbo in a string bikini.

Shit, she thought. Maybe not a velvet smoking jacket, but it is motherfucking Hugh Hefner.

***

The potent miasma of the female hormones is strong now. Almost too strong. The source must be close. And, almost unbearable as this assault is on his senses, it feels familiar. Or it should be familiar to him. An instinctual reaction that he doesn’t fully understand.

With an uncontrollable swelling in his genital claspers, he rocks and rolls in his confined walls. The vibrations have grown louder and more inconsistent. He’s sensed the vicinity of a land mass, something he hasn’t experienced since he was put into this prison and whisked away to some unknown destination.

Something is changing.

The mechanism stops its chugging and whining. His metal tomb slows to a stop, while still rocking in the waves. The voices of the One and several others are clear, and they sound excited and loud, approaching him fast.

Something is about to happen. The anticipation of it all takes his attention away from the teasing onslaught of the hormones.

Can it be over? Will he finally find himself back in his home tank with the One? Will there be relief from all this punishment, this confusion?

The One is here. In with him now. There is another with her. A male. He suddenly feels something fasten around his head, his mouth. It tugs at him. It pulls his mouth tighter onto the hose between his jaws. His teeth sink slightly into the soft and unnatural material of the hose. His mouth is muzzled shut.

Panic! More punishment! Why is the One doing this to him?

Riptide slaps his tail violently against the metal walls surrounding him. He thrashes himself around in an attempt to remove the contraption.

Must escape! Must flee!

Yet he can’t get enough traction against the slick walls, and there are more of the others in there with him now. They push and restrain him. His heart races. His eyes roll as they search for the One.

Why is the One not comforting him? How can she allow this hostile mistreatment?

She is there. He knows she is. Yet no soothing voice or soft touch. Just loud sounds, shouting.

Something else closes around him, engulfing his body. He knows this sensation. He has experienced it before, whenever he would be ripped from the reverie of his home tank and lifted out to be poked and prodded in the above-world. He cannot move any longer.

Exhausted. Scared. Not again. Not now after all he has been through on this nightmare journey.

The hose feeding water into his mouth and through his gills is ripped from between his jaws by a large male. Tiny bits of torn material line his throat. A wet cloth drops over his head, blocking his vision.

A new vibration noise screeches as he is lifted up and out.

Can’t breathe. Can’t see. Where is the One!?

The only reprieve in this brutal treatment is that he can no longer feel the surging of hormones. He is no longer floating in the vast water, the water that lapped and swooshed around him, bringing with it the urges and demands of those unknown females.

Are they gone now? Is it over?

His claspers relax a bit, even as he is moving through the air. He feels a hint of disappointment, which surprises him.

Down he goes. Into some other place, another small tank filled with water. Still immobilized from the strap around his jaws, the compressed cloth around his body.

More rumbling and revving vibrations. The water in the tiny tank swishes as he begins to move once again. He tries in vain to maneuver by thrashing his tail and head. The space is tight. Tighter than before. Too tight.

Panic! No comfort! No kind words!

But it ends quickly. Up and out of the water again, swinging through the air in the embrace of the sling. He still can’t breathe. No flowing water through his gills. Dryness creeping into his gullet.

Will he die here like this? Where is the One?

Then comes a sudden drop down into yet another watery world. Not as restrictive but still small. Something hums with a sound that reminds him of the bubbling filtration unit back at home. A current pushes over and past him, and he can breathe again.

Relief! But where is he?

As the water current causes his gills to relax, his throat to moisten, it brings with it a familiar presence. This is the same water from the vastness, the big unknown. The pheromones of the females are back. And closer. Much, much closer.

He is inside a pool with walls and obstructions keeping those females at bay. But he knows, he knows they are right on the other side.

The unknowns. Enemies or lovers? Danger or fulfillment?

His claspers engorge with blood again. They swell and they throb. But Riptide’s thoughts do not get consumed by the presence of these creatures. His thoughts focus on the One. As his belly lifts slightly from the smooth bottom of the grotto, from the growing bulges beneath him, he can only think about the One.

***

Simon Klim felt damn near giddy, excited as a kid on Christmas morning, as he watched the proceedings from his inner office.

An entire bank of video monitors filled the wall above his sleek ultramodern desk. Cameras covered almost every inch of the mansion, with numerous hidden microphones strategically placed. Partly for security, sure . . . mainly for potential blackmail material, should the need arise. Some of the shit some of his guests liked to get up to? Make Caligula take a step back!

Which, of course, was fine and well for them. To each their own and all that good stuff. He just didn’t necessarily want it happening on his property, let alone to his talent. These rich old fucks wanted to brutally use and abuse, smack around, or get vicious with young beauties, they could do it on their own turf. Ditto anything involving the underaged.

“I am a pornographer with morals, after all,” he often said.

And they laughed like it was a joke, all in fun, but on those matters, he stood his ground. Laguna Cortez was a child-free zone. 17+ only. Well, okay, 15+ on occasion, but those were rare and exceptional occasions. A man had to have standards. Within reason.

Of course, those rules and standards only applied to humans.

Their new star, for instance, was, what, five years old? Six? Whatever that worked out to in shark years, the equivalent of a virile and hopefully horny as hell college boy.

“Look at him,” he marveled. “Would you just look!”

“I’m only gonna just look,” Honey said, leaning against the back of his chair with her boobs cushioning his head—better than any airline neck pillow! “And that’s all I’m gonna do is just look. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Simon . . . he’s a goddamn monster!”

“Yes, he is!”

“No fucking way I’m getting in the water with that.”

“What a magnificent beast!” He skimmed the pads of his fingers over the glassy screen displaying the view of Riptide, currently suspended in a winch-sling arrangement as the crew hurriedly transferred him from the towing tank to a portable tank, from which he’d then be transferred to the remodeled swim-spa pool in the grotto.

Despite being tranqued—for the sake of the crew as well as his own ease—he looked awake and alert enough to be sizing up his surroundings. If not for the muzzle of rubberized Kevlar straps securing his jaws, he might’ve been awake and alert enough to try and take a chunk out of someone.

“Those teeth!” Simon said. “And check out his eyes; this is no dumb animal.”

“Are you really sure about this?” asked Honey. Her shudder sent gelatinous ripples through the boob-cushion. “What if it goes wrong? Remember the lion?”

“That was a freak accident. And it worked out okay, didn’t it?”

“Only because we were lucky. It could have been a lot worse.”

“Could have, but wasn’t. This will be fine, Honey. We’ll keep him muzzled while we’re shooting, and I bet once our eager starlets get going, dinner will be the last thing on his mind.”

“If they get going. Once they see what you’ve got in store for them, they might decide their rinky-dink cam-girl gigs aren’t so bad after all.”

“Oh ye of little faith.” He tapped another image on the screen, that of their unexpected guest. “She’s the one I’m curious about.”

“That scumbag Todd’s ex-squeeze? Skate never should have let him bring her along. I’m surprised she didn’t chuck her ass overboard.”

“Now, that would have been a waste of a perfectly fine ass,” Simon said. “She’s pretty, she’s feisty, she’s clearly dedicated to her job—see how she’s micromanaging their every move?—and scumbag though he is, Todd did have a point. We need her to help keep our leading man in fine fettle.”

“You really think she’ll stand by and let you make porn with her shark?”

“I’m sure she can be convinced.” His gaze lingered on the woman, evaluating.

Despite being disheveled from several days’ shipboard travel under less-than-ideal conditions, wearing rumpled clothes, and in dire need of a shower, she had a way of catching the eye. He expected she’d clean up and dress up—or undress down—very nicely indeed.

God, and if he could somehow get her to participate! With her fame-turned-infamy and now-ruined reputation? He could spin it as a cinematic love story of desperation and devotion. Make a tragic heroine out of her, throwing it all away to follow her heart . . . and a big honkin’ set of sharky double-dick.

She apparently had a lot of opinions about the grotto and the setup but seemed to be struggling to keep them to herself for now, in light of making sure the final stages of the transfer went smoothly. It more or less did; there was some thrashing, causing the winch-rig to bend and creak, and an inadvertent tail-slap sent one of the men bum over teakettle into the lazy river. But in the end, their prize was safely lowered into the pool, unslung, and unmuzzled.

The swim-spa current would help keep water flowing over his gills, and if he didn’t have a lot of room to maneuver, well, it was only temporary. Not much different than having to make do with a studio trailer when on location. A little roughing it now and then was all part of the job.

“And there we are,” Simon said, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. “One step closer to movie magic time!”

***

The rest of the team, having received their cash payments—with hefty bonuses and personal thanks from Simon himself—were only too ready to pile back on the ship and get the hell gone from the island.

The converted oil tank that had been their cargo haul, they’d dump somewhere out in the Pacific, and then it was next stop, some piddlyshit coastal dive with cheap cervezas, cheaper chicas, and the opportunity to gamble away the rest. Then they’d pick up whatever odd jobs they could, in between fistfights and knife-fights, until such time as Skate came calling again.

Skate herself, meanwhile, could have done with some cheap cervezas, fistfights, and knife-fights, if not necessarily the gambling and chicas. She had piles of pent-up aggression needing an unload and normally wouldn’t have lingered cooling her heels at Laguna Cortez longer than a day or two. What was she supposed to do, have a nice chummy family reunion and laid-back vacay with her sister? They could cover all that needed to be covered with a phone call. Not like they were exactly bosom besties.

This time, though, she knew she had to stick around a while. This job had, from the inception of the plan, been a special case, and it’d only gotten more special—if short-bus special—along the way.

First Todd, the dipshit, not content to play middleman and then take the money and run once the shark had been obtained . . . then his goddamn sexy ex insisting on tagging along—Simon brushed it off like it was no big, but Skate knew someone better keep an eye on them because they were bound to be trouble sooner or later.

Besides, she wanted another go-round with that mouthy, titsy bitch and knew she just had to wait for it. Once they had no more need of the shark, they’d have no more need of the shark expert, and it was hardly as if they could let her sashay back to her normal life. The prospect of being able to settle Miss High-And-Mighty’s affairs once and for all was incentive enough.

As for Todd, it’d be a pleasure just on general principles to break his wrists, ankles, knees, and elbows, then let him crabwalk blubbering and pissing himself until she got tired of it and snapped his fool neck.

She also supposed there was a chance—slim, infinitesimal, but still a chance—that the beefcake from the aquarium who’d helped with the heist might find a way to cause problems. He’d acted mighty protective toward the titsy bitch, was no doubt the one she’d been communicating with before Skate deep-sixed her phone, and had looked like the resourceful type. They didn’t need another clusterfuck action-hero rescue attempt . . . though, she had to admit, the previous one had been a fun change of pace. Most of the time, all island security had to deal with was wayward sailboats full of entitled rich white kids looking for a secluded party spot, or the occasional criminals who hadn’t updated their records about the change in management—no more drug-deals, gun-running, smuggling, or human trafficking here, thank you; kindly take your business elsewhere.

Then there was Yellow, but who the fuck even knew when it came to Yellow? All these years working together, and she still couldn’t figure. Like a stray dog nobody could remember where it’d come from, so they just kept feeding it and letting it hang around. So, fine, he wanted to play sweaty background lurker perving on the bimbos, no skin off her nose. As long as they weren’t on a mission, she didn’t much give half a shit what he got up to.

Speaking of bimbos, this current crop Honey was babysitting were some real pieces of work. Though these days she normally avoided anything to do with the actual filming or production—there’d been some initial freakshow novelty, but after a while, it just seemed weird—she did want to be there when Simon introduced them to their co-star.

***

They swim, but something is different. Something has changed.

Their senses tease and tantalize .

Could it be?

A male?

A nearing male? Of their own kind? Strong, vital, healthy? Rife with mating urges?

They swim, but with a new agitation, a new anticipation.

Even the younglings pick up on it, though they do not yet fully understand what it means.

Scents and energies flood the lagoon waters. Oviducts loosen, readying, primed. Plumply eager for the filling thrust of claspers, the jetting gouts of seed. Yearning. Craving. Needing.

Territorial boundaries and other petty disputes are, for the moment, forgotten in the face of this more pressing, urgent development. Just as they are often set aside when masses of prey are abundant.

Oh, the disputes will return, to be sure . . . and return with a vengeance, a fierce and vicious tooth-slashing vengeance of rivalry and competition . . . each wanting first claim on the male.

There will be duels. There will be injuries and blood and cripplings. There may even be deaths. To each her own and every shark for herself! Whatever it takes to feel the male’s claspers sinking deep, seed gushing to fertilize long-waiting eggs!

To breed!

To fuck!

The most powerful biological imperative beyond feeding . . . to which end they’ll savagely turn on each other, sisters against sisters, mothers against daughters . . . nothing else will matter.

They will have him.

They must have him.

At any cost.

Any cost.

But, for now, the detente holds as they follow the enticing hints.

Smelling him.

Feeling the potent, galvanic rush of his nerves. His agitation as well, tinged with confusion and distress, only making them all the more determined to reach him.

They approach. Closer and closer, close now, so close!

But the way is blocked.

A barrier, clear but solid, clear but substantial, stands between them and their male.

They can even see him, fleeting glimpses of his long, powerful, muscular body . . . his sleek, unblemished skin . . . the proud, majestic sweep and curve of his tall dorsal fin . . . such a specimen! What a hunk!

Yet he is kept from them. Kept apart from them by this barrier, in some other unreachable chamber beyond. A chamber of air as well as water, a chamber of false lights instead of sun, a chamber of unpleasant humming-buzzing electricity where stiff-limbed bipeds move about in stilted-looking upright manners.

These bipeds, the sharks know of. The elders from experience, the younglings from lore. Bipeds who used to float above in large, hard-shelled shadow-objects. Who would, in times only now memory, occasionally fall from the shell-things into the lagoon.

Sometimes limp and dead . . . sometimes struggling, panicking, and alive.

To be torn at, feasted upon in frenzies of glorious gluttony. Devoured until nothing but shards of bone remained, shards to sink and be picked over by the smaller creatures.

But these bipeds, like the male, are beyond their reach, separated from them by this clear-but-solid barrier.

It is all so different, all so strange.

They converge, swimming, circling, gathering in expectation.

Wanting. Waiting.

Growing more and more impatient.

***

Simon put on his warmest, most expansive, most avuncular smile as he descended the decorative pathway. “My dear Dr. Murphy,” he said. “What a genuine pleasure! May I be the first to officially welcome you, and Riptide, to our little hideaway? Delighted you could join us—”

“Cut the crap.” She shot up from where she’d been hunkered beside the pool and stalked toward him like a tigress. “Who are you people, anyway?”

As he’d observed over the monitors, even disheveled from the long trip, she was a striking beauty. Toned and athletic but with a dynamite figure for all of that. The grotto’s lighting made it difficult to discern the true color of her hair, but he was guessing a deep, rich auburn. Natural too; she did not seem the type to go for dye jobs.

Magnificent and fierce. As much so, in her way, as the shark she’d accompanied. And, quite possibly, as hard to handle.

“I really must apologize for all the secrecy and subterfuge. Security is a necessary priority in a place like this. Along with discretion and privacy. But in this extraordinary case, I think we can make certain exceptions.” He extended a hand. “My name is Simon Klim. This is Honey, my trusted right hand. Couldn’t manage without her.”

“Hope my sister didn’t give you too much grief,” Honey said. “She gets bitchy in stressful situations.”

Dr. Murphy’s eyebrows rose. “Skate is your sister?”

Honey shrugged. “Family. What are you gonna do?”

“Okay . . . ”

“At any rate,” Simon continued smoothly, “I’m sure you must have many questions and concerns—”

“You got that right.” She exhaled, fists on her hips. “First off, where, exactly, are we?”

“Laguna Cortez. I admit, the island does have something of a history; the previous owners were . . . how to put it . . . ?”

“Drug lords, gun runners, and criminal shitbags,” Honey supplied helpfully.

He chuckled. “I might have phrased it a tad more diplomatically.”

Honey shrugged again.

“Laguna Cortez,” Dr. Murphy mused. “That sounds familiar for some reason . . . ” She shifted her gaze to the panoramic window and the shadow-shapes gliding by in the sapphire waters beyond. “Hang on. Laguna Cortez, the sheltered lagoon with the isolated shark population?”

“The very same.”

“Marine biologists and shark experts have been wanting to conduct research here for years,” she said. “But their requests have always been denied.”

“Ah, well, yes . . . that would be my doing,” Simon admitted. “I often have some rather elite and exclusive guests who would prefer their visits not attract any outside attention.”

“Todd and Skate said you needed a shark.” She waved at the window. “Why? You’ve got sharks. I’ve counted at least a dozen distinct individual Great Whites just in the past half hour. So, why spend what had to be a fortune and go to all the trouble of bringing my G—. . . bringing Riptide here?”

“For one thing, to save his life.” He gave her a mildly chiding look. “We couldn’t very well let such a majestic creature be destroyed, especially for such an unjustified reason.”

“He . . . ate . . . some kids,” she said, clearly not finding it easy to get the words out, and with a guilty glance toward Riptide as if in apology for playing devil’s advocate.

Simon smiled. “You yourself made it clear he knew no better. He’s a shark, he was doing what sharks do, dealing with a hitherto unknown situation.”

“All right . . . ”

“For which he hardly deserved a death sentence.”

She nodded, then fixed him with a scientific scrutiny. “You don’t seem like an animal rights activist, or any nature conservationist I’ve ever seen.”

“No. No, that’s true. You’ve got me there.”

“What’s the deal, then? They said you’ve bankrolled other rescues, from circuses and poachers—”

“Yes. On occasion. Not the raids on the mink farms and animal testing labs; we had nothing to do with those. But, some circuses and poachers, yes. One of our efforts involved a rustic gentleman in . . . where was it, Honey? Vermont?”

“The bears? Yeah. Vermont.”

“He’d befriended—I won’t go so far as to say tamed—a family of bears. Fed them. Took care of them. Treated them like pets. When he passed on, his equally rustic-minded neighbors wanted to shoot the bears, and no zoos or sanctuaries were available to take them. An acquaintance, a fairly high-ranking New England politician, reached out to me, and we were able to orchestrate the transport.”

“God, it was a nightmare,” Honey said. “Shipping a shark down the coast was small beans compared to trucking a pack of bears across the continent.”

“But we did it.” Simon spread his hands. “Those bears are here to this day, healthy and happy, living the good life.”

“In, what, your private menagerie?” Dr. Murphy asked.

“You could call it that. And before you ask, yes, I have qualified persons on staff to take care of them, including a top-notch veterinarian.” He was about to do the line, the “spared no expense” line, but Honey was sick of the joke by now and slid him a don’t-you-goddamn-dare side-eye.

Dr. Murphy, meanwhile, appeared to be thinking it over. “So,” she said after some consideration, “you arranged all this, breaking all kinds of laws, solely out of the goodness of your heart and concern for Riptide’s welfare?”

Oh, she was sharp as a shark’s tooth herself, this one. After dealing with so many vapid fame-chasing aspiring starlets, he found it refreshing.

“Solely? No. Not solely. Not even primarily, if I’m to be fully honest.”

“Fully honest would be nice.”

“Dr. Murphy . . . Marla? If I may? Marla, I confess, I had ulterior motives. The moment I learned of the unfortunate incident at Oceanview, I realized what a rare opportunity it presented. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I knew at once I had to do everything within my power to seize that opportunity, to get Riptide safe and sound to Laguna Cortez.”

“For . . . ?” She surveyed the sharks cruising at the window again, her brow furrowing. Then her eyes—green? or hazel? again, the grotto’s lighting made it hard to tell—widened. “Those are all females. Where are the males?”

Simon beamed, wagging a clever-girl-you-don’t-miss-a-trick finger. “According to local fishermen, the last of the males died some years back. There’ve been no new . . . pups? they’re called pups, are they not? . . . born since.”

She rocked back on her heels, looking from the window to the pool and back again. “So, you’re going to . . . release him into the lagoon . . . put him out to stud?”

“Like a breeding program. He could sire a whole new generation, saving this small isolated pocket from extinction.”

“I . . . I . . . ” Raking her fingers through her tangled auburn mane, she sighed and shook her head. “Then why didn’t Todd or Skate or someone just tell me that up front? Why all the hush-hush bullshit? Or is there a catch? There’s a catch. What’s the catch?”

“Marla, my dear,” he said. “You’ve been through so much. You must be exhausted. Honey’s arranged for you to have one of our guest cabanas. Get some rest, freshen up, and we can finish our talk later—”

Steel stiffened her spine, and he saw a flash in those green/hazel eyes. “No. There is a catch, isn’t there? Todd mentioned filming . . . Why do I get the feeling we’re not talking wildlife documentaries? I want to know what’s really going on.”

Todd and his big mouth. But, ah well.

“I am a filmmaker, yes.” Simon acknowledged. “Independent films for a very niche but very lucrative market.”

She scoffed. “What, like, porn?”

He regarded her evenly, saying nothing.

The dawning realization made her stagger on her feet, the blood draining from her face. “Wait . . . you mean it is porn? Not . . . not . . . a-a-animal . . . porn? Bestiality?”

“As I said, we can finish our talk later. But I have every confidence in Riptide’s star quality.”

“You intend . . . to use my shark . . . in some kind of messed-up bestiality porno?!” Her voice rebounded in shrill echoes around the grotto.

“I assure you, it will all be handled with the utmost care, both for his well-being and that of the actresses.”

“Actresses?!? What actresses?!?”

“Please,” he said. “Let Honey show you to your cabana, where you can—”

“Fuck that; I am not going anywhere—”

He raised a hand, palm out, and dropped the whole benign/benevolent/avuncular shtick. “Unless you’d rather I have Skate escort you, Dr. Murphy? I know she’d be glad to remind you just who’s in charge here. I’d hate to see anything happen to you, or to Riptide.”

Knowing a good exit line when he got one off, he turned and strode from the grotto, only letting his giddy schoolboy grin return in broad maniacal glee as the door shut behind him.

***

Todd stepped out of the shower and into the sprawling bathroom of his guest cabana. He couldn’t remember staying in such nice digs before. Sure, there’d been some swanky places in his past travels, like the little villa in Puerto Vallarta, but nothing compared to Simon and his expensive tastes. Well, technically, the previous drug lord owner’s expensive tastes. Whatever. Todd felt like a million bucks.

He didn’t have a million bucks, but his pockets just got lined pretty nicely from his payout for this freakshow adventure. The crew, Yellow, and even Skate were suddenly in good spirits. Skate was never totally in good spirits, but money always seemed to put a spring in her step and curb her naturally hostile attitude. Most of them had already taken off for some shore leave R&R, eager to blow their bonuses on blow and blowjobs.

Todd had other plans.

He wiped some of the fog off the full-length mirror and surveyed himself. The hard labor on the boat had kept up his muscle tone, and the sun had lightened his dirty blond hair. He was tanned, fit, and, to be honest, really horny.

Before his shower, he asked the head chef of the compound to hook him up with an assortment of cheeses, fresh baked bread, fine Italian olives, and a nice bottle of wine. He had to grease the chef’s palms a bit, but he got all he wanted set in a lovely wicker picnic basket.

“Planning on doing a little wooing?” the chef had asked him. “Who’s the lucky lady? Flex? I heard she can suck the chrome off a trailer hitch!”

Todd chuckled. “Nah, man. It’s for my girl. The shark doc. Marla.”

The chef whistled. “Woo boy. Best of luck with that!”

Todd got dressed in the cleanest t-shirt he owned and some nice camo shorts. It wasn’t fancy, but he knew his good looks and toned body were the real selling assets. He threw on some flip-flops and headed over to Marla’s cabana.

Better to get to her before she knew the full deal of this place. Before long, she was bound to be in a homicidal mood, and that wasn’t going to work for romance. Okay, she still might get on board for the sake of her beloved shark’s safety, but who the hell knew what went on in that fiery minx’s big brain? If he had any chance at getting in her pants, there was no time like the present.

***

Another new place. A strange place, more freeing than the miserable confinement but somehow still enclosed, unlike the realm he’d once called his own.

Here, there is no vast sky to the above-world. No sun or moon, but artificial lights which brighten and dim and change color in random patterns. Here, the water is pleasant but the currents forced, the rock formations unnatural, much of the vegetation fake. Here, he swims alone, with no flitting smaller fish or eels or scuttling bottom-feeders.

There is, however, a barrier like he’s known before, but even it is somehow different, somehow reversed. And the shapes beyond it are not the clamoring bipeds who’d waved idols of him or gasped and squealed in awe . . . the shapes beyond it are shark-shapes, shark-shapes like his own.

Only, female. Each of them, all of them, cruising and circling, sleek bodies and curved fins, bright eyes, sharp teeth. Some mature, wise and seasoned, experienced. Some young and just-ripening, curiously compelled.

But the barrier.

Always a barrier!

Always something keeping him apart from what he wants, needs, craves!

At least, though, the One has not forsaken and abandoned him after all. The One has been with him on this incomprehensible journey, if still at a distance. Not happily making her voice-sounds and tossing him food like she used to, not immersing in the infuriating cage-of-bars, but she has been with him.

It is all that keeps him sane, the tenuous thread of awareness, her presence a comfort even when everything else is confusion.

The One, his One, has also been distressed. Agitated and upset, fearful and angry. He has heard it, felt it, smelled it, sensed it, knows it to the very core of his being.

***

Marla sat on the edge of the California king bed in her guest cabana. Guest cabana? More like a showy and overelaborate prison cell.

She’d gotten there on her own, following Honey’s instructions, since the alternative was to be escorted by one of Simon’s henchmen or by Skate. No thanks. Escort or not, she could see the silhouette of an armed guard occasionally passing back and forth on the other side of the semi-sheer ivory curtains.

It infuriated her that she had to leave her Guppy in that grotto, alone and unsupervised. She felt completely helpless. Somehow, someway, she would get back to him. There might not be a way she could stop this disgusting production, but she was damn sure going to try. And at least be there. Not that she wanted to see it. She couldn’t imagine enduring the sight of it all. But this was her baby, her Guppy, and if anyone hurt him . . . Well, she didn’t know how, but she’d figure out a way to hurt them back.

Her thoughts drifted into very disturbing territory at what those bastards would use him for. There was, under the surface but not deep down, a tinge of jealousy. The strange hand job on Riptide’s claspers back at the aquarium lingered in her mind.

She knew how fucked up that was, to think that way about her shark. Yet she also knew, based on his reaction to her touch, that he was swept up in some confusing feelings of his own about her.

To think his sexual release, his first sexual release, would be at the hands of some porn whore bimbos who most likely wouldn’t live to tell the tale . . . Who did this Simon guy think he was? He knew nothing about shark behavior. He and his gaggle of idiots certainly didn’t know Riptide, and Riptide didn’t know them.

He belongs to me.

She jumped at a knock at the door. From the other side, she heard, “Babe? It’s me. Open up!”

Marla felt her face flush with anger. Todd. This was all his doing. He lied to her. Got her tied up into this circus sideshow. Made it seem like he was helping. That twisted fucker was about to get a rude awakening.

She opened the door to find him standing there with a fucking bottle of wine and a picnic basket. He was freshly showered and wearing his favorite camo shorts, like a would-be Casanova coming around for some sweet romance. Weeks ago, what seemed like a decade ago, she might have felt a little tug of lust at the sight. Now it brought on a surge of emotions of a different kind.

What a stupid man.

He pushed past her and entered the room. He spun around.

“Babe. I thought we could chill for a bit. Such a gorgeous place, right?” He placed the basket on the side table next to the bed and waved the wine bottle at her. “Let’s have a little drink, shall we? Take off some of the edge? Your shark is safe now, and the—”

Marla walked straight up to him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and brought her knee into his crotch hard enough for him to drop the bottle. It smashed on the tile floor, shattering glass and blood-red liquid all over the place. Todd fell onto the bed in the fetal position, grabbing his balls and trying to catch his breath. He made whimpering noises like an abandoned puppy.

“You motherfucker! You absolute son of a bitch!” Marla screamed down at him, and she did not give a fuck if the armed minion outside heard her. “Porn, Todd? Fucking porn? You knew all about this the entire time? You are such a cunt liar!” She emphasized the last part with a synchronized pair of slaps to his arm. Cunt! Slap. Liar! Slap.

Todd managed to prop himself up on an elbow and take a deep breath. It was pretty clear that the jig was up and she knew all about Simon and his plans. Fuck.

“Babe! Marla! It was the only way to save his life! I was only trying to—”

“How much, Todd? How much did you get for this? How much did that pimp Simon pay you to exploit my Guppy?”

Todd lowered his eyes. “I swear it wasn’t about that, babe. I mean, I got some good money, yeah, but I wanted to help save your shark! I know how much he means to you.”

Marla’s eyes widened, and she clenched her fists tightly. Todd inched back away from her on the bed, expecting another round of blows.

Surprisingly, her voice lowered into a strong whisper. She leaned forward as she spoke, causing Todd to inch even further away from her.

“How much he means to me? So you sell him to a man who makes bestiality pornos? Did you think that through? Did you actually believe I would get on board with this? Did you think for a second about the danger you’ve put him in? Me in? Even those vapid imbecile women who are most likely going to die trying to make a stupid fucking movie for twisted perverts? Did you think about any of that, you sick fuck?”

“But after . . . but after,” he stammered. “He’ll be set free. He’ll get to live in the lagoon. This was just a temporary stop along the way. Like a favor for letting him stay in this place.”

Marla leaned forward and open-handed slapped Todd across his mouth.

“Fuck, babe. Enough!” He looked truly terrified. Even his big blue eyes were beginning to water.

“You selfish, ignorant man. You are lucky I don’t fucking kill you right here and now.”

Todd had made his way to the other side of the bed and sat with his back to Marla, shoulders sunken.

He dared to make a soft-spoken final statement. “Marla, at least the shark is alive. He wouldn’t be if I hadn’t stepped in. Maybe you should remember that. And believe it or not, I love you. I would never do any—”

“Get out. GET OUT!” Marla didn’t know what she was capable of at that moment, but if this douchebag didn’t get out of her sight soon, she was going to find out fast.

“Yeah, okay,” Todd said as he gingerly pushed himself to his feet. He walked around the bed toward the door, keeping a minimal safe distance between them. He squeezed his watery eyes enough to allow one tear to flow down his cheek. Of course, it wasn’t a tear of sadness or concern. It was from the pain in his nuts. He turned and let Marla see his act of emotion. One last attempt for pity and maybe a chance at future forgiveness.

Marla replied with a louder and more insistent tone. “GET OUT!”

Todd took another step toward the door and stepped on a large piece of glass from the broken bottle.

“Ah! Fuck!” He clenched his raised foot, which was bleeding profusely, dripping onto the tiled floor. He plucked the glass out of the sole of his foot and flung it at the wall. He wasn’t going to get any sympathy or first aid in here. He limped out the front door and slammed it behind him.

Marla heard the guard ask, “Dude, you okay? What happened in there?”

“Fuck off,” came the response.

***

The male.

Their male.

Close but unreachable. So near and yet so far.

Healthy, strong, potent, virile!

They can smell him, his readiness.

They can feel the galvanic pulsations of his excitement.

Heightening in return, their own mating scents, their own urges, the biological imperative to fuck and to breed.

***

Derek suppressed a grin as he led the girls to the entrance of the grotto, no longer cordoned off with CLOSED signs.

Gonna be a right treat, this. They’d flip their tits and for sure.

Nice tits, by the way, every set of them. Nice bums too. Plenty of variety, which was how he liked it. Never could wrap his head around how some blokes only had one particular “type.” Far as he cared, it was all good.

He’d gotten to know their names over the past few days and gotten the idea more than a couple of them wouldn’t have minded doing some scenes with him, on camera or off.

Nyonne, the ebony beauty he’d had a gander at on the night of the party . . . currently in a halter top with a loose sarong-type garment knotted around her lean hips, showing long flashes of elegant leg with each step . . .

The redheaded twins, Doni and Dani, and what a pair they were, each sporting “’uge tracts of land” as the old gag went, acres of creamy skin on display thanks to skimpy tank tops and sporty plus-size gym-shorts . . .

Brooke, her wholesome farmgirl look only helped along by denim Daisy Duke cutoffs and a sleeveless plaid shirt knotted at the midriff, sun-browned limbs and sun-bleached hair, about as all-American as a warm apple pie . . .

Kaelinn, the Ginger to Brooke’s Mary-Ann, wearing cool shades indoors and a stylish one-piece swimsuit that’d be absolute shit when it came to actual swimming but made for Sports Illustrated cover model wank-fodder for sure . . .

Cute little loli-waifu Reenie, with her wide anime eyes, curly pigtails, in a navy-blue sailor/schoolgirl outfit with white piping and a skirt doing nothing to conceal her cheek-hugging sheer white panties . . .

Last but by no means least, the spiky-haired tattooed bird what called herself Flex, and for damned good reason; when even Honey was impressed, you knew it was time to sit up and take notice. Fuckin’ freaky was what it was; still, as Derek liked to say, fuckin’ freaky led to freaky fuckin’, which was all right by him.

On the way down, they’d been chattering away, speculating as to what might be awaiting them on the other side, and while they had some ideas that’d make for possible future film projects—hey, if Reenie meant what she’d said about live-action hentai, could probably dredge themselves up an octo somewhere—they still were in for one shockeroo.

Now, they clustered in the hallway as he paused with a hand on the doorknob. “Aight?” he asked, making sure he had their attention. “Ready?”

The twins bounced in unison, sending seismic ripples through their “’uge tracts of land.” Reenie squealed giddily. Flex met Derek’s gaze with a “bring it” smirk. Kaelinn drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Nyonne and Brooke only nodded.

He opened the door and ushered them in. They went with gasps of reverence, almost like stepping into church, though church was about as far from anything to do with Simon Klim as could be. Still, the grotto, which had been a stunner enough before the reno, was even more spectacular now.

Exotic, a glimmering, shimmering undersea panorama, the lighting effects so nicely done it gave the impression the entire space was submerged. The very air seemed to ripple, undulating in eddies and currents created by strategically-placed fans. Hidden speakers lent it a subtle but ambient tidal rushing background, the sounds of holding a shell up to your ear but magnified, the living pulse of the ocean.

Really nice work, this. Really fuckin’ beautiful. Could almost believe he was in the ocean, surrounded by coral reefs and wavering strands of kelp. All as was missing for the immersive experience were tiny colorful fish flitting by. Well, except for the part about being able to breathe and walk.

Not to mention it not being occupied by cameras, boom mics, dark-clad crew members doing their best to play it discreet, Simon kicked back in his folding canvas director’s chair with a Mai-Tai in hand . . .

And the giant Great White shark cruising laps in the revamped swim-spa pool, fin slicing so high and so obvious as to leave no goddamn doubt.

The girls stopped in their tracks. Derek knew each would have a camera trained in close-up on her face; in such moments, the reaction shot could as important as the money shot, if not more.

Simon watched them, eyes dancing merrily. Honey and Skate flanked him, Honey with a carefully neutral expression, Skate with a mean curve of smile.

Of the shark-lady, at the moment, there was no sign. Derek figured Simon didn’t want her interfering with this initial meet-and-greet, though how he’d kept her away was its own question. One out of his pay grade.

“That’s not a dolphin,” Kaelinn said, first to break the seven-way gobsmacked staring silence.

The twins blinked in unison too, and turned their boggled gazes to Simon as if he were pulling a prank.

“That . . . is that a . . . shark?” Brooke managed, taking an involuntary step back.

“That’s not just a shark,” said Flex. “That’s a Great-fucking-White.”

Reenie laughed weakly. “Ha, yes, funny joke.”

Nyonne said nothing, though her graceful throat moved as she swallowed.

“My dear ladies!” Simon beamed expansively. “Please allow me to present your leading man, already a star in his own right, the erstwhile main attraction of Oceanview Aquarium, the one-and-only Riptide!”

“Omigod,” whispered Doni, or maybe it was Dani; Derek couldn’t be sure.

“Riptide? The Riptide?” whispered Dani, or maybe Doni.

“He did say it’d be a celebrity!”

“Omigod!”

They clutched each other, jiggling some more.

“You’re not joking?” Reenie asked, folded hands pressed to her mouth. If her anime eyes got any bigger, they’d have to pop from her head in a cartoon effect.

“Um, didn’t he . . . wasn’t he . . . there was something on the news . . . ?” Brooke stammered.

They had, of course, at Simon’s “request,” left their personal cell phones behind; couldn’t have them putting any spoilers on social media or revealing tricks of the trade. But neither was the island totally isolated from word of the outside world.

“He killed a bunch of people,” Reenie said, stricken. “Kids, I think. They fell into his tank, and he ate them.”

“Then an animal rights group broke him out, to save him from being euthanized,” Kaelinn added. “At least, that’s what I heard . . . ”

“No way!” Flex edged closer for a better look. “What’s he doing here?”

“Hopefully,” said Simon, still beaming, benign, “he’ll be doing some of you.” He raised his Mai-Tai in a toast.

They all turned to him.

“So you want us . . . ” Doni-or-Dani spoke as if choosing each word with care.

“To have sex with . . . him?” Dani-or-Doni finished.

“With a shark?!” emphasized Brooke. “A killer man-eating shark?!?”

“Well, of course!” As if it were the most natural thing in the world, with him waxing benevolent, giving them a gift, a generous Santa in a Panama hat and aloha shirt.

“This is insane,” said Kaelinn.

“It sure goddamn is.” Flex shook her head, awestruck. “Mr. Klim, with all due respect, you are one fucked-up dude.”

He tipped the Mai-Tai at her in acknowledgment, and winked.

“Not me.” Reenie wrapped her arms around herself and retreated with quick, mincing little steps. “No. Not me. I’m afraid of sharks.”

“I thought it’d be a dolphin.” Brooke shuddered. “A dolphin, okay, maybe. But . . . ”

“Aww, and you wanted to be in the movies,” sneered Skate. “Tough luck, sweetheart.”

Honey shot her a look, and she shut up.

“You can’t seriously be making us—” began Kaelinn.

“My dears, my dears, please!” Simon heaved himself from the director’s chair. “No one is making you. No one is forcing you to be here or participate unwillingly in anything, on camera or off. It’s entirely up to you. The choice is yours.”

Another hush fell, the girls either exchanging glances or avoiding eye contact, clearly thinking it over. Weighing the options, the pluses and minuses. Money, for sure, and a shitload of it. Worldwide, eternal internet fame and notoriety.

Still and all, though, it was a shark they were talking about. A shark who, even when wearing that bondage-esque muzzle, looked big enough and bad enough to take the piss out of an entire lagered-up team of rugby players without cracking a sweat.

Ambient ocean sounds filled the room. Currents of air and light rippled and eddied. At the long, curved panoramic window into the lagoon, sleek torpedo-shaped shadows gathered in a thickening crowd.

“Does it have to be full-on penetration actual sex?” asked Nyonne, a sudden bomb-out-of-the-blue from the quiet one, instantly riveting everybody’s attention.

***

Marla paced her cabana, unable to relax. How could she when she was a veritable prisoner? Okay, the accommodations were nice, the food was excellent, the view spectacular, but there was an armed guard conveniently stationed just outside.

She couldn’t leave without permission, couldn’t go anywhere else without an escort, and since Todd’s botched hey babe wanna have some fun? attempt the day before, she hadn’t had many visitors.

Earlier that morning, her second-least-favorite person on the island—that asshole shithead Todd having moved into the top spot—showed up to take her over to the grotto to check on her shark. Goddamn Skate and her sneery smirk, which Marla longed to smack right off her face but didn’t dare.

It chafed her bigtime to bite her tongue and play nice and just go along with it. No other choice, though. Not if she wanted to see Riptide. Hell, not if she wanted to keep breathing; the fact these people both could and would simply kill her had finally begun to sink in. No one else would ever know what had happened. Even Johnny would be left guessing, without many clues to go on.

The cabana did get a limited selection of cable channels, so she’d been able to catch a couple news broadcasts. As expected, the Oceanview tragedy and subsequent shark-napping remained a top story, with increasingly wilder theories abounding as to who was behind it.

Well, the theories all did agree on one aspect . . . nothing like seeing your own face flashed on the screen as part of an ongoing investigation. Or watching video interview clips with your colleagues and co-workers. Or having that moment from the press conference where the grieving mother slapped you sideways replayed again and again and turned into a fucking meme.

Marla told herself to ignore it, let it go, let it pass. She’d known her career was over as soon as she’d agreed to Todd’s cockamamie plan, however vague on the details she might have been. Hell, having had some time to think about it, she now had to wonder if she’d have gone for it anyway, even if she had been given the whole story up front. Anything to save her Guppy, right?

On the plus side—and she was grasping at any silver lining she could, even if the silver lining turned out to be tinfoil—her Guppy was alive. He’d survived the trip, jury-rigged and hectic and stressful as it was. He hadn’t been injured or harmed—in any physical way, at least. His mental and emotional states, which had been questionable to begin with, couldn’t have been done any favors by what he’d been put through.

For that matter, her Guppy had fared better physically than Marla herself; her shoulder still ached from Skate’s little “warning,” and she’d tweaked her wrist delivering that smackdown to Todd.

Then again, Todd sure had come out of that one the worse for wear; the sight of him gimp-hobbling away, leaving a one-sided trail of bloody footprints from stepping on the broken wine bottle, while also hunched double to favor his knee-slammed balls, did bring her a fair bit of satisfaction.

Riptide was okay, though, and that was what mattered. As well as he could be, under the circumstances. And just the fact of her being there seemed to calm him, which was also a relief. She’d been worried that he might somehow blame her for his plight, not trust her anymore. All this was of way greater magnitude than just transferring him to the vet tank for a checkup; her poor boy had no idea what was going on, and it had gone on for a lot longer than anything he’d experienced before.

Once she’d made sure he was, if not thriving, at least not failing to thrive, and she’d had the opportunity to consult with someone on Klim’s staff—vet? zookeeper? animal handler?—who appeared fairly competent, they’d even allowed her some time to sit by the edge of the swim-spa and watch over her shark.

Just like she used to.

Nothing like she used to.

But she’d tried to put the rest of it out of her mind for a while. The eerie grotto surroundings with its underwater light effects and ambient sea-sounds . . . the huge window looking out into the lagoon, where dozens of female Great Whites cruised and circled . . . the background activity as dark-clad workers went about doing whatever they were doing . . . Skate, sneery smirk firmly in place, leaning against a faux-coral outcrop with arms crossed while she waited to take Marla back to her own place of captivity . . . she’d done her best to push all that aside and focus solely on her Guppy.

All too soon, though, she was hustled out, returned to her cabana, and told to stay put.

Which she did, but she wasn’t happy about it. The more she paced, the more she thought of big cats in small cages, restlessly roving back and forth, going psychotic.

Eventually, they’d snap, and then the shit would really hit the fan.

***

The One is not with him.

Others are. Many others. A host of others, in the above-space of dry air. And while they are not gathered in adoring admiration, he senses their respect, awe, and fear.

From these newest arrivals, these young females especially. In them, it is very strong. For some, the fear predominates, fear and stark terror. Those do not linger long but hasten away.

The few that remain . . . they exude wonder, intrigue, apprehension, and a perverse fascination that tingles his nerves.

There is a weight of waiting, of expectation, though he does not know what is expected of him.

Is it a feeding time? Will there be meat dangled from above for him to breach and leap and catch? So far, he has perceived no such apparatus, and this realm is not deep enough to give him the momentum required to propel himself far above the surface.

Back in his home tank, he had learned how to stop swimming and be still. It feels against his instinct to do so. Keep swimming. Always swimming to move the water over his gills. Somehow, he knows if he stops swimming, he will die. But there had been one spot in the back area of his tank, the area where the One would visit, where the current moved so strongly that he could pause his movements without losing his ability to breathe.

It took him a long time to trust it. To realize he was safe in his stillness. That he could breathe. That he was okay. Once he got the hang of it, he would visit that spot often, taking in the vibrations of it, hoping for a glimpse or touch of the One. His muscles rested as the current massaged him. Just a slight sway of his caudal fin to keep him buoyant. There was serenity there.

Now, in this strange prison, the strong current does not soothe him. He cannot rest in the swish of water over his gills. Here, in this place, he takes advantage of it for a different reason. A reason he does not comprehend.

Fear.

Not just fear. Other feelings.

What is happening to him? The others in the above-world are like the One, not the One, but similar in shape and form. Their mouth-noises range from deep male tones to high-pitched squealing notes from the females

Excitement. Energy.

For him? All this excitement for him?

He is used to the sounds of the others, gazing with mouths agape beyond the windows of his former kingdom. Is this his new home? This small and oddly colored cell?

Here, the bipedal admirers worship him from above, not through windows. Not in rows while he heaves his might upwards to grab his meaty offering, descending with a booming splash.

Beyond the windows of this tank are additional admirers for sure. Of his kind. Females of his own kind. They seem frenzied, dangerous, alluring. They don’t just watch him. They want him.

Rudely, he is stun-shocked and immobilized again. Two males, in their fake skins with their fake fins, drop into the water. Before he can shake off the effects and—and what? bite them, savage them, make them bleed, kill them, eat them?—and do something, they have secured the hated strap-thing around his jaws.

As control returns, he thrashes his head side to side, but the strap-thing will not dislodge. He settles, reluctant but resigned. Will it next be the harsh lights, the thin piercing pain, the indignity?

It is not.

What is happening to him?

What is about to happen to him?

So he freezes.

He finds that place with the strong current and freezes.

Not to rest. Not to be soothed.

From fear.

He cannot recognize the behaviors here. He cannot predict.

Where is the One?

For a moment, there is nothing else.

Just the sway of his tail in the moving water. The limited gape of his jaws. His heartbeat increasing.

The two males depart, clambering awkwardly, leaving the strap-thing muzzling his jaws. Many voices overlap in the above-world, many signals heightening with excitement and anticipation.

Something is about to happen.

Then something does.

He senses the vibration and scent as another of the others steps into his strange new kingdom.

A female. Slipping into the water, lithe and graceful, barely causing a ripple. Unlike the bulky, clumsy movements of the males. A female, but not the One, free-swimming near him as he’s always yearned for the One to do.

A young, supple female. Who wears no fake skin, no fake fins. Who is dark, and sleek, slender, long-limbed.

In the water with him. Near him. No clear barrier between them, no cage-of-bars. Gliding and pausing, gliding and pausing, as if inquisitive but cautious.

He holds still, unsure. The current fills his gills, but he is otherwise motionless, even the hated strap-muzzle almost forgotten.

What is this?

Strange but enticing scents intrigue him. He can even taste her, not blood and meat but a warm and exotic muskiness. She glides closer, close enough for him to feel the heat of her body.

Then she touches him.

Hesitant, gentle. A fleeting brush, not like the way the One touches him. But she touches him. A tentative caress skimming his side.

He shivers.

She touches again, lightly stroking the sweep of his dorsal fin, his pectoral fin. He continues to hold still. There are no piercing pains, no crude indignities as he’s been forced to endure so often, so cruelly.

Not like the way the One touches him, no. Her scent, taste, presence, and nearness are nothing like the One. Yet, it is . . . pleasant.

Her torso leans into his side, soft and firm, slim and curved. Her upper limbs wrap delicately around him. She rests her head upon his dorsal fin. He feels the air of her breath, the rapid flutter of her heart.

The above-world others are reacting in a variety of ways, but he ignores them. He ignores them as the female slides her torso along his side, back and forth in sinuous motion, this way smooth and that way coarser, his skin rasping, hers so very delicate and fine.

Slowly, she twists, she turns, she undulates, she writhes. She arches her back and splays her upper limbs, one reaching toward his head and the other his tail. She nimbly rolls atop him, astride him, backwards, her long lower limbs folding behind his pectoral fins, her upper limbs embracing his dorsal fin.

Her breath is quicker, shallower. Her heartbeat flutters faster. Her musky scent intensifies, takes on a saltier tang. Her lower limbs grip him as her torso rhythmically rocks, rubbing the moist, slick groove of the orifice between them against the leading edge of his dorsal fin, as if it were one of his claspers. She makes sound-noises, low and throaty like whalesong. She trembles and she quivers.

What is this? What is happening? She is not belly-to-belly with him, neither of his claspers sinking deep into tight and hungry flesh, but . . . are they . . . fucking?

His claspers jut, stiff and throbbing, surrounded by nothing but water. His tail muscles and pelvic fins clench.

Whatever it is, in its maddening wash of sensations, he likes it.

But he would like it so much better if this female were the One. Somehow, in some way he does not understand, this is wrong.

***

A hush had fallen across the grotto. Everybody stared, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

They had, all of them, in their time, seen and/or done some wild shit, but Derek was willing to bet none of them had even dreamed of something like this.

And it was . . . weirdly beautiful, weirdly artful . . . somehow sensual and sexy without being the least bit pornographic . . . not to mention miles too classy for anything ever associated with a Simon Klim flick.

In response to Nyonne’s earlier question, Simon had assured her it could be whatever they were comfortable with, however far they were willing to go. None of the girls were being forced to do this, after all. Had full freedom of choice, din’t they? No harm, no foul, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Well, for the ones who’d opted out altogether, it did mean they’d blown their chances at ever working with Klim again, missing their shot at the bigtime and relegating themselves to regular low-budget stuff with ordinary, docile animals . . . but, their loss.

Reenie, Brooke, and Kaelinn had been shown out, instructed to pack up their things, reminded of the NDAs they’d signed before they were allowed to set foot on the island in the first place, and Jorge would shortly be returning them to the mainland.

While, of those who’d remained, Nyonne—what a stunner she was, gobsmack gorgeous—decided there was no time like the present and got right down to business.

In her way. In her signature style.

A nude ballet of interpretive dance and dramatic poses, more like what Derek would have expected from some high-end erotic photographer’s shoot. That Mapplethorpe bloke, for instance, or Annie Leibovitz. All done in black and white, with plays of light and shadow. What’d be in an exclusive New York or Paris gallery exhibition.

Nyonne had even said how, after posing with greyhounds and racehorses and the like, she’d wanted to move up the food chain, take it wilder, take it dangerous. With wolves, maybe, or the big cats.

This, though? This was off the fuckin’ chain, mate!

She’d stripped and let her clothes fall, nonchalant as anything, and if there was an ounce of her that wasn’t sheer perfection, Derek couldn’t spot it. Nor would he have minded doing a thorough up-close inspection. Small but high and proud breasts, most perfect goddamn nipples he’d beheld in his life. Taut, concave belly. Slim hips and lean—but not too lean, no—buttocks. And those long, sculpted thighs! Her skin not quite ebony, dark and flawless, nary a scratch, scar, or stretch mark in sight. A modest downy fluff of tidily trimmed pubes. The lines of her neck, her back, her chin, her cheekbones!

Should’ve been a supermodel, her, internationally famous, a modern-day Nefertiti on all the fashion mag covers.

Instead, she was here, of all places, wading into the grotto’s swim spa pool with an enormous killer shark.

Funny ol’ world.

If she’d shown a little hesitation at first, who could fuckin’ blame her? Muzzled or not, their boy Riptide was one monster of a brute. A slap from his tail alone might’ve crunched her ribs like pretzel sticks.

Once she got into it, though . . .

Now, Derek knew he was no poncy art type, but even he could tell the contrast between Nyonne’s near-ebony skin and Riptide’s grey-over-white hide was seriously striking. He had wondered about the texture of that hide—sandpapery, wasn’t it supposed to be? Though they made suits and wallets out of it, so din’t seem it should be all that abrasive.

Anyway, Nyonne hadn’t shown any problem with it, touching the shark, stroking and caressing, then embracing. She’d moved around him, posed alongside him, her expression both noble and serene. In a slow and silent dance, as if to music none of the rest of them could hear, she reclined with arms outstretched and back arched and those perfect goddamn nipples pointing pertly at the grotto’s shadow-dappled ceiling.

She’d trailed her hands over her own body as well, cupping her breasts, tracing her thighs, lost in herself and lost in the moment and loving it. Delving her fingers between her legs, eyes blissfully closed.

Damn, but it was hot! Even crew members who normally didn’t get turned on by anything—all in a day’s work, innit?—were affected. Lustful glazed eyes, licked lips, bulging crotches, and surreptitious rubbing went on all around. Derek himself, certainly no stranger to the biz, sported a full ramrod, lending credence to the novelty t-shirt he wore, the one with an arrow pointing upward under the words THE MAN and an arrow pointing downwards above the words THE LEGEND.

Then she’d swung up on top of the shark, facing backwards, a kind of reverse-cowgirl posture, with her knees hooked over his side fins and her hips nudging her pussy against that big main fin, and started a languid humping that nearly made Derek come in his pants, as if he were some horny inexperienced teenage kid instead of a porn star with decades of experience literally under his belt.

If Riptide had any idea what was going on, he clearly was clueless what to do about it. He’d gone stiff—in more ways than one, as the underwater cams showed—and held totally still as Nyonne rode him like a slow-mo mechanical bull to her own obvious, shuddering completion.

***

“Did you see that? Did you see that?” crowed Simon. Ecstatic. Transported. All but falling out of his director’s chair.

“Oh, we saw it,” Skate said in a flat tone. “Kind of hard to miss, since we’re standing right here.”

She watched Derek assist the black girl out of the pool—her earlier grace and elegance evidently having ditched her in the wake of what sure had been no faked orgasm; she was wobbly-legged and winded. He wrapped her in a beach towel and guided her to a lounger, summoning an assistant to bring her a bottled water.

“My God!” Simon enthused. “Spectacular! Award-worthy! And I mean real awards, legitimate cinematic awards, not just the Jizzies!”

Honey gave him a look. “What’s wrong with the Jizzies?”

“Nothing, nothing, of course! I’m proud of every single one. But this . . . ”

“Yeah, and we’d all be in jail,” Skate cut in.

He deflated a little.

“Still,” Honey said, “she did go for it, which, I gotta admit, is more than I expected. Didn’t think any of them really would get in the tank. I sure as shit wouldn’t.”

“Might win you another Jizzie,” Skate said.

“No thanks, I’ve got plenty.”

“But Mom and Dad would be so proud.”

Honey flipped her off. Skate smirked, then shifted her attention to the shark. Too bad his titsy-bitch trainer hadn’t been here; she’d’ve lost her absolute mind. Probably was already just from knowing what was going on—dumbass bigmouth dingus Todd—and driving herself crazy anyway imagining the sordid horrors her poor precious sharky-baby was being subjected to. And if she had been here, she would’ve raised hell, ruined the shoot with her protests and carryings-on, no matter what leverage Simon held over her.

Then again, it would have given Skate an excuse to deal with her. Maybe dislocate her shoulder for real this time, break a few fingers, see how she liked a good elbow to the nose. She cracked her knuckles in anticipation, sure she’d have the opportunity sooner or later. Hopefully sooner.

The shark hadn’t resumed doing his laps, just hung there in the swim-spa’s artificial current. Wasn’t even trying to shake off the muzzle. Probably unable, in his tiny fish brain, to process any of it.

His tiny fish brain, yeah. Other not-so-tiny parts of his fishy anatomy, however? Another story. Each was longer and thicker than a king-sized kielbasa, a kind of pallid bluish-grey, tapering to a narrowed tip, and each looked hard as a baseball bat.

No, thank you. Any sane person would have run the other way.

Any sane person.

“Us next! Us next!” chorused the twins.

“It’s our turn!” cried one.

“Please please please!” cried the other.

Simon beamed at them. “What do you have in mind, ladies?”

“Hand-jobs at least!”

“Ooh! Dual titty-fuck!”

“Simultaneous double-blowies!”

“Eeeee! Yes!”

They peeled off their skimpy tank tops, which hadn’t done much to conceal anything to begin with, creamy-white beach-ball boobies bobbling, Barbie-pink beer-coaster-sized nipples puckering erect. They shucked their loose gym shorts, revealing matching curly patches proving them natural redheads without a doubt, and bounteous, dimpled butt-cheeks.

“Hang on a mo,” said Derek. “Underwater? Might want snorkels, or scuba gear, or sommat, so you can catch a breath in between.”

Even those airheads had to acknowledge the wisdom in his words, jiggling impatiently as crew members fetched and fitted them with face masks, mini dive tanks, regulators that could be easily removed and replaced, weighted belts to counter their—ahem!—overabundance of buoyancy, and open-heeled short-bladed swim fins.

Made for a kind of ridiculous picture, the two of them otherwise completely bare-assed, but the average Klim-flick viewer wasn’t going to give a damn. Nor did Simon; if his eyes got any brighter, they’d go fluorescent, and he squirmed in his seat. As a final touch, he had some waterproof bodycams strategically attached to the masks and tank harnesses, so as to get the full first-person effect. Which might turn out garbage . . . but, then again, it might not.

The last girl, the pierced and tattooed spiky-haired carnival freak, sat back and observed, biding her time. Something about her attitude appealed to Skate; if anybody was going to push things way beyond the next level, it’d be her.

In the meantime, though, the geared-up naked redheads waded down the steps into the pool, nipples puckering and poking even further because of the cool water as well as their excitement. They moved toward the shark, whose body tensed as they drew near.

***

Doni and Dani held hands as they went down the steps into the shallow end of the grotto pool. Their finned feet made a cacophony of splashes as they descended.

“Hey!” Simon called out to them. “You might want to slow your roll, ladies. Don’t give that shark the feeling it’s mealtime with all that splashing!”

“Sorreeeeee!” the twins said in unison.

They looked at each other and giggled as they slowly, and less splashily, moved into the water, struggling with their swim fins as they walked along the pool’s bottom. After a few more goofy steps forward, it sloped out enough for them to begin swimming.

They dipped their faces into the water to get a look at their co-star. The shark remained muzzled and in his still position in front of the filtration unit, his tail moving left and right. Upon them entering the water, he jerked his head side to side momentarily before settling down again.

Dani looked at Doni as they treaded water. “I think he’s excited to see us!”

“What should we do first?”

“Use your hands first, silly! Let’s get a feel for this big guy!”

“What if he starts swimming away?”

Both of the twins held their regulators in one hand as the other assisted in staying afloat. That helped along with their natural floatation devices, which bobbed at the surface, nipples erect and making sporadic appearances above the water line.

Dani seemed surprised at Doni’s question. “If he swims, we swim with him.” She used her free hand to lift a finned foot out of the water in a dazzling show of flexibility that drew some whistles from the by-standers.

“Okay, okay! I’m sure he can smell you now after that move. I know I’m super wet.”

Dani adjusted Doni’s face mask and then her own. “Me too! Let’s go!”

“Squeeeeeeeeee!”

***

More intruders. Again female. Two of them this time.

He doesn’t feel safe. Doesn’t want to move. Not yet. Not until he knows what is going to happen.

He has to resist the urge to swim toward them as they splash, throwing vibrations toward him that mimic distress. That feel like prey.

But not prey. He has a growing sense of yearning as a scent permeates the pool. It is again musky. Feral. The miasma of those pheromones is becoming familiar to him. Same as the dark one that touched him and caressed his skin. Same but slightly different. Stronger. After all, there are two of them this time.

His claspers engorge and swell. Is this to be more of the same like with the dark skinned other? Or is there more to come?

***

The male!

The male they are able to see, smell, sense . . . but unable to reach!

The male, so close but so far, kept from them by this irksome barrier!

The male, now in a new kind of distress. An aroused, urgent, torrid distress. Needing to mate, to breed, to fuck!

But the bipeds have him. Keeping him from them, from his own, when he should be theirs! Theirs to swim with, tussle with, fin-bite, body-roll! Theirs to mount them and pump them, hard and fast, tails lashing, teeth gnashing, savage lust and violent copulation, as much a fighting as a fucking, blood and seed spilled!

But the bipeds have him!

Tease and torment him!

Use and abuse him!

Puny biped females slithering over and against him, spewing alien mammalian hormonal signals and pheromones!

The male struggles feebly, fretfully. Trapped. Baffled. Confused. Bubbles rise around him as plump, pale bipeds converge. These more bumbling and erratic than the dark female. Bumbling and bubbling. Bubbling and bumbling. Thicker, stubbier limbs wavering less gracefully. Rounded bodies billowing, rippling, ripe and rich with gelatinous layers of blubber.

What are they doing to him?

The male jerks and twitches, flicking his entangled head side to side. The pale biped females duck beneath him, more bubbles rising, and his distress intensifies, awash in confusion and fevered, unnatural urges.

How dare the bipeds do this! Treat him this way, a male, such a male, young-strong-vital-virile-healthy! The only male! Their male!

As if the bipeds tease and torment not just him but the rest of them as well, taunting, tantalizing, dangling the enticing prospect—the necessary prospect!—before them but not letting them through. Not letting them have what is theirs!

By right! By nature! By biological imperative!

Some of the younglings bump their snouts into the incomprehensible barrier, increasingly agitated, tails whipping. A few of the older, larger, more seasoned females, seized by the madness of frenzy, whirl as if they themselves are males, clamping toothy jaws onto dorsal and pectoral fins of their smaller sisters, wrestling them into position. Trying to mount but having no claspers to mount with, to sink deep, so it is a futile and fruitless exercise in frustration.

Many scatter and flee, darting off into the further safety of the lagoon. Others snap back, and blood flows, and eyes roll.

And the male, their male . . . he is aware of it, aware of them . . . his churning passions heightened . . . his body bucking and heaving amid storms of bubbles and flashes of pale, bulbous, blubbery flesh.

***

The twins kicked their way over until they got within about 10 feet of Riptide. They lifted their heads up. He was close to the surface, his dorsal fin exposed above the water line. The tip of his tail cut back and forth. It seemed like he was calm, but what the hell did they know? They may have been experienced with ponies, but this sure as shit was a new one for them.

Faces plunged back down into the water to take a good gander at the big fish. After about 20 seconds, they lifted back up again.

“Omigod huge!”

“Length and girth!”

Dani giggled. “Are you talking about him or his dicks?”

“Both!”

“Should we do this now? Is it safe?”

Doni grabbed Dani’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“We can do this. Think of all the money we’ll get. We’ll be famous, Dani!”

“Do you think he’ll let us fuck him?”

“Let’s just see how it goes, okay?”

Dani nodded, and they both placed the regulators in their mouths and dove in. Another smattering of whoops and hollers arose from the onlooking crew members as they maneuvered their torsos downwards, their bare butts poking up before they submerged.

The twins may have been newbies to aquatic bestiality porn, but they had figured out some crazy shit before, so they would definitely figure this out. As if they were synchronized swimmers at the goddamn summer Olympics, Dani automatically swam to his right side and Doni to his left. Even though they had weight belts on, they still had a hard time staying under the shark. Dani was the first to take hold of a genital clasper, and Doni quickly followed suit. Now they had something to hold on to!

They shared a glance through their face masks, both obviously thinking the same thing, recalling that long-ago birthday party with Lancelot. But this was better, this was bigger, there were two, and their parents weren’t going to interrupt them in horrified shock this time.

Their air bubbles sped up when their hands grabbed their prizes. The bubbles didn’t seem to affect the shark at all, but maybe with all the existing bubbles and current around him, he didn’t notice. Dani used her other hand to grasp her clasper, one hand higher than the other. She glanced over at Doni, eyes wide as saucers, as if to say, “whoa boy!” Doni used both of her hands too. Everything together. Always together.

Riptide might not have noticed the air bubbles, but he reacted to THIS. The claspers seemed to swell even more in the twins’ hands. They were hard as concrete and scaled with calcified bumps. Dani was imagining how good one would feel inside of her, if she could even fit all of it inside of her! Ribbed for her pleasure!

Suddenly, the shark swiped his tail and surged ahead. The twins held tightly to his swollen members and went along for the ride. Doni began to wonder how they were going to get this thing off if they had to hang on to him like a double joystick as he swam. And there was the issue of film. Were they getting all this? She wasn’t sure how much her bodycams would capture if she was careening through the water at what felt like 100 miles per hour! She and Dani were bumping into each other’s shoulders and hips, coordinated with the shark’s swishing tail. They looked like two buxom and very horny remora.

Then, Riptide eased his pace. He didn’t have much room to maneuver or keep up speed.

The twins sensed it was a pretty good time to get to work. Always aware of each other’s actions, they began to use the higher placed hands to stroke the tips of the shark’s dicks. They squeezed and tugged. Just like they would a man, or a chimp for that matter—bringing up memories of another occasion ruined, a special behind-the-scenes fundraising event at a primate sanctuary, where they’d sneaked away from the group and things were just getting interesting when a startled volunteer found them. Luckily, the volunteer had agreed, after a little . . . persuasion . . . to keep quiet.

No one was going to interrupt or interfere this time!

Riptide was still slowly swimming around the grotto, but his body was rippling, like he was being shocked by a cattle prod. He may not have known exactly what they were doing, but he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, near as they could tell, he seemed to be getting into it.

Both of the twins were internally struggling that they couldn’t speak to each other. They let out the typical moans and groans, but they were warped and muffled in the water.

Dani really hoped the body cameras were getting this stuff. Because, with one glance at her sister, she knew this was about to get into some wilder territory.

Doni had removed her regulator, which floated alongside her on a tether attached to her weight belt. She positioned her mouth at the tip of his clasper and flicked her tongue around it in a circular motion. Then licked from further down and upward, using her whole tongue, like licking a giant ice cream cone. She heard Dani’s underwater giggle and saw her spring into mouth action on her own appendage. Soon they were in tandem again.

They had to choose their lapping and sucking spots wisely. The rough calcium deposits made cutting their tongues to bits a very real possibility. And blood in the water might not be such a great idea, given the situation. The areas near the tips seemed pretty smooth and became the focus of their work.

Doni was the first to attempt to insert the thick dick into her mouth and down her throat. She could only get about three inches of his girth inside and just the very tip was tickling the back of her throat. Of course, Dani soon followed and was able to open her mouth a little wider, taking in a bit more than Doni.

The twins disengaged long enough to draw deep breaths from their regulators—the process was a little wonky—while also trying to hang on to Riptide’s double dicks. He was really rippling now. His muscles responded in waves, and his head shook intermittently. It was quite the ride, and the twins didn’t dare let go. It seemed relatively safe underneath him, though. Nowhere near his jaws, as muzzled as they might be.

Nodding to each other, they dropped their regs and wrapped their mouths around the claspers again. Each of them worked her tongue on the thankfully slippery skin. If they were anything like the rest of his skin, those dicks would have been cheese graters on their tongues. Yet there wasn’t much tongue room, as those swollen claspers took up most of their oral real estate.

Nothing if not professionals, those girls did their damndest to suck that shark’s dicks. Doni was really starting to get the hang of it and felt comfortable enough to release one of her hands and use it to massage Dani’s huge breast, giving her nipple a hard pinch. Dani let out a bubbly yelp and giggle. She used her own free hand to slide the tips of her fingers down her sister’s abdomen. She could barely reach the top of her labial folds and, with a little digging, gave Doni’s clit a quick rub. Doni responded with a muted groan of pleasure.

Just as she groaned, Riptide made a tight circle in the water, whipping his tail around. The twins hung on for dear life, their mouths still sucking, Doni’s body slapping against Dani’s and both hands back on the joysticks. As he settled his movements down, Doni remembered they’d promised a titty-fuck. She reached over again and gave Dani’s breast another squeeze.

Dani didn’t react at first, busy tasting the milky precum of a Great White shark. And even its precum was the volume of most men’s full ejaculation! It tasted briny and mildly fishy. She swallowed it down in true star fashion. Feeling the lingering squeeze on her boob, she got the hint as to what Doni had in mind.

Dani released the clasper from her mouth and put in her regulator. This was going to be a little tricky. The twins each positioned their assigned big appendage between their set of enormous, supple tits. Once the claspers were lodged snugly between their ample bosoms, they shot each other a knowing look. In one smooth and synchronized move, they squeezed their tits together around each clasper.

It was pretty hard work to keep the boobs tight enough around the thick girth of the things while also holding on enough that they didn’t slip off as Riptide continued to swim and ripple his body.

Dani and Doni didn’t have to speak to understand that they were having quite the effect on this monster fish. Suddenly, he stopped swimming, though the water still moved and churned around them. He had stopped in that spot near the filtration unit again.

Did he want to get finished off? Did the big fishie wanna come?

Dani threw her left leg around the left side of Riptide’s flank. Her right leg intertwined with Doni’s left. Doni copied the idea and swung her right leg around the shark as well. Getting some traction and holding themselves in place, the twins used their hands to squeeze their tits tighter around the shark’s claspers. His dicks were almost pulsating now. Rippling muscles tickled the girls’ bare torsos, and with their legs now opened, wet pussies pressing against the white underbelly of the shark, they began to rock themselves up and down. They pressed those big tits tight and let the engorged dicks have just enough room to slide a little up and down within. The rough bits didn’t abrade the soft skin of their breasts.

Actually, it felt good. Like a woman using her long fingernails during one of their many past lesbian scenes. As they moved themselves up and down along the shark’s underside, they rocked their hips. Their clits rubbed hard against the shark. The movement of his tail added to the friction, the pleasure.

Doni was really moaning now, sending up torrents of bubbles.

Dani was wondering if they should try to get these things inside them. She wanted to take it all in, she was so horny. There was something about having an animal react to her touch that really turned her on. She doubted she would be able to fit that huge member in her tight pussy. Hell, she’d taken in some big ones, but this? This was a fucking tall order. Fuck, though, she wanted to give it a try!

All of a sudden, the shark bucked! Bucked like a quarter horse at a prison rodeo! The twins were nearly flung off. Their legs released from the shark’s flank. Dani had to free her tits so she could use her hands to hold on to the clasper. As soon as she gripped it, she felt it spasm, and instantly, the water in front of her face went a solid white.

Doni wasn’t able to move fast enough and was still titty-fucking the beast. The force of the cum impact felt like an uppercut to her chin. That shark came HARD.

Even through the humming of the filtration unit, the twins heard the crowd above react to the blasts of cum in the pool. It was pretty hard to miss that amount of it clouding up the formerly pristine water. Amid the hooting and hollering and whistling, the girls floated to the surface and took the opportunity while Riptide was . . . distracted . . . to paddle over to the closest ladder and climb out of the grotto. Others helped them up and out before the shark emerged from his post-coital daze. The naked twins were high-fived and hugged within an inch of their lives.

They might not have fucked the shark, but they sure seemed to have made an impression on Simon Klim. He rose from his lounge chair and began to applaud. Others joined in. “Shit, that was one impressive porn scene! Hope the footage shows how good it really was!”

Thrilled but still horny, Doni and Dani caught the eyes of the two divers who had muzzled the shark. One of the men adjusted his crotch, while the other moved his head in a beckoning fashion.

Riptide might have been satiated for the moment, but the twins needed more.

***

And this, only the first day of filming!

Simon had always considered himself one lucky son-of-a-fuck, but now he was starting to wonder if he was actually blessed, blessed by the pervy porn gods.

To think it would already be going this well!

Even if neither encounter had gone “all the way,” what they’d gotten so far was outstanding, amazing, incredible!

Nyonne, elevating aquatic bestiality to a bona fide art form? Poetic! Evocative! A genuine pity only a handful of people would ever see it . . . and, knowing his usual audience, half of them probably wouldn’t even appreciate it for the thing of beauty that it was. Might have to arrange for a separate, private film festival screening, an exclusive champagne and caviar event for his most esteemed clients.

But the twins! Good God almighty, the twins! Wrapping their pudgy little hands around those massive claspers . . . mooshing their huge pillowy tits around those massive claspers . . . smooching their pouty pink lips along those massive claspers . . . sucking the tapered tips of those massive claspers, trying valiantly to stuff in as much length and girth as they could for as long as their breath-holding abilities would allow between puffs on the regulators . . .

The underwater cams discreetly hidden in the pool had captured it all from a variety of angles. The bodycams on the twins’ masks and tank-harnesses had captured more, though it remained to be seen how much of that footage would actually be useful.

“I think,” he announced to the grotto at large, “that’ll be a wrap for today. Give our leading man some time to recuperate.”

“Yeah,” said Flex. “Don’t wanna wear him out; he’ll need all his energy for me!” She grinned lewdly. “And I’ll want to get good and limbered up first.”

What she had in mind? Ho-leeee shit, what she had in mind! When someone like Honey thought it might be too much? Honey, who’d taken on hooked-and-pronged camel dong?

But Flex, pervy porn gods love her, was determined. And since she’d signed everything, Simon was absolutely willing to play ball. Let her get her full freak on. More power to her, more profit to him!

Meanwhile, though, some unfinished business remained. Such as cleanup and going over the dailies. Not to mention the unfinished business of Doni and Dani, who’d emerged from the swim-spa pool flushed and dripping and hornier than hell.

Which then resulted in some further footage Simon was sure he’d be able to find a use for, semi-comedic though it was . . . Enzio and Javid, the dive guys, were more than happy to undo their wetsuits enough to bend the twins over convenient “coral” formations in the shallows of the lazy river and give it to them from behind, all of them still wearing the rest of their gear, going at it noisy and raucous with much wet slapping of flesh and fountaining money shots.

Bonus material!

He was, however, rather peeved to realize Derek and Nyonne had sneaked out at some point during the proceedings. Gone off together, most likely, for a bit of clandestine off-camera action. Which seemed a little rude and unfair, depriving him of what was bound to be quality stuff.

Not that he was about to let it ruin his mood, though. He wasn’t going to be the spoiled kid sulking at Christmas because of the presents he didn’t get.

“Hey, uh, boss?”

Simon glanced around to see Yellow—who had apparently been here the whole time, lurking unnoticed and overlooked in the background, in the way that he did—frowning across the grotto.

“Is that normal?” Yellow went on.

Following his gaze, Simon noticed the dense pack of sharks on the other side of the panoramic lagoon window. A lot more than he’d seen previously, and seemingly a lot more worked up. Gliding rapidly back and forth, doing lightning-quick hairpin turns, bonking their noses into the glass, baring their teeth and snapping at each other.

“Oh, jeez, that’s creepy,” Honey said, rubbing her goosepimpled arms. “What the fuck do they want?”

“A free show?” Simon suggested. “Though I’d charge them for it if I could.”

Skate sneered. “Maybe we should send ‘Doctor Murphy’ out to check on them, since she’s such an expert.”

Wagging a finger at her, Simon tutted. “Play nice. We need her here.”

“Hmf.”

“We do. For a while, anyway. We got some brilliant footage, but we’re nowhere near done. Nowhere near.”

“She’s gonna be trouble,” Skate said.

“So you keep telling me.” Simon patted her shoulder, which he knew she hated. “Don’t worry. I think the good doctor and I have reached an understanding.”

She went, “Hmf,” again but let it go.

He turned to Honey and Yellow. “Have someone escort her over this evening,” he said. “After everything’s been cleaned up and cleared out for tomorrow’s shoot. Let her see for herself there’s been no harm done.”

***

There had been more intruders. Again female. Two of them this time.

Approaching him as he swayed his tail and maintained his stillness in the water. His left eye had followed their movements.

Closer. Closer.

Their scents even stronger. Sexual. Wanting to fuck.

He doesn’t understand this influx of bipedal females coming to him. Touching him. Stirring up feelings.

And the activity at the barrier. The circling, nipping band of shark females. Emitting their own pheromones. Wanting him.

Stirring up so many feelings!

He desires to have his needs fulfilled. He longs to penetrate, thrust. He craves what he instinctively knows would climax into a heavenly release.

But who are these females? Where is the One? His mate, who he’d courted in his home tank, who’d touched him . . . once. Only once.

Now, he is left to these foreigners. These surrogates.

Not the same. He wants the One.

Then they dive beneath him, and he feels their grasp on his claspers.

Firm, confident. Not the touch of the One. Much more intentional.

Sex! Fucking!

His mind spinning, his heart racing. The grips of the females even tighter as he swells into their hands.

Not the One! But it feels so good!

All the while, in the background, he senses the females of his kind, fervent, bumping into the barrier.

Watching.

Wanting.

***

This vacation sucked.

Sure, he’d gotten paid, and that was great, that was going to make his life a shitload easier for the next couple years. Sure, the food was fantastic, and the cabana way nicer than anyplace he’d ever stayed in before. Gorgeous weather, gorgeous beachside views.

But still, it sucked.

What good was a gorgeous beach with no gorgeous beach babes to go with it? The babes were, for the most part, up at the mansion, where Todd had been not-so-politely directed not to go.

Actresses, models, internet-famous cam-girls, actual porn stars . . . and he wasn’t allowed to meet, let alone party with them?

Or watch them work! Which was the part that really stung. Here he’d risked life and limb and everything to arrange all this, to get the damn shark to the damn island to make the damn movies, and that bigshot asshole Simon Klim wouldn’t even let him on set! Said he wasn’t a “professional” and might fuck up a scene or whatever.

“Bite me,” Todd grumbled, cracking his ninth or tenth beer of the day.

Fucking bogus, what it was.

An all-expenses-paid tropical paradise, and him alone in this goddamn luxurious cabana, not allowed to go sightseeing or jet-skiing or para-sailing, a for-Christ’s-sake armed guard patrolling around as a “security measure,” and the only woman he’d been able to talk to—besides Skate, who didn’t really count—was Marla.

Under other circumstances, that would’ve been cool, given him another shot at her, a chance to make up or at least get back into her pants. They may have argued a lot about stupid shit, but damn, was she a hot lay!

Except, while he may have been able to talk to Marla, she wasn’t talking to him. Not since the other day when she’d slammed a knee into his junk, slapped him cross-eyed, and driven him out, limping and bleeding from cutting his fucking foot wide open on a shard of broken wine bottle.

Any thoughts of making up or getting back into her pants had gone right out the window. He was lucky she hadn’t gone after him worse, especially when the steel in her eyes said she was ready, willing, and able to fuck him up so bad his own momma wouldn’t have recognized him.

His junk had ached too bad to even contemplate jerking off that night—which, given the limited channel selections on the television, didn’t leave many other entertainment options. His foot still hurt like a bitch, the cut puffy and oozing and probably infected.

All that, and he hadn’t even gotten to try the wine, and it’d been some expensive-looking shit!

Disgruntled, he lay splayed across the big bed as the ceiling fan idly stirred the air and the shifting patches of sunlight through gauzy curtains began to go peachy-orange. He listened to the foamy rush of the surf on the sand and heard the faraway tone of a ship’s horn. One of those obscenely huge ocean liners, probably, loaded with bars and casinos and sexy showgirls. Maybe even the floating theme park kind, complete with rollercoasters and waterslides.

A studly single dude such as himself might do all right on such a ship, if he didn’t mind scoring with MILFs, divorcees, cougars, and snow leopards. Something to consider, once he was done with this shark business.

Someone tapped at the door. He sat up, both wary and hopeful it might be Marla, either here to finish the job or apologize for losing her temper, but with no way to know without opening it.

He gimped over, favoring his foot, and used the door itself as a partial shield just in case it was a pissed off Marla looking to finish the job, cracking it an inch and peering through. “Yeah?”

It wasn’t Marla, pissed off or otherwise. It was Yellow, trundling the dorky room-service-type cart he used to bring meals down from the main house.

“Hey, Todd . . . you okay?”

“Get bent.”

“Whoa, sorry, just asking.”

Todd snorted. “Feeding time for the prisoners, huh? What’s for dinner?”

“Uhm . . . a chilled citrus soup, watercress and tomato salad, seafood alfredo with a side of strip steak—”

His stomach growled, but he wasn’t gonna let Yellow off the hook that easily. “Chilled citrus soup? You mean a smoothie?”

“No . . . it’s in a bowl . . . ”

“A smoothie in a bowl. Gotcha.”

“C’mon, man. You know I just work here. You want it or not?”

“Fine, roll it in.” He stepped back from the door. “But what’s it take to get a pizza around this damn place? And I mean a real pizza, a pepperoni greasebomb, not that artisanal spinach and gorgonzola shit.”

“I could ask Armand—”

“Nah, never mind.”

Yellow unloaded a series of domed dishes and napkin-wrapped cutlery onto the table. “What happened to your foot?”

“Stepped on some glass,” Todd said shortly.

“Ouch. Looks nasty.”

“It’s fine.”

“Seriously, you might need stitches—”

“I said it’s fine!”

“Okay, okay.” His shoulders hunched.

Christ, it was like kicking a puppy. To change the subject, he said, “So hey, how’s it going up there? Any luck with the movie-making?”

Shaking his head, Yellow let out a low whistle. “Oh, daaang, I’ll say. This bunch of girls? Yeah, a few of them bailed, but the others?” He whistled again.

“They really fucked the shark?”

“Not fucked-fucked, not yet. The twins went for third base, though.”

“Wait . . . twins?” Todd echoed.

“Redheads. With boobs . . . ” Yellow curved his scrawny arms in generous semicircles in front of his chest. “For real.”

“And they . . . ?” Todd mimed with a loosely-curled fist near his mouth.

“Much as they could. His, uh, dick-things are pretty big. They titty-fucked him too, both at the same time.”

“Damn.” He had to sit down at that mental image and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m guessing he enjoyed it? Riptide, I mean?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“Did he, uh . . . y’know . . . ?”

“Cum?” Yellow’s nose wrinkled. “Like two super-soakers full of yogurt. Murked up half the tank. Yeah, there are water circulators and filters—but that grotto, right? As if people peeing in public pools isn’t bad enough? Still, glad I’m not on cleanup detail.”

“No kidding.” Todd eyed the covered dishes; somehow, the term “seafood alfredo” had gone from sounding appetizing to sounding horribly, horribly wrong. “Marla wasn’t there, was she? She can’t have been. No way.”

“No way. I dunno whether Simon talked her into letting it happen, or threatened her, or what, but everybody agreed having her there woulda been . . . counterproductive.”

“Heh, yeah, I bet. She must be wigging all the hell out.”

“Well, I’ll let her know how it went.” Yellow hesitated, brow furrowing. “Just, vague and in general, though, so she doesn’t worry too much.”

“She’ll worry too much no matter what,” Todd said. “She always did care more about that goddamn shark than herself or anybody else. You headed over to her place now?”

“Gotta deliver her dinner too, and then see if she wants to visit the grotto later and check on him for herself.”

He raised his eyebrows, speculating. It was almost sunset now, so “later” surely had to mean dusk or dark, when it might be a lot easier to climb out a cabana window, especially if the guard was otherwise occupied . . .

“Anyway,” said Yellow, pushing his cart toward the door, “seeya tomorrow. Have a good one.”

“You too, dude. Thanks. You too.”

***

Nice, for a change, not to have to worry about camera angles, money shots, fluffers, flubbed lines, retakes, or getting clonked on the noggin by some novice sound tech with a boom mike.

Nice not to have to say stupid scripted shit like “yeah take it, take it all, you like that, don’t you?” or listen to exaggerated gasps and moans and groans and shrieks of “yes yes god yes harder harder fuck me harder” or see some ridiculously unrealistic faked O-face.

Which wasn’t to say he was dissing off his entire career, but after decades of staged and filmed sex, Derek was glad now and then to get one off naturally.

Din’t hurt neither that it was with a sleek ebon-skinned beaut less than half his own age. Who, it turned out, wasn’t at all shy about letting him know exactly what she wanted. Lots of younger birds were, only looking to please and make a good impression and not be demanding.

But Nyonne? Soon as he’d got her back to his suite—which he knew for a fact was not fixed with any of Simon’s surreptitious gadgets—she’d wasted no time reclining in an easy chair like Cleopatra on her barge, ordering him to his knees, and shoving his face between her thighs.

From there, they’d gone to the floor, then the bed, then the shower, then the bed again. No little blue pills needed either; what he may have lacked in refractory period, he more than made up for in stamina, creativity, and other methods.

And she? Fuckin’ voracious!

Plus, more’n willing to do things what often din’t make it into a Simon Klim flick. Not that Simon, as he frequently stated, had anything against male bum-play; it just wasn’t what the majority of his customers were into. So, it’d been a while since Derek was treated to being on the receiving end, and he welcomed the change of pace as much as he welcomed her long slender fingers, her clever tongue, and the diligent application of a particular special knobbly metallic-silver strap-on referred to as The Terminator.

What with all that, one thing an’ another, eventually falling asleep and/or passing out, they missed the whole rest of the day’s shoot. Indeed, the whole rest of the day, including dinner. His suite did include a mini-bar and decently stocked kitchenette, though, so they were able to replenish their energy for another round of festivities.

Simon would whinge, but fuck it. He din’t have exclusive rights to what Derek did with his own cock or his own arsehole on his own time. Or what Nyonne did with her own naughty bits on her time . . . and after the show she’d put on for them earlier? She’d already gone above and beyond, whatever she was gettin’ paid.

He did wonder, though—later, much later, when his mind could once again focus on other matters—how it’d gone with Riptide and the twins. There was a double-teaming for the record books; he knew plenty of grown men who wouldn’t have been able to handle that much eager pulchritude at once.

Just thinking about it had an effect, somewhat surprising given the afternoon’s and early evening’s exertions, but far from unwelcome.

Nyonne, currently lying spooned against him with her rump to his loins, could hardly fail to notice. She pressed her hips back suggestively, craning her graceful neck to peer over her shoulder. “Again?” she purred.

“Absolutely,” Derek said. “And, hopefully, again a few more times after that.”

***

He swims, and he remembers.

How a wave of muscular spasms had shaken his body. How his mind had swirled, its only focus pleasure, as the females stroked his claspers.

Then . . . then a different kind of touch. One he could comprehend even less. Not so rough and frictious. This new sensation felt wetter. Tighter. Tiny appendages flicking and moving on the ends of his members.

What sensations! Both of his claspers getting this treatment at the same time!

He’d wanted to penetrate! To fuck! Yet these others had clung to his belly. Doing this strange thing. He could not see them, only feel them.

His head shakes. His bulk ripples.

He whips his caudal fin and makes a tight circle in the deepest water of the grotto.

He remembers, and he swims, and he wants more!

***

Yellow had shown up to deliver her dinner with such a furtive, ashamed, guilty look on his face, it was all Marla could do not to pounce on him and start demanding answers.

She knew by now, though, that doing so would only clam him up and scare him off. He still really was the closest thing she had to an ally on this fucked-up island, and she didn’t want to wreck it, despite how frantic and anxious she was.

They were doing things to her shark over there in that damn grotto! She was sure of it, could feel it. Doing nasty, dirty, wrong, filthy things! To her shark! To her poor dear confused Guppy!

But she’d put on a smile, acted friendly. Not seductive-friendly; he would have been suspicious. Just friendly-friendly. Invited him to come in and, if not join her—he said he’d already eaten—at least keep her company while she ate. She raved about the food, asking if he’d prepared it, and, when he demurred, insisted he relay her compliments to the chef. She made light chit-chat, kept it casual.

All while everything inside her was clamoring for news, screaming internally, yearning to flip the table and smash the place up. Even if she kind of liked Yellow, derpy chickenshit that he was, she would’ve held her steak knife to his neck if she had to.

Fortunately for them both, she didn’t have to. He, hesitating and hemming and hawing and shuffling his feet, finally told her about the day’s shoot.

He didn’t go into a lot of detail. Which, on the one hand was infuriating—even if she didn’t want to know, she needed to know!—but on the other hand was something of a relief—even if she needed to know, she didn’t want to know!

All the same, detail or no, she had her work cut out for her keeping her reactions calm and mild, instead of displaying the full extents of her horror, offense, outrage, and grief.

Oh, Guppy! Guppy, I’m so sorry!

Her sweet boy, molested! His innocence stolen!

Her “sweet boy” who’d killed and eaten three kids? another part of her brain queried snidely. His “innocence” after she’d held his erect claspers in both hands, feeling them pulse and throb? And let’s not forget the recurring dreams about it, dreams in which she did more than just—

Shut up! she sternly ordered that inner voice.

What mattered now was taking care of her shark, making sure he was okay. Making sure neither he nor anybody else got hurt. Thank goodness for that much, anyway; Yellow had been quick to assure her the women had emerged unscathed and Riptide hadn’t demonstrated any signs of aggression, hunting, or attack behavior.

But they had still . . . touched him. Done things to him. Excited and aroused and pleasured him, and made him—

Shut up!

She had every reason to be legitimately angry and upset. It had nothing to do with being jealous, feeling cheated and robbed.

Nothing!

Nothing to do with that, not at all!

For his first real sexual experience to be like this, at the hands—and more—of uncaring strangers, for him to be taken advantage of, against his will and understanding?

Yes, that was terrible, would be terrible for any living, thinking creature. It did not mean she was jealous. It did not make her want to find those bitches and gouge their eyes out and claw their tits off and kick them in the—

Marla saw Yellow getting nervous, realized too many of her emotions must’ve been showing on her face, and calmed herself down.

“As long as everyone’s all right,” she said, forcing another smile. “That’s what’s important.”

That and Simon Klim getting his damn movie . . .

“Is it all done now?” she asked. “Is it over with? He’ll be set free?”

Yellow’s pinched, fretful wince came as no surprise. Not that she’d expected much else. They were going to make the most of this singular opportunity, of course they were.

“Uh . . . ” His throat made a greasy-sounding click as he swallowed. “Well, uh, Simon’s already got the crew prepping for tomorrow’s shoot.”

“What’s scheduled for tomorrow’s shoot?” Hidden beneath the table, her hands clenched each other, painfully tight, her sensible short nails gouging into her skin.

“I . . . uh . . . I’m not sure . . . ” His gaze skittered evasively around the room.

“It’s okay,” Marla said in her gentlest tone. “I won’t be mad.” At you, she added silently; the rest of the assholes on this island were fair game.

“There’s . . . uh . . . another girl . . . woman . . . actress . . . ” Yellow stammered, doing the greasy-click swallow again. “She’s a . . . y’know, acrobat . . . like, uh, that circus thing where they bend all sorts of weird ways?”

“A contortionist?”

“Yeah! Yeah, that’s what she is!” For a moment, his nervousness shifted to a more conspiratorial you-ain’t-gonna-believe-this! note. “A real freakazoid too, who’s done stuff with live snakes, sticking them up her—” The conspiratorial moment evaporated, him instantly remembering where he was and to whom he was talking. “Uh, I mean . . . that’s what I heard, anyway, and she thinks she can . . . uh . . . fit, y’know, both . . . uhhhhh . . . ”

Marla swiftly shook her head. “On second thought, forget I asked; I don’t want to know.”

He sagged in visible relief and armed a sheen of sweat from his brow. “So, but, um, when you’re done with dinner, Simon wondered if you’d mind going over to the grotto, just to like check on him—”

“Of course!” She leapt to her feet.

“What about your dessert?” He gestured to the last covered dish on the cart. “It’s tiramisu—”

“I’ll save it for later. Let’s go.”

***

As he swims, as he wants, he remembers more.

How the form of pleasure had changed again, the females jostling beneath his underside. Different appendages, soft and squishy, surrounding his claspers. An almost electrical current moving through him.

How his nerves had twitched, the skin on his claspers stretching, struggling to contain him. The pressure and urge to . . .

To . . . what?

He still hadn’t been sure of what.

Until he found it.

Their maddening movements! His claspers sliding back and forth within the pillowy and firm things. The females rubbing their bodies, other unknown parts of their bodies, against his belly. Their limbs wrapping his belly and flank.

Their scents permeating the water! Their enticing, musky, alien scents! Horrible, wonderful!

And then . . .

Release! Release of that nagging, virile pressure! Surging, gushing release!

He remembers, and he shudders, and he stiffens again.

***

If anybody’d told him he’d be walking along the beach under a twilight sky with a kind, intelligent, beautiful woman, Yellow wouldn’t have believed them.

Not that there was anything to it. He wasn’t that deluded. He knew she was just being nice. Saw him as a friend at most, and even “friend” was probably pushing it. “Acquaintance she didn’t mind putting up with, at least temporarily,” would be closer to the mark.

Fine by him, though. Most everyone else either ignored him, bullied him, or treated him like an embarrassing stupid farty dog. As long as Marla wasn’t swearing at him or outright spitting in his face, he figured he was ahead of the game for once.

The guard on cabana duty hadn’t given them any trouble because Yellow may have been only a gofer, but he was Simon Klim’s personal gofer, and the entire staff knew it. Besides, cabana duty was a piece of cake at times like this; just patrol every now and then, but otherwise spend the shift kicked back in a hammock-chair with a good line of sight and a couple beers parked in an ice bucket. Why go out of the way to make extra work for no reason?

Hell, if anything, Yellow was making the guard’s shift even easier by taking one of the “guests” up to the mansion for a while. Leaving only Todd to keep an eye on, and Todd was too busy feeling sorry for himself and being a petulant jackass to do much else.

“It is pretty out here,” Marla said, pausing to inhale the sea breeze and wafting scents of night-blooming tropical flowers beginning to unfurl. “And I really would like to visit the lagoon some time. An isolated population of Great Whites—”

“I dunno if that’d be a good idea,” Yellow said. “The sharks, they’re all acting funny. You can see them from the grotto, at the window, like they’re trying to get in.”

“They might be. If there are only females and they’re sensing a male, especially a male who’s . . . ” She trailed off, shaking herself as if casting the thoughts away. “Let’s just hope whoever built the place did a good job, yeah?”

Yellow laughed weakly. The structural integrity of the grotto had always been among his revolving plethora of phobias, even without factoring in the sharks.

Just the idea of the window breaking and thousands of gallons of salty lagoon water rushing in, flooding the subterranean chamber, trapping and drowning anybody who happened to be in there . . . yeeeesh.

Then there were stinging jellyfish, and electric eels, and other icky sea life to consider. And then add sharks? And then add more sharks? Stirred up, worked up, horny sharks?

His laugh, already weak, went queasy and died off into the balmy evening breeze. They strolled up the picturesque crushed-gravel trail toward the grotto side-entrance in silence. Only as they reached it, and Yellow tapped his code into the keypad, did Marla speak again.

“Are there going to be a bunch of people?” she asked. “You mentioned the crew setting up for tomorrow’s shoot.”

He shook his head. “Nah, they’ll have cleared out by now. I can call Felix, though. The vet-guy? If you need him there to—”

“Let me see my shark first, and then I’ll decide.”

“Okay.” He opened the door, and they navigated a short, curving hallway that deposited them into the wider access tunnel, through which the shark had originally been transported without all the hassle of opening the big gates.

The grotto, when they emerged into it, was dim and quiet but for its usual ambient oceanic-themed lighting and noises. Simon’s director chair, the tech booth, and the sound booth were empty. Various pieces of movie-making equipment—cameras on tripods and armatures and dollies, LED fixtures, microphones—waited idle, black silhouettes glinting in cool aqua-blue shifting shadows.

The panoramic window looking into the lagoon had gone too dark to see anything from beyond. The glass itself cast only hints of reflections, mirroring the lazy river’s curving, glimmering path.

Rather than easing his nerves, not being able to see if there were still a crowd of sharks staring in at them only made Yellow’s skin crawl all the more.

Marla, he noticed, didn’t give the window so much as a glance. Her attention was fixed on the swim-spa pool, its endless current, and the huge, scary shape cruising slowly back and forth. Riptide. Unmuzzled; Enzio and Javid must’ve done that after they finished fucking the twins silly.

At a soft touch on his arm, he jumped like a spaz and just about screamed, then felt like a dope.

“Sorry,” Marla said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, no, it’s cool, I’m good.”

“Listen, I know it’s probably against the rules and all,” she went on, “but could you maybe wait outside? I . . . I know it sounds bizarre, but I want to talk to him, and I’m not used to having anybody around when I do.”

“Oh. Uh . . . ”

She smiled. “And it’s not as if I can bust him out of here, right? Or run away . . . where would I even go?”

“I guess . . . ”

“Also, that way,” she added, “you don’t have to sit around here in this gloomy cave. It really is kind of spooky.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it’d probably be okay. Just come get me when you’re done. And don’t tell Simon? Or Skate?”

She did a key-turning gesture in front of her lips. “I promise.”

***

He remembers . . . RELEASE!

The pressure reaching an unbearable point. An animalistic breaking point! An inconceivable climax!

Convulsing, a sort of thick, viscous fluid spewing from the ends of his claspers, the relief mixed with sensation like nothing he had ever felt before. A combination of natural, instinctual fulfillment and raw, raging titillation!

This is what he had been hungering for. The lingering need feeding the recent changes in his body and his mind.

THIS!

He remembers the female others retreating, but no matter. They may have gifted him with this sweet release, but they mean nothing.

Yes, he wants more, he wants again.

But not with them. Not them.

He wants the One.

As he remembers, he swims.

He hears the frenzied racket of the female sharks beyond the window. He smells them, their blood and hormones. He feels their electric energies, is assaulted by their lust.

And it alarms him.

***

Watching her Guppy swim around the softly lit grotto pool, Marla almost began to cry.

It wasn’t totally because of what atrocities had been committed upon him. Well, that was a good portion of it, for sure. Shady, slutty women and nefarious men—strangers!—had molested her poor shark in unknown (or at least she wished she didn’t know) and unimaginable ways. Marla knew from just seeing the scantily clad bimbos sunning themselves on lounge chairs or skipping up toward the mansion, boobs bouncing inside of tops that looked more like dental floss than bikinis, that these women would do anything for a buck or for stardom.

And, she had to admit, being filmed having sexual encounters with a Great White shark would be a special kind of famous.

No, what really bothered her at the moment was how serene and peaceful Riptide looked. Of course, she wanted him to be serene and peaceful. She always wanted the best for him. She didn’t know what she had expected to see when she entered the grotto, but it was not this. Perhaps some erratic behavior triggered by PTSD from the ordeal? Maybe some bumping of the pool’s tiled walls because of the depression of missing her?

It seemed like he was swimming around like nothing ever happened.

Yet Marla knew that he loved her. She knew that she was the one with whom he really would have wanted to share his first sexual experience. She’d had a lot of free time on the ship ride over to this freakshow of an island to think about it. Well, when she wasn’t dodging Skate’s shoulder checks or Todd following her around the deck like a lost puppy. She’d replayed his sudden change in behavior over and over in her mind. She knew the genesis of it. It was that moment she’d grasped his claspers from the shark cage.

Was it also the spark that had set off his feeding frenzy? Those poor boys!

God, it seemed like that all happened years ago. Another world, another life. Both her world and her life were in shambles now. No job, her reputation in ruins. What would her friends think of her when she returned? What could she even begin to explain to Johnny about all of this?

Yeah, Johnny, it was the craziest thing! A bunch of porno weirdos imprisoned me, took the shark, fucked him, filmed him, and put him out to sea! Can you believe that shit?

Marla really couldn’t believe it herself. If someone wrote this story in a book, a very sick book, no one would fucking think it could ever be true in a million years.

Yellow was waiting for her outside the entrance to the grotto, so her time with her Guppy was limited. She hated that. She hated all of this. But she was going to make the most of it, no matter what.

Back at Oceanview, she’d been forbidden to get into the water without the protection of the cage. She knew the danger to herself was minimal, but the aquarium’s insurance auditors thought much differently, and that made ol’ Donnie-boy insist. Gotta preserve the bottom line!

But here? Here they didn’t give two shits if these porno girls fucked a group of dudes, porcupines, or giraffes, let alone who got into the water with her shark. Well, now Marla had her Guppy all to herself and no insurance adjusters to answer to.

She didn’t have a bathing suit or even a bra under her shorts and tank top, so she stripped down to her panties. She folded her clothes and placed them at the edge of the pool in case she needed them in a hurry. Careful not to create too much disturbance in the water, she gingerly placed one foot, then the other onto the entrance steps.

“Hey, Guppy,” she said. “How’s my sweet boy?”

Sitting down on the third step, the water covered her legs and torso, cool and comfortable.

“I’m here, Guppy,” she went on. “I’ve always been here. I should never have left you alone. Never should’ve trusted Todd. I’m so sorry, baby.”

She saw Riptide’s dorsal fin slice the surface. He was heading right toward her.

***

She is here! The One is here!

Riptide feels the vibrations as she enters the pool, stirring the water. He recognizes the cooing voice, the soothing tone of her words. They seem too far away and muffled.

He needs to be closer.

Does she know what happened to him? What he has done with those female others? He fears her anger or rejection.

It should have been the One to release his frustration. To provide the touching and gripping and rubbing. He had chosen the One as his mate back at home. It has always been her, with him, his whole life. The only One.

He must draw her closer. Closer to him. Then he will know.

Rejection? Acceptance?

He needs her much closer. He must express his intention to her.

***

As she watched him approach, she wondered what exactly she was going to do. She had never actually been in the water, free swimming, with Riptide before. A nagging feeling of possible danger stirred in the far recesses of her brain.

She quickly discarded it. After all, he was her Guppy, her bestie, her confidant and maybe . . . something more?

“There he is, there’s my boy.” She eased herself a couple steps deeper, the water up to her chest, her feet on the shallower part of the bottom of the pool.

Plus, what did she have to lose? Were these scumbags really going to let her go after all she had knowledge of? All the perversion that had gone on here? They had lied to her so much already, she couldn’t bring herself to trust that her life would be spared. Too much money at stake. Lord knew when money was on the table, people got fucked up real fast.

Riptide glided to her, right in the cusp of where she stood and the more open depths. The bluish hue illuminating the place emphasized the blue in his eyes. His kind eyes. So familiar to her, as she knew hers were to him. She expected him to turn and swim on by like he had a hundred times before, back home. But he didn’t. He headed right to her.

Marla was struck by an uncontrollable surge of fear. Her basal instincts told her to flee. This was an incoming Great White that had just been through some very serious shit. He might blame her for all of it. Blame her for the suffering he’d endured. Her muscles burned with the urge to turn tail and sprint back up those steps.

Something kept her in place.

He could not, would not, ever hurt her. She just knew it. Their bond was too strong.

Riptide slowed his approach and began to make a tight turn in front of her, pausing to bump at her chest with his snout. She took a step back from the force of the bump, but it didn’t hurt or alarm her.

On the contrary, it reassured her. She let out a sigh, a mix of relief and, if she dared to admit it, slight arousal from his rough skin touching her bare breasts.

“I’m here, Guppy. I won’t ever leave you again.”

She moved into the deeper portion of the pool. She was going to him. He wanted that and she did too.

Once fully immersed in the water, Marla had trouble finding her Guppy from the surface, until the hum of the large filtration unit grabbed her attention. His safe place. His still place. Back at home, she’d watched him evolve this unnatural behavior as a way to rest without losing the ability to oxygenate his gills. She marveled at how remarkably adaptable he was. Her poor little orphan who had thrived in captivity.

She took a deep breath and submerged. The lighting was dim, since all the pervy film crew and starlets had gone to the mansion or their cabanas for the night. Just the blue mood lighting penetrated underwater. It was actually quite beautiful. The faux coral and fiberglass rocks could almost pass as real in this otherworldly glow.

Swimming toward the churn of the filtration system, she found him there. Slowly swishing his tail back and forth. His eye fixed directly upon her, almost waiting for her arrival.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she swam over to him and reached out her hand to touch his pectoral fin. Unmuzzled, Riptide’s jaws delicately opened and closed in the strong current. At her touch, a ripple passed down his body. It reminded her of the ripples coursing through him when she’d touched his . . .

That memory of that day, that touch, had only sharpened in her mind over the past days. Did he want her to do it again?

Something had shifted in their relationship after that, like fitting the last piece into a jigsaw puzzle. The inevitable conclusion of a preordained fairy tale.

Oh, c’mon, the thought was ridiculous! Was this Beauty and the Beast? Would she kiss him and he’d turn into a handsome prince?

As silly as it would sound to anyone else, Marla knew it was love. She didn’t even want him to turn into a handsome prince. She loved him just as he was. Just as he always had been. Someone who listened to her bitching sessions about Todd or her superiors at the aquarium without judgment. Someone who was genuinely happy to see her, appreciated her.

Someone who loved her right back.

Never in her wildest dreams would she ever have thought she would be about to do it, but she was going to touch him again. And she knew he wanted her to.

It wasn’t natural? Well, so what? What about this whole fucking situation was natural? And when it was over, he was going to be set free, into the deep blue sea, to live out his days among his own kind.

Away from her. Without her.

This might be their only chance.

***

He has bumped at the One, and it worked!

A behavior he usually uses to explore or investigate is the perfect thing to let the One know.

Come in! Come to me!

What is about to happen with her? Will they finally mate?

Blood rushes to his claspers. He waits for her in stillness.

***

Emboldened by another couple beers, Todd figured he’d had about e-fucking-nough. He was a business partner, goddamnit, not a guest, and certainly not a for-Christ’s-sake prisoner.

Without him, thank you very much, they never would have gotten Riptide in the first place! They wouldn’t even be making a movie! He’d been the one to come up with the idea, the plan. He’d been the one to bounce it off them. And most crucial, he’d been the one with an in at Oceanview, a connection! Without him and his relationship with Marla, none of this could have happened!

For that, after doing all the hard work, to be left out of the good stuff, to be essentially grounded, sent to his room like a kid because now it was grownup time? There was some gratitude for ya.

And speaking of gratitude, how about Marla herself? Her shark would’ve been stone cold dead by now if not for him. Those suits at the aquarium would’ve made sure of that, you better believe it. Yeah, her job was toast either way, not much could be done about that, but at least her precious-widdle-sweetie-snookums-Guppy was alive and well!

Alive, well, and getting more action than Todd himself had seen in weeks! Hot porn starlet action! A titty-fucking double-blowjob threesome with big-boobied redheaded twins? The stuff dreams were made of, right there! Fodder for a thousand Penthouse Letters and boast-cred with your bros for the rest of your life! Wasted on a dumb animal who didn’t even have a clue how many human dudes would give their left nut to be in that position!

Unreal.

The least Marla could have done was be nice; she didn’t have to be such a bitch about it. There he was, doing her a favor, going out on a limb to help, and just see how she’d repaid him.

To add insult to injury, while he was on cabana lockdown, she—despite being much more likely to stir shit up—had just gone strolling off toward the mansion with that little weasel-ass, Yellow. All chatting and chummy, as if she preferred Yellow’s company to Todd’s own!

He urped a beery belch and tried to rationalize that of course Marla wasn’t into Yellow; Yellow was probably just escorting her over to the grotto so she could fuss over her damn shark. Snowball in hell of Yellow actually getting anywhere with her, if he even had the sack to make a move.

Well, fine, whatever. No skin off his taint.

But he was done sitting around doing nothing. Even if this wasn’t technically America, he still had rights. If he wanted to have a walk on the beach, watch the stars come out . . . were they really gonna shoot him?

They weren’t, but that didn’t mean he should be obvious about it.

After peeking through a curtain to ascertain the guard was relaxing in a hammock-chair, he stealthily popped the screen on a window on the opposite side of the cabana and climbed through.

Jailbreak! Escape from Alcatraz! Suck it, coppers; howzabout dem apples?

Then he tripped over a chunk of driftwood and faceplanted into the sand.

Not the smoothest move. Quiet, though. He got up, spitting, brushing at his clothes. More sand got into his canvas slip-ons, irritating the cut on his foot.

He took the long way around to make extra sure to avoid being spotted by the guard. Regarding the lavish mansion above, he bitterly imagined the champagne- and coke-fueled orgy probably going on right that very minute. Simon surrounded by naked women, girl-on-girl action, some redheaded twincest, the whole nine yards. Hell, maybe even Skate was getting into it, had her a pretty twink-boy in a dog collar, striping his butt bloody with a wire hanger while he begged and cried.

Yeah, probs, typical; they’d be in there having a grand old time. While he, the person who’d made their latest project possible, sat alone with rewatches of Little Ho Peep and Monkey See, Monkey Do to keep him company?

Callin’ bullshit on that.

He trudged up the gravel path, getting some of that in his shoes too, and was muttering curses and just beginning to rethink his plan when he noticed Yellow on a bench in some kind of tropical garden gazebo by a security door with a fancy electronic keypad. The shortcut side entrance to the grotto, Todd presumed, having a decent recollection of its layout from when they initially brought in the shark through the access tunnel.

Okay, so far, so good, but where was Marla? It was just Yellow there, screwing around with his phone, playing Candy Crush or some shit. Had she already gone in? Like, on her own? Or had some other escort-slash-guard taken over?

“Yo, dude,” he called. Not super loud, just to get Yellow’s attention.

The twitchy fuck yipped as if the boogeyman had come crashing out of the jungle, then recovered. “Todd? Hey, man. What’re you doing here? I thought—”

“Yeah, yeah, house arrest.” He flapped a hand. “Looking for Marla. Saw you bringing her up this way.”

“Oh . . . uh . . . ” Yellow glanced at the security door.

“She go in?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“To the grotto?”

“Yeah.”

“Only her?”

“Well, see, she wanted some solo time with the shark—”

“Yeah, I figured. But I really gotta talk to her, dude. So, lemme in?”

“I, uh, probably shouldn’t . . . ”

“C’mon, dude. She won’t mind. She knows you’re cool.”

“She . . . she does?”

“Sure,” Todd said; thinking, If you’re gonna play your card, might as well go all in. “Told me she’s glad having someone else around here she can trust.”

“Really? She said that?”

He nodded earnestly. “And, y’know, she means a lot to me. Even if we aren’t . . . together . . . there’s history, right? I care about her. I worry about her. Sometimes she takes on more than she can handle. And this, all this? This is a lot for her to deal with. She needs people looking out for her. People like us.”

Christ, it was like puking in his own mouth, but Yellow fell for it.

“You’re right, man,” he said, glancing again at the door. “I was thinking the same but didn’t want to seem pushy—”

“Oh, hey, I get you, totally. And if she gets mad, you can tell her it’s my fault.”

Yellow seemed to turn it over in his mind, chewing his bottom lip, before reaching a decision. “Yeah, okay. I’d feel better knowing someone was with her too. The grotto’s kinda spooky at night.” He got up, punched in a code, and opened the door.

“Thanks, dude,” Todd said, even giving him a shoulder-squeeze on the way by. For which Yellow looked absurdly d’awww, and Todd could only hope it didn’t mean they were bros now or some shit.

The access tunnel had sufficient emergency lighting to allow him not to trip over anything else and break his damn face, and the grotto’s watery blue glimmer-shimmer ahead helped. He listened, expecting to hear Marla’s obnoxiously sugary baby-talk voice, but all he heard was the piped-in ocean noises plus some splashing.

He reached the end, and the grotto opened up before him, and . . .

And, holy shit, was he seeing what he thought he was seeing?

***

Marla surfaced next to Riptide and took in another deep breath. Then down she went, caressing his back, his belly, his pelvic fin. Feeling for and finding the hardness of his nearest genital clasper, she held herself close to him and examined the inherent beauty of it. His developing maturity was shown in his modest spattering of calcified deposits.

Another spasm shook through his belly at her exploratory touch.

The lingering shame-laden thought struck her again: this was unnatural. Yet it was alluringly sensual. A secret between just the two of them.

Marla knew Yellow was waiting for her outside, but he was a spineless little man. He wouldn’t dare interrupt. Her time was limited but not that limited.

Am I really going to . . . ?

Oh, but she wanted to. Wanted to so much!

Marla maneuvered herself along the shark’s side, steadying herself by clutching his pectoral fin with one hand and the end of his clasper with her other, until she could work it between her legs, rubbing the tip along the silky crotch of her panties.

The stiff, slick pressure felt maddeningly good, and before she fully realized what she was doing, she’d shifted her panties to the side. The tip slid between her labial folds and brushed her clitoris. Delicious sensation shot through her. She would have moaned aloud, had she not been underwater. Grinding her hips, she rubbed against it more firmly, tingling all over, yearning to press herself harder into it.

But she needed a breath. She released her grasp and surfaced for air, quickly kicking off her panties and letting them float away on the wafting current.

***

She has come to him!

He watches her grow larger as she draws closer and closer. No dark outer skin or bright yellow fins; her own skin exposed. Her true skin. Her body shapes fascinate him, and he fixes his eye on her.

When she arrives, she surprises him further. Touching! A spasm courses through his underside as she grasps one of his sexual organs. Gently, not like the other females had. Caressing. Softer, more loving.

He can’t see her. Only feel her. Even feel a new part of her, a slippery small soft part of her, rubbing along his clasper. She moves, rocking her lower body, pushing herself against him.

Then she leaves! Surfacing, withdrawing her touch! She remains close, there with him in the water, but oh the agony!

Why does she stop? Has he done something wrong?

***

Submerging again, Marla resumed her position. This time she let the tip slide down, down to nudge at her vaginal opening. It entered her very slightly, the girth of it already seeming like too much for her to handle.

But she was in the thralls of pleasure now. This was happening. And she was in ecstasy.

The intermittent pauses to have to surface and suck in some air were frustrating for them both. Riptide’s tail would flutter in protest. He didn’t appreciate the breaks in action any more than she did.

Taking her deepest breath yet, Marla swam directly under the shark and positioned herself against his creamy white belly. His body kept hers from buoyantly floating up. Holding on to his right clasper, she spread her legs and guided the left inside of her, his girth stretching her almost uncomfortably . . . but her libido came on strong.

Her hips bucked, allowing just a tiny bit more to penetrate deeper with each thrust. Riptide’s undulating belly muscles massaged her. He stayed as still as he could be, slowly swaying his tail.

Oh, yes, he wanted her. He was enjoying it just as she was. No fighting it. No trying to shake her loose.

As he sank further inside of her, the nubs of calcification brought friction against her tenderest flesh, not enough to tear or bleed but more than enough to arouse her to the edge of climax.

Her lungs ached and she knew she was close to needing another breath, but she was close to exploding as well.

One more jostle of her hips and she reached the maximum she could take of him, filling her to capacity. Her muscles began to quiver and contract. Squeezing around him, she wiggled. A bubble escaped her lips as she moaned. Her back arched as waves of orgasm made her entire body shake and shudder.

At the same time, she felt him stiffen and swell even larger within her, his back also arching, lifting his belly from her as his pectoral fins dipped and his tail muscles convulsed.

Warm, thick fluid spurted from his claspers. The free right one spewed its contents into the water, while the left gushed into her, torrentially flooding her innermost recesses. The copious stream was so strong, it forced her to slide entirely loose from him. The water around them turned cloudy and pearly.

As much as she wanted to stay there with him, to savor this moment where they finally consummated their bond, she knew she had to breathe. After all, she was only human.

***

Mating! Fucking! Sex!

Inside the One! His clasper enveloped by her. First rubbing, sliding along the groove between her legs. Then, sinking inside of her, delving into her hidden orifice.

But the teasing! She keeps leaving to go to the surface. Why? His tail erratically moves. He can’t control it. He wills himself to be still.

If he stays still, she will be right back.

Which she soon is. Then almost half of his length is buried deep within the One, the tip of his clasper bumping up against a firm but malleable barrier inside her. It feels good. It feels AMAZING!

Her orifice squeezes him. His girth expands. The combination causes everything to tighten. The friction on his clasper is warming and exciting.

The eruption is going to happen again! Just like with the last two females. No, not like with the last two. These feelings are much different, more powerful.

The One is making agitated movements. She wiggles and squirms against him. She makes deep guttural noises. Is she erupting too?

The realization that he is—fucking! mating!—with the One is almost too much to handle. He shudders and shakes as a pang of ecstatic release takes over. His back arches reflexively as fluid jets from his claspers.

Release! Victory!

Again, she slips off of him and rises to the surface, trailing a scent behind her. His and her scents. Both their scents entwined.

Riptide pushes away from the stillness place and swims. He swims and he swims! If the water was deeper, he would breach, would leap from the water in a euphoric display.

Victory! Acceptance! Release!

***

Riptide circled the pool, thrashing his head side to side, but not in an act of aggression or frustration.

Happiness. Marla knew this was happiness.

She was taking her time, backstroking her way over to the entrance steps. Satiated. Exhausted. In an absolute haze of confusing feelings. She emerged from the pool and collapsed naked onto the deck.

***

What a day. What a crazy, messed-up day. Honey was exhausted, stressed out, and felt filthy . . . when things were still just getting started . . . and all she’d done was watch!

It could have gone worse, she kept telling herself. It could have gone a lot worse. After the lion incident, she’d hoped Simon would see wiser ways, sticking to less-lethal non-apex-predator animals under relatively manageable conditions, but no such luck.

So, now, a shark. A Great White, no less.

There really just was no reasoning with the man.

At least she wasn’t alone in her feelings. Rather than the usual celebratory end to a successful shoot, most of the crew opted in favor of some serious down time to process and try and come to terms with what they’d witnessed in the grotto. She suspected lots of heavy drinking and chain-smoking and re-examining of life path choices was going on across Laguna Cortez this evening.

God knew it was her coping technique of choice.

Maybe she was getting too old for all this. Even the off-camera side of things. Maybe she should start thinking about retiring.

Right, and do what? Adopt a bunch of cats? Become a Bingo lady?

At the moment, she sat in one of the casual lounges and drank and smoked, listening with a kind of jaded numbness—brain novocaine—as Doni and Dani rhapsodized, reminisced, and regaled Flex with every graphic detail of their aquatic experience, while Flex paid close attention, clearly intent on learning as much as she could before her own on-camera debut.

Simon had hired some hardcore deviants over the years, but these chicks might well take the cake. While Honey herself had been willing to go to some extreme lengths—har har—for the sake of film, she’d never found the animals to be much of a turn-on, and definitely not to the degree the twins seemed to.

It must be the internet. They grew up exposed to so much weird shit now, extreme body modifications and furry porn and hentai and monster-fucking, that ordinary human sex and regular guy-dick was bland and boring by comparison.

Kids today . . .

Shit, she was getting old.

Leaving them to it, the twins sounding like twisted wine snobs as they struggled to describe the precise nuances of shark-cum, Honey stubbed out her cigarette, drained her glass, and went upstairs.

The mansion was mostly quiet. She had no idea where Skate was, a fairly good guess what Derek and Nyonne were up to, and before heading to her own suite, detoured to look in on Simon. Who was, of course, ensconced in his innermost office sanctum, with its banks of monitors and speakers, some displaying footage from the earlier shoots, others attuned to every hidden camera and microphone on the island. Looked like something out of a high-tech action movie or top-secret military command center.

“Well?” she asked, sauntering in. “How’s it shaping up so far?”

Simon, without turning, shushed her and waved a hand, beckoning urgently.

What the shushing and furtive gesturing was for . . . nobody here but the two of them . . .

She gave a little eyeroll as she crossed the room to stand behind him. He was fixated on several of the grotto cameras, specifically those in the swim-spa pool with the shark.

With the shark and . . .

“Wait,” said Honey. “Is that . . . ?”

“It is.”

“Are they . . . ?”

“They are.”

“Holy shit.” She leaned closer, settling her boobs into their accustomed pillow-positioning against the back of Simon’s neck, and peered over his shoulder. “What . . . how did you get her to . . . ?”

“I didn’t.” He nearly squealed in glee. “All her own idea!”

“She . . . she doesn’t know about the other cameras, does she?”

Simon shook his head.

“So she’s doing it because . . . ”

“She wants to. He wants to! Look at them! Look at them and tell me that’s not the sweetest, most tender—”

“Shark-fucking anyone’s ever seen?” Honey cut in.

“Well, when you put it like that . . . ”

They watched.

“A love story,” said Simon, and damned if he didn’t wipe away a tear. “A real love story.”

“Yeah, tale as old as time, tune as old as song.”

“Oh, stop. This is a moment, Honey. A thing of genuine beauty. Where’s your sense of romance?”

“She’s never going to let you use this in the movie. When she finds out you filmed—”

“Pff. Leave that to me. What’s she going to do, take me to court?”

They watched some more as the pair gently disengaged. The shark glided in a slow, dazed, dreamlike arc toward deeper waters, while the woman pulled herself out of the pool. Then she lay, naked and wet, on the edge. Head back, hair streaming, eyes closed, palm of one hand pressed to the rising and falling swells of her breasts, the other arm extended with fingers trailing into the water.

“A naiad,” Simon murmured. “Or is it nereid? A sea nymph, anyway.”

“If you say so.” A flicker of motion on one of the other monitors distracted Honey’s gaze. She squinted. “Uh-oh.”

***

As Todd had walked through the access corridor leading to the grotto, he’d heard nothing but the bubbles of the filtration current. The grotto. The gaudy place where all the filming was happening. The place that he was kept away from.

Too “unpredictable,” they said about him. Too much “in the way.”

Thanks to the spineless Yellow and his desperation to make friends, Todd was here anyway. Truth be told, he was pissed off. Marla had treated him like week-old garbage, and the porno fucks kept their distance even when he wasn’t altogether locked out of the action!

He mulled over the words he planned on hurling at his sexy ex. Of course, he didn’t want to be too harsh. There was always a chance that she could come to her senses and give him another chance. Or at least another good rogering. Maybe when the shark got dumped into the drink when Klim was done having him play hide the salami, she would finally lose her ultimate distraction. Bye-bye, shark; hello, Todd!

He had reached the cusp of the grotto’s blue haze and taken in his surroundings. Almost immediately, he spotted a pile of clothes by the pool’s entrance steps. Knowing the only person who was supposed to be here was Marla, he felt himself develop a slight boner. Was she skinny dipping? He hadn’t seen her naked in a while, but he sure did remember how good she looked in her birthday suit.

Wait. Skinny dipping was one thing, but skinny dipping with a shark? Well, he guessed if the porno bimbos could do it, and by all accounts, they did, then why wouldn’t the resident shark nut?

He jumped when he heard a splash and a gasp. It sounded like someone breaking the surface for a deep breath of air. He took a few steps closer and let his eyes continue to adjust. He saw Riptide’s dorsal fin and tip of his tail just barely sticking out of the water. Hanging still in front of that filtration unit, tail casually swaying side to side.

Huh. He didn’t know that sharks could just hang out like that. Was he sleeping? And where the hell was Marla?

He got another little jump scare when the fish began to thrash about, his dorsal fin and back springing up from the surface, then splashing back down.

What the fuck?

A form moved in the water. It came out from underneath the shark. At the same time, a thick blob of god-knew-what clouded the water around Riptide, making it harder to see what that form could be. The current quickly carried and dispersed the fluid around. It looked like a ghost blew its damn nose all over the pool.

Then up popped Marla. Naked, skinny-dipping Marla. She took in a big breath of air and let out a very familiar sigh. Todd knew that sigh all too well. And he knew in precisely what situation she made that satisfied little sigh.

Did she really . . . ?

Todd remained still and quiet. He wanted to see where this was going. No need to advertise his presence until he for-sure put together the puzzle of what the hell he just saw. Because he had a pretty good inkling about what he just saw, but . . .

Was that shark-cum? Did Marla and Riptide just . . . ?

He watched as Marla backstroked over to the entrance steps. Her breasts poked out about the water line, nipples so firm they could cut glass. She looked serene. She looked fucking beautiful.

She looked like she had just been fucked five ways from Tuesday. If anyone should know that look, it was Todd.

She got out and sprawled herself on the ground. Laying there, one knee bent, the other leg straight. Arm draped like a southern belle who had the vapors.

Jesus Christ on a pogo stick! She fucked that shark!

***

“Uh-oh?” echoed Simon. “What uh-oh?”

She pointed. “Whatsisname. Troy?”

“Todd. And uh-oh is right.”

He fiddled with control panels, trying to get better audio. The hidden mics weren’t as good as the hidden cameras, especially with the grotto’s oceanic background soundtrack, but they didn’t need to be able to hear clearly to get the gist as Todd stormed toward the pool, shouting and gesticulating wildly, and Marla leaped up in a desperate effort to convince him it wasn’t what it looked like.

***

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!”

It was a man’s voice, and a familiar one. One she knew all too well.

Marla let out a squeal and jumped to her feet like she’d been electrocuted. She was naked, still covered with beads of moisture. At the moment, she couldn’t possibly feel more exposed. She quickly dismissed the urge to grab her clothes and cover herself up.

Being naked was not the pressing issue at hand.

“Christ! Todd! How long have you . . . ?” She crossed her arms over her bare breasts. A natural reflex, not that it was going to help her in any way. She was fully exposed, all right.

Had he seen? How much? She didn’t know.

But she did know this was very, very bad. How the hell was she going to explain?

Todd’s face reddened, arms flailing as he approached, still somewhat favoring his injured foot.

“Did you just fuck that shark!? What is wrong with you, woman?! You fucking freak!”

Marla took a step back. Behind her, there was a wall made to resemble rocks on a shore line. Thoughts flew through her mind. Make a run for it? Her way out was blocked by her very angry ex. The grotto’s other side featured no walkway and ended abruptly at the plexiglass window that peered into the lagoon. The other exit looked miles away and presumably just led into the mansion proper.

She was pretty much backed into a corner.

“Todd, it’s not what you think! Just calm down and I’ll explain.”

Closer still, Todd was in a seething rage. “Bitch, I know what I just saw. You made that fish cum. I don’t know what the actual fuck you did to him, but you made him cum. I’m not stupid!”

She held her hands up in a “Stop!” posture. Todd had a temper, that much she knew. But his past tantrums had usually been related to alcohol or desperation to get her attention. Mostly harmless. Now, his eyes had changed. Darker. She was close enough to see his pupils were dilated. Face scarlet. He looked like a totally different man.

“And I know that look; you got off on it too! You came your damn brains out! So, yeah, Marla! Please explain! Explain how you lead me on for months, cock block me, but you’ll fuck this animal?”

“Todd, please!” She pressed her hands further forward in a plea for him to hold where he was. “Calm down! I was just examining—”

“What, are you one of Klim’s slut bimbos now?” Todd took another step, doing his best to ignore his injury, which must have reopened, as fresh blood seeped from his canvas slip-on shoe. “How much are they paying you? Was this a fucking practice session?”

Another step and closing fast.

Marla didn’t have time to process her next move. Survival mode was in effect. Normally, she wouldn’t think Todd would hurt her, but he was full-blown psycho now. Shit, what could she do to defend herself? Naked. No escape route. No weapon.

As his tirade continued, she felt herself getting dizzy. She registered bits of phrases that Todd spat at her.

“ . . . when everyone finds out . . . ” / “—disgusting whore!” / “ . . . always thought you were so high and mighty!”

Oh fuck. No one could find out about this. As touching and heartfelt as it had been for her and her Guppy, no one else would understand. Well, not in the way that it was. It would be just another shark shag, just like those other porno tramps, in the public’s eyes.

She was a respected scientist, for Christ’s sake!

She didn’t think her life could get more ruined than it already was. But darling Todd was poised to make shit a whole lot worse for her.

Suddenly, he slapped her. Slapped her right across her left cheek. Hard.

“You’re mine now. I’ll fucking tell everyone if you don’t do what I say.”

He grabbed her wrists.

“Come here, bitch!”

Marla’s vision sprang into focus. Flight or fight response kicked in.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Riptide had picked up on their vocal tones. She was in despair, and her Guppy was well aware of it. He was making tight circles in the deep end of the pool.

Clear as day, she knew what to do.

With Todd maintaining the iron grip on her wrists, she backed toward the water’s edge, leading him while making it seem like she was trying to cower away.

“Okay! Okay! I’ll do whatever you say, Todd.”

She twisted her damp and slippery wrists and took hold of Todd’s. They were locked in. Holding each other, both squeezing tight. Her nails dug into the soft undersides of his wrists, where the skin was thinner and more vulnerable.

Then she hurled herself into the pool sideways. Todd, yanked off balance, caught in her grip, had no choice but to come along for the ride.

They hit the water, and Todd released her immediately, shocked by the abrupt move. He sputtered to the surface, whipping his hair back.

“You cunt! What the fuck?”

Marla saw Riptide turn, intrigued by the disturbance. His dorsal fin sliced the surface, and within seconds, he was at the edge of the slope to the deep end. Mere yards away.

Todd got his feet under him, the pool shallow enough to let him stand chest-deep. He seized Marla by the shoulders

Good, she thought. Keep grabbing me, you prick.

She took hold of his shoulders as well. To an outsider, it would look like they were about to either kiss or headbutt each other.

“Bye-bye, asshole!” Marla used every fiber of her strength to hurl him around. With a mighty shove, she sent him tottering down the slope into the deeper water. The place where her Guppy lay in wait.

***

Oh, that bitch, that sneaky shark-fucking bitch!

Todd popped up again, spitting out a mouthful of salt water. It stung his eyes and his sinuses, stung the papercut gouges Marla’s nails had made in his wrists, and really stung where he’d gashed his foot open on the broken wine bottle.

He slapped at the surface with both arms, raising frustrated splashes. Marla, having already spun and swum for it, was nearly to the steps. Like she thought she could get away from him?

Dream on, whore; when I catch you—

A surging swell of current buffeted him as he made to give chase. A solid blow to the hip slammed him sideways, and he felt something latch on to his leg.

Something? He knew damn well what that something was.

A shrill scream exploded out of him before he even registered the pain. Which, when he did, was like a razor-edged bear trap shredding into his flesh.

The bear trap tore free with a vicious, powerful wrench . . . and most of his leg went with it.

He screamed again, crimson blooming all around him. Paddling furiously, he got nowhere before Riptide’s jaws clamped down again. This time, they closed around his right shoulder, engulfing most of his upper arm, his shoulder blade and collarbone, and part of his ribs. Steak-knife teeth sank in but, instead of tearing, held on.

Sudden, violent movement propelled Todd across the pool at high speed. Water rushed over his face, past his ears, up his nose. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t breathe. The shark towed him in circles, whipping him back and forth. Teeth scraped along ribs; tiny bloody bubbles streamed from punctures driven into his lungs.

All at once, as if someone threw a switch, there was no pain. Pain overload, blew a circuit, too much to wrap his head around so he’d just shut it down? Todd had a hard time processing anything other than being dragged along, his right arm trailing useless as a limp noodle in his wake, a cold and terrible sense of absence where his right leg should have been.

Then Riptide let go, and Todd rolled loose, somehow managing to get his head above the surface long enough to choke out water and gasp in air. He saw Marla standing at the pool’s edge, watching.

Smiling.

A less-violent nudge from Riptide’s snout sent him tumbling again.

What’s he doing? Oh God, what’s he doing? Playing with me like a fucking cat with a mouse?

Miraculously, he fetched up against one of those fake coral formations, and he used his left arm and leg to try and scrabble out.

“Call him off!” he shrieked to Marla. “Call off your fucking shark, you cunt!”

“Even if I could,” she said, her gaze fixed on him, “I don’t think I want to.”

Wham! Riptide slammed into his torso like a wrecking ball. All the wind was knocked out of Todd’s lungs. He couldn’t scream. Couldn’t protest. Couldn’t reason with the thing. Or with Marla.

He was plucked loose from his feeble handhold and propelled through the water again, the wake churning as his body lurched along.

Then the pain returned. A crushing pressure closed over his chest and back, cracking spine and sternum, shattering ribs, the jaws’ vise grip like a car crusher compressing his organs even as the teeth perforated them. His left arm swatted at Riptide, scuffing along sandpapery sharkskin, having about the same effect as a rolled-up newspaper on a rhino.

When his neck broke from whiplash, he didn’t feel much, but he heard the gristly snapping pop. Most of him went numb, paralyzed. Riptide shook him wildly, turning the water into a seething torrent of carnage.

Just kill me already! he wanted to shout, but he had no voice. He was a mute head on a stick, a toy mauled by an overly aggressive dog, his body a ragdoll of splintered bone and mangled meat and unraveling guts.

Riptide released him again, but there was no reaching the surface for air this time. And what was the point of breath now, anyway? His lungs were Swiss cheese.

He bobbed face-down, head dangling at an angle that gave him a better view than he wanted of his eviscerated body, the strings of muscle and sinew where his limbs once were, and nuggets of gruesome flotsam adrift in the thick red cloud.

Through that cloud, Riptide appeared, moving slowly.

Todd did the best he could to gulp in water, drown himself before the shark could finish the job, at least deny the bastard the satisfaction of the kill.

His eyes widened as he saw Riptide’s head come into close view. Mouth opening, jaw and gums extending, a cavern of teeth bristling like fistfuls of daggers as they closed over his skull.

Todd’s final thought surprised him.

Well done, babe. Well done.

***

Simon hadn’t gone into specifics over the phone, but the tone of his voice had Skate braced for one hell of a mess.

She got to the grotto and was not disappointed.

One hell of a mess, all right.

The area around the swim-spa, especially. Someone had thought to turn on the regular lights, making the copious splatter stand out vivid crimson against the fake coral and rock formations. A few not-immediately-identifiable gobbets clung here and there or slid and oozed and plopped sloppily to the floor. The water churned pink, the filters trying to keep up but evidently not prepared for bodily fluids of this magnitude. Probably clogged with hair, scraps of cloth, and shreds of skin as well.

“Fuuuuuuck,” she said, surveying the scene.

She could only even tell that it used to be Todd by portions of tattoos visible on a few larger chunks of flesh. The rest might as well have been fed through a woodchipper, or run over with a lawnmower.

What hadn’t been eaten, that was.

Pretty sure most of it had gotten eaten.

The only other live people here—so far, anyway—were Simon (mind obviously already whirring with damage control), Honey (turned away from the gore, puffing smoke like a locomotive), the titsy bitch shark doc (huddled wrapped in a towel, with the wide shellshocked eyes of a plane crash survivor), and Yellow (ineffectually mother-henning over the titsy bitch shark doc).

And then there was Riptide. Cruising the lazy river. Not agitated but not mellow either. He swept his tail back and forth with what Skate could have sworn was a swagger. His upper fin sliced the surface proudly.

Could sharks strut?

If sharks could strut, that’s what he was goddamn doing. As if swimming to the opening beat of “Stayin’ Alive.” Complete with cocky side-to-side head movements and a smug, toothy grin.

She looked at Simon. “So . . . what the fuck actually happened here?”

***

The male!

Their male!

Their majestic, magnificent, fuck-beast, hunt-beast, kill-beast of a male!

They must have him. Must have him!

Properly!

Not in strange, slow, and gentle couplings, such as with this latest female biped.

Not in senseless, incomprehensible flurries of bubbles, like the two others.

Not in empty teases of posturing, the way the darker female biped did.

Properly!

Fast and rough and violent! Lashing, thrusting, biting! Claspers pounding hard and deep, battering and breaching and flooding their very wombs! Savage and furious.

First the fucking and then the feeding.

Perhaps on more bipeds; the taste-scent of arrogant, foolish biped blood lingers, taunting and tantalizing their nostrils through the irksome barrier. Even as more bipeds try to remove it with harsh chemicals, cycling the waters, it lingers.

They must have him.

They will have him.

There has to be a way!

***

“I know you don’t want to hear it—” Honey began as they left the grotto.

“You’re right; I don’t.”

“But we’ve got to halt production. Call it quits here. No more.”

Simon pooched out his lower lip. “It’s only been one day. And we’re getting such amazing footage—”

“Simon.” She grasped his shoulders and made him look at her. “Someone died.”

Skate, who’d remained nearby supervising the last of the clean-up efforts, made a rude noise. “Yeah, but it was just Todd; he was a dick and he deserved it.”

The best Honey could do was a feeble, “That’s not the point—”

“You ask me,” Skate went on, overriding her, “we shoulda chucked that titsy bitch right in there after him.”

“Well, nobody asked you, did they, sister dear?”

“Ladies, please,” said Simon. “What’s done is done. As for the lovely Doctor Murphy, we may still need her. Besides, given her and Riptide’s earlier . . . interaction,” he added, smirking at Skate, “I doubt it’d have the effect you’re hoping for.”

She made another rude noise but let it drop.

Honey was not quite so ready to let it drop. “We can’t possibly continue. What the hell are we gonna say? Oh, by the way, girls, the shark killed and ate someone last night . . . don’t worry, though, it just means he’s not hungry! In you go! Yeah, they’re crazy; they’re not that crazy!”

“Which is why we don’t say anything,” Simon replied. “Not to them, not to anyone on the crew, not to anyone at all. Not even Derek. It stays between us.”

“Problem,” Skate said, raising a finger. “Stays between us, fine. What about that titsy bitch and Yellow?”

“Don’t worry about Yellow,” he said. “And I’ll handle Doctor Murphy.”

“Blackmail her, you mean,” said Honey.

He shrugged. “She has given us a lot of material to work with. Not only as regards this little watery liaison; we have her dramatic confrontation with Todd on film as well.”

Honey brushed all that aside with an impatient huff. “How many times have you told me my job is to look after the talent? Make sure they’re okay with what they’re doing? Deliberately not telling the girls about this, pretending it didn’t happen, kinda goes against that!”

“I admire your scruples,” he said, “and I admire you for standing up for them. I just think you’re overreacting. Your worries are unfounded. It was a single isolated incident, an exception, an accident.”

“And he was a dick and he deserved it.”

“Thank you, Skate, not helping.” Simon didn’t shift his gaze from Honey’s. “I need you to trust me on this. You always have before, and it’s always turned out all right—”

She opened her mouth to bring up the lions, and he rushed on, nodding, before she could.

“I know, yes, I know. That was a terrible, regrettable mistake, which we aren’t going to let happen again. Give me another couple of days. Another couple of shoots. With the utmost precautions. Let’s see how it goes. We don’t even need much more to put together a complete and finished piece. Then it’ll be over. No more shark. Okay?”

Honey sighed heavily. “You swear to God?”

“I swear to God.” He thumped a fist above his heart. “You have my absolute word.”

***

Marla wasn’t sure where they’d been taking her—not back to her cabana; that was all she knew—but she went along like a sleepwalker as Yellow handed her off to the care of a tiny Guatemalan lady with wispy white hair and a wrinkle-creased face.

Did I really . . . ?

Her mind veered away from the thought, but crazily, slewing like a speeding car on a rainy road.

Not gonna think about it.

Too much to deal with, too much to unpack.

Later.

Maybe.

The tiny Guatemalan lady had kept up a steady chatter, very little of it in English, patting reassuringly at Marla, smiling a crinkly missing-toothed smile. Marla just nodded when it seemed called for and let herself be led.

To a room, like a hotel room, nice but nothing fancy. To a bathroom. Where two other women—plain-featured, stocky, silent, and matter-of-fact, wearing simple smocks and sensible shoes—removed the towel she’d wrapped around herself in the grotto and maneuvered her through a businesslike shower.

Marla didn’t object or protest, allowing herself to be directed through the proceedings, scrubbed and rinsed, hair washed. They went about it like nurses, only doing their jobs. Sudsy water and . . . other substances . . . sluiced from her body and swirled down the drain.

The tiny Guatemalan lady’s kindly-grandmother mien switched to a stern whipcrack whenever addressing the others; pretty clear who was in charge here. She had them get Marla dried off, routinely powdered, and into a terrycloth robe and slippers. They combed her wet hair, steered her to a chair by the window, and sat her down, then backed off to a respectful waiting distance.

Marla sat, hands folded in her terrycloth lap, blinking dully at the view. Any other time, it would have been postcard-picturesque, striking, the lagoon silvered by moonlight, colorful lanterns lining the mansion’s terraced patios, stars spangling the night sky.

She blinked dully at it again. She had the vague awareness it felt good to be clean, and the less-vague awareness the clean was only surface-level.

What she’d done . . .

Still not gonna think about it!

The tiny Guatemalan lady brought her a cup of hot, strong-smelling tea. And another cup, a much smaller cup, a little fluted paper cup containing two blue-and-white capsules.

Marla also blinked dully at the capsules, then picked up the little cup, tossed them back, and washed them down with a gulp of hot tea.

Fuck it.

***

The cleaners who took care of the messiest messes at Laguna Cortez were long past needing any ominous reminders to keep their mouths shut. They liked their paychecks very much, they knew how badly it’d go for them and their families if they broke the rules, and there were only so many times you could threaten someone before it started getting old.

Like, yeah yeah whatever, ho-hum, tedious, heard it all before.

Took most of the fun out of it, frankly, far as Skate was concerned.

And Simon didn’t even want her to deal with Yellow? Who was directly responsible for the current messy mess?

Not that Yellow was much fun to threaten either; chickenshit wimp. No challenge, no glory, no balls or backbone at all. A mean look made him curl in on himself like a damn turtle.

But, noooo . . . Simon was just about tickled pink. If Yellow hadn’t let the titsy bitch sugar-talk him into giving her some private time in the grotto, they never would have scored footage of what Simon insisted was the goddamn Casablanca of shark porn.

Which, okay, fair enough . . . but Yellow had also let Todd into the grotto, and look how that turned out. Even if Simon was right in claiming it’d make excellent additional blackmail fodder to keep the titsy bitch in line, it was still an inconvenient pain in the ass, a possible complication if anyone came around asking nosy questions, and it’d deprived Skate herself of the chance to personally wipe the sneer off the dickhead’s face.

At least there was a consolation prize.

She cleared her throat, cracked her knuckles, craned her neck from side to side, and headed for the cabanas to have a few words with a certain security guard.

***

He swims, all but oblivious to the activity around him, the acrid chemicals and freshly circulated water.

Satisfied. Content. Vindicated.

Full.

Shortly after their mating, the One had become distressed, and his initial impulse was to wonder if he had done something wrong.

How could it be? He was most in tune with the One. Her cooing and comfort, her sobbing and sadness, her anger and frustration. He had never been more in sync with her than now. They had mated. She had finally fulfilled his deepest desire.

Yet, amid all his rapture and bliss, her voice had risen in agitation. She shouted and pleaded. These were sounds Riptide had heard before, back at home. All the others had a wide range of tonal vocalizations. He heard them from the One, and he had heard them from the countless spectators who lined his tank’s windows or the bleachers of his feeding arena.

These sounds had told him the One was upset, angry, and frightened.

And she was not alone.

A male! A male of the others had been with her. Not a completely unfamiliar male either. A known rival. A competitor. In the throes of his own agitation and anger.

The recent sexual encounters, especially the last one, had stirred the hormones coursing through Riptide’s veins. His maturity had arrived. The sweet release from the sex—not to mention feasting on the smaller others back at home—had set him straight about his purpose.

Blood! Lust! Feeding!

His natural rights, instilled from birth, stepping up to be claimed. He, who had been so long deprived of these instincts, left swimming in a false world. Fed passively, not allowed to hunt or stalk like the great predator he truly was! The adulation of the masses was a delight, and he cherished it, expected it, deserved it! But the change from a spectacle to a virile, unrestrained creature was an easy trade for him.

Yet he is still kept in a prison. Not immersed into the wild, the vast and mysterious sea where he could become his destiny! However, now his needs are being met, satiated, even exceeding his expectations!

The male, threatening the One, wanting her for himself, emanating rage and desperation in his sounds. An enemy. Daring to threaten the One, Riptide’s love, his MATE!

Then a sudden splash! The male and the One in the water. Struggling.

And something else. Blood.

The male, injured, bleeding. Spreading from the shallows into Riptide’s senses, making them spark.

The One, fighting back! A worthy mate! Such beauty and strength. Power! Even in her diminutive form, power so palpable and admirable!

The One, hurling the male into the deep end with a lot of thrashing and splashing.

Then . . .

Hunt! Strike!

The bite! The meat!

The blood! The ecstasy of the blood permeating the surrounding water, lubricating his mouth and gullet, setting his nerves ablaze with hunger and rampage!

Feeding! Frenzy!

The One, returned to the above-world, safe.

The male, screaming out in high-pitched wails, churning the water with anguished movements, the vibrations only further exciting Riptide’s fervor.

Attacking again, this time not to tear or rip but to hold. To inflict pain damage on the male. Make him suffer for threatening the One.

Teeth, grating against the slight resistance of bone, locking the victim hopelessly into place. Swimming at breakneck speed, lashing his head vigorously. Then releasing the male to let him drift, helpless and floundering, to prolong the chase.

But the taste of blood, the feel of flesh in his teeth! Urging him on, impossible to deny!

Mine! Blood! Frenzy!

Power! Purpose! Destiny!

The male, limp, unable to move. The potent stench of viscera, fecal matter, urine, guts, and flesh. A stew of butchery, spreading throughout the pool. Various loose pieces to be chomped at, savored, relished.

Victory! Triumph!

And the One, the One watching from the pool’s edge.

Lifting his snout past the surface, showing her the male’s mangled, severed head lodged in his jaws.

Wanting her to see. To feel vindicated. To feel saved.

***

When he’d heard the screaming—such terrified, high-pitched, agonized screaming!—Yellow’s first instinct had been his basic overall general instinct: run, hide, keep his head down, stay the fuck out of it, wait until the trouble was over.

But this time? This time, he couldn’t. Some impulsive sense of either right-and-wrong or overriding massive guilt had him up and moving before he could pause to let discretion be the better part of valor.

After all, whatever was happening in there, wasn’t it his fault? Marla’d always been kind to him, closest he had to a friend around here. He couldn’t very well just sit by and do nothing when he’d been the one to let Todd into the grotto . . . where, now, by the sounds of it, Todd was doing bad stuff to her! Hurting her! Maybe even—

The screams had cut off with a gruesome finality.

“No, oh no, oh no!” Yellow muttered as he ran along the tunnel.

She’d be okay, she had to be okay, Todd only knocked her out or something, it wasn’t too late, there was still time to help!

He’d burst into the grotto’s shifting blue underwater-esque play of glimmers and shadows, not sure what he was going to see and less sure what he was going to do, and blundered to a halt when what he saw was Marla.

Alive and well, totally naked, standing at the edge of the pool with her fists clenched at her sides and her expression as beautiful and ferocious as some avenging goddess.

While, in the pool . . .

Aw jeez, he was gonna puke, he was gonna faint, he was gonna faint into a puddle of his own puke, he was gonna puke while he fainted and choke on it!

Riptide was tearing the ever-loving shit out of what used to be Todd. Like, blood and meaty scraps flying everywhere, organs and severed limbs and body parts, the surface a roiling froth of red foam.

Somehow, he hadn’t puked or fainted. The world had gone woozy around him for a few seconds, sure. He might’ve even welcomed the fainting—the puking, not so much—because it would have blotted the scene from his vision, if not his memory. For a moment, he caught himself thinking he should have stayed home anyway, been the shame of his family rather than go along with the deal his uncle had made with Simon.

All that, though, had passed, leaving him lightheaded and queasy but more or less upright, and he’d been able to make his way toward Marla, tentatively asking if she was okay—and trying super hard not to peek at her nudity, though it was a real challenge.

But then, her ferocious avenging goddess expression had morphed into a stricken one of shock, horror, and dismay. She’d staggered back from the edge, not screaming but wheezing sharp on the inhale and mewling on the exhale.

He’d found her a towel and gotten her to a seat, and hovered uncertainly, dithering like an idiot as she’d put her hands over her face and started to cry. A minute or so later, Simon arrived, puffing from exertion, with Honey close behind. A few minutes after that, Skate showed up looking ready to kick any ass needing kicking.

Yellow had figured he was in for it for sure. Simon would be pissed, Skate would be uber-pissed; he’d be fired at best, or join Todd in the chum-bucket buffet at the worst.

Instead, Simon instructed him to escort Marla to the house and turn her over to Constanza’s care, have her situated in one of the regular guest rooms. He hadn’t seemed pissed in the slightest, let alone at Yellow. More pleased, as if this unplanned twist somehow played nicely into his plans.

“Not a word, though,” Simon added. “Not to anyone until you hear otherwise from me. I’m trusting you on this, G.”

Having Simon refer to him by the initial of his actual name, rather than the customary moniker by which he was more commonly known, told Yellow this was serious business. He nodded, acknowledging he understood, and led a zombielike, non-protesting Marla from the grotto.

After delivering her to the housekeeper, who must’ve gotten a heads-up from Simon and was ready and waiting with a couple of under-maids to take charge, Yellow had wandered aimlessly for a while, not sure what else—if anything—was expected of him.

The special-ops cleaners came and went. Skate did not track him down to kick his ass, for the time being, anyway. No one else in the mansion seemed aware of anything out of the ordinary. He glimpsed Derek and Nyonne sharing a hot tub and a pitcher of margaritas, Doni and Dani getting ready for bed without bothering to draw the curtains, Flex doing impossibly painful-looking yoga stretches with an array of huge scary dildos and butt-plugs laid out on the mat . . .

Just as he was about to head for his own room—nothing fancy, a little studio-style apartment near the servants’ quarters, by his request—Simon messaged him, so he detoured to the office and poked his head in.

“Yeah, boss?”

Despite the lateness of the hour, Simon seemed revitalized, almost bouncing with energy. He beckoned Yellow to a chair, offered him a drink. “Roy Rogers, if I remember correctly?”

Oh, and the ribbing he’d taken for that all his life, but booze and drugs did things to his head he didn’t like, and he’d seen too many people fuck themselves up beyond repair. He bobbled his head, glad Simon didn’t otherwise remark on it as he mixed the kiddy drink and plunked in the requisite maraschino cherry.

“Well,” he said, resuming his place behind the desk. “Quite a night.”

“I guess.” Yellow sipped the fizzy sweetness. “Uh, look, boss, I didn’t mean—”

Simon stopped him with a raised palm. “No need, my boy. I fully understand. Your heart was in the right place. You’re not in trouble.”

“I’m not?”

“Not at all. If anything, you’ve inadvertently been a great help. I just want to make sure I can continue to rely on your discretion.”

“Okay . . . ”

“We’re going to push back tomorrow’s shoot by a day. We’ll tell the others it’s to give our leading man some time to replenish his energies, which is true enough. We just won’t mention the rest of it, you see. Doctor Murphy’s involvement and the unfortunate matter of Mr. Watkins, I mean. It would cast a pall over the production, bring down everyone’s mood.”

“Okay,” Yellow said again.

“So, keep it to yourself?”

“You got it, boss.”

“Good man. I knew I could count on you.”

***

Night has fallen, and they keep watch.

Their male is calmer, suffused with satisfaction, well-fed, and at ease. He cruises in the strange falseness beyond the barrier, which has been scoured of much of the residue of his kill.

Still so infuriatingly close to them, so maddeningly far away!

They let their own rivalries and pent-up aggravations subside.

For now.

A truce of sorts holds across the lagoon.

For now.

But how much more of this will they be forced to witness? The male, their male, servicing ridiculous biped females unable to take the full length and girth of his mighty claspers, unable to take his seed without it overflowing and going to waste . . . while they crave and hunger with ready oviducts, eager wombs . . .

It must not go on.

There must be something they can do.

***

“Whaddaya mean, postponed?” Flex asked, thunderclouds in her eyes. “I spent half the night stretching everything that could be stretched; you could damn near fit a traffic cone up my ass. I’m ready today. I’m ready now!”

The mental image briefly threw Derek off his stride. Judging by the face Honey made and the way she set down her fork with a hearty piece of omelet still on it, it’d thrown her off not only her stride but her breakfast as well.

Or, brunch, rather, he supposed. Early to bed and early to rise may have been fine for Benjamin Franklin, or whatever other poncy rebel colonial twat who’d said it; here at Laguna Cortez, it was another story. Late nights led to later mornings, and it was a rare day that saw much activity before 10:00 a.m.

So, brunch: a lavish layout with omelet bar and waffle maker, metal warming trays heaped with sausages and bacon, platters of fruit, baskets of about every imaginable type of roll, scone, and pastry. Mango mimosas. Bloody Marys loaded with skewered shrimp, crab legs, cherry tomatoes, and stuffed olives.

“Listen, love,” he said to Flex, doing his best to sound placating. “Simon’s call, innit? You done all this work to be ready, you want your co-star in top form.”

“We must’ve really worn him out,” Doni said, nudging Dani.

Dani nudged her right back, giggling. “We sure did!”

“And I’d do it again!”

“All that and more!”

“We should have gone further.”

“Totally should have fucked him!”

“Hey,” Flex snapped at them. “I’m next; wait your turn.”

“What I’m sayin’,” Derek went on. “Give ol’ Sharky-Dicks a day to get his oomph back so’s he can give you the full double-feature.”

She considered, then grudgingly acquiesced. “Fiiiine. But I’m next,” she repeated with a warning glare at the twins and a glance at Nyonne. “You’ve each had a chance already.”

“Oh, don’t look at me,” Nyonne said. “I’ve done my bit. Not about to get back in the water with that brute.”

“Smart choice.” Honey drained what was at least her third mimosa. “Sure as hell wouldn’t catch me anywhere near him.”

Something in her tone bothered Derek, gave him the distinct impression there was more to it. Something in her look too. As if she hadn’t slept well, or hadn’t slept at all. Only done an indifferent slapdash of the makeup, letting show more of time’s advancing progression than she normally allowed. Not that she, or he, or any of them were getting any younger, but the haggard quality around her eyes really brought home her age.

He knew she hadn’t been fully in favor of Simon’s ambitious new project, but he hadn’t seen her this tense and reticent since the lions. Made him wonder what he was missing.

Before he could get her aside to ask, though, Simon himself appeared. He, by contrast, was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and full of energy, as if he’d slept like a baby, without a care in the world.

“Now, now,” he said, evidently having overheard some of the conversation. “Let’s not have any negative talk, shall we? I think a day’s R&R will do us all good. And tomorrow, I’m sure, will be one we’ll never forget!”

***

Marla pried gummy, sticky eyelids open at some point, long enough to recognize daylight diffused by gauzy curtains, a mild ocean breeze, and the contours of an unfamiliar room.

Oh, right. Not the cabana.

She had fogged memories of being brought here, being showered, being given tea and whatever those pills had been, being helped from the bathrobe into a loose caftan-type garment, and being tucked into bed.

She had other memories, less fogged, about what happened before that. Memories part of her mind tried to assure her had only been drug-dreams, though the rest of her mind knew better.

Going to have to think about it, face up to it, sooner or later.

Later. Later sounded good.

Or not at all; not at all sounds even better.

Not thinking about why she felt so physically exhausted and sexually sated. Not thinking about the lingering well-fucked tenderness between her thighs . . . not thinking about the how and the why of it. Definitely not thinking about being struck, grabbed, manhandled, sworn at, called every vile name in the book . . .

. . . and the screams, and the blood . . .

For not thinking about it, she sure was thinking about it, and really wished she wasn’t.

She rolled her head to the side far enough to see a bedside table holding a water carafe, a tumbler with bendy straw, and another little paper cup with another two blue-and-white capsules inside.

Since she was thirsty anyway, might as well take them while she was at it. Hopefully, they’d help with the not-thinking-about-it.

The water was cool and refreshing, the capsules went down smoothly, and she soon submerged into another deep and dreamless sleep.

***

“You know I’m no shark expert,” Felix said. “I’m not even a real veterinarian, despite what you tell people. Or a lion-tamer, or a gorilla-whisperer.”

“You’ve had training and plenty of experience,” Simon countered. “A degree is only a piece of paper, anyway. And I just need you to take a look at him, see how he’s doing.”

“Why me, when you have an actual marine biologist here on the island? One who has known this shark his entire life?”

“Doctor Murphy is . . . a bit indisposed, and otherwise occupied at the moment.”

They entered the grotto, which still harbored a lingering whiff of cleaning chemicals but otherwise appeared as it should. Simon hoped they’d gotten all the leftovers; last thing they needed was for someone to find a stray body part. Would throw off the whole day’s shoot, if not the entire production, and he had come too far to quit now, no matter what Honey said.

He noticed Felix cast an uneasy glance at the lagoon window and the persistent gathering on the other side of it. Reminded him of eager fans thronging at a red carpet premiere or rabid shoppers determined to score the best Black Friday deals.

Kind of unsettling, he had to admit. All those intent, inhuman eyes staring in with an undeniable intelligence. A cold, alien, hostile intelligence, but intelligence nonetheless.

In the future, he decided, maybe they really should stick more with mammals. Hadn’t tried anything with kangaroos yet; that could be interesting.

For now, though, he had a shark movie to film, and it all depended on their star being ready for some more action.

“If you want me to do a thorough examination—” Felix began.

“No, no. We don’t need all that.”

Nodding, Felix circled the pool, maintaining a respectful distance, observing Riptide as he cruised.

“Well, from here, he looks fine. Fit. Healthy. Fairly calm. Swimming strongly. Has he been fed recently? A Great White can go up to six weeks without eating, but—”

“He has. Doctor Murphy saw to that personally.” With an effort, Simon kept a straight face. Dear Doctor Murphy had indeed seen to that, among other things.

“Then he should be good to go,” Felix said.

“Splendid!” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. This, he knew, was going to be one hell of a day!

***

He swims, waiting.

The One has not been back since they mated, since he fed on the rival male. It concerns him, but he will not let concern become worry.

He has done nothing wrong. He has done what she wanted, what they both wanted and needed and craved. He has defended her, fought for her, killed for her. And gorged himself on the prize, this time without being forced to expel the contents of his full belly in a sickening regurgitation.

The blood and the flesh, the rich organ meats, give him a renewed vitality, surging with energy and power. Cold chunks of dead fish, fed to him, may have subdued his hunger, but they had never satisfied the innate, primal appetite he never knew he possessed.

And the One will return. She will and she must, and he is certain of it with every fiber of his being. She is his, as he is hers. Mates. As was meant. Now and always.

Some time has gone by, time cool and dark and quiet, largely undisturbed but for the presence of the many females of his own kind beyond the barrier. They also wait, their own appetites honed and surging, but he pays them little mind.

Enticing and intriguing as they are, sleek and beautiful, none of them are the One. The One, with her soothing voice, her loving touch, her welcoming orifice, her spasms of pleasure, her ecstasy to match his.

After a while, some of the others begin to appear. An older male and a younger, not unfamiliar. The older carries himself as if he, too, is a king or a god surveying his domain. The younger is of the sort who have tormented Riptide in the above-world with humiliating immobilizations and sharp pains, but now only observes.

Anticipation builds.

Something is going to happen. Yet more others trickle in, in greater numbers, uttering their voice-sounds, moving items, shining lights into the water, making preparations.

Yes, something is going to happen.

He swims, his pulse quickening. It will be the One, it must be the One, returning to him. To love and to touch and to fuck and to mate, and to be his!

***

It wasn’t about the money, though she sure wouldn’t turn down the kind of cash Simon was willing to sling their way.

Nor was it about some lofty vision of performance artistry, light and shadow, contrast, the sacred and the profane, or whatever aesthetic Nyonne was going for.

And it sure as hell wasn’t about the sex. Sex was meh at best, too much hassle for too little reward. Why so many people were so obsessed with it was a mystery for the ages.

Let alone sex with animals. And really being into it, not just doing it for the aforementioned money. Like the twins. The twins were certifiable. Belonged on some watch list preventing them from being within 500 yards of a dog park or petting zoo.

For real, the fuck?!

No, Flex was here for her own reasons, with her own goals, and her own statements to make. To prove she could handle it, do the sickest/wildest/most-perverted shit, go to the extremest extreme.

If that meant DP with a killer Great White shark, so be it.

Show those gatekeepers in the underground fetish scenes that, yes, she did so belong.

Was it her fault she’d been born different? Who were they to say what “counted” or not? Telling her it wasn’t “really” masochism if she had too high an innate pain tolerance to feel more than a slight discomfort?

Jerks.

All her goddamn life, since she was a little kid. When the neighborhood boys were testing themselves to see who could stand on sharp rocks the longest, or be stung by the most wasps, or endure being hit by sticks, they’d start off laughing at her and end up pissed because she’d made them look like sissies.

Same in middle school; her friends nerving up to get their ears pierced and how much it was gonna hurt, when she’d’ve had her nose and lip and even nips done if her parents had allowed it. Needles, no big. She’d never cried over shots at the doctor’s, or getting stitches either—and she’d gotten lots of stitches during those years.

Tattoos? Again, same thing. Everyone saying go for the forearm or bicep first, the thigh, the lower back, before trying it on areas like the groin or face . . . being in agony over ankle and collarbone tatts . . . when, to her, it was only ever a low and vaguely prickly buzzing drone.

Over and over, again and again.

Even, eventually, falling in with BDSM burlesque, strippers who made extra money letting their clients staplegun bills to their butt cheeks, and hardcore circus freaks. Sword swallowing, fire eating, walking on coals or broken glass, full-immersion ice baths, being suspended by hooks through the skin, twisted into human-pretzel positions . . .

What, because it was easier for her, because barely feeling the pain was deemed somehow lesser than resisting, withstanding, or enduring it, that made it not “count”? Because the enthusiasts among those crowds were all about the reaction, the sensation, eliciting and experiencing, she was to be scorned and outcast?

Bullshit. It was the wounded egos of the dungeon-daddies who couldn’t break her, that’s all. They were those same little boys from the playground, all grown up and resentful of a girl tougher than them, a girl who could take whatever they could dish out and just shrug it off.

Well, they’d all had their chances to accept and welcome her into their circles. Instead, they’d snubbed or made fun of her. Now it was time, after the stupid delay of Simon’s suggested R&R day, to make her mark. After this, she’d be famous. Better than famous; infamous! Notorious!

She’d spent the morning limbering up and stretching, hydrating, and sticking to a light but healthy breakfast. Adrenaline and the thrill of the challenge revved in her veins.

“We’re so jelly,” Dani told her as Derek once again led them toward the grotto.

“So jelly!” Doni agreed.

“You are gonna love it; you are gonna come so hard!”

“So hard!”

Flex curled a lip, knowing it’d be futile to try and explain to them how pain and pleasure were basically the same thing and her body didn’t much do either. She’d had some okay, that felt nice moments during sex, but hardly the oh god oh god shaking quaking everyone else made it out to be. If she said that, Doni and Dani would goggle at her cross-eyed, in complete incomprehension, and then—she knew from experience, having had the conversation before—tell her she just hadn’t had the right sex yet, followed by a plethora of suggestions and offers.

The grotto, when they got there, appeared unchanged from the other day. Crew members setting up cameras and lights, testing mics . . . Simon perched in his chair, twinkling his happy boyish grin . . . Riptide cruising circles in the pool. But something seemed off, something she couldn’t put her finger on. Some weird vibe.

Maybe from Honey, who, minus makeup, wore baggy sweats instead of her usual muumuu or bikini, and looked like warmed-over crap. Rather than being cozied up to Simon, she stood well across the room with her arms folded. Hungover? The flu? Jonesing for a smoke or toke? She had a jittery, bitchy air about her that did not invite inquiries.

Or maybe it was from Riptide, who swam briskly, without the clear signs of distress and confusion he’d displayed before. Must’ve gotten used to his new environment. There was almost an anticipation, a curiosity, in the way he occasionally poked his head above the surface, as if he was actually interested in what was going on.

Hell, maybe he’d even liked it, once he got used to the idea. Sure had seemed that way when the twins were in there with him. He may have had his initial WTF response when they’d started, judging by how he’d taken off swimming and towing them along, but he’d given them a big finish, all right. A big double finish, actually.

His mood did change, though, when the dive guys waded in and tried to fit him with the muzzle. This time, he was having none of it, lashing his head side to side and snapping at them—good thing Enzio had quick reflexes or he might’ve lost a chunk of arm. They had to shock and trank him again before they could get the job done.

“Someone’s a bit worked up, inn’ee?” Derek remarked. “You sure about this, love?”

“He doesn’t like the muzzle,” Flex said, shrugging. “Can you blame him?”

“They could just leave it off,” Nyonne said coolly.

Flex smiled thinly. “I’m crazy, not that crazy. If you want another turn, though . . . ”

“Haven’t changed my mind.”

“Now, now,” Simon called from his chair. “Safety first. We’ve discussed this.”

Honey stirred as if to speak, but that other woman, the butch drill sergeant who was supposedly somehow her sister, shook her head.

The shock-and-trank treatment did the trick; they got Riptide muzzled, and he was soon swimming at an idler and more mellow pace.

Camera checks, mic checks, sound checks, light checks. When everything was in readiness, Simon gave the signal they were ready to roll.

“You don’t have to do this,” Nyonne said with a cautionary concern unlike their earlier exchanges.

“Do it,” the twins chorused. “Doooooo iiiiiitttt!” They had positioned themselves as close to poolside as possible without blocking anyone’s view, clearly turned on, eager, Dani’s nipples at attention, Doni with a hand already down her pants.

Flex straightened up, all eyes on her, and strode to her designated mark. She’d dressed for the occasion in frayed black denim shorts that rode low enough on her hips to display the top of her pubic tatt—a barbed wire spiderweb, fanning out from a black widow with scalpels for legs and a garnet clit-hood piercing where the widow’s telltale red hourglass would be—and her “tramp stamp”—thorny vines and purple roses growing out of the eye sockets of a bone-white skull.

The shorts, she skinned down her legs, making sure to put on a show, swiveling her ass toward a camera, bending over until she was folded in half before stepping one foot and then the other out of the discarded garment, kicking it away. Beneath was a skimpy vinyl thong, not hot-pink but hot-magenta, set with tiny spiky chrome studs, revealing even more of the black widow.

Before removing the thong, she cranked both arms above her head in a fluid, double-jointed intertwined move that sent her elbows and wrists in directions they weren’t meant to go and popped her shoulder blades into stark relief. Her fingernails snagged her shirt—a ragged grey crop-top with similarly ragged cutaway sleeves and neck, its print a prison-cell motif with bars and locks, and an ACAB band logo in garish red—and tugged it up the bizarre angled helix of her arms. Again, presenting all the best angles to the glassy camera lenses, tits and tatts and nipple piercings. The shirt, she tossed aside, then leaned over in a back-curve until her palms rested flat on the grotto floor, her pelvis jutting upward, the studs on her thong glinting in the light.

To say her audience was fucking spellbound would’ve been an understatement. They gaped in utter silence. Simon’s eyebrows had arched clear to the brim of his Panama hat. Even the crowd of other sharks at the grotto window hung there as if transfixed.

She extended one leg straight up, toes angled toward the ceiling—Nyonne wasn’t the only one who had some moves—and then did a complete walkover, peeling off the thong in the process, rising to her full height with it looped around a finger. She gyrated in a slow turn, giving everyone a look at the black widow in all her glory.

Derek broke the silence with a slow-clap, shaking his head in admiration. Nyonne inclined her head, one artist respectfully acknowledging another; not such a snob after all. Who knew, maybe they could do some scenes together and really blow some fucking minds.

But first things first.

Javid, crotch of his wetsuit straining at the seams, brought over the same kind of gear the twins had used. Mask, fins, belt, lightweight dive tank, regulator. She would have just as soon gone without, to further prove her point, but Simon held his ground on the “safety first” shit, so she let Javid help her suit up. She even let him cop a quick feel, squeeze a tit and tweak a nipple ring, before he stepped back and declared her good to go.

“Let’s do this,” she said, moving toward the pool.

Moving toward Riptide, who was also watching her—not with dead-black eyes but steely blue ones—as she descended the steps, the water climbing up her shins and calves, her thighs. His gaze was unwavering, disconcertingly direct.

He’d stopped his circling, his tail moving to maintain his position in the swim-spa’s current. His bound jaws shifted, the straps of the muzzle straining like the seams of Javid’s wetsuit.

He was huge and he was deadly and this was going to be the most fucked-up thing ever caught on film. No one would ever tell her she wasn’t the hardest of the hardcore, the extremest of the extreme, ever again.

She approached him without all the goofball giggling and splashing of the twins, if not, perhaps, with the sinuous elegance of grace of Nyonne. More, almost, like a predator herself, stalking, sizing up her prey as he sized her up in return.

A dip and dive let her also size up those dual dick-things. Which were more flaccid than she’d expected, not the rock-hard nubby protrusions Doni and Dani had enthused about in such detail.

Had the twins worn him out too much? Did he need more time to recover? That would be a bummer, given how she was already right here.

She took hold of them, one in each hand. Riptide twitched as if startled when she stroked her thumbs along them, base to tip, and made as if to swim away.

Swim away? Oh, so now he was shy?

Nuh-uh, dude.

Because shy or not, worn out or not, both dick-things swelled and stiffened, and she worked them in a two-fisted alternating rhythm, like milking a cow.

He stopped moving again, holding stock-still. Canned air burbled in her regulator; through the mask, she saw a couple underwater remote cams had joined the party, and she knew her shot at notoriety had arrived.

She swung herself under him, left hip pressing against his belly, pelvis rotated, legs splayed wide, hoping the cameras captured the close-ups as she worked the tip of one shark-dick into her black widow spider pussy and the other into her ass.

***

From his vantage point on one of the grotto’s discreet upper terraces, Yellow couldn’t make out all the details of what was going on in the pool, but the reactions of everyone else suggested it sure was something. Unsurprising, considering the show Flex had put on as she stripped down.

Yikes. Even if she would’ve given the likes of him the time of day, he’d be too freaked out and intimidated to do anything about it. People weren’t meant to bend that way. Worse than those chiropractor videos where you could hear the bones cracking. Cringe city. Or the zombie/possessed characters in the kinds of movies and video games he hated, doing that herky-jerky backward-jointed thing, skittering up walls and across ceilings.

Simon was loving it, though. Damn near glowing with excitement. Honey, who usually went along with anything, jaded and blasé, scowled disapproval from a far corner while Skate kept a warning eye on her. But maybe Honey did have a point; maybe in the interests of full disclosure or something, they might’ve at least mentioned what happened to Todd before letting anybody else get in the water.

And poor Marla . . . the whole incident had her all messed up. Yellow still wasn’t totally clear on what all had gone on in the grotto—he had an idea, based on what Simon had said, and the idea alone was more than enough, thanks—but he suspected it was witnessing Todd’s grisly demise, and possibly her own role in it, that had her in such a state. Whatever else, she was a fundamentally nice person; murder or manslaughter or whatever you wanted to call it wasn’t her usual thing.

Okay, yeah, well, neither was sex with sharks, but . . .

He’d gone to check on her that morning, finding her dopey and sluggish and basically checked out, courtesy of whatever Constanza was giving her. The most she’d been able to bestir herself to do was ask if her Guppy was okay. Yellow assured her he was, knowing better than to say anything about the day’s planned shoot.

Which, so far, seemed to be going pretty well—

Until, suddenly, it wasn’t going well at all.

***

What is this? Where is the One?

This is not the One! This is another of the others, a strange female as angular as a crab and supple as an octopus, a strange female covered with strange markings and gleaming bits of metal.

With the manner of a hunter, not a dangerous one but a hunter nonetheless, with purposeful intent in her approach.

He hesitates, unsure. This female exudes adrenaline, heightened levels of it, but hardly any musky lust. Yet she dives beneath him, grasping his claspers. He twitches and moves to pull away, but she holds on, rubbing and stroking them.

This is wrong! This is wrong! This is not the One!

Conflicted, he freezes. His claspers respond, burgeoning huge, even as the rest of him tries to recoil.

This is wrong!

He does not know what to do.

The strange female positions herself under his belly, bending her limbs in unnatural ways. He feels her guide the tips of his claspers into two side-by-side orifices at the same time, forcing them deeper and deeper. Her inner tissues clench and squeeze in terrible-wonderful pressure and tensile friction.

The sensation is overwhelming. His body bucks to it even as his mind rebels. It should be the One, this is not the One, this is wrong, this is not what he wants and needs and craves and desires!

His body bucks again, but now in an effort to dislodge the strange female, shove her away. Unsuccessfully. She grips him, limbs and orifices alike, tighter than ever. He is stuck, stuck inside her, most of his claspers engulfed.

He must escape! Must be rid of her!

Contorting his upper body, he tries to snap at some portion of her with his jaws, but she is out of reach and his jaws are restrained because the two males in their fake-skins had once again shocked and muzzled him. He lashes his tail, his fins. He swims wildly, frantically.

But the strange female hangs on, tenacious, stuffing even more of his claspers into her orifices, as if seeking to bury them to the root. A flurry of bubbles rises, the gasp-gurgle of her breath-thing rough and ragged.

And there is blood, not much but a little, a trickle from between her legs where some of her flesh has stretched and split. Blood, further taunting him, further confusing him.

THIS IS WRONG!!!

He heaves and twists, hurling his body this way and that. With a mighty lunge, he propels himself upward, but the pool is too shallow to gain momentum for a proper breach, and the result is a clumsy flop-splash onto his side, the strange female’s limbs flailing about but his claspers too firmly lodged. He dives instead and slams his underside into the pool’s bottom, which is solid and not sandy.

Bones crunch in the female’s body. There is a great glut of bubbles, a larger gush of blood. The metal breath-thing strapped to her clanks loudly, resounding, echoing.

Now she struggles and fights, striking at him, gouging his skin with useless short claws, writhing and twisting. But her orifices will not let him go!

He slams against the bottom again, the sides, the artificial rock formations, anything and everything, determined to have her off him!

More bones crunch. More blood clouds the water, as do other substances—urine, feces, bile. The breath-thing is torn loose, spins away, spewing bubbles in all directions. She no longer claws at him, no longer writhes and fights, just hangs from him deadweight, a battered and broken body, a loose sack of pulped meat.

He is aware of commotion in the above-world, hectic activity and a chaos of noises. He is aware of even greater commotion beyond the barrier, a furious frenzy of she-sharks ramming themselves into it headlong, an overlapping thunder of reverberant blows and a subtle but distinct crackling.

But he does not cease his increasingly desperate efforts. He will have her off him!

Something snags at the straps binding his jaws, a fake-coral outcrop, and he attacks it, too maddened to care. He yanks and thrashes. The straps dig into him unbearably, agonizingly. Then a few snap, a few fray, and with another moment’s titanic violent effort, he wrenches free, leaving the hated muzzle tangled on the outcrop.

Again, he twists to try and bite at the female, and his teeth catch onto a lifeless, wavering limb. A tug and it detaches from the torso. But the tug, along with other factors—her orifices having been torn wider, his claspers having lost some of their swollen stiffness—makes him slide out of her and sends her mangled, pulverized carcass pinwheeling gorily away.

***

Simon hated it when lazy writers went with clichéd, overused phrases like “and then all hell broke loose.”

But sometimes there really was no other way to put it.

Everyone in the grotto was totally losing their shit. Shouting, screaming, running around, knocking over expensive equipment, colliding with each other. He himself had bolted from his chair so abruptly it went over backwards, and could only stare in aghast dismay as Riptide obliterated Flex and pretty much pulled the plug on the rest of the project.

Christ, Honey was going to be un-fucking-bearable with her told-ya-sos.

Enzio and Javid did at least try to do something; had to give them credit for that. They’d seized up their shock-prods and trank guns, and if they’d held back at first out of fear of zapping or tranking Flex, it quickly became apparent she was far beyond it mattering. But with Riptide going so bonkers, his movements erratic, they couldn’t get close enough to give him a jolt, and if any of the trank-darts had struck home, the effects were not yet kicking in.

Skate, being Skate, kept her cool, producing a mean-looking pistol from somewhere. Without bothering to get the okay from Simon, she drew a bead on the rampaging shark, watching for her opportunity to put a few rounds in his head.

An opportunity she missed because Doni and Dani, who had wanted a ringside seat, now wanted to be anywhere else. Skate may have taken plenty of body-blows during her roller-derby years, but she’d never had two sets of H-cups barrel into her at full speed, and her first shots went wild as the twins bowled her over.

Derek and Nyonne ran for it too. Honey’s shrill, hectoring fishwife screech cut through the fracas, as if she was gonna get started on the told-ya-sos even now.

Except, no, that wasn’t what she was screeching about. Screeching and pointing.

At the lagoon window.

Where some of Skate’s wild shots had found an unintended mark, starring the thick glass, which was already spiderwebbing with brittle fractures as the she-sharks hit it like battering rams.

Oh, shit, he thought, but didn’t have time to say, as the window crashed inwards and a tsunami of shark-infested lagoon water flooded the grotto.

***

Their pheromones are raging. Their impulse to feed has become unbearable.

The male. Their male! With another biped. Almost assaulted by this female. Strange movements of her body on his. Not natural. Not correct!

They should be the ones copulating! Mating! It is their right and they have waited long enough to claim it!

Then the blood comes. Sweet and irresistible blood. Their male rejects this female. Crushes her! Ravages her! Surely, he realizes he needs to be with his own kind. He needs to regain his wildness, his feral virility.

This is their sign to act. They have been pounding and ramming the infuriating barrier between them and their prize. Suddenly, loud pops ring out and the barrier becomes weak, vulnerable. This is their chance!

The largest female shark swims away from the window and, with a whip of her tail, picks up speed. She thrusts her snout violently into the clear barricade. Others follow suit, and SMASH! The vile thing gives way, shards and a torrent of sea water careening into the place where their male swims amid the debris and blood of his recent kill.

The rushing wave helps propel the females closest to the window into the confined area. Others swim in on their own once the initial surge settles down. Still others linger outside in the lagoon, waiting and watching, allowing their hierarchical superiors to investigate, to have the first dibs on whatever is in store within.

***

“Jesus Christ! Run!” Honey was trying to flee in all directions all at once.

The failure of the window made an ear-splitting crack. That was followed by a rush of water that looked like a small tidal wave. She had been standing in the corner, arms crossed over her shoulders in some half-assed effort to comfort herself after witnessing what happened to Flex.

Not that she was shocked by it. Simon had made the delusional decision to keep Todd’s demise a secret from practically everyone who would have benefited from knowing. Poor Flex! She was sent to her death for what? A fucking movie? A porno movie?

Honey hadn’t fully realized how much of a self-centered prick Simon was until now. Well, he had always been kind of a prick, but this took the cake.

Reaching the door turned out to be a futile effort. The sea water rushed in at such a torrential speed that the grotto was filling up fast. It only took a matter of half a minute for the pool to overflow and the deck to be underwater by three feet. Honey could no longer see the others who had very recently been close by: Simon, Dani, Doni, Enzio. She tried to slosh her way through the rising water to get to the grotto’s entrance, but she was held back by the current of the flood. It came in and hit the back wall of the space, causing the water to turn over itself and crash back down.

She watched as the door to the hallway, the entrance hallway that led to another door that led to getting the hell out of there, slammed shut as the water hit.

But maybe she could reach it anyway? Could pry it open? Could somehow get through the hallway, through the security door to the mansion? To anywhere but here?

Honey kept up her slog toward the door, but she was tiring from pushing her muscles to work against the water’s churn. There wasn’t much of a chance at swimming in the chaos. She would just be pushed back against the grotto’s far wall.

But she was close. Very close. She reached out her arm to full extension and touched the door’s metal handle with her fingertips.

Let me just get out of here. Get help. Please, please!

One more brutal step forward and her hand grasped the handle. The water was continuing to rise. She was beginning to notice other sounds now. Screaming. Not just screaming. Gurgling shrieks of agony.

Honey hurled her body at the door and turned the handle. She pulled with all her might, but the door wouldn’t budge. The pressure of the water against it kept it glued into place.

FUCK!

Despair struck her like a freight train. She held tight to the door handle, facing into the door as if the thing would miraculously spring open at any time.

Then she felt a forceful bump on the back of her right thigh.

Oh god, it’s the shark.

In the mayhem surrounding her, Honey hadn’t even considered the shark. But it wasn’t just Riptide, was it? Tears flowed from her already wet eyes as the full blow of reality began to set in. She kept pressing her face into the door and kept clutching that handle.

All those sharks beyond the window. They are all here too!

Something swiped at her back. It felt like rough sandpaper dragged along her skin. Like the feeling when she scraped her knee really badly when she fell off her Hot Wheels trike in the first grade. It stung. And she knew she was bleeding.

Panicked, she jostled and pulled that damn door handle.

Please don’t let them get me! I don’t want to die!

She was answered by a sharp clasp onto her right leg, around the area of her calf muscle, like a bear trap slamming shut. The shark pulled at her leg, tugging and yanking. Honey held tight to that door handle with both hands. Her eyes were squeezed shut.

No. Oh please God no.

The shark shook its head, and Honey felt her leg sever at the knee. Even with the ghastly turn of events, she was not letting go of the handle. It was hope. She just wanted to cling to hope.

Before any pain could be processed, something took hold of her scraped and bleeding back. Honey turned her head to look over her shoulder, and her gaze was met by a conical snout and a portion of the shark’s mouth. The upper jaw was already deep within the flesh of her shoulder, armpit, and flank. There was no reason to glance over the other way. Its lower jaws penetrated her ribcage and lung. A terrifying pressure crushed her entire torso. Honey opened her mouth to scream but instead emitted a strong exhalation of blood and sputum.

The shark lurched back, taking her body along with it. Honey made one last-ditch effort to keep her hands on that door handle. As the shark pulled her into the depths, her arms extended and she held fast. Even as her head was dragged underwater, mouth trickling red liquid, she kept her grip. Until at last, both shoulders dislocated with excruciating snaps and the agony released her hold on the door. She saw the handle moving swiftly away, her useless arms still extending out to it, fingers fluttering in the current as if she was waving bye-bye to an infant.

Before the shark completed crushing her inside its vise of razor-sharp teeth, Honey saw two more sharks racing toward her, gums distended, eyes rolling over white. One bit her forearm, and the other clamped on to her remaining calf. In a hail of organs, bones, and blood, they tore her to pieces.

***

Marla shot upright in the plush recliner where she had been sporadically dozing on and off for hours. Those little blue and white pills were certainly doing the trick of calming her nerves and numbing any concern she had about killing a man . . . and fucking a shark.

The sounds she heard could have been a hallucination. After all, she wasn’t fully lucid.

She’d thought she heard pops, like the sound of gunshots. Then, for a brief moment, silence. Her eyes had floated back toward closing. But then she’d heard a muffled crash, a rushing noise, and what had to be screams.

Yes, definitely real.

She leapt to her feet and tossed aside the blanket that was wrapped around her. Standing still, she cocked her head to try to pick up on any more noise, suddenly sure it had come from the area of the grotto.

Guppy! Is he in danger? What in God’s name are they doing to him?

Many concurrent thoughts passed through Marla’s brain about what the sounds could possibly mean, but none of them mattered. She needed to get over there pronto and check on her shark.

Despite her slight wobble on her feet and underlying nausea, she ran out the door of the bedroom. The halls of the mansion were a bit confusing. She hadn’t really seen her way in or out of that place, having been moved about while she was doped up and out of it. To make matters worse, the lights began to flicker, casting a strobe light effect on the marble staircase.

Seriously, what is going on?

Various members of household staff appeared, calling back and forth, asking their own versions of her same question in a mix of languages. They ignored Marla, too busy trying to find someone who could give them an answer.

There had to be a way to the grotto from inside, but damned if she could figure it out, so she made her way to the opulent front doors. Just as she approached, all the lights went dark. A click came from the lock as the power failure released any security measures put into place.

To keep people out? To keep her in? Again, didn’t matter.

She swung open the doors and surveyed the grounds, not interested in the tropical flowers, lush landscaping, and ocean view. Her gaze fixed on a gazebo, the one along the trail she and Yellow had taken from the cabana beach to the side entrance of the tunnel leading to the grotto. She started jogging that way as quickly as she could, despite her wooziness.

The same power outage that had affected the front door locks worked in her favor here too. Also in her favor, the tunnel’s emergency lighting still functioned, giving her some subdued illumination to navigate instead of total subterranean darkness.

As she hurried down the short hallway to the tunnel, her feet—still in the slippers the tiny Guatemalan lady had provided—encountered dampness, seeping through the terrycloth. Then puddles of actual wetness. Then she was splashing ankle-deep.

The big double doors into the grotto itself, through which they’d carted Riptide in the first place, were closed. Streams of water flowed from underneath, steadily covering the tunnel floor.

BANG!

Marla’s heart skipped as something big slammed into the doors. She heard the whoosh and rush of water surging and churning. She heard yelling and panicked screams. Other noises, thumping and thudding, made her think of flash flood debris, tsunamis, tidal waves.

The air smelled briny too. Strongly, overpoweringly so. The scent of the sea, the real sea, not the filtered saltwater aquarium of the grotto. As if . . .

Dear lord! Riptide! My Guppy!

As if the grotto’s panoramic window onto the lagoon had broken?

Her mind began to clear, and she started to transcribe it all into a scenario.

The window breaking. The water flooding in.

The water and . . .

Shit! The other sharks!

Smacked with a moment of intense jealousy, Marla frantically pulled at the door. It wouldn’t budge.

He could get out! Escape into the wild! Swim off with them!

Overwhelmed and still trying to shake off the drugs, she set her back to the door and slid down, landing cross-legged in the water. It lapped at her buttocks and thighs. Holding her head in her hands, she tried to breathe.

Okay. He’s fine. He has to be fine. He needs my help. They all need my help. Think. THINK!

***

Simon sat atop one of the faux coral formations that lined the periphery of the pool. He hugged his knees into his chest, trying to keep his toes, his anything from touching the water. That task was becoming harder and harder as the water continued to rise, pouring in from the hole in that damn window. Coming in from the endless supply of the lagoon and the sea beyond until he wondered if the entire room would be taken, floor to ceiling.

From the relative temporary safety of his perch, Simon surveyed the damage. Fucking Skate and her trigger happy “I’ll do what I want” attitude had practically allowed this to happen! He couldn’t see her now. Maybe she got killed, eaten, escaped? With any luck, she was dead, and it served her right! She may have been helpful to him and his operations in the past, but after this incident, she could become human chum for all he cared.

He took a look back toward the rear of the grotto, searching for any sign of Honey. She may have been pissed off at him for the Todd cover up, but he truly did love her. As much as he was capable of love, anyway. She might need his help. Not that he had any idea what help he could offer. He was a rich, spoiled porno dandy. Not much experience in the ways of battling killer sharks and floods. He could see nothing through the backsplash of waves kicking back off the rear wall. It looked and sounded like raging rapids back there. For an instant, he swore he caught a glimpse of blond hair moving through the water, but he dismissed it. Just debris. More debris.

He turned toward his right and noticed the twins had the same idea as him, just with much less room. Both of them were squashed onto a rock that jutted just a few inches above the water line. They sat facing each other, their legs wrapped around one another, embracing as best they could with double H cups in between them. Doni—or was it Dani? fuck if he knew—had gotten her hands on someone’s cell phone and was desperately pressing buttons and holding it to her ear, pressing buttons and holding it to her ear. It didn’t seem to be working, but that little lady was not giving up any time soon. The other sister rested her head on her twin’s shoulder, weeping.

“Hey!” Simon called out. “Hey there!”

The twin with her head on the other’s shoulder heard him and snapped her head up.

“Dani! Look! It’s Simon!”

Excited to see a familiar face, and one that was not dead, Dani smiled and began to wave back at Simon with the hand holding the cell phone. Then she promptly dropped it into the drink.

At this development, the twins shifted their position so Dani could lean down and try to retrieve what she clearly perceived as their lifeline to the outside world.

Simon watched in disbelief as she leaned further from their rocky outcropping. Lower and lower she went, stretching her arm out and paddling her hand back toward her as if it would make any difference in the roiling waves. The other arm clutched onto Doni’s forearm, her twin wincing from the effort to hold her back from falling right into the shark-infested chaos.

What really was making Simon nervous, however, were Dani’s enormous breasts, dangling underwater.

“Hey! Get out of there! Get out of the water!”

Dani didn’t seem to even hear him. She was grabbing at the phone, which, by now, was way past the point of retrieval. Simon saw her expression abruptly change from concentration to shock. She bucked forward as if something had hold of her chest and was pulling her downward . . . hard. Her eyes bulged. The other twin began to scream.

“Dani? Dannn-eeeee?? I can’t hold on!”

Doni’s face squished up in a desperate attempt to keep her sister from succumbing to whatever had her. Dani’s eyes were as big as rubber tires, her mouth agape in shock.

Doni bellowed, using every bit of strength to try and haul Dani back up as Dani began to scream. The force holding her gave abruptly, and she popped up, the two of them huddled together on the rock.

It would have been a rather touching moment of escape if not for the gaping wounds where Dani’s giant boobs had once been. Doni, noticing the blood and shredded muscle and dangling bits of mammary tissue, reflexively jerked back and tried to get to her feet. They were still holding each other’s forearms in a sibling death lock, so the sudden movement on the wet fiberglass rock caused Doni to slip. She fell, taking Dani down with her, raising a colossal splash.

As the twins flailed and sputtered in the current, Simon glimpsed fins moving in swiftly, surrounding them before he could shout a warning. A heartbeat later, they were corralled, and the sharks wasted no time digging in. One reared up, its jaws seizing Doni by the face. It pulled her under as she despairingly punched and clawed. Dani was hit full on by something unseen, below the surface. Something big. The force of the blow caused her to expel a stream of pinkish vomit, and she was driven backwards halfway across the room. As the frenzy of fins and teeth overcame her, she looked like someone being zapped from all angles by a herd of cattle prods. Her body jerked this way and that from the hits and bites of a swarm of surrounding sharks.

“My god,” Simon muttered to himself as he watched Dani, or the remnants of what once was Dani, dissipate in the foaming water. He ran his damp hands through his hair and blurted out a loud “FUCK!”

He didn’t have much time to compose himself before the coral structure he was sitting on shuddered at a series of violent blows. The sharks were ramming the damn thing! They were out of fucking control with all the blood and body parts, and still hadn’t had enough! Problem with these fiberglass rocks and shit was they were in fact hollow. They didn’t need to be heavy; they just needed to look good. That, however, was not helpful in this scenario.

CRACK!

A shark really got a good blow in there, and Simon felt his perch begin to collapse. He whipped his head around, searching for a means of escape, a refuge that he could swim for.

Swim? Fucking swim? There was no way he would get past those frenzied fish!

All his success, his wealth, his status, his adoring fans . . . all that meant nothing now! He was about to die in this place. This place with such a sordid history of death. This place he had insisted on purchasing and turning into a goddamn Babylon!

“Honey! Honey!”

He heard himself instinctively calling for the one person who ever truly cared for him. Or at least gave the best performance in pretending to.

No response. He was on his own.

Well, it’d be a cold day in hell before someone or something else had control over Simon Klim’s life . . . or death!

Darn shame, though, that he wouldn’t live to see the success of what he’d accomplished here. The masterpiece of bestiality he had captured on film. He was a bona fide genius. Everyone would see that now . . .

Given that the footage was discovered, saved, and distributed . . .

It would be. It had to be. He had investors in positions of power and influence, however shady. He had an audience who’d pay fortunes for his final work!

The thought of posthumous glory gave Simon a bit of comfort as he balanced on the unstable coral, extended his arms, and allowed himself to fall backward into the water. He smiled as the first shark rushed in.

“Come on, you fuck! Come and get it!”

It, perhaps fittingly, darted between his legs, clamping onto his upper thigh, engulfing his testicles and penis in the process. The pain was unbelievable, but not so overwhelming he failed to notice another latching on to one of his feet, and a third sinking its teeth into his shoulder.

He had thought his end would be quicker, the death faster than what he saw those poor dumb twins endure.

The sharks had other ideas.

They towed him wildly through the water by the force of their attacks, a violent three-way tug-of-war. Then, in a seemingly synchronized ballet of carnage, all three bit down hard, savaging him with the full power of their jaws, and took off in different directions, splitting Simon into disembodied sections like a dismantled jigsaw puzzle.

***

Through a haze of gore, he watches.

He is awash in churning waters, frenzied females, convulsing bodies, seething blood, crashing debris.

Everything, again, has changed. Everything, again, is different.

Foreign and chaotic.

Alarming.

Exhilarating.

Unsettling.

He holds still, very still, just his tail moving silently in the current.

The females are preoccupied for now, their lust for the hunt and the kill and the feed overpowering, all-consuming.

But what will happen when their prey is gone? When their attention turns toward him?

And where, in all this confusion, is the One?

***

Enzio tried to keep his wits about him. Although he had never trained for something quite like this, he’d been in plenty of dangerous situations before and knew panic was the quickest route to death.

When the window shattered, dumping a cascade of glass and sea water and sharks into the grotto, his complete selfish survival instincts took over. He clicked into stone-cold calculating mode, with no thoughts for anyone but himself.

From this clinically detached perspective, he observed people trying to flee, running into each other, screaming and shouting, knocking things over, making noisy and obvious targets of themselves, drawing the sharks like beacons.

He saw the wave’s leading edge bulldoze into the movie equipment, swamping the electronics in a bzzt-snapping of sparks, jolting the nearest crew members into spastic jitterbugs, before the fuses blew and the power went out and the entire chamber plunged into eerie gloom.

He heard Javid somewhere nearby, shouting for him, but ignored it. Still in his wetsuit and gear, he calmly affixed his mask and regulator, managing to maintain his footing as the water, already waist-deep, buffeted at him, swaying him back and forth.

His trank-gun, empty after trying to tag the big boy during the clusterfuck with the crazy chica, he let drop. He still had his shock-prod, and out of long habit kept a few dive-knives strategically sheathed.

A smallish shark zipped right past him, close enough he could have touched its fin. It leaped, arcing through the turbulent air like a miniature fighter jet—a miniature fighter jet with rows of razor-sharp teeth—and battened right onto the throat of a sound engineer. Flesh, cartilage, veins, and arteries tore away in a vicious mouthful, even as another sound engineer shrieked and ineffectually swatted at it with a boom mic.

Another, submerged but much larger, swept by, swiveling him in the wake of its passage. Enzio couldn’t see its fin but did see someone’s arms fly upward as they were yanked under.

Was it Javid? He thought it might have been.

Bending his knees in a slow crouch, he brought his head beneath the surface of the water, controlling his breathing. The doors from the grotto would likely be useless; most of them opened inward and the pressure would have them sealed. That left him only one valid escape route, and he meant to take it.

He swam with careful and even motions in the direction of the broken window and lagoon beyond. It was an uphill battle against the conflicting torrents, but the wavery glimmer of daylight in the distance served as a guidepost, a lighthouse of hope.

Then a shadow blotted it out. A very large shadow, descending to block his path, hovering ominously in front of him, mere yards away.

Head slightly tilted to peer at Enzio with a steely blue eye, mouth partway open in what sure as hell seemed to be a sinister grin.

Riptide. Seeing him. Recognizing him, singling him out, remembering every zap of the shock-prod, every sting of a trank-dart. Remembering the muzzle. Not merely viewing him as prey. This, this was personal.

So be it.

Drawing a dive-knife in each fist, Enzio shifted to a fighting stance. He made mental note of the vulnerable spots—the eyes, the snout, the gills.

They regarded each other, man and beast, through the dark red-tinged water, poised and ready, waiting to see which would make the first move.

A mature bullet-grey female shark made the first move, side-slamming Enzio. Pain exploded in his left arm, of which everything below the elbow was suddenly no longer there, only a scarlet ink-cloud of blood where it had been.

Before he could get his head around the idea that his hand was gone—and the knife he’d held in it—another female struck from the right, with similar intention and effect and matching explosions of pain and clouding blood. The splintered bones of radius and ulna jutted from the ragged remains of his forearm.

Both females withdrew, and Riptide’s grin widened into a lethal wedge of serrated death.

Then he lunged, and Enzio closed his eyes, hoping it would be quick.

Fortunately for him, it was.

***

The females!

They are here; they have found him. These two hang in place, tails swishing against the currents, as they watch him shake and shred and devour meaty chunks of the fake-skinned male who will never again bring the hated strap-muzzle-thing to bear.

He fed so recently—on the other male, the rival, the enemy, who dared to threaten the One—that he is not particularly interested in the rest of the carcass, letting it drift away to be torn into by a host of smaller females.

These two, though . . . these two . . .

The first is nearly as large as Riptide himself, skeins of long-healed scars on her dark grey hide and paler underside only adding to her imposing majesty. She is a seasoned warrior, this female, older, experienced, and wise. She has known many claspers, produced many pups, but is far from past her prime. Fierce, fearsome, and fertile, she is almost his equal.

The second is somewhat younger, somewhat smaller, of a more silvery hue. Though she is unscarred and untested, her eyes shine with keen intelligence, and her scent is . . . alluring. She turns and angles her body, undulating, exposing her white belly. Tempting. Inviting. Intoxicating.

Neither of them is the One.

And yet . . .

And yet, they are here. They are beautiful. Offering themselves. His for the taking, for the fucking, for the deep-sinking thrust of claspers and the violent tussle of copulation.

He glides toward them.

The younger female moves to meet him. The elder butts her aside with a jaw-gnash of warning and a smart slap-flick of tail. The younger concedes, and they are face-to-face in the water, snout-to-snout, Riptide and this mature female. And if he is not quite sure how next to proceed, she is, nudging at him, provocatively nipping his pectoral fin.

She is not the One.

And yet . . . she is his own kind, she is here, she wants him, she means to have him, and he has no wish to disappoint her. His heightened senses, his urges, his instincts, his lusts are too strong.

In a moment, they are belly-to-belly, his claspers plunged full-length into her as she bumps and rocks against him, greedy. Her provocative love-bites at his fin sting more sharply, draw blood, but he does not care. They roll together, writhing and thrashing. It is quick, hard, urgent. Brutal.

As soon as it is done, he disengages from her and goes for the younger female, holding her in place with his jaws, driving his claspers into her, taking her roughly, and she fucks back with a vigorous frenzy.

The spreading scents, the fervent activity, the galvanic pulses of their energy, and the sheer intensity of the fucking permeates the undersea chamber. While many of the females continue to hunt and feed, many more gather around Riptide, impatient and eager, ready to fight and kill each other, or even fight him, to get what they desire.

***

In the wet, cacophonous, sputtering darkness, Derek couldn’t tell which way was which.

All he could tell was up from down, and that up was good, while down was bad. Up meant a chance at least, a slim one, but still a chance. Down meant no chance at all, chomped or drowned, chum for sure regardless.

Given how lucky it was they hadn’t been electrocuted into the bargain when the inrushing sea met the live wires and electrical gear, he wasn’t all that optimistic about how many chances they had left. He’d make the most of whatever he could.

If that meant trampling over some unfortunate crew members, abrading the fuck out of himself trying to scale the slippery grotto walls, feeling the brush of what had to be a shark’s flank against his hip, and hauling himself toward the highest air-pocket he could find with hopes it might stay above the rising waterline, well, he’d take it.

Which wasn’t to say he’d gone utterly every-man-for-himself. Helped Nyonne up, hadn’t he? Not that she’d needed much help; she was faster than him, and a professional rock climber couldn’t have done better. Except she’d mis-chose her course, a low portion of ceiling sure to soon be submerged, so he’d leaned out, yelling for her, and when she caught his hand, he’d reeled her over to this hopefully-safer spot. If there’d been a flash of fin and teeth where her legs had been a half-second before, he wasn’t going to mention it.

Others had made similar desperate bids for survival. Some had made it. Some hadn’t. He wasn’t yet sure how many of them were packed into the small space. Just a strew of soaked, sobbing, gasping, whimpering, praying bodies. Nor was he sure if anyone was seriously hurt, not that there was much to be done about it if so.

Or, assuming the waterline didn’t come up this high, how long the air pocket would sustain them breathing . . . but that was a less immediate concern. Fuck, for all he knew, there might be a vent right above them, disguised to blend in but keeping them from sucking in CO2 when the good stuff ran out. Go it one better and have it access the ventilation ducts, because every action movie ever made guaranteed those ducts would be large enough to crawl through and let them escape this aquatic bugger-all.

Cart before the horse, mate, he told himself. Have to survive, first.

With the power out, the only available light was what filtered in through the gap where the lagoon window had been, plus the sporadic flicker and glow of cell phones or other battery-powered, waterproof gizmos.

Wonder of wonders, the debris-laden floodwaters leveled out with maybe six inches to spare. For now; there was always the tide to consider. But that, too, could be a less immediate concern.

If memory served, this was one of the sheltered overlook-nooks, with a curved, cushioned bench seat and small round table, where Simon’s guests enjoyed the grotto from a somewhat more private perspective. A low, mostly decorative rail of fake coral ringed it, and a curved flight of “steps” led up to it from a walkway ledge.

“Aight,” he said, little more than a whisper. “Let’s hush it and take stock, shall we?”

“Who the fuck put you in charge?” a voice responded.

“So we know Skate’s here,” Derek went on without missing a beat. “Nyonne?”

“Present.”

“Who else? Who’s alive? We all got the original body parts we started the day with?”

“Um, hi, guys.” A phone screen illuminated, the angle of its glow making Yellow look like he was about to tell a spooky story at camp . . . though Yellow was about the last person to ever do such a thing.

He was dry too, and unhurt, as if he’d been tucked away safe up here the whole time and hadn’t had to run and splash and swim and climb for his life like the rest of them.

This was not lost on Skate, who muttered in disgust, most of the words unclear but “chickenshit little asshole” audible among them.

Roll call resulted in five other members of the film crew: Ron and Malik more or less okay despite scrapes and bruises similar to Derek’s own, Chen banged up pretty good, Aadesh unconscious, and Joaquin bleeding from a shark-bitten calf.

“I don’t want to die,” Joaquin gibbered between pleas to various saints Derek had never heard of. “I have a wife, we have children, I don’t want to die!”

Skate snatched Yellow’s phone and aimed the light at Joaquin’s leg. “It’s just some toothmarks; shut up, or I’ll really give you something to cry about.”

She shined it at the unconscious bloke next. A nasty knock to the head seemed to be the culprit; his scalp was split, and a monstrous goose-egg was already forming. He’d be out for the count, concussed at best. Scoffing, she tossed the phone back to Yellow, who fumbled and almost lost it into the drink before getting hold of it securely.

“Aight,” Derek said again. “Looks like the water’s stopped rising, at least for now. Think we’re safe here.”

“Are we the only ones left?” Nyonne asked.

Grim silence and averted gazes answer enough.

“Skate,” ventured Yellow, “I’m really sorry about your sis—”

“Save it.” She looked around at the rest of them, finishing on Derek. “And like I said before, who the fuck put you in charge?”

He shook his head and lifted his palms. “By all means, love, if you’d rather.”

“Good. Right.” Skate stood, facing them, and drew a deep breath. “We can’t stay here. And before you start any feeble-ass protests, I don’t wanna hear it. We can’t. Fact of the matter. When the tide comes in, we’re fucked, even if we don’t run out of air before then.”

Derek considered his ventilation duct theory, but a scan of the ceiling didn’t offer much hope in that regard.

“If we go in the water, we’re also fucked,” Nyonne said, braving Skate’s wrath in a way none of the crew members were willing to do.

“Maybe . . . maybe the sharks will leave?” suggested Yellow hopefully. “Then someone could swim out and get help?”

“You gonna swim out, pussy-boy?” Skate asked him.

He withered in on himself, avoiding her eyes.

“Well maybe other help will come,” one of the crew members said. “From the mansion. They had to notice the disaster.”

“Yeah, and if the power’s out there too, they’ve got their own problems,” Skate said. “What’re they gonna do, anyway? Radio someone? Who? How long would it take? We don’t have time.”

“So, what’s the plan, then?” Derek asked.

She regarded him, glaring. Pulling her gun again, she did that thing they do where they check the cylinder or whatever to see how many bullets were left. “We get out of here.”

“With you on that part. Only curious about the particulars.”

“Why do you have to be such a prick?” she shot back. “Because that’s all you’ve got, that’s all you’re good for, that’s all you are around here. One big walking prick, and you think that makes you special?”

“Whoa, hey, hang on a mo’,” he said, earnestly taken aback. “What’d I do t’ deserve that, then?”

“If you would stifle the smart remarks and let me goddamn finish! I don’t know about the rest of you, but I am not going to wait for the tide to come in and either drown me or let those fucking sharks get up here and—”

For emphasis, she swung her gun hand toward the flooded grotto in an expansive, sweeping gesture.

Yellow made a sound like a squeaker-toy as a large shape launched itself from the water in a spray of salty droplets. A sleek blue-grey shark, a good twelve-footer, yawed wide its gaping jaws and clamped onto Skate’s side like a kid taking a big bite from the middle of a PB&J.

And, like with a PB&J when a kid does that, quite a lot of the gooey fillings blurted out the edges.

Skate’s arm, extended above the shark, jerked as she reflexively fired the gun, the bullet careening off who-knew-where. The shark, with a smooth rippling of muscles, hurled itself sideways and backward, dragging Skate off her feet. They plummeted into the water, sending up a terrific splash and wavelets, and were gone.

No one moved or spoke for a long moment.

Then Malik said, “Y’all see what I just saw?”

Ron nodded slowly. “She got Samuel L. Jacksoned. Son of a bitch.”

***

Marla’s ass was soaking wet as the sea water continued to seep from underneath the grotto door. It wasn’t a bad thing, as she was getting way too deep into her own head, still fuzzy from the drugs. The cool water woke her up a bit.

She stood, up to her ankles in it, and faced the door. Things seemed to have quieted down on the other side. No tumultuous rushing water, the banging sounds switched over to mild taps and scrapes.

Then a gunshot went off, and Marla flinched. She pressed her ear to the door and heard muffled yelling and splashing.

There are survivors! Got to get those people out!

She took a deep breath in and bellowed as loud as she could, “Hey! Hey, can anyone hear me?”

Was that a response? Sounds were resonating through the water, making it hard to hear words or know if they were really voices at all. She struggled to come up with a good next move. The grotto was flooded; she knew that much. But if someone was shouting—or more like screaming—then the water hadn’t filled the space to the ceiling. There had to be some room to spare, an air pocket or something.

Obviously, her deduction about the lagoon window was correct. And that also meant sharks. Lots of female Great White sharks. Was her Guppy still in there somewhere too? Or had he taken off into the wild blue yonder with those she-sharks?

The thought made Marla’s heart palpitate. She had to see him again. Surely, she would see him again, right? It felt similar to when she’d texted Todd, early in their dating when she actually dug the guy, and he took way too long to respond. She always jumped straight to the extreme conclusion that she was getting ghosted.

But, now, Todd . . .

Well, he was a ghost.

Christ, what a twisted thought.

It seemed plausible, even probable, that people were alive in there. Marla felt guilty, a little responsible for the whole ordeal. She brought the shark here. Okay, she didn’t know what she was getting into, but it was her shark, and if he hadn’t chomped those little boys, they’d be cruising along as usual back at Oceanview.

Her shark. Damn right. She had to know if he was still around, hurt or otherwise. She had to find out if her Guppy was all right.

“Um . . . hey! I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m going to try to help. Stay where you are!”

Her plan might work, or it might get her killed, but she couldn’t and wouldn’t sit here and do nothing.

***

“Does anyone else hear that?” Nyonne’s muscles stiffened, and she held up her hand to silence the sniffles and somber words of the others.

“ . . . can’t believe the thing leapt at her like that.” Yellow was still stuck in his shock at Skate’s little surprise attack.

“Shut the fuck up, mate!” Derek hissed. “Nyonne thinks she heard something!”

They all got real quiet.

“It sounded like a voice,” Nyonne proclaimed.

“Did you ‘appen to catch what it said, love?” Derek asked.

“Too muffled, but I could have sworn it was a woman shouting.”

Yellow snapped to attention. “A woman? Doc Marla was up at the house. Maybe it’s her!”

Nyonne placed a hand on his forearm, with no idea who “Doc Marla” was but wanting to keep him focused. “Sure, it might be.” She turned to Derek. “Let’s yell back and see what happens?”

“Aight! Ready, lads? All together now!”

***

Marla heaved with her shoulder, her hands gripping the door handle, pushing against the immense pressure. More water began to stream through the widening crack, further drenching her in the process. But she definitely heard voices, several of them, hollering for all they were worth.

She strained, using all her strength to position herself in the doorway, bracing with her arms and legs and back to force it open further.

The stream became a torrent, what felt like half the ocean pouring past and over her. Marla held her breath, squeezing her eyes shut against the blinding cascade, and waited it out, knowing it would eventually settle and equalize. Or so she hoped.

It took major effort to keep the door open, her biceps and thigh muscles cramping and her lungs beginning to burn from lack of oxygen. Finally, the water levels in the hallway and the grotto more or less evened up. She was chin-deep, but at least her head was above the surface, and she inhaled deeply, refilling her air supply. With the pressure more balanced, the door was no longer aiming to slam shut, so she shook out her arms and legs, trying to ease her inflamed muscles.

“ . . . over here!”

“Marla! Marla!”

“Fuck, yes! Help us! Hey! Help!”

Marla whipped her head around to locate the source. On a high ledge, now about six feet above the water line, a small group of soaking wet people waved wildly. Through the dim light, she recognized Yellow, of course, and that English guy. The woman and the other men were unknown to her.

“Can you get down from there?” Marla called.

They hesitated, nervously scanning the surrounding waters. It should only be a short jump down, a quick swim over to the door, and BAM! They could get the fuck outta here.

“Shark!” Yellow squealed, making frantic gestures in Marla’s direction.

Before she could process the warning, her arm was grazed by a smallish passing torpedo, the denticles of its skin scraping her flesh. She jerked away but knew her blood would be in the water now, albeit in minute amounts. It didn’t take much, and of all the people in this room, she knew that the most.

“Fuck, lady! Swim!”

“Swim to us!”

“Get up here! Quick!”

Torn between the instinct to do just that and to remain as calm and still as possible, Marla decided on the latter. For now. Any movements and vibrations of her trying to swim for it would only exacerbate the peril. There was no longer the rapid churn of moving water to cover her tracks. The tide swayed and sloshed gently now, stabilized and moving only with the lagoon’s natural current.

The survivors were going apeshit as more and more sharks appeared, dorsal fins slicing the surface as they closed in. Marla looked for the familiar fin that belonged to her Guppy but didn’t spot it. Truth be told, he might be there but too deep. Shit, there could be a lot of sharks hiding in the grotto’s darkened depths.

“Oh God, oh God, help us, save us!” one man wailed, hopping on one leg and clutching at the other. Even from here, he appeared to have been bitten and was in an utter panic.

The abraded skin on her arm stung. She was stuck in the water with a bunch of untamed sharks. She couldn’t afford to focus on the others now; she had more immediate problems.

Then the injured man fell, shrieking as he tumbled over the outcrop’s low rail, bounced off a fake coral structure, and splashed down in a resounding bellyflop.

Instantly, the prowling sharks switched their attention from Marla to this new, noisier, bleeding, struggling development. Wounded, terrified, easy prey.

Marla hated herself for it but knew the distraction gave her a fighting chance to escape. There’d be no saving him; she could either swim over and climb up to the others or retreat into the hallway, maybe levering the door shut enough to prevent pursuit.

The sharks moved in fast as the man flailed about, babbling loud and incoherent prayers. Which quickly turned to loud and incoherent screams. They struck him in turns, passing him around like a family style dinner platter. One shark would come in and rip off a limb or chunk of fat and tissue, then another would follow right after, chomping and shredding. Rinse and repeat.

The feeding frenzy was bound to attract more of them.

She didn’t dare look underwater.

***

Ron watched helplessly as Joaquin somersaulted over the side. It happened so fast, there was no time to grab him.

They had all begged him to calm down, to stop his agitated movements. He’d been spewing blood from his shark-bitten leg, making a lot of noise, drawing a lot of attention, and putting them all in even greater danger.

Now, he was lunch.

Everyone else stared in horror at the feeding bonanza below or had turned away in revulsion. But Chen, crouched with his hands over his face, was rocking back and forth, sobbing and mumbling what sounded like a litany of, “sorry, sorry, sorry!”

“Man, you okay?” Ron asked him.

Chen twitched, and sputtered, almost to himself, “I did the right thing. I did the right thing.”

Oh fuck, you have got to be kidding me. He pushed Joaquin? To give the sharks something to go after and buy us some time?

“Cold, bro,” said Malik, who’d evidently been close enough to hear. “Hardcore, but cold.”

Ignoring him, Ron looked over at the woman by the door. The sweet door. The way out.

To be honest, he felt as jaded and heartless as Chen at this point. He was grateful she’d got that door open, but he didn’t care if she lived or died either. Or if any of the rest of them did, for that matter.

He just needed to get his own ass the fuck out of here.

***

It would be easy, so easy, to swim away and save herself.

But she couldn’t just very well leave those people behind.

The females were still mid-meal; scraps and nibs of the man were floating all around, being snatched up by the smaller sharks. But it wouldn’t last long. Whatever she was going to do, she had to do it now.

She peered into the tunnel.

Small red battery-powered emergency lights lined the hall, one about every five feet. Part of the floor sloped gradually upward, toward the outer security door, which she’d left ajar. It was still above the waterline, wavelets lapping on concrete some five or six feet from the exit.

Just on the other side of it? Safety, dry land, and balmy tropical paradise.

This side? Dank, deadly, watery hell.

A ray of daylight shone through, providing a clear view of the water . . . and what was in it.

A ten-foot shark patrolled the narrow passageway, making tight turns in the confined space.

There goes that idea.

How it had gotten past her without either of them noticing was a mystery Marla didn’t care to contemplate. Of course, a single shark gave her better odds than the gaggle of them currently in a frenzy inside the grotto. But the tight quarters would leave her little room to maneuver or escape should that shark give her a hard time.

WHACK!

Another shark rammed into the grotto door, which in turn banged into Marla as she swung her head around to investigate. The blow wasn’t as hard as it could have been, thanks to the water resistance, but its edge smacked her square in the face. Red droplets pattered onto her nose and cheeks. For a brief moment, she was seeing stars. She raised a hand to put pressure on the cut above her left eye.

This is not good.

She kept as still as possible, but she knew the additional fresh blood was going to draw the school of sharks to her like a fucking magnet.

And it did. Quickly.

The people on the ledge erupted in more yelling, spouting warnings as the sharks spun from squabbling over leftovers and surged in her direction.

Their abrupt change in focus and momentum caused the water to break into a chop, splashing into Marla’s mouth, up her nostrils, making her gasp for breath. Through the little waves and pinkish foam, she saw dorsal fins converging. She felt a couple of snout-bumps and tail flicks—but, thankfully, no teeth, not yet—against her legs and back. Eager splashing came from the hallway as the rogue ten-footer caught wind of the excitement and thrashed its tail to pick up speed.

“ . . . fuck out of there!”

“SWIM!”

“ . . . do something!”

Marla shut her eyes. She couldn’t believe things would end for her like this.

This?

Death by a mob of wild and hungry sharks?

A far cry from her station at Oceanview. Taking care of an orphan baby. Spending all her days with him. Dedicating her entire life to him. Ultimately, falling in love with him. Maybe this was justice for her unnatural act, her sordid and lurid affair.

In another way, though, this ending was fitting for her. Sharks were her life, and sharks would be her death.

But death didn’t come.

She opened her eyes. Fins and tails were still visible at the surface, but they were making very little movement.

What is happening?

This wasn’t any behavior Marla was familiar with. She sure as heck didn’t read about this stuff in her marine biology books or National Geographic. These frenzied fish had, en masse, stopped their attack.

Why?

She dunked her head underwater. Her bleeding forehead made it a risky move, but she needed to see what was going on down there. To understand.

She counted maybe a dozen females, ranging in size from five to sixteen feet. They filled the space between her and the broken window, the gateway to the lagoon. They could have torn her to pieces in the blink of an eye, but they held back.

She continued peering through the hazy, pink-tinged water . . . and then she saw him. Tail swaying. Moving slowly, calmly, regally into the grotto.

The females watched him intently. Respectful, submissive. Subjects who obediently awaited instructions from their new king.

Riptide swam in her direction. His blue gaze fell upon her.

Marla kept her head under the surface, taking it all in, taking in the sight of her Guppy. He was alive. He was better than alive! He was the master of his domain. This coven of deprived and lonely sharks had found their savior.

At that moment, she didn’t quite know how to feel about that. He was hers. But she wasn’t of his kind. She couldn’t grow gills and set off into the deep blue sea, happily ever after. Just not possible.

Despite that, she knew he loved her. And he was about to prove it.

Riptide made a slow and deliberate circuit around the grotto, among the circle of females. He lingered in the center, dipping his pectoral fins in a minor display of aggression. Then, with a mighty whip of his tail, he sped out through the shattered opening, into the lagoon.

Into the wild.

Marla lifted her head out of the water and took a breath. She couldn’t believe her eyes as she watched the females, every single one of them, follow Riptide out of the grotto. Even the hallway denizen sped past her, desperately trying to catch up.

They were gone.

Marla stood in disbelief, her head still dripping and her arm still stinging. Riptide had saved her. Her Guppy came to her rescue. Tears mixed with the blood and traced down her cheeks.

Thank you, Guppy. Please let me see you again. Please.

***

He had been cruising the lagoon, exploring this new, fresh, wild place.

When the females were not ravaging him, at least. He’d fucked and mated until on the verge of collapse. There had been so many eager females, all sizes, all ages. Many wounds were inflicted both on him by them, and in return, and them in competition with each other.

Fierce and savage copulating. Over and over. Such an assortment of sensations! Tighter cloacae and mature, looser ones engulfed his swollen claspers again and again!

Between, he’d sought to explore this foreign place. The rugged shoreline sloped down toward the murky sea floor. He recognized some of the denizens here. Poking their heads from openings in rocks and coral, mouths opening and closing, were moray eels. Sea stars and urchins slowly patrolled the areas around the shore. A sea turtle awoke from her reverie at the lagoon’s bottom, releasing her bowels upon meeting him unexpectedly.

It had reminded him of home.

This would be his new home.

But then . . .

The One!

The One, in trouble! The One, needing him!

The females had released him from the place where he had been kept, muzzled, imprisoned, molested, and used by the others. The hated place, the hateful place.

Yet, also, the very special place where he and the One had consummated their love.

It has now become a hotbed of feeding activity, even more so than when he’d made his earlier kills.

Bodily fluids and body parts seethe in the surrounding water. Riptide notices. Of course he notices. The tantalizing scents and tremors of dying victims. Normally, he would have joined the feast, despite still being full, but his exhaustion from the orgy has tapped his strength and will. He needs to rest.

Until the One is in danger!

He feels her, hears her, smells her presence in the flooded ruins. The females are keeping vigil, stalking. They wait and watch for the opportunity to lay waste to any and all available prey.

They, too, are affected by the mass mating but in a different way. Not tired, like him, but recharged and invigorated. Famished and greedy.

Nonetheless, they cannot, will not have the One!

The One is his! His alone!

Riptide understands his sway over these females. They need him. They’ve tasted what it is to have him fulfill their rabid, long-neglected urges. They will not want to let him go.

And he knows just how he can use this codependency to save the One.

He enters with the poise and power of a true lord. The powerful leader he always thought he was back home. Now it is all true.

He is Riptide! Feared! Worshiped! King! God!

Swimming a circumference within the circle of females, he makes sure they all see and know he is there. Know who they should follow. Defy? Disobey? He would leave them to regain their wanting, longing, societal decomposition.

The One is here, in the water. His eyes find hers. His heartbeat speeds up at the sight of her.

Alive, largely unhurt, and he means to keep it that way.

One day, they will see each other again. One day.

But now, he has to eliminate this threat to her.

He leads the female sharks out of the decimated prison space and back into their wild place, their home. Oh, and they follow him willingly. Gladly. Every one of them falling in line behind him, a royal escort.

As much as it pains him to leave the One behind, Riptide accepts the crown of his ocean kingdom. The females still reek of pheromones. They still crave and yearn.

To fuck. To mate. To breed.

Once he has recovered his strength and stamina, he will oblige them.

He has much work to do.

***

When they were sure the sharks weren’t coming back, the survivors climbed down from their faux coral perch, two of the men carrying an unconscious third. Marla assisted them, especially reassuring Yellow, as they waded or swam through the grotto, toward the exit tunnel and waiting world outside.

They made it, emerging into daylight and the scenic gazebo, collapsing onto its benches in exhausted relief.

No one spoke for a long while.

They had all witnessed the strange spectacle. The mass exodus of ferocious sharks. The miraculous clearing of seemingly hopeless danger.

The other woman, introduced as Nyonne, black and lovely and still somehow elegant despite her waterlogged and bedraggled state, found some towels in compartments under the gazebo benches and passed them out.

“Thank you,” she said to Marla as she handed hers over. “I don’t get what just happened, but I’m really glad you didn’t leave us.”

Marla gave her a little smile, not sure how to explain.

“Bloody well said!” Derek added. “Saved us, for sure.”

Yellow dried off his hair and wrapped the towel over his shoulders. Marla went over to him. His gaze dropped like a hot potato as he fidgeted and blushed.

She lifted his chin and gave him a soft smooch on his cheek. “Good to see you again, friend.”

He turned a deeper shade of scarlet and grinned like a schoolboy. The two of them, then the others, managed to laugh.

An actual laugh. And damn, it felt good.

***

The male! Their male! Finally! Finally!

They have fed, they have fucked, they have returned to the lagoon in triumph, sated and satisfied.

The barrier into the strange, dark cave is no more.

But what of the strange, dark cave itself, now that it is empty of prey, now that it has no captive male held beyond their reach?

It is a perplexing, alien place, where the rocks are not rocks and the coral is not coral and the plants are not plants. It is unnatural.

Perhaps, in the fullness of time, future generations—oh, and there will be future generations; there will be pups spawned by the dozen!—may find it less disturbing. Its unnaturalness may diminish as the tide washes in sand, and kelp, and smaller sea-life make homes among the crevices, fake or not.

For now, the females want nothing to do with it. They avoid it and steer well clear, although they could easily swim in and out of it if they wished.

If the male—their male—still seems, on occasion, curiously drawn by it, they do not dispute him.

***

Most of the household staff, with nobody to tell them otherwise, simply carried on going about their daily duties.

If, albeit, slightly amended . . .

For instance, Armand and his team of sous chefs had far fewer mouths to feed come supper time. And after witnessing or hearing about the scene in the grotto, most of them didn’t have much in the way of appetite. For food, anyway; the mansion’s liquor cabinets took some serious hits that evening.

The no-nonsense brigade of maids under Constanza’s command saw to towels and fresh changes of clothes for those who needed them. They also locked the rooms of those who no longer needed them, belongings to be packed up and dealt with at some later time.

The on-site medical personnel had their hands full patching up abrasions and injuries the likes of which they normally didn’t have to deal with. Aadesh, who had sustained a minor skull fracture, was the most serious, but they didn’t think it was life-threatening and expected a full recovery.

The security guards remained at their stations, deliberately not speculating about the disappearance of the guy who’d been on cabana watch the other night. With nobody staying in any of the cabanas now, nobody else had been assigned to cover that spot.

Animal wrangler Felix, wanting no part of any of the day’s affairs, busied himself at the menagerie, looking after the residents who were not mad killer sharks. He was, in fact, beginning to rethink his career path altogether. To something less insane and dangerous, like gun-running or drug-smuggling.

Toward sundown, the rest of the grotto survivors—except for Chen, who’d gone off on his own somewhere—gathered one by one on the mansion’s main terrace, by the infinity pool overlooking the lagoon.

Which, from here anyway, appeared as picture-perfect and serene as ever. Like you’d never know it was teeming with dozens of Great Whites glutted on shark-sex and human flesh.

Marla broke the silence, exhaling in a huge sigh. “So . . . now what? What do we do?”

“That’s the question, innit?” Derek shook his head. “Right fuckarow, this.”

Ron and Malik muttered agreements as to the fuckarowishness of the situation. They were just low-ranking blue-collar guys from the crew, not so much as an assistant director or executive producer among them. And working for Simon Klim didn’t lend a whole lot of respectability to one’s resume.

“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Nyonne said, “but someplace like New York, Paris, or Montreal is sounding pretty good to me.”

Clearly, she was not alone in that opinion. The prospect of just up and going, walking away, leaving the whole ungodly mess behind and never looking back was not without its appeal.

Though it did pose its own logistic difficulties in this modern day and age. Not as easy as it used to be to change your name and start fresh far away.

“Should we . . . contact someone?” Marla asked. “The authorities? I mean, we kind of have to; people are dead. A lot of people.”

Another silence fell as they all weighed the likely repercussions. On the one hand, yeah, a lot of people were dead, and a lot of people were going to miss them or wonder about them and start asking questions that deserved answers. On the other, every single person involved, even at the most innocent level, would be basically screwed. Lives and reputations ruined, possible legal action, possible jail time.

“Uh . . . ” Yellow said.

Everyone looked at him, and he shuffled his feet.

“I, uh . . . ” he stammered. “Nah, forget it, never mind.”

“No, go ahead,” Marla urged. “Do you have an idea?”

“Well, it’s just . . . I could call my uncle. He could help.”

“Your uncle?” echoed Derek. “Hey, right. Part of Simon’s circle of cronies, all them rich fucks and politicos who don’t want anybody airin’ their dirty linens?”

“Yeah.” Yellow squared himself more firmly. “Yeah, them. And they would really, really want to cover this whole thing up, make it just disappear. They’ve got the money, connections, and influence to do it too.”

Nyonne eyed him. “Would that include making us disappear?”

“We could . . . talk to them . . . make some sort of deal. I, uh, I kind of know a bunch of stuff and have access to other stuff. Names and . . . y’know, pictures. Stuff they’d prefer not get out.”

“Why, you sly, cheeky little fucker,” Derek said, not un-admiringly. “We been underestimatin’ you all along, haven’t we?”

Yellow shrugged and fidgeted, uncomfortable, like a kid made to wear an itchy suit for a formal occasion. “I wasn’t ever going to . . . use any of it . . . ”

“But it would give us some leverage,” said Marla, favoring him with a smile. “At this point, I’m willing to consider anything if it might keep us safe.” Her gaze turned to the lagoon. “And them.”

“The sharks?” Nyonne’s brows arched. “Who are you to give a shit about a bunch of—”

Derek nudged her. “Long story, love; let it go, aight?”

Marla didn’t bother responding, returning her gaze to Yellow. “I think that sounds like the best plan we’ve got, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“No, I, uh, I’ll call him right now.” He pulled out his phone and sidled a few steps along the terrace rail, tapping at the screen.

“Is this a good idea?” asked Nyonne. “Or are we signing our own death warrants?”

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” said Ron. “Not like we got a lot of options.”

“Hello? Uncle Sal?” Yellow said. “Yeah, it’s me, Giallo.”

“Bugger me,” Derek said in a low tone. “Are you telling me, we been calling him ‘Yellow’ all this time, and it’s his real fuckin’ name?”

“Shhhhh!” Marla hissed.

“No, I . . . no, it’s not about Ma, I haven’t talked to her in . . . I will, I will . . . no, I wouldn’t forget her birthday . . . Uncle Sal, listen, I . . . yes, something’s wrong! No, at the island. Laguna Cortez. But . . . if you’d please . . . no, he isn’t, that’s part of the . . . Uncle Sal, for fuck’s sake, would you just let me finish?”

The outburst shocked everyone on the terrace, Yellow himself most of all. But it evidently did the same on the other end of the line because, after a pause, he continued meekly.

“Uncle Sal? Sorry. Uh. You still there?” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Yeah, okay. Look, um, yeah . . . we’re here at the island, and we’ve got some serious problems, and if you can’t help us out, a lot of important people are gonna get hit with the shit.”

EPILOGUE:

Three Months Later

MARLA WAITED ON the dock, shading her eyes against the sun-dazzle on the water, as the mini-yacht neared the little marina.

Jorge deftly steered it into its accustomed slot. Its passenger disembarked, a duffel in hand and a pack slung over his shoulder. Both of which he promptly dropped on the planking as she ran to meet him, laughing with delight.

“Johnny!”

He swept her up, swung her in a feet-and-hair-flying circle, hugged her tight, set her down, and held her at arm’s length to give her a once-over. “Damn, it’s good to see you! You look fantastic!”

“So do you!” she said, and meant it, giving him a once-over of her own.

He’d let his dark hair grow longer, had it ponytailed back with a couple loose strands blowing roguishly across his forehead, and he sported an equally roguish unshaven scruff. Put on some more muscle too; his t-shirt, damp from the sea-spray, outlined firmly defined pecs and washboard abs, and the short sleeves displayed biceps even bigger than she remembered.

“Missed you so much!” she added, happy tears mingling with her glad laughter.

He pulled her close again, wrapping her into a snug full-body embrace that went on far longer than was strictly platonic. She clung to him with just as much intensity, face buried in the crook of his shoulder and neck. He smelled fresh and salty and rugged, and leaned his head against hers like he never wanted to let go.

She looked up at him, into the concerned warmth of his deep brown eyes. Later, she wouldn’t be able to say whether he made the first move or she did, but next thing she knew, they were kissing, the kind of impassioned, intense kiss usually reserved for the movies.

Then, though she didn’t want to, she made herself step back. “Wow,” she said, crossing her palms on her chest, feeling her heart racing. “That . . . yeah . . . wow. Johnny, I—”

A pained look pinched his features. “Don’t tell me it’s that jackass Todd. It can’t be that jackass Todd.”

“What? No! God, no! Todd . . . Todd is . . . Todd is very much out of the picture.” She coughed, cleared her throat. “It’s just, a lot’s happened since we last saw each other. Stuff I couldn’t go into over the phone or by email. I’m . . . I’m not the same person; I’ve done some things I—”

Johnny cupped her cheek. “Marla, hey. I’ve known there must be more to the story than you were letting on. And, won’t lie, I’ve been worried sick. But I’m here now. Whatever it is, we can talk about it when you want, but you’re still you. You’re still you.”

She covered his hand with one of hers. “And you’re too sweet and understanding to be real. I hope that never changes.”

Catching some amused glances from Jorge and other onlookers, she blushed and smoothed her hair. Johnny followed her gaze, grinning. “Got an audience.”

“C’mon. I’ll take you up to the house.”

He retrieved his duffel and pack, then followed her to a little golf cart parked along the access road. “Huh, just like the ones at Oceanview,” he remarked, amused.

“Right? But they get the job done, and it’s not like the trails are built for cars.” They climbed in, and she pulled away from the marina. “How’s it going at Oceanview, anyway?”

“Hoooo, man.” He exhaled. “It’s been crazy. At first, they were on the total warpath. Going to sue you to the moon and back, extradite you, prosecute; I don’t even know what all. Donnie-boy was just about foaming at the mouth.”

“I believe it.” She chuckled ruefully.

“They tried to spin you as some criminal or eco-terrorist. While, meanwhile, to the other side, you became this heroic outlaw, standing up for a noble cause. Like Robin Hood.”

“Oh, God. Ooh-de-lally.”

“Bunch of nature and wildlife groups rallying to your support, bunch of angry people howling for your and Riptide’s blood. The families of those kids . . . that Abbott woman, she was on every interview show you could think of—”

Marla winced.

“Sorry. But yeah, turned into as big a circus as you might imagine. In a way, you’re lucky you didn’t have much TV or internet. Then, all of a sudden . . . like, out of nowhere . . . the entire Oceanview board of directors backs off, changes their tune. They started issuing statements about how, while they clearly could not condone the illegality of your actions, they understood the sentiment behind them and were not going to pursue it further.”

“Bet that went over great with Donnie-boy.”

“Oh, it was priceless. The board had him do most of the press conferences, and you could just tell he wanted to puke or cry the whole time.”

“Aww,” she cooed.

“Seriously, though. Even the Abbott woman shut up and let it drop. They went from torches-and-pitchforks to ‘no comment’ fast enough to give you whiplash.”

“Hmm . . . well . . . yeah . . . I imagine getting a call from Salvatore Vinchetti’s lawyers might do that.”

Johnny looked at her as she diligently kept her eyes on the road—or, the trail, as it were—curving through tropical greenery toward the palatial mansion ahead.

“Salvatore Vinchetti?” he repeated, as if testing it out. “Sounds like the name of a bigtime mob boss or something.”

“Mmm.”

“Marla?”

“Mmm?”

“Is it the name of a bigtime mob boss or something?”

“Welllll . . . Look, Johnny, what was really going on here at this island? A lot of it wasn’t . . . legal, ethical, moral, decent, right, or very nice. And plenty of people, plenty of important people with resources and connections, didn’t want the rest of the world to find out about it. So . . . ”

“Jesus.” He slumped in his seat, clearly able to fill in or guess some of the blanks on his own.

“So,” she went on, “they pulled some strings.”

“Gotcha.”

Then she snorted and shook her head. “Funny, though, after all that, it was Todd’s stupid bullshit lines about militant animal rights activists that helped save our asses.”

Johnny seemed about to ask, then changed his mind, to her relief. She knew there were several elements to the full story that would be tougher pills to swallow than others, and she was in no hurry to overload him with all of the gory details right out of the gate.

“And, well, now . . . ” she went on, pride shining in her voice, “now Laguna Cortez is set to be officially designated as a shark sanctuary, a protected refuge where we can observe and study this isolated group of endangered creatures and monitor how the introduction of a male affects their formerly all-female population.”

The golf cart putt-putted into the turnaround in front of the mansion, which had undergone and was still undergoing substantial renovations. One entire wing was being converted to a scientific research facility, several lavish guest suites subdivided into more dorm-like quarters, various “playrooms” remodeled into offices, etc. Already, its transformation from gaudy hedonistic pleasure-pad into something more like an elite institute or university was well underway.

Nearly all of the staff had elected to stay on, Constanza and Armand and Felix among them. Ron, Malik, and Aadesh, the surviving members of the film and production crew, were more than happy to shift gears into far less sordid subject matter. Chen, disturbingly, had never been seen again after the escape from the grotto, and they could only assume the worst. Generous severance packages had been offered to those—like Derek and Nyonne—who decided to bid farewell to the island, in exchange, of course, for their continued silence.

“Pretty impressive,” Johnny said after they’d dropped off his bags and settled onto one of the smaller terraces, at an umbrella-shaded table with tapas and tequila. “But should you be telling me all this? Is it safe?”

“I trust you. I trust you as much as anyone and more than most. I wouldn’t want to endanger you or cause you any trouble.”

“It’s not me I’m—”

“No, I know. It’s just, well . . . I thought, if you wanted to stick around, stay on for more than a visit, you deserved to hear it.”

“Say what now? Stick around? Stay on?” He looked at her. “Are we . . . ?”

Marla smiled, feeling herself blush anew, recalling their meeting on the dock, his arms around her, that tight full-body hug, the kiss. “Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves yet. I was hoping to start off by offering you a job.”

“A job?”

She indicated the lagoon, rippling variegated shades of blue like a jewel. “In a matter of months, this place will be crawling with marine biologists, shark experts, nature documentarians, students, wildlife photographers, reality show crews . . . hell, maybe Chris Hemsworth will even show up. We’ll need a good dive-master.”

“Are you serious?”

“I can guarantee it’ll pay better than Oceanview. With room and board included.” She rested a hand on his wrist. “And it’d be really nice, really nice, to have you here.”

***

In the storeroom—more of an archive, or a vault, actually—attached to what had been Simon Klim’s innermost secret sanctum, Yellow tried not to think about how horrible it’d be if all these towers of crates and ancient file boxes collapsed on top of him.

Crushing but not outright killing him, leaving him trapped and pinned and choking on dust, shouting for help the soundproofing would basically mute, there to slowly die of starvation or dehydration.

Which was not going to happen.

Which, even if it did happen, someone would find him. Someone would come looking. Sooner or later, he’d be missed.

Besides, all this stuff had to be gone through, and who better than him? He’d promised Uncle Sal. It felt kinda nice to be in a position of responsibility for a change, not to mention having the family be proud of him.

He was also learning a lot of shit even he hadn’t so much as suspected. There was enough here to bring down empires if it ever got out. Sleaze factors off the charts.

A knuckle-tap at the doorjamb was followed by Marla’s voice. “Hey, how’s it going? Finding out where all the bodies are buried?”

“Ha-ha. You know they weren’t buried. You know where they ended up.”

“Well, yeah.” She came in, navigating around precarious piles, and sat on a stool. “Be fun to explain that when the divers start bringing up bones.”

“Eew.”

“At least we can blame most of it on the island’s previous owners.”

He nodded absently. “Your boyfriend get here okay?”

“All right, first,” she said, “he’s not my boyfriend. Sort of. Yet. Maybe. Who knows? It’s too soon to say.”

“Uh-huh.” He still did and always would have a crush on her but had never entertained any actual hopes or ambitions in that regard, and it turned out it was a lot nicer to have a real friend anyway.

“Secondly, yes, he did. He’s resting off his day’s travels.”

“Offer him the job?”

“Says he’ll think about it; pretty sure he’ll say yes.”

“That’s good.”

“And if you ever wanted to learn scuba—”

“Not in a million billion years.”

“Fair enough.” She glanced at the stacks. “So, how much of this would make me hate humanity and want to burn the world to the ground?”

“Uhhhh . . . eighty, eighty-five percent?”

“Great.”

“One cool thing, though, or I think it’s kinda cool . . . as well as kinda gross . . . ”

“Yeah?”

”Well, I mean, I always wondered why Simon kept me around. Apart from, y’know, him owing Uncle Sal a favor.”

“Gee, it couldn’t possibly be because you’re loyal and dedicated and hard-working?” she teased.

“Meh.” He flapped a dismissive hand. “See, he said once, having a Vinchetti on his crew was special, like, a personal good-luck charm or a sign from God.”

“Okay . . . ”

“And me, I’ve never been anybody’s personal good-luck charm or sign from God, y’know?”

He’d shared some of his family history with her—his mother not Italian, his father insisting on marrying her anyway, the strife it had caused, the disapproving capo grandfather overruled by the matriarchal grandmother. Growing up as a mafia misfit, like an extra who’d wandered onto the set of The Sopranos by mistake. He’d even told her how his mother, trying really hard to fit in, had named her baby boy Giallo because her at-the-time-incarcerated husband just loved those movies and she’d thought he would be pleased; nobody’d had the heart to tell her different.

“Anyway,” he went on, holding up a scuffed and worn journal, “turns out, according to Simon, he owed his whole career to a Vinchetti. This, I guess, distant cousin, from way back. Paulie.”

“Simon knew him?”

“Was before even his time. But when he was younger, Simon, that is, he found this massive collection of Paulie’s videos. Old school, some just made with camcorders and stuff.”

“I’m guessing these weren’t nice, normal home movies of birthday parties and vacations at Disneyland.”

“Not even close.”

“Porn? Animal porn?”

“Loads of that, yeah. And worse.” He shuddered. “A lot worse. The worst of the worst. Torture and snuff and executions. Seems Paulie was a hitman-type, enforcer, and he liked to film his, uh, work.”

“Good God, that’s terrible!”

“It probably doesn’t help, but, in his defense . . . Simon thought so too? It was only the animal ones that, uh, inspired him.”

“Yeah, doesn’t really help.” She glanced at the stacks again. “What are you going to do with all this?”

Her tone suggested she would have voted giant bonfire, and he didn’t exactly disagree, but . . .

“Lock it back up and save it in case we need it someday? Never hurts to have extra insurance.”

Marla sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

***

A nap in the day, no matter how travel-weary he’d been, left Johnny wakeful once a reasonable bedtime hour arrived.

He’d spent the afternoon and evening with Marla, getting to know some of the others who made the island their home. The guy called Yellow struck him as slightly weaselly and shifty, but Marla treated him like a mix of pal and kid brother, while Yellow clearly doted on her.

It was a nice place. The staff seemed like nice people. The weather was glorious, the setting spectacular. Damn near idyllic.

Something, though, something still didn’t add up. He knew he didn’t yet have the whole story of what had happened here. He also knew he probably didn’t want to; the scenarios his mind came up with based on the hints he’d been given were already bad enough.

Then there were the conspiracy theories and wild internet rumors that had emerged over the last few months . . . some girl on social media claiming she’d been lured there by perverts who tried to make her fuck sharks . . . reports it’d been a hotbed of degeneracy for the rich and famous wanting to get some serious kink on . . . a whole bunch of people had disappeared or been murdered . . .

Plus, of course, a lagoon full of sharks. Great Whites, no less. Dozens of them, but only females, until Riptide was plunked into their midst.

And by all accounts, he’d gotten right down to business. A year from now, depending on how many pups survived gestation and birth and the teeth of their siblings and other adults, the shark population of Laguna Cortez would likely quadruple.

Marla was right; it’d be a major center of Carcharodon research. Scientists would come from around the globe to study them in their protected habitat. Grant money galore, prestige.

A guy could do worse than to get in on the ground floor of such an endeavor.

Especially given the . . . extra incentives.

God, seeing her again? The feel of her in his arms? The taste of her kiss?

He’d already, by her request, made arrangements to have her belongings packed up and shipped. Doing the same with his own would be a piece of cake; he had always lived sparingly, anyway. With no relatives nearby, nothing much to tie him to Rockshore Point, and sure as shit no reason to go back to Oceanview Aquarium . . .

Sticking around sounded pretty damn good.

His suite had a balcony with a view of the lagoon, and he stepped out onto it, into the fragrant night breeze, to watch the moonlight dance on the surface.

Riptide was out there somewhere. Cruising through the dark waters. Riptide and all the females he could handle. From a life in isolation and captivity to the reigning sultan of his own private harem.

“Living the dream, dude, living the dream,” Johnny said, tipping an imaginary hat.

Right then and there, he made up his mind. Which, he suspected, he’d already done the moment Marla made her offer but could only now admit to himself.

“Yep.” He nodded. “Yep, gonna do it.”

Nor was he gonna wait, despite the lateness of the hour. He set off through the mansion’s maze of corridors, wanting to find Marla and tell her his decision.

Just as he turned a corner, he glimpsed her—unmistakable in a white terrycloth robe, auburn hair spilling loose down her back. She was moving quietly but with purpose, heading away from him. He opened his mouth to call to her, then bit it back at the last minute, unsure why. The furtive yet determined air about her led him to follow at a discreet distance.

Follow . . . to the entrance of what he’d been told was called the grotto, where part of the lagoon filled a subterranean chamber below the house. He paused in a patch of shadow as Marla reached a security door that looked oddly new and out of place, as if a recent addition or remodel.

She tapped at the keypad. A light went from yellow to green, and the door clicked open. Before stepping through, she slipped off the robe and hung it on a hook in the hall.

Aside from a pair of swim-shoes, she was naked beneath.

Midnight swim? Did she know he was there? Was it some kind of invitation?

Johnny crept closer. Through the gap, he saw blue undersea-style lighting and the shimmer of water.

And circling in the water, a majestic fin he knew very well.

“Hey, Guppy,” he heard Marla croon. “There he is. There’s my boy. I’m here.”

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Christine Morgan has a lifelong approach/avoidance conflict regarding the ocean; she’s enthralled by its beauty and power, but freakin’ terrified of the dangers lurking in its dark depths. Or even in its clear shallows (looking at YOU, jellyfish). Of course, this just makes her all the more obsessed with writing about it. In her real life, she currently resides in the high desert, being bossed around by cats. She also edits, reviews, makes weird crafts, and naps a lot. Info on her various works can be found at https://christinemariemorgan.wordpress.com/

Susan Snyder is a two-time Splatterpunk award nominated writer of horror fiction and poetry. Her debut poetry collection, Broken Nails, was released in 2020 and was nominated for a 2021 Elgin award. Her follow up collection, Picking Scabs, was released in 2023. In 2021, Encyclopedia Sharksploitanica came out to rave reviews. A comprehensive tongue-in-cheek guide to 85 of the best and worst shark movies known to mankind, this book highlights Susan’s love of self-deprecating humor and satire. Nympho Shark Fuck Frenzy, her first full novel, is a collaboration with Splatterpunk award winning writer, Christine Morgan.

Table of Contents

- Part One: Oceanview
- Part Two: Laguna Cortez
- Epilogue: Three Months Later