There it is, a photo from last summer I had on a password-protected pendrive, taped to the bottom of one of the drawers in my desk (How did he…!?). ...n the photo I'm dancing, only in my bikini bottoms, covering my naked tits with my hands, around me the guys we spent those two weeks with, four of them. Emma, in a similar outfit, is in the background. My mind's spinning; I’m fuming. How!? When!? Why did I keep it, anyway!?"H-howww did you..." I push that jesting motherfucker aside and shut the. She had an indescribable twinkle in her eye that made her seem magical. We were shortly at my hotel suite. She sat on the chrome and leather sofa. “Would you like a drink? I've got all kinds of booze here. I've got weed, cocaine..” She held up her hand. “It's very nice to offer, but I don't use d**gs. My father was killed by the Cali cartel. Every time I look at weed and coke, I can see the blood on it.” This made me pause. Her moral sensibilities were better than mine. My admiration began. More

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