married there, change our names. Start over. It'll be great."
Katy withdrew all her savings, and taking her little Miata sports car, they ran for the Canadian border. They got as far as the Washington Bridge when a police car pulled up close enough to read the dirty California license plate. Then as they exited the bridge, the cruiser lit up and a siren signaled them to pull over.
Gabe silently put on his right blinker, slowly took an off-ramp to a side street, then jammed the accelerator to the floor and careened around a corner into one-way traffic. He dodged honking cars and bumped over curbs trying to dislodge the police car behind them. Hearing the sound of smashing metal, they turned and saw their tail collide with an unsuspecting motorist.
Gabe turned onto a two-way street, then slowed to see if they were being followed. Nothing. They both took a deep breath and let it out. Gabe leaned over, and taking her face in his hands, kissed her deeply. When he drew back he looked her in the eyes, his voice a sad note to their predicament.
"I'll always love you," he said. Then he unlatched her safety belt, opened the passenger door, and much to her amazement, pushed her out the door.
She fell onto her knees, the momentum rolling her once, and then sat up in the dirty rain-washed gutter and watched him speed away in her Miata, the one her daddy bought her for her twenty-first birthday. And because Gabe had taken not only her car, but her purse with her cell phone and all the cash from her savings, she stood up, limped into a nearby store and asked to use the phone, where she made a collect call and confessed her part in a humiliating episode to the one person she knew she could trust—her dad.
Katy stood up, put the page under the cushion, and dragging her garbage topside, slipped the bag into the container at the end of the dock, which just happened to be next to Spencer's mega yacht. She leaned against a light pole and noted the hailing port—Bahamas—no surprise here as a Bahamian port of call allowed any yacht owner to avoid paying American taxes. The Bahamas also had discreet banking practices.
"Don't let the name fool you," said a voice coming from topside.
Katy looked up and saw a good-looking young man in sailing whites leaning on the stern rail.
He tilted a square chin at her and asked, "You the one who washed through the estuary yesterday?"
"Yup, that would be me."
"Nice to know we didn't have to scrape you off the jetty. Can I buy you a beer to celebrate your death-defying feat?"
This could be interesting. "I'll take a cold soda."
"I'll open the stern gate."
His white, even teeth flashed a genuine welcome. He was shorter than she thought he would be, probably because his shoulders were so big, maybe all of five-eight. He was also fit in that way that said a workout was more than hefting a beer to his lips.
"I'm Jeff, by the way. Come inside, it's already hot enough to roast hamsters out here," he said, guiding her through the sliding glass doors into the big salon.
"Hope it's cool enough for you. The AC costs a son-of-a-bitch, so the boss decrees we keep the doors closed and the thermostat set to seventy-eight. If you're considering summering here, you'll become one of the mole people, only popping out at night when it's cooler." He pointed her to a long leather sofa and then went to the bar fridge and drew out a couple of cans. "Damn… out of everything ' cept Coke. But I have ice and a glass, if you like." He held up a clean tall glass.
She shook her head and commented, "The can is fine. I wouldn't want you to have to wash any more dishes on my account."
He settled into the luxurious deep cushions of the couch, handed her the Coke and pushed a bowl of last night's peanuts over to her side of the huge glass-topped coffee table.
"Babe, captains don't do dishes."
Deciding against a sharp retort at the "babe" moniker, she smiled and said, "I didn't see you here at Mr. Bobbitt's
Katy withdrew all her savings, and taking her little Miata sports car, they ran for the Canadian border. They got as far as the Washington Bridge when a police car pulled up close enough to read the dirty California license plate. Then as they exited the bridge, the cruiser lit up and a siren signaled them to pull over.
Gabe silently put on his right blinker, slowly took an off-ramp to a side street, then jammed the accelerator to the floor and careened around a corner into one-way traffic. He dodged honking cars and bumped over curbs trying to dislodge the police car behind them. Hearing the sound of smashing metal, they turned and saw their tail collide with an unsuspecting motorist.
Gabe turned onto a two-way street, then slowed to see if they were being followed. Nothing. They both took a deep breath and let it out. Gabe leaned over, and taking her face in his hands, kissed her deeply. When he drew back he looked her in the eyes, his voice a sad note to their predicament.
"I'll always love you," he said. Then he unlatched her safety belt, opened the passenger door, and much to her amazement, pushed her out the door.
She fell onto her knees, the momentum rolling her once, and then sat up in the dirty rain-washed gutter and watched him speed away in her Miata, the one her daddy bought her for her twenty-first birthday. And because Gabe had taken not only her car, but her purse with her cell phone and all the cash from her savings, she stood up, limped into a nearby store and asked to use the phone, where she made a collect call and confessed her part in a humiliating episode to the one person she knew she could trust—her dad.
Katy stood up, put the page under the cushion, and dragging her garbage topside, slipped the bag into the container at the end of the dock, which just happened to be next to Spencer's mega yacht. She leaned against a light pole and noted the hailing port—Bahamas—no surprise here as a Bahamian port of call allowed any yacht owner to avoid paying American taxes. The Bahamas also had discreet banking practices.
"Don't let the name fool you," said a voice coming from topside.
Katy looked up and saw a good-looking young man in sailing whites leaning on the stern rail.
He tilted a square chin at her and asked, "You the one who washed through the estuary yesterday?"
"Yup, that would be me."
"Nice to know we didn't have to scrape you off the jetty. Can I buy you a beer to celebrate your death-defying feat?"
This could be interesting. "I'll take a cold soda."
"I'll open the stern gate."
His white, even teeth flashed a genuine welcome. He was shorter than she thought he would be, probably because his shoulders were so big, maybe all of five-eight. He was also fit in that way that said a workout was more than hefting a beer to his lips.
"I'm Jeff, by the way. Come inside, it's already hot enough to roast hamsters out here," he said, guiding her through the sliding glass doors into the big salon.
"Hope it's cool enough for you. The AC costs a son-of-a-bitch, so the boss decrees we keep the doors closed and the thermostat set to seventy-eight. If you're considering summering here, you'll become one of the mole people, only popping out at night when it's cooler." He pointed her to a long leather sofa and then went to the bar fridge and drew out a couple of cans. "Damn… out of everything ' cept Coke. But I have ice and a glass, if you like." He held up a clean tall glass.
She shook her head and commented, "The can is fine. I wouldn't want you to have to wash any more dishes on my account."
He settled into the luxurious deep cushions of the couch, handed her the Coke and pushed a bowl of last night's peanuts over to her side of the huge glass-topped coffee table.
"Babe, captains don't do dishes."
Deciding against a sharp retort at the "babe" moniker, she smiled and said, "I didn't see you here at Mr. Bobbitt's