Page 21 of Black Reign

Jalen wraps a towel around his waist.

“France is incredible.”

Vale doesn't look up from his Scotch.

“You spent forty minutes in the ocean.”

“Best forty minutes of my life.”

Leo points toward Jalen's neck.

“You missed some.”

Jalen wipes the wrong side.

“Other side.”

He switches.

Still misses.

Drew puts the captain's hat on Jalen's head.

“There. Respectable.”

“Thank you.”

“You look like a gigolo who stole a boat.”

“Also acceptable.”

We take the boat farther offshore and anchor again.

The Mediterranean settles around us.

No music now. Just water against the hull, cigar smoke drifting through warm night air, and six men who have consumed enough alcohol to lower the average intelligence of several elite universities.

Drew has his swim shorts back on.

Vale insisted.

He's stretched across a lounge chair smoking a cigar, wet hair shoved away from his face.

Jalen is across from him wearing his towel, one flip-flop, and the captain's hat.

Leo has his feet on the table.

Haverhill is eating bread directly from a basket because apparently dinner wasn't sufficient.

Vale is still nursing the same Scotch.

I don't know how.

That drink survived more adversity tonight than some marriages.

I sit at the end of the curved bench, cigar between two fingers, fresh Scotch in the other.

For several minutes, nobody says much.