The Millionaires (36 page)

“This is yours?” I ask.

“Dad’s last gift,” she says proudly. “Even godless engineers still appreciate the majesty of catching a fish at sunset.”

As she undoes the ropes from the dock, I watch her thin arms swoop and glow gracefully in the moonlight. I hop in the boat
without hesitating. She starts the engine and grabs the steering wheel in a soft but assured grip. It may be four in the morning,
but there are still majestic sights at sea.

* * * *

Making a sharp left as we leave the marina and ignoring the “No Wake” signs, Gillian shoves the throttle forward, guns the
engine, and sends us skipping across the water. The bouncing ride is enough to knock us to our seats, but both of us grab
the dashboard and fight to stay on our feet. “
If you don’t stand above the windshield, you can’t taste the ocean!
” she shouts over the engine. I nod and lick the salty air from my lips. When I first started at Greene, Lapidus private-jetted
me to St. Bart’s and took me out on one of our client’s personal yachts. They had wine-tasting classes, Thai massage, and
two full-time butlers. It sucked compared to this.

Thanks to a foglight on the front of the boat, we can see a few feet through the darkness, but with the moon hidden by a pack
of clouds, it’s like driving with your brights on through an abandoned field. In the distance, the ocean fades and the whole
world turns black. The only things in sight are the parallel jetties that run along our right- and lefthand sides—a natural
guardrail that leads us out toward the ocean.

“Ready to get on the magic bus?” she calls out as we hit the open water. I expect her to punch the engine. Instead, she slows
down. At the end of the jetty, she pulls a hard left around the rocks and cuts the engine.

“What’re you doing?”

“You’ll see,” she teases, rushing toward the front of the boat.

We’re a good hundred and fifty yards from shore, but I still hear the faint crashing of the waves against the beach.

“Can people see us?” I ask, squinting toward a barely visible lifeguard stand.

“Not anymore,” she says as she cuts our foglight. The darkness hits quick, swallowing us whole.

Searching for safety, my eyes go straight for the hot pink, sky blue, and lime green neon signs that trace the tops of Ocean
Drive’s Art Deco hotels. This far away, they’re like Day-Glo landing lights. Everything else is gone.

“You sure this is smart?”

There’s a loud plop of water and a slight jerk from the front of the boat. There goes the anchor.

“Gillian…”

Flipping toward the back of the boat, she yanks the Dolphin seat cushions from the bench, lifts up the wooden seat, and reveals
a storage locker underneath. From the locker, she pulls out two wet suits, masks, flippers…

“Give me a hand here,” she calls out, struggling with something heavier.

I race next to her and help her lift a cold metal canister from the locker. Then another. Scuba tanks.

“Is there something you’re trying to tell me?” I ask her, struggling to sound unintimidated.

She pulls out a flashlight and shines it in my face. “I thought you were up for some adventure…”

“I am,” I say, blocking the light with my hand. “That’s why we came on the boat.”

“No, we came on the boat to get under. The adventure starts here.” Flushed with adrenaline, she props the flashlight on the
bench and pounces for the pile of equipment. Reading the gauges, adjusting knobs, untangling a knot of hoses…. “Just wait
till you see it,” she says, her voice whizzing with excitement.

“Gillian…”

“It’s gonna overload your senses—sight, touch, sound—boom—blown like a giant speaker.”

“Maybe we should…”

“And the best part is, only the locals know about it. Forget the tourist parade gawking on South Beach—this is just for the
homegrowns. Here, put this on.” She tosses me a wet suit, which hits me in the chest.

Even if I lose cool-points, it’s no time to hold back. “Gillian, I don’t know how to scuba-dive.”

“Don’t worry—you’ll be fine.”

“But isn’t it dangerou—”

She unzips her jeans and slides them down to her ankles. As she steps out of them, she unbuttons her shirt and tosses it aside.
“Relax,” she says, standing there in her sheer bra and white cotton panties. “I’ll teach you.” Right above the thin waistband
of her underwear is a tiny purple butterfly tattoo. I can’t take my eyes off it.

“Careful, you might go blind,” she teases, wiggling into her wet suit.

“Have I ever told you how much I love scuba-diving?” I ask, still staring at the butterfly.

Grinning, she motions to my pants. I strip down to my boxers and tug my way into my wet suit, which is more tight-fitting
than I expected. Especially in the crotch.

“Don’t worry,” Gillian says, reading my expression. “It’ll loosen up when it gets wet.”

“Me or the suit?”

“Hopefully, both.”

Shoving my arms in, I practically run to catch up with her. In the back of the boat, she props up both scuba tanks and opens
each with the twist of a knob. “This is your regulator,” she says as she points to the top of the tank, where she attaches
a small black gizmo that has four hoses snaking out in every direction. “And here’s your mouthpiece,” she adds, handing me
the short black hose on the right.

Following her lead, I put it in my mouth and take a long deep breath. There’s a slow Darth Vader hiss as a cold rush of air
plows down my throat and fills my lungs.

“That’s it… there you go,” she says as I exhale and do it again. “Nice and slow—you’re a total natural.”

It’s easy praise, but as my breath wheezes through the tube, the testosterone starts wearing thin. “What’re all these other
hoses for?” I ask nervously.

“Don’t get freaked by the minutiae,” she says as she zips the front of my wet suit and pats me on the chest. “When you scuba,
there’s only one life-or-death rule: keep breathing.”

“But what about the regulator and these tubes—”

“All the equipment runs automatically. As long as you’re breathing, it keeps the air flowing and regulates the pressure. After
that, it’s like driving a car—you don’t need to know how the engine and combustion and everything else works—you just need
to know how to drive.”

“But I’ve never driven before…”

Ignoring my comment, she motions for me to raise my hands in the air, hooks a thick yellow belt around my waist, and buckles
it with what looks like a plastic version of an airline seat belt. “How much do you weigh?” she adds as she loads the belt’s
Velcro pouches with square lead weights.

“About one-sixty. Why?”

“Perfect,” she says, sealing the last pouch. “That’ll sink you like a mob stoolie.” Refusing to slow down, she cuts behind
me. I spin around to follow, but the extra weight on my waist and the bobbing of the boat send me slightly off-balance.

“Don’t I need to be certified for this?” I ask.

“You love rules, don’t you?” she shoots back, putting on her own weight belt. “The only thing those classes teach you is how
not to panic.” With that, she angles my arms into an inflatable red vest. Strapped to the back of the vest is the scuba tank
and its tentacles of hoses. As I squat down, she lifts the vest onto my shoulders and I almost fall over backwards from the
thirty pounds of extra weight. Gillian’s right there to catch me.

“I’m telling you,” she promises, making sure my vest is clipped in place. “I wouldn’t take you down there if it weren’t safe.”

“What about the bends? I don’t want to wind up in some sci-fi decompression chamber.”

“We’re only going down twenty feet. The bends aren’t a risk until you hit at least sixty.”

“And this is only twenty?”

“Only twenty,” she repeats. “Thirty at the most.” Squatting down, she hoists her own vest and scuba tank onto her shoulders.
“Not much more than the length of this boat.” When she’s done adjusting her vest, she reaches for one of my four hoses and
pushes a button on the end. There’s a sharp hiss. The vest fills with air and tightens around my ribs. “If all else fails,
you even have a life jacket,” she points out, making it sound like I’m afraid of drowning in the kiddie pool.

Inflating her own vest, she grabs a mask and flashlight, slips into her flippers, and steps up on the cooler at the back of
the boat.

“Gillian, wait…”

She doesn’t even turn around. There’s a splash and the boat rocks from the loss of weight. Off the back, she sinks out of
sight, then bobs right back up again. “Ooooh, you gotta feel this!” she shouts.

“It’s warm?”

“It’s freezing! We’re talking iceberg in my pants!” She laughs out loud, like it’s the party of the year. And the more I watch
her, the more I realize it is.

“C’mon,” she calls out. “You have to at least come in. If you hate it, you’ll float around up here.”

It’s not fair, but I try to imagine Beth in the same position. She hates the cold. And at this hour? She’d never even get
in the boat.

“There you go!” Gillian shouts as I reach for a mask and flippers. “No whammies on this one—just stand up on the cooler and
leap out!”

I pull the mask over my face and grip all the hoses in an anxious fist. “Are you sure this is the best way to get in?”

“Jacques Cousteau himself couldn’t do better—one giant step for all manki—”

Shutting my eyes, I leap out and plummet fast. The extra weight sends me straight under, but thanks to my vest, I bob right
back up to the top. The temperature hits first. Without the sun on the water… even with my wet suit… iceberg in my pants is
right.

“Cold enough for you?” Gillian asks.

“Naw, this is good—I like it when I absolutely, positively
can’t
feel my penis.”

It’s an easy joke, but she knows it’s not just the cold that’s got me shaking. The water’s dark and deserted, the mask is
tight around my face, and all I hear is the
Jaws
theme.

“So you ready to go under?” she asks.

“Right now?”

Watching me carefully through her own mask, she kicks forward and grabs me by both shoulders. “You’re gonna be great—no doubt.”

“Are you—?”

“I’m positive,” she promises.

As she floats back, I reach over my right shoulder and grab the hose with the mouthpiece. “All I have to do is breathe through
this?”

“That’s the entire instruction book. Breathe and breathe and breathe. In fact, why don’t you take a lap around the block…”

Like before, I slide the mouthpiece between my teeth, and Darth Vader returns. After three or four breaths, Gillian points
down to the water. Biting hard on the rubber prongs that hold the mouthpiece in place, I bend over and put my face in the
ocean.

There’s a slight pause before I take my next breath, but my brain flips right back to Gillian’s crash course. Breathe, breathe,
breathe. Opening my lungs, I suck in a puff of air… and quickly blow it out. A burst of tiny bubbles shoots from the regulator.
From there, each breath is short and tentative, but it still works.

Gillian taps me hard on the shoulder. Picking my head up, I take out the mouthpiece.

“Ready for the pop quiz?” she challenges.

I nod, hoping it’ll slow her down. It only speeds her up.

“Okay, here’s what I’d put on the cheat sheet. First, if you get disoriented, follow the bubbles—they’ll always lead you up
to the surface.”

“Follow the bubbles. Check.”

“Second, as we go down, don’t forget to pop your ears—you don’t want to blow out an eardrum.”

I pinch my nose and take myself through a dry run.

“And third—which is actually the most important—as you come back up to the surface, keep breathing. You’ll be tempted to hold
your breath, but you have to fight the urge.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s human instinct. You’re underwater… you start to panic. The first thing you’ll do—guaranteed—is hold your breath. But
if you come up to the surface like that—and you’re not breathing in and out—your lungs’ll pop like a balloon.” Readjusting
her mask, she gives me the quick once-over. “All set to go?”

Once again, I nod—but I’m still focused on a single image.
My lungs popping like a balloon.
Down under the waves, I kick my feet in a backpaddle.

“What?” she asks. “Now you’re scared?”

“You telling me I shouldn’t be?”

“I’m not telling you anything. If you want to back out, that’s your choice.”

“It’s not about backing out—”

“Really?” she interrupts, annoyed. “Then why’re you suddenly acting like the first rat off the ship?”

The question stings like a corkscrew in my chest. I’ve never heard that tone in her voice.

“Listen,” I tell her, “I’m doing my best here. Anyone else would’ve let you sink alone.”

“Oh, I’m sure…”

“You think I’m kidding? Name one other person who would put on a wet suit, jump into the freezing ocean, and risk their life
for a cheap thrill at four in the morning?”

“Your brother,” she shoots back, staring me down to drive it home. Before I can react, she puts in her mouthpiece and grabs
the hose that’s resting on her left shoulder. Raising it above her head, she presses a button on the end. A hiss of air tears
through the silence. As her vest deflates, she slowly starts sinking.

I shove in my own mouthpiece, lift my hose, and jam my thumb against the button. The vest loosens around my ribs. The water’s
already up to my chin.

“You won’t regret it, Oliver,” she calls out, removing the mouthpiece for one last breath. As she’s about to go under, she
adds, “You’ll thank me later.”

I shake my head, pretending to ignore the sudden enthusiasm. But as I sink down—as the black water licks my cheeks and fills
my ears—it suddenly hits me that I never told her my real name was Oliver.