Page 151 of Lost Paradise

Not until I met five men, survived a plane crash, was stranded with them on an island where natives had an occasional taste for human flesh, discovered a Cold War-era Soviet bunker conducting sinister experiments, and endured a harrowing journey on a dinghy from Africa to Sri Lanka did I realize my own strength.

After surviving these trials, I shed my old identity as Evelyn Winters, who was lost in a mysterious plane crash at sea. In her place emerged Olivia Summers—a girl who, by chance, met a man at a party in Goa offering party boat trips. Together with the five men I met there, we pooled our resources to secure tickets on his party boat to sail around the southern tip of India.

Navigating the legal complexities was daunting, but when Astro confidently introduced himself as Leo Davies and the others followed suit with false names, we knew we were united in this daring escape I initiated.

Byron then took the fisherman’s satellite mobile and dialed his father’s direct, confidential phone number, known only to a select few in the royal court. He explained our predicament and struck a deal. In exchange for resolving our situation with customs officials upon arrival at the port, he agreed that we would disappear without a trace but needed his help in doing so.

Fortunately, we ended up in a Commonwealth state where Byron's father held some friendly sway with the governing authorities. Upon our arrival at the port, we were swiftly escorted into a private car and taken to a secluded residence, where we were given new identities.

I'm not privy to the exact leverage Byron used over his father, and to this day, he hasn't divulged those details. However, the resources mobilized on our behalf were nothing short of extraordinary. We were provided with a yacht and instructed to remain at sea for a year, docking only to refuel and gather supplies.

But we forged our own path. Keeping the yacht, we sailed to Shanghai, where Astro tapped into his felonious network of contacts to procure new passports under the names we chose, not the identities assigned to us back in Sri Lanka.

If we were going to start new, we would be doing it our way on our own terms.

Since then, we've been taking on odd jobs to make ends meet, and as long as we stay together, the six of us are happy. Sailing has become second nature to all of us now that we've kept the yacht.

We lived in Malaysia and in Seychelles, and last summer, we ended up here in the Marshall Islands. We like it here; it's remote, and people mind their own business. We rent a small three-room hut on the beach with a jetty that gives us direct access to the yacht. We also have a speedboat that takes us from island to island.

We manage our own beach bar, which remains open throughout the peak tourist season. Byron and I run it during the day while the guys help out in the evenings. Astro and Jack have started their own tattooing business on the side, a skill they honed on our stranded island; they've adorned themselves with a dozen more designs since and look more striking than ever.

Foster and Zane have found their own niche, teaching martial arts to local kids. Often, families can't afford to pay them, so they receive compensation in whatever forms they can offer—food, eggs, or supplies. It's island life where resourcefulness is key.

When the tourist season winds down, we'll close everything up, hop onto the yacht, and sail around until the next season begins. For the past two years, we've treated the world as our oyster, enjoying the freedom to sail wherever we please.

“Ready to go home, Firebug?”

My thoughts scatter as I gaze up at Byron, the pretty geeky boy who survived a plane crash and, in a matter of weeks, transformed into a spectacular man. Despite his perpetually brooding expression, when he looks at me, his face softens, setting off a whirlwind of butterflies in my stomach and my heart fluttering like it’s onsteroids.

I hand him the keys and his helmet, feeling a flutter of anticipation as he leans in, his lips brushing softly against mine. The warmth of his kiss sends a shiver down my spine.

With gentle precision, he places another helmet on my head, his fingers lingering as he adjusts the strap beneath my chin. I meet his gaze, a silent exchange of excitement and affection before he turns to get on and start the motorcycle.

As he starts the engine, the vibrations beneath us hum with eagerness. I slide onto the seat behind him, savoring the closeness as I wrap my arms securely around his waist. His back feels strong and steady against me, and the scent of his cologne mingles with his natural scent.

I press closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body and the thrilling rush of wind against my face. The engine's purr becomes a rhythm we move to together, our bodies perfectly attuned as we navigate the winding lanes.

Leaning my cheek against his back, I relish the feeling of freedom and connection that riding with him brings. In this moment, nothing else matters but the exhilarating ride and the comforting presence of the man I love.

“Surprise!” The word escapes everyone's lips in unison as Byron steps onto the back porch, his eyes widening in astonishment. My heart swells with delight as I watch his expression morph from confusion to sheer joy.

The porch, adorned with a dazzling array of colorful lights and streamers, feels like a whimsical wonderland by the water's edge. Lanterns sway gently above us, casting a soft, warm glow over the scene. It's a sight to behold, orchestrated by the guys with their usual creativity and flair.

Byron's laughter fills the air as he takes in the decorations, his smile radiant and infectious.

I slide my arm around Byron's waist as the guys greet him with a cold beer on the back porch of our cozy house. I glance over at the fabulous birthday cake, meticulously crafted by the mother of one of Foster and Zane’s students who bakes professionally. The cake is awork of art adorned with intricate details that reflect the care and creativity poured into it.

On the table, a large pan of sticky rice with turmeric chicken awaits us for dinner, most likely prepared by the parents of one of their martial arts students. Here in our island home, cooking is a rare occurrence for us. We've discovered that people here express their gratitude through food, creating delicious dishes that bring the community closer together.

“I thought we celebrated this morning,” Byron, who doesn’t like attention drawn to himself, will, of course, argue that one celebration is enough.

“Mate,youcelebrated this morning with the princess’s mouth on your knob. We weren’t part of that little shindig,” Astro quips, prompting a round of laughter.

“Lucky him,” Foster mutters and takes a swig of his beer with a wry smile.

“How about we get Princess naked and in the water.”

“Astro, for once, just keep it in your pants, for fucks sake!” Zane jokes, earning another round of chuckles from the group.

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