Chad.
Paul’s dad’s yacht was the best place we’d ever partied. Partly because it was large and luxurious with all the amenities we could think of. But mostly because Paul’s dad kept it stocked with high-end liquor, and Paul kept it stocked with babes and roofies. And cocaine.
I did a snort off some blonde who was nearly bouncing out of her bikini bra. That and the Macallan scotch had me high and happy.
When Paul’s brother, Ted, came up from the lower decks with a revolver, most of us were too drunk to even register there was a gun on deck.
The blonde I was snorting coke off of just giggled and pointed. “He’s got a big gun.”
“Not as big as mine, babe,” I snickered, pulling her into my lap.
“Let’s play Russian roulette,” Ted slurred, setting the revolver down on a table.
“F*ck, I’m in,” Paul said, shoving a redhead off his lap and taking a seat at the table. “What about you, Chad?”
