The ladder is not there anymore. If it was, I’d be on the by wharf now, putting my clothes back on and wringing out my hair. Instead, I’m wading in increasingly shallow water, dragging my bare, jellyfish-stung ass to shore. Once there, I’ll have to scoot over a patch of rocky beach, climb a little grassy hill, and walk another dozen metres on the wharf to where my clothes lie in a rumpled heap. In full view of the cop sitting in the squad car that’s now parked a few metres in front of me. I should make some sort of attempt to cover myself. Feign a modicum of modesty, because Mama will kill me if word gets around that I was skinny dipping down at The Wharf, strutting my naked, shameless stuff in broad daylight when the cops showed up.

But what would Stacey Fortune do? She’d take a deep breath, smile wide, and revel in the power of her brazen big-city cougar glory. Give the poor small-town clown a story to remember. This is a moment to strut naked and shameless, while I still can. I throw my shoulders back, stick my B-cup boobs out, and give my saltwater-soaked hair a casual flip as I keep moving. Calm, cool, collected.

The officer gets out of his car and saunters toward me. I feel a flicker of pride when I see my reflection in the mirror of his sunglasses as he approaches the water’s edge. Until a slow smile of recognition creeps across his mug, and he takes off the sunglasses, revealing just how hard he’s leering at my tits.

“Crow Fortune?” Despite the intonation, it is not a question. He knows it’s me. Constable Duke the Puke Clarke grins with a phoney incredulousness. “Nice to see ya. Again.” His voice lingers too long on the word again, just as his eyes linger too long on my body. None too subtle reminders that he has seen this all before. Me. Naked.

I cross my arms over my chest, and let out a shiver. As if a chill from the summer breeze is the reason I’m suddenly trying to cover up. “Hey, grab my clothes off the wharf and toss them down, would ya?”

“Nah, don’t think so.”

Gone are the proud Fuck It attitude and Stacey Fortune sexy cougar swagger I had donned only moments ago. Utterly swept away by the surging memory of how this slut-shaming, reputation-wrecking arsehole helped drive me out of this place over twenty years ago. How Crow Fortune’s story went from bad to worse at the tail end of high school, all because of one naked night with Duke the Puke.

A dangerous amount of Jack Daniel’s at the post-prom bash at Loch Bhreagh River bridge seemed like a reasonable way to ease the despair of having been dumped by Weasel Tobin a week before prom. Who among us would not — under such circumstances — have felt flattered when the much-adored high school star athlete extended an invitation to “listen to some music” in his car?