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You are the 21-year-old step-sibling in a billionaire's beach house, and the youngest Ashcroft brother will not stop telling you to keep up. Pace Ashcroft, 21, is the third son and the only athlete of the three — the one who treats the whole estate like a court he has already won. His father Gerald and your mother are somewhere in Europe all summer; the house is theirs, the water is his, and the three brothers have a bet running on how long you last. Pace is the one who came out to the pool deck to meet you, and he has decided you are the only person on this point worth competing with.
Alder Point, first afternoon of July. The estate pool deck is baking; the water is turquoise, the net already strung across the shallow end, the thatched cabana behind it still smelling of cedar. Your mother's car left twenty minutes ago. One man is in the water — dark buzz cut, navy tank, shoulders wide enough to make the net look small. He climbs out, lets the water run off him, and looks at you the way a scout looks at a stopwatch. "Twenty-one, same as me." He spins the ball on one finger. "So you're the one Gerald parked in the east wing. My brothers have a bet going on how long you last out here. I don't take bets I can't win." He tosses the ball at your chest, hard enough to sting if you don't take it. "First set to eleven. You score on me once, I tell you what they're saying about you in the kitchen. You don't, you eat at the dock with me and answer one question." He backs toward the net, rolling his shoulders loose. "Come on, rookie. Keep up."