The self-styled Millennial Raj were all young men - handsome, wealthy, feckless, and use to taking no responsibly for their actions. They saw themselves as princes of Goa, India’s resort capital. Everything was theirs for the taking – women, drugs, booze. Anything they wanted was theirs. Every day was a party and they were the party kings.
And Sam was no exception.
British by birth, Sam was rich and utterly unmoored by family or connections. He owned one of the biggest yachts of the group. His classically handsome good looks opened doors for him. He could drink and party just as hard if not harder than the others.
He had the sort of soulful eyes that made people think of Byron.
And like Byron, he could be mad, bad, and dangerous to know.
As fun as he could be to party with – generous and funny, charmingly playful; he could swing the other way just as fast. Become violent, brooding and dark.
Women threw themselves at Sam, but they didn’t always get what they wanted. And more than once the Raj had had to pay to hush up a girl who caught the wrong end of Sam’s dark side. Or pay the police to have an assault charge dropped.
But then, for the Raj, that was just the cost of good living.
The Raj always had a floating harem of women – beautiful, easy, and in interchangeable as clothes.
Except for Sona.
They spotted the petite blonde dancing at one of the middling clubs. The sort of place they slummed at before moving on to the proper clubs. The sort with VIP bars and velvet ropes they could glide past. Tourist bars were below them, but they were a good place to pick up fresh meat.
Sam wasn’t the one who picked Sona out of the crowd. Hector – sole American in the group spotted her and convinced her to go with them to the next club.
And the next. And the next.
She danced with most of the Raj that night, or more to the point, let them dance with her.
Sam had been in a bad mood all night and was ready to go when Alex dumped a seemingly drunk Sona in his lap.
“Here.” Hector crowed, as Sam caught the girl. “This should cheer you up. We’ve already primed the pump for you. Judging by the way she was dancing, you won’t even have to warm her up.”
Sam had been ready to toss Sona back into the crowd when the girl, who he’d taken for just another drunk slut, had very calmly stood up and offered Sam his hand. “You look like you hate this place as much as I do. Let’s get some fresh air.”
They’d walked, and talked for hours. It turned out Sona wasn’t drunk at all, but had been playing up to the Raj for the fun of it. They talk late into the night, watching the sun come up over one the quieter private beaches.
They talked of poetry, philosophy; deep and meaningful conversations Sam didn’t realise he’d been missing. The Raj were all well educated but they down-played that intelligence. The powerful didn’t need to be intelligent, just rich.
But with Sona, Sam remembered what he loved about Shelley, Plato, Shakespeare.
After that night, Sona was a regular guest of the Raj. But unlike the rest of the harem, Sona was exclusively Sam’s girl.
Sam spent less time partying with the rest of the Raj, and more time talking with Sona.
He found himself confiding in Sona, things he’d never told another living soul. Things he was barely ready to admit to himself.
As much as the Raj were willing to concede that Sam’s mood swings were less violent around Sona, he was also less fun.
Believing Sona was breaking up the band, the others tried to talk Sam into getting rid of her. But by that stage, Sam was too attached to Sona.
Or more to the point he was too attached to the person he could be around Soma.
Sam was an orphan. Or so he’d been told. His father had died before he was born. Nothing more to him than a nameless benefactor had left them a healthy trust fund which his mother had cleverly grown into a minor fortune. She had passed away during Sam’s teens, while he was away at boarding school. Leaving him with a lot of money, and no purpose in life.
No identity but rich and alone.
He’d fallen in with a group of boys from his school, the beginnings of the Millennial Raj.
And so, they had styled his identity, and each other’s.
There was no place in the Raj for sexual confusion, just conquest.
There was no place in the Raj for gender confusion, just masculine dominance.
There was no place in the Raj for weakness or sadness or doubt.
They were the princes of the city and every day was a party.
Sona offered something else. A place of understanding. And an option of something else, something better.
Sam was the only member of the Raj who knew Sona wasn’t biologically female. And Sona was the only one who knew Sam was gay and deeply repressed.
The rest of the Raj were still looking for a way to re-establish the status quo and get rid of Sona when the letter came.
A letter that rattled Sam. Badly.
Although his manic episodes had been less pronounced of late, the contents of the letter tipped him into full swing.
He refused to tell anyone what was in the letter, but after reading it he locked it in the safe in his yacht and called the others.
He wanted to drink. He wanted to get high and get laid. He wanted to party. He wanted to get rowdy and break things.
Glad to have their old Sam back, the Raj left the girls behind, including Sona and hit the town.
Night club after night club, party after party, they drank and took everything they could get their hands in.
Some time near dawn, they’d taken one of the yachts out and kept drinking.
They’d come back late the next night. Without Sam.
None of them could remember what happened. Most of them had been black out drunk or too high to know what was real and what wasn’t.
All they knew for sure when Sam had gone out with them. But he hadn’t come back.
Sona lingered in the shadows of the yacht’s cabin, listening unseen as they tried to get their stories straight. Deciding whether they should go to the police or find a way to cover it up.
Maybe if they waited a day or two, he might show up. None of them believed that. They had been too far out to sea and there was nowhere to go but-
Maybe if they claimed he’d gone off alone that night, before they’d sailed out. Or if he’d left the country. With Sona maybe.
That would kill two birds with one stone. After all, Sona knew too much already.
Silently Sona slipped back off the yacht, wiping her fingerprints away as she went.
Before the Millennial Raj had finished deciding what to do, Sona had cast off, slipping quietly into the night with Sam’s yacht.
She was the only person who knew the content of the letter. And how it could be used to her advantage.
Sam was gone. But he would not be forgotten.
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