Santa Monica Beach

The next morning, after a night of rest, everyone had recovered from the terror of the kidnapping. With Rust’s persistent persuasion, at last all agreed to continue their journey.

Abby raised no objections; she was probably hoping the relaxed atmosphere of the trip would win back her best friend’s forgiveness.

After breakfast, the cars were back on the road.

In less than two hours, the three vehicles followed California’s Highway 1 along the coast, arriving at the beach in Santa Monica, a seaside town in Los Angeles County.

While July in Las Vegas was already blistering, in Santa Monica, the long coastline was swept by sea breezes carrying the scent of sand and salt, dispelling the summer heat.

They drove onto the beach’s iconic structure—a massive pier built from steel and wood.

A small amusement park and parking lot stood atop the pier. The amusement park was far less grand than those famous in later years, but it exuded a strong sense of history. Built by the sea, with superb views, it was Santa Monica’s signature attraction.

The group parked and stood at the edge of the amusement park, gazing far into the distance.

Azure seas, pale yellow sands, foaming white surf where the beach met the ocean, and tourists as tiny as ants—all melded into a breathtaking scene of nature’s tranquility.

“Everyone, look at that Ferris wheel,” Rust said, pulling Britney close and pointing to the most prominent feature in the amusement park. “It’s been here for decades, practically an antique. At night, it lights up in beautiful colors.”

Dean’s eyes flickered with memory. He recalled that in a future version of Titanic, Jack had sworn to bring Rose here to see this very Ferris wheel.

The signpost marking the end of Route 66—the Mother Road of America—stood nearby.

Forrest Gump, in his legendary run, had passed by this Ferris wheel.

“Sounds like the perfect spot for a date,” Baker said, shooting Rust and Lang a meaningful look and grinning lewdly. “Let’s ride the Ferris wheel tonight, two people per cabin... heh heh…”

“Can you not always think of dirty things? What could you possibly do in a few minutes? Don’t you have a single romantic bone in your body?” Jenny shot her boyfriend a dissatisfied look, clasped her hands in anticipation, and said, “Red wine, the beach, the sunset—just thinking about it…”

“That’s not a conflict. We’ll watch the Santa Monica sunset first, then ride the Ferris wheel!”

“Wake up, everyone—it’s barely seven in the morning. Shouldn’t we book a room first and enjoy the sun and the beach?” Dean reminded them.

Only then did the group stroll from the beach into town, order a cake, and, following the cost-effective plan meticulously prepared by Rust and Britney, the model student couple, book a hotel.

As for the expenses, the eight of them, in gratitude, insisted on paying for Dean. In the end, Dean hadn’t spent a single dollar on this trip.

After checking in, everyone hurried to Santa Monica beach. The boys, now in swim trunks, began subtly comparing physiques.

Rust and Lang were both slender, though Rust was lean and fit, while Lang’s ribs were almost visible. Noticing the looks, both straightened up their chests.

Baker had broad shoulders, a wide back, a thick pelt of body hair, and well-developed muscles. Grinning broadly, he struck a bodybuilder’s pose, radiating a strong masculine energy—he was, without doubt, the most rugged and athletic of the four.

As for Dean, his strength, at 10.5, was already above average for a healthy adult. His well-proportioned body revealed clear muscle definition: four abs, the faint outline of a V-shaped back—not as massive as Baker’s, but his physique was streamlined and flexible, and his muscles rippled swiftly beneath his skin whenever he moved.

His physique and agility surpassed his strength, so his frame combined explosive power, strength, and resilience. He looked the most natural, though the scars on his back and hands drew some alarmed glances and required quite a bit of explanation.

At 1.76 meters tall, he wasn’t short for his era, nor particularly tall. With time, he’d likely reach 1.80 meters.

...

“Everyone, look over there!” Rust suddenly shouted, glancing toward the exit of the women’s changing room. The group’s eyes followed—and widened in unison.

Five girls in colorful swimsuits stepped onto the beach in turn.

Petite and adorable, elegant and slender, voluptuous and sensual—they represented every type.

Jenny tossed her wavy hair back and blew each of the four boys an exuberant kiss. Clad in a red swimsuit, her shapely figure was impossible to miss, and her skin, thanks to her African heritage, was especially smooth.

Ashley, bashful, followed close behind. Her orange one-piece made her fair skin translucent, and with that delicate, palm-sized face, she looked like a life-sized Barbie—adorable enough to make one’s nose bleed.

Abby, third in line, was rather ordinary in looks and chose the most conservative boy-leg swimsuit, her expression uneasy. The boys whistled and cheered her on in encouragement.

Britney, in a pure white one-piece, her skin snowy and flawless, finally revealed a hint of her hidden charm. Out of respect for Rust, Dean only allowed himself a brief glance before looking away.

“Awooo—”

When Gretchen appeared last, everyone was momentarily stunned, then their hearts erupted in a chorus of howling wolves.

Her skin was luminous, whiter than snow; the rose-patterned red bikini accentuated her graceful figure. She wore a straightforward smile, and her pale blue eyes shone brilliantly in the sunlight, as clear as seawater. She was like a siren freshly emerged from the waves, about to unleash her enchanting song.

Dean silently scored her a ninety—at that moment, she was the most dazzling woman on Santa Monica beach.

He glanced at his three companions beside him. Perhaps their willpower stats were too low; all three, without realizing it, bent awkwardly forward in embarrassment.

Bang!

Not far away, a strange collision rang out. Dean glanced over and saw two middle-aged men, craning their necks to admire the beauty, accidentally crash their cars.

“Hey, you idiots, pick your jaws up and wipe your drool. Come over here for a group photo!” Jenny flipped the bird at the fools. The nine friends lined up, inviting the two men who’d just bumped heads to snap a picture for them.

...

A line of small footprints soon appeared on the wet sand. The group reached the sea, pairing off to frolic as couples.

Dean remained behind to coach Abby and Gretchen, thanks to his previous life’s experience—he was a decent swimmer.

They began with five minutes of stretches. The sun had only just risen, and the sea was still chilly; warming up was essential to avoid cramps.

Once their bodies were warm, Dean took the two girls, each with a float, by the hand and led them into the knee-deep water, walking back and forth for dozens of meters.

“Ha, Gretchen, I’m floating!” Abby shouted, waving her arms and legs, her pimples glowing red with excitement.

Gretchen ignored her and simply lay on the shore, kicking at the surf.

Her waist, hips, and thighs formed a beautiful curve, and her feet arched backward to meet the waves.

Dean thoroughly enjoyed the view.

...

Two hours later, Abby, having mastered breathing and floating, was happily treading water, while Gretchen wrung out her braid and quietly called Dean to the shore.

“Remember my request from yesterday? Could you give me some pointers now?” she asked, looking at him, one hand forward, the other back, adopting a textbook fighting stance, her pretty face taut with determination.

Dean frowned. “Are you serious? Sparring on the beach? Don’t you think that’s a little inappropriate?”

“No, it’s perfect…and I want you to go all out. Show me the real gap between our fighting skills.”

“If you insist,” Dean sighed, hunching his shoulders into a boxer’s stance and beckoning her. “I’ll do my best!”

In terms of height, Gretchen and Dean were evenly matched, and her reach was even longer. But she didn’t attack recklessly—instead, she circled him slowly, drawing closer.

When they were less than two meters apart, she suddenly struck, a lightning-fast left jab aimed at his face—but she was too slow!

The instant her shoulder moved, Dean stepped to the side, dodged the attack, moved to her flank, crouched, and with arms like iron bands, locked her around the waist.

By the time Gretchen realized what was happening, it was too late—her feet left the ground, her back met the sand, and she was thrown down with irresistible force.

“Oof…”

She lay flat on the sand, stunned, looking up at the blue sky and muttering to herself, “One second. I lasted only one second?”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have used such a dangerous move.” Dean crouched down, offering her a hand—only for her to grab his arm and, with stubborn strength, pull him down hard beside her.

“It’s not over—again!”

Gretchen pressed her right fist to Dean’s chest, her pale blue eyes locked on his, almost spitting fire. But she was far too close, her breath brushing Dean’s lips.

From this distance, he could appreciate her full, red lips, gem-like eyes, and swanlike, trembling neck.

“Could you let me go first? This position is kind of stressful.”

The words sounded like bragging, which made Gretchen grit her teeth all the more, her cheeks frosted over as she glared at him.

Dean had no choice but to stare back.

“Gretchen, I can swim now! Look!” Abby shouted from the sea.

Gretchen sprang up as if shocked, then, regaining her composure, pulled Dean to his feet in one smooth motion.

...

After the morning’s swimming lesson, the group lunched on seafood paella at a Spanish restaurant.

Dean ordered the squid ink version—it was quite tasty, rich and aromatic, each grain of rice saturated in sauce, with a creamy, silky texture. Only one flaw:

“Guys, in my experience, this rice is barely cooked,” Dean said, dabbing his blackened lips with a napkin, glancing at his companions who were wolfing it down with relish. “Good?”

As a former resident of the Celestial Empire, he could hardly abide half-raw rice.

“Perfect,” Baker declared, giving a thumbs-up. “I love the crispy texture.”

“This is just right,” Rust said, looking at Dean as if he were the odd one out. “It’s absorbed the sauce, plump and distinct…”

Everyone else nodded in agreement.

“Won’t you get an upset stomach eating it like this?”

“Oh, come on, man,” Lang replied nonchalantly. “We’re not seventy-year-olds. What’s a little al dente rice?”

So be it—half-cooked or not.

...

That afternoon they played beach volleyball, tried surfing, and, as evening fell, returned to the hotel to change, then picked up the pre-ordered fruit birthday cake and brought it to the largest seafood restaurant beside the amusement park.

The place was lively, packed with diners who had reserved tables to watch the sunset.

...

They set the cake at the center of a platter heaped with crab salad, lobster, clams, oysters, and grilled meats. Around the outside were the birthday gifts: trinkets, books, and the most precious—a pair of pearl earrings from Rust, who claimed he’d begged Grace for ages to buy them. He placed them on Britney himself, making her blush and beam with delight.

Just then, the sun began to set over Santa Monica beach.

Everyone rushed to the railing, listening to the waves and gazing at the golden sun pressed against the horizon, radiating a dazzling light. Not only was most of the sky painted gold by the sunset, but the entire sea, the sand, and the faces of Dean and his eight friends were all awash with joyful color.

The evening breeze swept across the water.

They lingered, entranced by the sunset, silent for a long time, each lost in their own thoughts.

Dean recalled the day’s exhilarating beach adventures. Unconsciously, a smile tugged at his lips; it felt as if his heart had been cleansed, the violent rage from his recent act of killing slowly dissipating.

Time spent in joyful companionship was the best remedy for the soul—even better than meditation.

“All right, Britney, before the sun disappears, make your wish!”

Britney took a deep breath and blew out the candles. She pressed her hands to her chest, closed her eyes, her lashes fluttering as she murmured three wishes, then, smiling radiantly, announced, “I’m done.”

“Share one with us?” Baker grabbed a clam, slurping it clean.

“I hope that a year from now, we’ll all travel together again—a graduation trip!” she said.

“I’m in,” Lang called, gnawing on a crab leg and thumping his chest. “Let’s agree right now, but I have one condition: Dean can’t be absent.”

He glanced around the group.

“Without our ace bodyguard, I won’t feel safe!”

“You sly dog. Since when did you learn to flatter?” Baker punched him in the chest.

“All right, everyone, cake time!” Rust crowned his girlfriend with a birthday tiara, sliced the cake into more than a dozen pieces, and warmly shared it with nearby tables.

The crowd erupted in cheers, a tidal wave of “Happy Birthday” echoing through the restaurant, candlelight illuminating the smiling faces of the young.

The atmosphere was electric.

Baker raised his right hand and launched into a comical ostrich dance; Jenny, behind him, stood like a cool, eye-rolling palm tree; Rust and Britney, cheek to cheek, spun waltzes from table to table...

Lang and Ashley clapped so hard their hands turned red, then called out to Dean, “Don’t just stand there, man—dance!”

Dean stiffened. Suddenly, a dance from his previous life—a craze that once swept his homeland, loved by young and old—flashed through his mind. In the heat of the moment, he began to perform it.

Body swaying...

Smack!

A slice of cake flew through the air, splattering Dean’s face and blocking the rest of his routine.

“What kind of dance is that? You’re hilarious,” Gretchen teased from the railing, beckoning with her finger.

She pulled the band from her braid, letting a cascade of black hair ripple free, drifting over her pale cheeks in waves like a blooming black rose.

Dean licked his lips and hurled a plate of cake at her.

...

Abby stood alone at the edge of the restaurant, watching her friends roughhouse. She raised her foot to join in, but the thought of her best friend’s coldness made her hesitate.

“It’s all my own fault,” she thought.

At a time meant for happiness—

She couldn’t help it; her eyes reddened, and sorrow welled up so palpably it threatened to choke her.

Suddenly, a breeze swept past.

A sharp pain stabbed her left hand. She looked down to find a finger-length gash, bleeding profusely—she had no idea what had cut her.

She looked around, both aggrieved and angry.

Beyond the crowd, a hooded figure quickly descended from the pier and vanished into the darkness of the beach.