AllisonI try not to, but I end up having a really good time with Keely.For the next few days, the rules are suspended. Although we're trailed by a small army of bodyguards, I show Keely around Portland, starting with all the big tourist areas and moving into my favorite local spots. We get lunch, go on a couple hikes, see a movie, grab some dinner, even go dancing when Keely practically begs me to take her somewhere. "I used to do this all the tie with my bestie, Jamila," she says as she loses herself on the dance floor.She's a lot of fun and really easy to get along with. And it helps that she makes me this unbelievable batch of homemade donuts on the morning of her last day. We both know she's getting on the plane later that afternoon, but we don't talk about it. Instead, I eat way too much, give myself a minor sugar hangover, and sit out back in the comfortable morning breeze."Still on the fence?" she asks, and I know what she means."Not on the fence," I say. "Just not going."

GregoryKeely returns to Boston empty-handed. "Sorry I couldn't be more help, but you've got one hell of a wife," she says before she goes."I appreciate your help."The house feels quiet once she's gone. Allison promises not to leave the premises and doesn't try to test her boundaries. Instead, she's depressed, staying in our room for long stretches at a time. I try to lure her out with good meals, but she's not interested in anything. Watching her spiral like this is one of the hardest things I've ever done.But there's one way to fix this. At least there's a path, and I have to take the steps myself, because I'm afraid Allison can't do it herself.It takes a week to set up the meeting. Orin, Sean, and I work tirelessly, making phone calls, begging, threatening, cajoling. I offer promises of safety, cash bonuses, whatever I need to say to get everyone to agree.But come Monday, the ten owners of the ten largest marijuana-producing farms in the state are seated around a conference ro

GregoryTess stands by my side overlooking a burned-out field. It's nearly midnight, the waning moon still casting a gray light over the wreckage, the sky spattered with stars. "I want to be long gone before it happens," she says, her face grim."I'm going to be honest with you. I'm surprised you're willing to play a part in this at all."She wrinkles her nose. "I'm more pragmatic than the rest of them. Besides, I'm still young, I have to think about my future.""I could give you a bunch of easy platitudes about the Callahan family's gratitude, but I suspect you won't care about that.""No, I won't. I care about money and opportunity.""Then we're in agreement."She grunts as she turns away. "Just make sure you clean up after yourself.""What, you don't want him left behind? It might makes good fertilizer."She doesn't respond as she walks off. I watch her go, my smile slowly fading. She's going to be a problem—the fact that she's aware of this operation at all is a massive risk. Howe

Twenty-two-year-old Rita Hunters has finally hit rock bottom. Separated from her best friend, her parents in the middle of a messy divorce, and student loans piled way up to the ceiling, her once organized, serene life is burning to the ground right before her very eyes.But life isn't done fucking her up just yet. When she walks into her hot, gangster boss, Scar Scarfoni discussing some very illegal plans with his cohorts, she almost loses her life. But thank heavens that Scar is considerate and makes her an unusual offer so she can stay alive.Rita would be his bride. A fake bride.But Rita knows the kind of man Scar is; cold, ruthless and borderline psychopathic. Add to that his wickedly charming eyes, and Rita wants nothing but to bolt for the door.There are no alternatives, unfortunately, so Rita agrees.Scar is a neat, treats her like an actual bride, and teases her endlessly. Rita hates his jokes, his guts, the entire arrangement.Well, until she doesn't. Not all fake marriage

RitaI sip my non-alcoholic drink, eat my healthy deep-fried wings, and think about the way Scar shoved the seatbelt over my body. It's hard not to daydream about that man, with those big hands, beautiful eyes, his shoulders like mountains, his slim-fitted suits—if he weren't such a nightmare, I'd probably find him attractive.Fortunately, I don't. He's handsome, but that's different from being attractive. I want to look at him in a purely clinical way, like how I look at statues in museums.I don't want to get anywhere near him.Except for when he gets all bossy and shoves the seatbelt down over me.Then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't mind if he got a little bit more exploratory. With his hands. On my body.God, Rita, get it together.An hour passes. Then another. Then I'm creeping up on hour three and the bar's jam-packed. I'm on my third basket of fries, my second order of wings, and like my tenth club soda. At this point I'm pretty sure the bartender hates me for taking up valuable