by Julie Cannon
If hindsight were twenty-twenty I’d have never answered her first question. Obviously I wasn’t gifted with clairvoyance, and, hindsight being what it is, I made a complete fool of myself over big tits, a pretty face, and a fabulous body. The thought of making love to Ariel still made my stomach turn, as did the monthly blood tests I’d had after she left. It would be just my luck that she would leave me with more than a tattered confidence, shattered heart, and battered psyche. But so far so good, and after two years my doctor finally convinced me I was STD-free. Then why did I still feel dirty and used?
I was a successful professional, college-educated woman. I owned my own firm and had a lot of friends. Why hadn’t I seen this coming? Why hadn’t I fallen over it when it was right under my nose? Because I had my face buried so deep between Ariel’s legs as often as I could I couldn’t see anything else. And Ariel made sure I stayed there.
Standing in the checkout line of the grocery store, I, like everybody else, would read the headlines and teasers on the covers of the magazines that flanked the cash registers. I puffed out my chest in pride when I read that I made love at least three times a week more than the average woman—or so the tabloids said. But then again I was definitely not the average woman.
I’d always had a healthy sex drive, and having Ariel in my bed complemented that craving nicely. She was so attentive that if we didn’t make love every night and three or four times on the weekend, she made sure to compensate for it. I wasn’t complaining. Except for that one time when I had a big presentation the next morning and she kept reaching for me all night. I was exhausted and, even with three cups of coffee and a shot of expresso, was still a bit groggy. I didn’t get that account, and today I know why. As a matter of fact, only five people in the world know why: Paul, my personal attorney, my BFF Rachel, me, and Ariel.
Correction, those five and the people who were paying her to spy on me. I swore Rachel to secrecy, didn’t tell any of my other friends, my sisters, or my parents. All anyone knew was that I’d stopped seeing Ariel and not had a serious or even semi-serious relationship in almost four years. Everyone finally stopping asking and I never told.
Every time I thought about the beginning of the almost-end I can still smell the FBI agent’s aftershave. I could swear it was the same Aqua Velva my grandfather wore. I was working on my speech for the Advertising Association national convention when Jeri, my assistant at the time, knocked on my door.
“Alissa?” she asked after opening my door and poking her head inside. “Two FBI agents are here to talk to you.”
Her announcement shifted my attention from irritated to curious. “FBI?” Jeri’s head bobbed up and down rapidly, her eyes widening. She was young, and this was her first real job, as she called it, so I forgave her for that reaction. What in the world would I have to say that the FBI would be interested in? I slid my keyboard tray under my desk and stood. “Show them in.”
They introduced themselves as Special Agents James Standard and Paul Rutherford, and after we all sat down they proceeded to destroy my world. Eighty minutes later they left and I sat stunned by what they’d told me. To make a long, ugly story short, they had evidence that Ariel had been spying on Alissa Cooper and was trading inside information for cash. Lots of cash. They’d stumbled onto the information while investigating another, completely unrelated case and had tracked her down to me.
Everything, from the instant Ariel had first sat down beside me on the ferry to our lunch earlier that afternoon, had been a calculated, well-mapped-out plan. Every day she’d sucked me deeper and deeper into her web, and if it weren’t for the accidental discovery she probably would have eaten me alive.
But it had happened. I’d lost a boatload of money, several clients, and eight employees, including Jeri, who had been with me since I opened my own doors, but my firm and I had survived. In the beginning it was simply that—survival. Every day I’d dragged myself out of bed, a dark haze hanging over me, dressed in a don’t-fuck-with-me suit, and went out and slayed the advertising dragons. Eventually the fog lifted, the days grew brighter, and I was looking forward more than I was looking back. I don’t think I endured any more than anyone else who had their heart broken and dreams shattered, but it was enough for me to say never, ever again.
I stopped at the newsstand on the corner and bought the afternoon paper. Even though my world consisted of computer-generated art, graphics, and images, I was one of those old-school types. I loved the feel of paper in my hand. Whether it was a book, magazine, or like this, the Local Times, one of my greatest pleasures was sitting in the warm sun reading.
I grabbed a decaf from Dutch Bros and settled into one of the chairs on their patio. I hadn’t walked out my irritation, frustration, or aggravation at having to relive the Ariel thing, but I was calm enough to enjoy the warm, late afternoon. If I took my coffee and paper back to my office I’d be interrupted at least a dozen times before I finished either. I enjoyed my solitude and took advantage of the opportunity.
I turned the page, and the headline of an article caught my eye. FLORIDA LOOPHOLE ALLOWS ILLEGAL FISHING HARVEST. We were nowhere near Florida, but I supposed illegal fishing happened anywhere. Was that what the feds were doing at Bert’s boat? Was she doing something she shouldn’t be doing?
It had been three days since our coffee chat, and admittedly I’d thought about Bert more than once. Okay, more than a dozen times. Every time I told myself to stop thinking about her, I’d think about her more
She was a commercial fisherman. I’d never met anyone who made their living on the water. Well, yes, I had, but I wouldn’t consider the deck hands on the ferry or the waiters on the dinner cruises in the same category as Bert. She definitely was not an Alberta Rose. She was certainly a Bert. She was a little more butch than I’d normally go for, but then again I supposed she’d have to be to gain respect in her chosen field. I didn’t know much about fishing and even less about commercial fishing, but my instincts told me it was definitely a man’s world.
Yet I found something compelling about her, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Was it because she was so different and I had definitely had enough of women in my own world? With a few exceptions they were either cut-throat competitive in everything, including who was on top, or couldn’t add without a calculator.
I’d met many interesting women but had never experienced a spark of anything other than lust, and that was exactly what I was looking for. I wasn’t in the market or on the market for anything else. A nice dinner, maybe a movie or a play, stimulating conversation, and stimulating other non-cerebral parts of my body. That’s all I wanted, all I could handle, and all I could give. Bert had fit most of the aforementioned qualities, but I’d learned the hard way to listen when the hair on the back of my neck stood up and slapped me. And with Bert I was smart enough to see that reaction coming and ducked just in time.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bert
“I don’t know anything else,” I said for the fourth or sixth time to Customs Agents Davidson, Shipley, Newman, and Hart. Sounded more like a law firm than four agents from the Department of Homeland Security. Davidson, along with his peers, had come aboard the Dream wanting to question me about something I’d reported the day before.
Smugglers and poachers were all over the ocean, and my father had taught me to be obliging, have integrity, and to be a law-abiding citizen. Thus my two-hour conversation with these four men in the bridge of the Dream.
By the time the agents left, all but two of my crew had gone home. The others either got bored waiting to find out what was going on or had other obligations. More than likely it was the former. My crew consisted of honest, hardworking men, but unlike most deckhands, who were heavy on booze and women and light on responsibility, mine were family men, solid and dependable. Everyone had drama, comedy, and action-adventure in their lives, but my crew left it on the dock when they came to work. I insisted on it. Commercial fishing was a dangerous profession, and I refused to
contribute to the statistics that proved how dangerous it was.
I carried a six-man crew, all experienced on the sea. I didn’t tolerate bullshit, laziness, drugs, or booze. I paid well and my crew returned season after season. I respected them, and they me. We all had a job to do and we did it well. Occasionally tempers flared, as they would when seven people are cooped up on a boat one hundred and fifty feet long for weeks at a time. But the anger blew out quickly and we’d move on.
Each of my crew had boat names that fit their personality or experience perfectly. Blow was short for Blowhard because he knew everything, and I mean everything. The unfortunate part was that most of the time he was so full of good-natured bullshit you weren’t sure if he was stringing you along or telling the truth. He was well over six feet, built like Smokey the Bear, and had the heavy brown beard to match.
Limpet looked exactly like Don Knotts in the 1964 live-action/animated adventure film about a man named Henry Limpet, who turns into a talking fish and helps the U.S. Navy locate and destroy Nazi submarines. He was no more than five feet five inches tall and weighed one hundred thirty pounds only when his slicker was soaked and his hip waders full of water. But he took orders and knew his job, the two things most important to me.
Hook was a six-foot, six-inch ex-lineman who’d lost the top of his right ear to a wayward hook the first day on board. When he promptly cleaned up his mess and didn’t complain, I knew he was a keeper. Rock could have been Sylvester Stallone’s twin brother, in his Rocky heydays. Rock didn’t say much, but when he did everyone listened because his message was short, to the point, and always right. Flick, my diver, and Lefty, our cook, rounded out my crew. All of these guys had been my crew for the past eight years, and my life literally depended on them.
“Did they catch them?” Limpet asked, blowing his nose. Along with being scrawny, he had a perpetually runny nose.
“Yes. Eight thousand pounds of cocaine,” I answered. That was no surprise to me, as low as the cigarette boat had been riding in the water. Cigarette boat was the term used for sleek, fast boats that drug smugglers often used to slip in undetected or actually outrun the federal agency chasing them. I considered them penis boats because why else would you need something so obvious phallic that was so loud that drew everyone’s attention? I kept my opinion to myself while on board the Dream.
Limpet whistled. “What I could buy with that,” he said almost enviously. My crew might talk smack but they didn’t use it. That, and sobriety, were my number two and three boat rules. Number one was safety first in everything we do.
“A whole heap of trouble is what you could buy with that,” I answered. Limpet was young and sometime half a brick short of a load, but he was a hard worker and did what he was told, though a bit naive.
“Are we ready for next week?” We were headed out on a six-week trip, one of our longest. With the over-fishing, pollution, and poachers, we had to go out farther each season to catch the same amount of fish we’d grown accustomed to. It would take ten days to reach the fishing area, however many it took to net our catch, and at least two weeks to return to shore. Unfortunately we weren’t one of those just-caught-today boats. Restaurants’ catch of the day usually came from various farms, where the fish were plentiful and raised commercially in tanks or enclosures. The Dream supplied the farms.
“Other than the last-minute perishables, we’re ready, Captain.”
The perishables Limpet referred to were the fresh fruit, eggs, and vegetables that were delivered the day before we set sail. Lefty was our cook, and he planned the menu and placed the order. The galley had a large refrigerator, a three-burner stove, and a decent-sized oven. We usually had a hot breakfast, sandwiches for lunch, and a hot meal for dinner. If we were really good, Lefty would bake brownies or some other delectable dessert the men would gobble up quickly. We rarely had any leftovers.
I sent Limpet on his way, checked to make sure the security guards I hired were around, and locked the door to the bridge. The additional expense cut into my profits, but with the size of my boat, the hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment, and the livelihood that it provided for me and six others, I couldn’t afford to have anything stolen or, worse yet, sabotaged.
Stepping off the Dream I turned and looked at her. She had a royal-blue hull, painted just last year, with white trim and her name on the port and starboard sides. Above the main deck was the bridge with its one-hundred-eighty-degree panoramic view. The fourteen windows were made of tempered glass, so the harsh weather in the open sea would have a next-to-impossible chance to crack or shatter it. Above that, thirty-eight feet above the deck, was the crow’s nest, our observation point when we were actually looking for the fish. Numerous cables, supporting wires, and radio antenna were attached to the main rigs and at various points across the top deck. The nets hung from the main mast just aft or behind the bridge. The roof of the bridge could support a small helicopter, but of course I didn’t have one of those.
I walked to the parking lot, started my car, and headed home. Sometimes I walked; it was only a mile or so, but I had too much stuff for the boat to carry this morning so I fired up my Jeep instead. Home for me was a forty-eight-foot houseboat moored in the last slip on pier twenty-five. The Dream was quietly sitting in slip four at pier six.
Colton Harbor was made up of thirty-two piers, each jutting out into the Atlantic Ocean from the main harbor drive. The harbor was really a peninsula with sixteen piers on both sides and the Harbor Club sitting elegantly at the tip. The Club, as locals called it, offered a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree panoramic view for your drinking, dining, or dancing pleasure. The harbor itself was over eight miles long in total, with shopping strategically placed between every five or six piers. Clever thinking on the part of the designer. That way you didn’t have to walk too far to get supplies, a trinket, a souvenir, or gas. It was at one of those small markets where I had met Alissa Cooper.
I thought about Alissa as I drove past the market, then the gas station, then the Port Cafe. I have to admit Alissa was quite an attractive woman. She was engaging, had interesting things to say, and gave me her full attention. She’d hesitated to accept my coffee invitation, but my charm and dazzling smile had obviously won her over. At least that’s what I told myself. I was a bit out of practice, but she’d accepted anyway and I’d really enjoyed myself.
I’d been about to ask her if she’d like to continue our conversation into dinner when Limpet came. I’d seen her stiffen at the mention of the feds, but I really hadn’t had any time to give it any thought. But now, as I unlocked my front door a little after ten, I did.
Flipping the lights on, I tossed my backpack on the couch and carried the bag of groceries to the kitchen. The smiling face of Alissa Cooper flashed in my mind, and I debated whether to call her when we got back from this trip. She hadn’t given me her number, but I could probably track her down. I mean, how many Alissa Cooper advertising agencies could there be in town?
I snickered out loud. Yeah, right. A woman like Alissa would remember me six or seven weeks after just one cup of coffee. She would definitely have moved on.
CHAPTER SIX
Alissa
“No fucking way” four weeks ago turned into me sitting in a room I could only describe as cold, stark, and industrial—and those were its redeeming qualities. The drive here took over an hour, and by the time I parked and passed through three layers of security, my already thin patience was practically nonexistent. My footsteps echoed as I followed a guard down the hall. The air smelled of urine, fear, and despair.
At the front of the room facing me sat three oversized men and two equally plump women, crowded between the ends of a too-small, dented, solid-metal table. I didn’t know any of these people, or anyone else in the small, stifling room for that matter, but these five strangers controlled the rest of my life. Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic, but it’s the way I felt as I endured being in the hard, uncomfortable chair.
&
nbsp; It was Monday, and preparing for this meeting had ruined my entire weekend. I don’t know if I was angrier at myself for letting it get to me or the fact that I was here in the first place. I’d spent Saturday and Sunday on my boat, trying not to think about exactly what was happening right now. But everyone knows the more you try not to think about something, the more you actually do. I’ve always been able to lose myself on the water, all the stress and crap in my life blowing away with the filling of my sails. The fresh air, warm sun and physical requirements needed to handle the boat usually erase everything in my mind. And if I don’t pay attention I could find myself caught up in a line, tossed overboard, or worse.
My heart jumped and my hands started to shake when I heard the door behind me open. Paul had prepared me for the hearing, but I was the only one who could prepare me for the moment Ariel entered the room. She had the right to be present at her own hearing. I sat frozen in anticipation of seeing her for the first time in four years.
Ariel was just as ugly as I remembered her. Sure, she had the same tall, slim body, natural blond hair, and light-blue eyes that once turned every head in the room, on the street, and in the office, including mine. But the instant I found out what she’d done to me and my company she went from runway-beautiful to trailer-trash skank.
Scrutinizing her closer I noticed she carried herself differently. Gone was the self-important, confident, I’m-fucking-the-boss swagger, and in its place were stooped shoulders and a lowered chin. Her once-shoulder-length hair was now chopped off in a blunt cut just below her chin. Her skin held the unhealthy pallor of fluorescent lights instead of the tan from our endless hours on the beaches around the world. Her flat, prison-uniform shoes were nothing like the four-inch stilettos she used to wear every day and, if I were really lucky, to bed. Prison had definitely changed this woman from the Ariel Sinclair I knew to the Cindy Howard she really was.
