by Hazel Keys
Thanking you in advance!!!
Passions of the Caribbean
Chapter 1: Seth
“What this means,” I yelled for the third time, trying to make myself heard over the chattering row, “is that you’ll be putting three thousand people out of work! That’s three thousand families on welfare, three thousand homes going into foreclosure, and about six thousand kids going hungry!” I stared at Wainwright and the other board members, unable to keep my fists from clenching and unclenching.
“Please sit down, Mr. Radisson,” sneered Wainwright as I walked towards my chair at the end of the huge, black boardroom table. Through the glass wall, I could see the junior office workers trying to pretend they couldn’t hear the shouting coming from within our closed meeting. “You’re exaggerating as usual, and you are missing a major point.”
I looked over each of the other men that sat around Wainwright. All of them wore expensive suits and were either overweight from expensive and excessive living, gray- or white-haired from age, or both. Wainwright was both, and his face carried a repulsively arrogant look of scorn, a take away from years of almost always being the richest man in the room. He was part of the old guard. One of my father’s longest-standing partners, and we never saw eye to eye.
I turned to the opposite end of the table, were the prey of these white-haired, dark-suited vultures sat. Mr. Clancy and his son, Robert, of boat builders Clancy & Son who, after not having their military contracts renewed, were now finding it hard to keep their business solvent in the current economic climate, building only luxury super-yachts. Mr. Clancy Sr. was well past retirement age and couldn’t hide it, yet he still wore a determined expression on his face and looked prepared to fight for the company he had spent his whole life building. Robert Clancy, on the other hand, was nearing forty and had the look of someone that could see his comfortable lifestyle disappearing down the tubes with every dollar that Clancy & Son went into the red. Both were also dressed in dark suits that, while still respectable, were worth nowhere near as much as those of my board members.
I needed a second to collect myself. Shouting at Wainwright and the rest of the board only ever served to make them dig their heels in and convince them that I was just a jumped-up rich kid not fit to lick my father’s shoes, let alone fill them. I straightened my tie, ran my fingers through my hair and, just to piss them off, chose to remain standing. “Exactly what point am I missing, again, Mr. Wainwright?”
“We are in this deal together,” he replied. “As the 51% shareholder in RHC, and the son of this firm’s founder, you are as much responsible for the job losses at Clancy & Son as anyone here.”
I opened my mouth to start yelling again when George Osborne, sitting beside me, placed a soft, plump hand on my arm and stood as well. He was the polar opposite of me. Short, rotund, balding, and pudgy-faced, hiding his brown eyes behind thick-lensed spectacles. Despite appearances, we were both thirty-eight, and graduated from Yale together. However, I stayed in shape with a vigorous work-out regimen and a love of extreme sports, while George didn’t. He was still my closest friend, though, as well as my attorney and business adviser. I nodded in response to his calming touch and sat.
“Remember, Seth,” he said, expertly managing to be loud enough for the board and I to hear, as well as quiet enough to be mostly unintelligible to the boat builders at the other end of the room, “selling off the assets and real estate that Mr. Clancy has managed to collect over the years should bring in just over a billion dollars right now. And they will most definitely be sold, whether it’s now, next year when the old man and his company go bankrupt, or the day after he dies and his son liquidates the entire concern. The only difference is that right now it will bring in five times more than next year, or whenever.”
“I know,” I hissed, “but it’s still too many poor bastards out of work.”
One of the less senior, but certainly fatter, members of the board made a predictable remark about making omelets and breaking eggs. I shot him a hateful look and he went silent. I’d like to see him try and actually make an omelet, that lazy asshole.
“This is how it’s done, Seth,” insisted Wainwright, trying a more forgiving, paternal tone. “This is how we make our money, this is how your father made money...”
“Don’t mention my father to me!” I yelled, on my feet again and rounding on him. Mr. Clancy and his son went wide-eyed at my outburst while, outside the office, RHC employees busied themselves faster, trying to not be seen eavesdropping. “I’ll be damned if I ever do business the way he did!” I saw Wainwright pale slightly and allowed myself a little smile of victory. A moment passed and I returned my voice to its more normal range. “George, tell the board about the plan we worked out.”
George cleared his throat and spoke to the whole room this time. “If RHC were to invest in Mr. Clancy’s business, instead of selling off the assets,” he began, “it would take around $100 million right now to increase the workforce and update his facilities to the point where they could be back in profit in three years. According to our projections, that’s a return for us of $50 million on top of our original investment in five years’ time.”
“Meaning Mr. Clancy keeps his company and his workforce keeps their jobs. I’m sorry, Hector,” I smiled at Wainwright, “it’s a lot less than a billion.” Robert Clancy choked and coughed on the water he was drinking. “But it’s still profit for RHC, and I think both you and I can continue to survive without another billion dollars, don’t you?”
Wainwright said nothing, his face locked in a pain-filled rictus of forced acquiescence. I walked down the table to Mr. Clancy, who slowly and carefully stood. We shook hands. “As the majority shareholder of RHC, I have the power to green light any major decisions all by my lonesome,” I smiled, “and I say we are going to be working together, Mr. Clancy, sir. What say you?”
The old man’s voice was deep and rough. “I’d say you got a deal, Mr. Radisson.”
Clancy Jr. piped up a protest, which his father quickly but kindly silenced, and there was some grumbling from the board. I ignored them. “Outstanding. Now, we’ve been trying to arrange this deal for six months; I think we all need a break.” I smiled over at George. “Do you think we ought to learn something about the superyacht business, old buddy?” He nodded back at me, enthusiastically. “I believe I have a 150ft boat moored off the coast of somewhere, don’t I?”
“You do,” replied George, “but I’m afraid she’s in dry-dock, being refitted.”
“Well then,” I turned to my latest business partner, “Mr. Clancy, with your connections, I was hoping you could steer us toward a good charter...”
Mr. Clancy smiled back. “I know just the captain to take care of you.”
Chapter 2:Tara
The alarm beeped annoyingly, right by my pillow. I reached out and hit snooze, praying for just five more minutes of sleep. It was not to be, however, even though it was only five in the morning. This was the life we’d signed up for.
The light in our tiny cabin came on and Suzy instantly slid down from her top bunk. I tried to turn my head in time but it was too late. Suzy insisted on sleeping naked which never bothered me, except first thing every morning when I was presented with a daily, eye-level and in-your-face view of her hairless and exposed vagina, or a pair of smooth, bare buttocks, before she would disappear into our little shower room. It was certainly not my ideal way of waking up, regardless of how firm, tanned, and sexy that ass was.
I could hear tooth-brushing and off-key humming noises coming from the small head that served our cabin, so I hauled myself out of my bunk. Blinking the sleep out of my eyes, I stared at myself in the mirror on the bathroom door. Jeez, I looked awful. My shoulder-length blonde hair was all tousled and frizzy, my blue eyes bloodshot and puffy, and the close proximity of the mirror was showing me every single open pore and blemish. I let out a long sigh and groped about on the shelves for my Lycra running shorts.
I found them and
pulled them on, then stood and turned away from the cabin door. This was a habit I developed after the second time Troy burst in uninvited, and we ended up nipple-to-nipple. The cabin really was that small. It always amazed me how he always seemed to know exactly when one or both of us were half-naked but, of course, he never knocked. Sure enough, as I pulled my nightshirt up over my head, I heard the door open and an excited "wow-ee" come from the doorway. I quickly wrapped my arms around my bare breasts and shot Troy an evil, yet playful, look over my shoulder. It was hard to be mad at him. He didn’t mean any harm, he was just being silly and flirty. Our boat’s third deckhand stood there, shirtless, and gorgeous, a solid slab of muscle, all tanned skin and cheeky smiles, with long, wet, brown hair framing his sharp, stubbly face.
“Get the fuck out, Troy!” I snapped at him, as he stared at my bare back, hoping for a glimpse of side-boob. He opened his mouth to reply, but the words caught in his throat as Suzy stepped serenely out of the head, still totally naked and completely unashamed. She gave me the diversion I needed to grab my sports bra and tug it over my tits.
“Morning, handsome,” sang Suzy, as she squeezed her long, lithe body around me. She smiled as she walked slowly, yet threateningly, toward the open-mouthed Troy. She reached him, placed a hand on his firm chest, and effortlessly shoved him out the door, closing it behind her. She turned to me and giggled as the outside corridor was quickly filled with loud complaints and protests.
I smiled back at her. “Will you put some damn clothes on?” I insisted.
“Only if you give me a big kiss first, beautiful!” she teased, playfully caressing her proud and prominent breasts seductively.
“Oh, you bitch,” I laughed. While it seemed to me that Suzy was a try-sexual – meaning she’d try pretty much anything – she knew I was only into guys. She’d still mess with me every chance she got, though. “Shut up and let’s go, shall we?”
“Just waiting for you!” she called behind me as I stepped into the head and locked the door. As I brushed my teeth, my mind wondered over the two months I’d spent so far crewing this yacht. Part of me wished I could be as outgoing and confident in my body as Suzy, the second steward to my third. There was, after all, not a lot of room for privacy or modesty among the crew, below-deck of Venus, the 161 foot, $20 million luxury motor yacht we all worked charters on. The cramped, claustrophobic crew quarters meant everyone was bound to see your junk or your tits at some point, so why should I worry?
Plus, every night we weren’t on charter usually involved vast amounts of drinking and dancing, as you’d expected from a crew of mostly early-twenty-something beautiful people, working hard in the Caribbean and earning a ton of money. Of course, there was more than a fair share of making out and hooking up going on too, although the latter was not quite as common as you’d think. Especially since the morning after would leave both parties trapped on a boat with no way of escape.
And last night had been one of those nights, involving far too much rum and tequila. As the last clouds of drowsiness finally disappeared from my brain, my head began to bang. I drank down a glass of water and struggled to recall the night’s shenanigans. Troy, I thought I could remember, had made out with Michelle, our normally very professional chief steward, who was still an astonishingly attractive redhead despite being over a decade older than the rest of the crew. Michelle was normally a little aloof and austere when she was sober but she could certainly party when the mood took her.
Toward the end of the night, I did recollect, a bunch of the younger guys and girls had skinny-dipped off the side of the yacht, leaping laughing and naked into the black Caribbean waters, but that was pretty par for the course on those off-nights.
As for myself, I remembered flirting a little with a guy in the bar we were at, and gradually began to recall responding when Alex, the very sexy ship’s engineer, began to compliment and flirt with me. Oh, God! That was all I needed. Alex was fit, certainly. A little shorter and not quite the Adonis that most deckhands, like Troy, turned into after a length of time at sea, but he made up for it with a really smart sense of humor and a quiet vulnerability. I just wasn’t looking for anything serious. Not right now.
Remembering his interest in me, and the enthusiastic look in his eye as we flirted, my self-confidence began to return a little. I put on some makeup, brushed my hair, and, slowly the face in the mirror returned to someone I finally recognized. A little highlighting around my eyes, a little gloss on my lips, and I started to feel attractive again. And, thanks to getting up at five every morning and running around the boat for ninety minutes with Troy and Suzy, no matter what the weather or how much we’d imbibed the night before, all the tacos, nachos, and binge drinking had only a negligible effect on my body. Thanks to the work I put in, I managed to maintain my flat stomach, firm butt, slim legs, and high bust.
Don’t get me wrong, I was no buff gym-goddess, like Suzy. But Alex still called me a knockout last night, which was always nice to hear. God, I hoped things were not going to be weird between us now, though. It’s seldom a bad thing to have a more senior colleague a little sweet on you, so long as he knows it’s never going to get serious, but I needed to keep my focus for the tasks I had ahead, and the secret plans I could never tell my crewmates about.
*****
After we ran, Suzy, Troy, and I went back to our quarters and showered for the crew breakfast-meeting. Around the table in the galley was a long, L-shaped couch built into the walls, and we three most junior crew members, along with Alex, were the first to arrive. First deckhand Mike, who displayed his usual early morning bad mood, and Sofia, looking typically frumpy in her second deckhand uniform, was next to appear.
It always amazed me just how Sofia, short, pretty, and olive-skinned, could fly silently and almost unnoticed about the boat during a charter but, off-duty, she could quickly throw on some heels, a backless dress, and transform into a sultry, hard-partying princess with enough cleavage to get us behind almost any velvet rope. Maybe it was because she was only about five feet tall with no shoes on at work, which was the rule aboard Venus for both crew and guests alike.
The door opened and in walked Captain Samson, all white hair and bushy beard, with Sam, the newly appointed bosun. Tristan, a Cordon Bleu chef from London, followed them, pristine in his sharp white jacket, and as gay as can be, along with Michelle, who carefully and subtly managed to sit at the bolted down table as far from Troy as possible. They’d clearly just come from their senior crew meeting.
“Good morning, everyone,” Captain Samson’s English accent was crisp as he took a chair at the head of the table “I hope you all had fun last night.” Alex and I exchanged glances, and I saw Troy’s eyes flit over to where Michelle was sitting, although she didn’t flinch. “However, today is a work day, and here’s our charter.”
Sam handed round sheets of paper that had a head-shot and some details printed underneath. When the first sheet circled around to me, it showed a big, African-American guy with a scar on his left cheek and gold where his front teeth should have been. Charming.
“Jay Money Monarch,” began Sam. Unaccustomed to public speaking, he stopped and cleared his throat before continuing, “as you probably all know, is a multi-million selling rap and hip-hop artist who loves his bling.” I passed the sheet on and took the next one. This was a handsome, clean-looking chap, in his early thirties, who looked incredibly fit but that could have been just the photo. “Mick Holland,” announced Sam, “another billionaire and a motorcycle racer who currently competes at world level in the Moto-GP championship.”
I felt my hands shaking as the third paper was handed over to me. I felt the breath catch in my throat as I looked at the picture. “Seth Radisson,” said Sam. “Our primary charter.”
Finally, I thought to myself, the one I’ve been waiting for.
“A billionaire playboy type that does actually take his work seriously,” Sam read from his notes. “As always, don’t forget that the primary is the guy wh
o’s paying. He’s our boss for the next few days and the one that’s going to tip you all.”
I accidently scoffed to myself but, luckily, no one noticed. Just as no one noticed as I held on to the paper and stared at his picture. Look at him, I thought, rich, handsome, arrogant bastard. My eyes began to stare through the photograph, my mind flashing back eight years, almost to the day.
I was the most popular senior in Santa Monica High School. I had wealthy friends, a BMW convertible, and all the cute boys chasing me. I was all set, eager to head off to one of the top colleges in the country, then carve out a career, maybe in fashion. My father’s successful yacht-building company had given me and my mother a privileged life that made others envious.
The bubble burst, though. Times went bad and I didn’t find out until it was too late. The spare cash dried up and people stopped buying yachts. My dad tried to keep it secret that his business was in trouble, borrowing and dealing, trying to keep afloat until the economy improved. And he succeeded for a while, right up until my car was seized and towed, right out of the student car park in front of all my friends. After that, well, I couldn’t even get a ride home.
Soon, the house went too and, not long after, my mother. She was desperate to get back the life she was used to, I guess, because we woke up one morning and she’d just vanished. I never saw her again. My dad never managed to recover. He was able to explain to me that they lost everything due to a hostile takeover from a huge firm. He told me it was a billion-dollar corporation called RHC, and that the founder and CEO was a guy called Bernard Radisson.
He also knew that Radisson had been leaking the problems my father’s company was experiencing, as well as RHC’s secret plans for the acquisition, for months. The result of that illegal move was no confidence in the company, so the share prices dropped and no one dared lift a finger to help the Swift family business out. Two days after he’d been forced to sign the handover, selling his life’s work for a measly ten thousand dollars, my father shot himself.
