Rising Storm: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 11)

by Wayne Stinnett

  “If I break it,” he interrupted, “I bought it.”

  “Be careful,” I said. “When you get there Finn will probably be alone, and I don’t know how he’ll react.”

  I wasn’t concerned that they’d have any trouble with the Revenge. Both men were very familiar with the boat and had tons of offshore and nearshore experience.

  The two men left, and Paul and Deuce were right behind them, taking Tom along. When I turned around, I suddenly realized it was just me and the two women. Charity was sitting on one bed and Chyrel, the other.

  “I don’t know about y’all,” Chyrel said, “but I’m about nine ways to hungry. Does this place have room service?”

  “I have a better idea,” I offered. “There’s a restaurant across the street, next to the grocery store. They order crawfish and tilapia from Carl. It’s called Monty’s Raw Bar. Care to try it out?”

  “Sure,” Chyrel said, grabbing her go-bag and heading toward the bathroom, “but I need to change. Besides, hungry or not, we’ll have to wait here at least an hour before we go anywhere.”

  “Why do we need to wait?” I asked.

  “Because,” Charity said, flopping back on the bed, hands behind her head, “it’d take you at least that long to satisfy two women that are hotter than a pair of two-dollar pistols.”

  As the door to the bathroom closed, I heard Chyrel laughing uncontrollably. Charity rolled over on her side and started to laugh, too.

  An hour later, we crossed the street and walked to the restaurant, just around the corner. We didn’t see Carmichael or Cruz or anyone else for that matter.

  “I’m just saying,” I said, opening the door to the restaurant. “We can make other arrangements.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Chyrel said. “We’re all adults here. Yeah, we’re playing some kinda cat-and-mouse game with these people, and I know you’d prefer to just bash his skull in, but we have to do it with finesse. That means putting on the illusion that we’re a threesome.”

  Charity walked through the door, followed by Chyrel. “I get it, but did you both have to grab my butt in the lobby? There wasn’t anyone around.”

  “Just practicing,” Chyrel said.

  Charity stopped just inside the door and turned toward me. “Don’t look now, but the rat and his mice are here. Three o’clock, just around the corner.”

  The hostess was at a little kiosk just ahead, with dining areas off to both sides, and an open-air dining area on a large palm thatch covered deck off the back.

  “I don’t give a shit,” I said. “I’m hungry.”

  The two of them quickly fell into character as they followed me.

  “Dinner for three?” the young lady at the kiosk asked.

  “Outside, if possible,” Charity said.

  “Stretch!” I heard Carmichael shout. I rolled my eyes as I turned toward them, then smiled, and waved. He motioned us over.

  “Do it,” Charity said, nudging me.

  “Thanks,” I told the hostess. “We’re going to join our friends.”

  Together, the three of us walked toward Carmichael’s table. Cruz, Penny, and Jenna were with him, along with another man. He was younger, non-threatening looking. Probably a friend of either Penny or Jenna. As we approached, the other man suddenly stood.

  “Yeah, I get it now,” he said. His eyes flashing toward us. “Two is better than one.” He looked back at Carmichael, obviously angry. “Fuck you, man!”

  We stepped aside, as the young man stormed past. “Don’t pay him any mind,” Carmichael said, waving us forward. “Sit down. It’s great that you showed up here. Now we can get to know each other.”

  “Who was that?” I asked, pulling out two chairs for Chyrel and Charity. Carmichael had his back to the wall, Cruz on one side and the two girls on the other.

  “That was Cliff,” Jenna said. “Wilson just told him that we’re leaving Friday morning, instead of in a week.”

  “He didn’t seem to be taking the news well,” Chyrel said.

  “He has a job,” Penny said. “And he’d arranged to have a week off, but not next week. The week after. And now it’s too late to change it with his boss. I’m Penny.”

  I introduced Chyrel and Charity to everyone, using their aliases. “You know what boss spelled backward is?” I asked Penny. “A double SOB.”

  The sophomoric joke didn’t seem to register for a minute, and then she smiled. “Oh, I get it.”

  “So, what’d the boatyard say?” I asked Carmichael, as I sat down between Chyrel and Charity.

  Carmichael went on to tell me that Mistrall wasn’t happy about rescheduling the larger part of the work, but understood. “By now, they probably have the bulk of the VIP cabin done. That’s what I’m gonna call it, the VIP cabin. Another guy is gonna run the wiring and plumbing in the forward section tonight, then they’ll lay decking and build a partition around the head tomorrow. He’s even got three super-king mattresses, he’s gonna install, one forward and two side-by-side just aft of that one.”

  “Sounds cozy,” Charity said, smiling at Cruz.

  The waitress arrived with our drinks. Before anyone could even look at the menu, Carmichael said, “We need some oysters. A whole lot of oysters.”

  Cruz laughingly agreed, and Carmichael told the waitress to start steaming and bring them out two dozen at a time.

  “Oysters are good for the libido,” Jenna said.

  When we left the restaurant an hour later, Chyrel said, “I need another shower.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Charity agreed. “I mean, I’ve been with another woman before, and enjoyed it. But the things they were talking about? And over dinner?”

  “These are some perverted individuals,” I said. “Another day and a half, then we can turn the lot of them over to the cops.”

  “How do girls that young get roped into stuff like that?” Charity asked. “Never mind. Obviously, they meet people like Cruz and Carmichael.”

  Reaching the room, I opened the door and we went inside. I pulled a quarter from my pocket and told Chyrel to call it.

  “Heads,” she said. “What are we flipping for?”

  It landed on the bed, tails up. “Charity gets the first shower,” I said.

  I caught Charity’s not-so-subtle wink at Chyrel. “The shower’s big enough for all three of us.”

  “Yeah, Jesse,” Chyrel said. “Gotta keep up appearances.”

  “Get in there,” I told Charity, spinning her gently toward the bathroom, hoping they were both joking. “And be quick about it.”

  Chyrel sat at her computer and turned on the bug in Carmichael’s room. They’d stayed behind to have a few drinks when we left. Picking up a small desk mic, she spoke into it. “Andrew, I got the sound on here. How are things going there?”

  “Haven’t heard anything over the comm,” Andrew’s voice said over the laptop’s speakers. “Finn was a little defensive at first and it took a while to get the Revenge past the sailboat, but we’re heading toward the lighthouse in Harbor Channel now.”

  “Damn,” I muttered, taking a pillow from each bed, and tossing them on a recliner. “I forgot about that. Ask him if Finn’s okay.”

  She relayed the question and he replied that Finn was aboard, napping already, and that Tony had gone below and was going to set up the pull-out sofa to use as a watch bunk, as soon as he made some coffee. “We can take turns getting a little sleep on the way.”

  “Sounds good,” Chyrel replied, as I heard the water turn off in the bathroom. “We’ll have the comm until about midnight, then I’ll switch it over to you guys. Remember to turn it off when you go to sleep.”

  Charity came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her hair and another around her body. I didn’t say anything, just stepped past her into the bathroom and grabbed a spare blanket off the shelf in the linen closet.

  “What are you doing with that?” Charity asked, slipping past me again after retrieving her go-bag.

  “You two can have the
beds,” I said. “I’ll sleep on the recliner.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Chyrel said, following Charity into the bathroom with her bag. “The beds are plenty big enough for two.”

  “Or three,” Charity said, closing the door.

  This is gonna be a long night, I thought, as I continued to make up the recliner. Another long night.

  A moment later, Charity stepped out, and I could hear the shower running. She wore the same loose-fitting white tank dress she’d worn after the shower fiasco on the island.

  Charity dropped her bag beside the bed. “Seriously, Jesse, Chyrel and I can take one bed and you can have the other. Or you and I can sleep together. I know you’re a gentleman.”

  “Keyword: man,” I replied.

  “You don’t trust yourself?”

  No, I thought. How could any man?

  “Why tempt myself?” I said, instead.

  Charity laughed as she sat on the edge of the bed and crossed her legs. “You talk as if you’re the only one with any say in the matter, when in fact the man very rarely has any say at all.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I stammered. “Of course, both parties should have a say.”

  “Trust me, Jesse. If I wanted to screw you right now, you’d be getting screwed. It wouldn’t matter if you were a choir boy.”

  All I could do was stare at her as I searched my mind for any kind of response. The bathroom door opened and Chyrel came out, wearing baggy blue gym shorts and a faded Bon Jovi tee-shirt that probably dated back to when she was a kid.

  “I don’t know about y’all, but I’m bushed,” Chyrel said, moving around to the far side of the bed behind Charity. “What time is it?”

  Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, I said, “Um, half past ten.”

  “You’re still standing there,” Chyrel said, pulling the covers back on the bed, as Charity continued to stare at me, her bright blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “Get your ass in the shower, and turn the lights out. Oh, and don’t forget to switch the bug over to Andrew before you go to bed.”

  Charity pulled down the covers on her side, and shifted her body, lying back, and pulling her long tan legs up, before extending them under the sheets. Both women pulled the covers up over themselves, Charity still challenging me with her eyes.

  Grabbing my bag, I went into the bathroom. One of them whispered something as I closed the door, and they both giggled softly.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was longer than it’d ever been, past my collar and nearly covering my ears. It was also lighter than it’d ever been, washed out from more than nine years in the sun. I hadn’t shaved in over a week, and the dark stubble showed definite patches of gray forming on both sides of my chin and high on both temples. Around my eyes, the skin was less tan, again due to nine years of living in the Keys, and wearing polarized sunglasses while out on the water. Wrinkles extended from the corners of my eyes, fanning out like a southern belle’s white lace fan.

  I’m forty-seven, I thought. And was just treated like a piece of meat by a woman more than a decade younger. Whether she was joking or not, I suddenly realized it was true.

  The male of any species must be primed and ready all the time, because he never knew when the opportunity might present itself. But this applies only to lower animal forms, where the male takes what he wants when the opportunity comes along. In the modern human species, the opportunity is all around, yet the taking at will is done only by lowlife turd fondlers, like Carmichael.

  I grinned at myself in the mirror, remembering Charity had said she liked that term.

  In today’s modern society, there’s usually a courtship, and traditionally the man takes the lead. It’s been the same for generations of humans, the man asking the woman for a date, holding the door, paying for the meal, and making the first move. Many feminists disapprove of these things, saying they’re demeaning, and that women should open their own doors, and not be afraid to take the traditionally male role of being the aggressor in a possible relationship, asking the man out if she likes him.

  I’ve met a few women like that. Devon was sort of that way. She’d definitely made the first advance, and damned near destroyed me the first time we’d slept together. But it never really felt like she was being overly aggressive. Some women have learned to take what they want, and still make the man feel like he was the triumphant sexual aggressor. My views might be considered old-fashioned, but I was raised by my grandparents.

  My shower lasted only a few minutes. Without the need to shave, the seven minutes I once spent had dwindled to just five. I turned the light off before exiting the bathroom, not wanting to disturb the two women. I needn’t have bothered. They were sitting up, talking.

  Another sound came from over on the desk. When I walked over toward it and dropped my bag, I realized the sound was coming from the computer. The sound of people having sex. More than two people.

  I quickly located the volume down button and held it until the sound disappeared. “I’m sorry,” I said, without knowing why. “You don’t need to hear this.”

  “It’s just two people making the beast with two backs,” Chyrel said. I could feel her grin, even with my back to her.

  “And someone else smacking his ass to make him go faster,” Charity added.

  “We should leave it on,” Chyrel said. “They may slip and say something we can use.”

  “And just what do you mean, we don’t need to hear this?” Charity asked. “We, as in women? It’s mostly the two women making the noises. All he’s doing is grunting like a rutting ape. It’s not like we haven’t heard it before.”

  In the battle of the sexes, men are at a distinct disadvantage at times, and I knew when to give up the skirmish. I was a dinosaur in today’s battle, just as I am against our current enemy. I was old.

  Grabbing my money clip and wallet, I said, “Fine, listen all you want. I’m gonna go get a drink. Maybe two.”

  I turned the volume up on the computer and headed for the door. There was no way I was going to listen to two women having sex with one man and each other, while trapped in a room with these two.

  “Hand the comm over to Andrew at midnight,” I said, closing the door behind me. As I walked past Carmichael’s room, I heard a sharp smack and Carmichael grunted.

  Am I a prude? I asked myself. Two loving parents raised me until I was eight. They had a normal relationship and I don’t think either of them ever even looked at someone of the opposite sex, at least not in that way. They never invited another person into their bed, and their bedroom door was closed when they slept. The grown-up me knew that they made love, probably every night they were together. They were young, married, and devoted to each other.

  After my parents died, I went to live with Mam and Pap. At the time, they’d been younger than I am now. They held hands in public, but I don’t recall ever seeing them kiss. I’m sure they did, of course; and they had an active sex life, I suppose. But it was one man and one woman, behind closed doors.

  If that’s prudish, I’m a prude.

  Charity had said more than once that she enjoyed sex with both men and women, and it sure didn’t seem like Chyrel was acting when they kissed out by the pool. Charity had even said that Devon was bisexual. There were a lot of things I just didn’t understand and probably never would. What people did in the privacy of their bedrooms, I’d always considered was their own business, definitely none of mine. If they identified themselves as gay, lesbian, or somewhere in between, who was I to say otherwise?

  Getting off the elevator, I found the lobby was nearly deserted. It was Wednesday, and it was late. Just a few miles north, in South Beach, that didn’t matter much. But here in Coconut Grove it was time to roll up the sidewalks.

  The lounge was nearly empty, just a waitress and bartender, talking at the end of the bar, and two couples at different tables. I went to the opposite end of the bar and took a stool next to Tony’s potted palm.

  “Get ya so
mething?” the bartender asked, walking casually toward me. It wasn’t Nick, nor the guy who was working the other night.

  “Do you have any good rum?” I asked, leaning my arms on the bar. “Something dark, but not some self-proclaimed captain?”

  His eyes fell to the tattoo on my forearm. “Recon, huh? Pusser’s good for you?”

  “Perfect,” I replied. “Make it a double; chilled.”

  “Name’s Mike,” he said, scooping ice into a shaker. He reached under the bar without looking and produced a bottle of dark rum with a red label, and pulled the cork with a satisfying pop. I recognized it as the fifteen-year-old aged rum from Pusser’s.

  “Call me Stretch,” I said.

  He poured without measuring, then capped the shaker and swirled it around with some ice cubes a few times, before pouring it through the strainer into a highball glass.

  “Nice to meet you, Stretch,” Mike said, placing the drink in front of me. “My brother was a Recon Marine. First one’s on the house.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Your brother get out, or retire?”

  “Killed in action in Fallujah.”

  “Sorry for your loss,” I said, raising my glass, “but grateful for his service.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “You serve in Vietnam?”

  I nearly choked on my first sip. And with good fifteen-year-old rum, that’s practically a sacrilege. “Um, no,” I replied. “That was over before I enlisted.”

  Do I look that old? I wondered. Saigon fell when I was in junior high school. I’d just turned fourteen, but had already made up my mind to follow my father and grandfather in becoming a Marine.

  “Sorry,” Mike said. “My dad was a Nam vet. Army, though. When were you in?”

  “Enlisted in seventy-nine and retired in ninety-nine.”

  He considered it a moment, I could see in his eyes that he was thinking back to events in his own life during that time. It’s how people remember when things happened. Unlikely that he’d remember the former; he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or so.

  “Peacetime Marine, huh?”

  A common enough misconception. People remember the big wars and consider the time between Vietnam and Iraq, the whole last quarter of the previous century and two years into the next, as all peaceful. The world was far from a peaceful place during that time, and I knew it personally, but let it slide. “Yeah, for the most part.”