Sirens of DemiMonde (HalfWorld Trilogy Book 1)

by N. Godwin

  I raise my eyes to the full moon, momentarily saddened that I don’t have time to find her peace, and annoyed that I certainly don’t have time to be still and listen for six, seeing how I’m a little busy down here! And just what in the heck are these six anyway?

  This sign couldn’t be pointing to Number 6 on my list, who had been Sandy (who used to be called Fat-Sandy—who’s been boycotting the DemiMonde since she’s dieting and doesn’t want our chocolate cake to tempt her), who’d been eliminated from consideration by heavenly design, so she can’t be the 6…

  “ What six are you talking about?” I try to ask the sky calmly. “What are they and what do they want from me? What’s the relevance of 6?”

  I listen and wait for… something. No reply, just more static.

  I startle when Hobie suddenly plants himself in front of me again. His face is red with excitement and he is giving me two huge thumbs-up. “I figured it out!” he tells me breathlessly. “See, since you’re always saying you don’t want women exploited, we can include men and equally exploit them, too!” Hobie insists as he slides an order of fried shrimp and fries under the warmer and taps his foot impatiently.

  “No, you’re taking me out of context again. I said I don’t want women exploited, period, end of chorus.”

  “You simply have to agree to it if it’s fair!” Hobie argues. “Because if everybody gets exploited it’s fair!”

  I just stare at him.

  “Come on, Jimmy-Sue. You’ll like it! Heck, the men could even go first.”

  “Men, eating bananas?” I arch my eyebrow and ask into his eager face. “You think I’d like that?!” I don’t have to say anything else. I try to hide my smile behind my hand as Hobie reacts.

  “It isn’t too friggin’ much for me to ask, you know, getting off from girls eating a few bananas!” He begins counting down his fingers. “I baby sit! I put up with Tony’s salsa crap dominating my stereo! I even put up with smelly Robert, the mouth from Hades, who won’t bathe! For the love of God, I even clean toilets! Soooo, can I have one little contest of women with big tatas, medium tatas, heck, I’d even take women with hardly any tatas! Nooooooo.”

  I let him ramble as my eyes scan over the crowded café. I check the crowd outside on the patio, too, making sure stations are covered and things are humming along in a semblance of forward motion. Tourists have already begun arriving for the 4th of July even though it’s still two days away, and tonight we are celebrating the Zen of bumper stickers. This time of year bumper stickers are at their peak with hundreds of brilliant new ditties and vulgarities waiting to be shared. Ken believes bumper stickers and country music are the poetry of the common man.

  The fishermen, Bud, Otis and Bubba, always show up for bumper sticker night, and are sitting at the bar trying desperately not to get pissed off at Robert’s constant prattle about his favorite breakfast cereal and the Looney Tune characters he says keep appearing in our oak floors.

  Bud keeps telling Robert: “Boy you need a good hard-day as a deckhand!”

  “On somebody else’s boat!” Otis is always quick to add in case Robert actually catches on.

  “What you need is a friggin’ date!” Hobie grumbles as he steps in front of me on a last ditch effort to get on my good side. “When’s the last time you even had a date anyway, middle school?”

  My eyes dart over to Alan and John, freshly off shift from the amusement park this evening, and are the self designated emcee for the evening’s main event. They ding on beer mugs and calm the mob as the jukebox gets unplugged and the noise goes down several decibels. I stand back in the shadows quietly and realize that even though I am used to the feel of many eyes upon me, I seem unusually vulnerable tonight.

  Two hot looking dive instructors from the Navy lab are the first ones out in the center of the floor. Divers and their instructors come here often. They are easily amused and great tippers, too. Tonight these two men are enthusiastically supported by about plenty of their twenty-something year old students. Every time I blink it seems a new girl appears like magic out of the woodwork and sits on another one of their eager laps. These divers always seem to be looking for female companionship, drive reckless cars, and they all seem to come from simply adorable places like Hooters, Montana or Cornfed, Iowa.

  Andrea breezes by and leans in to whisper: “Check out the god over there in the Navy dress-whites, white hat and all. Mmm, mmm, mmm, finger-lickin’ good. Have you ever seen a more perfect specimen of masculinity in all your life? And check out all the medals across his chest.” She pauses to sigh. “Now I know what I want for Christmas!

  “I’ve been watching him from the moment he hit the door, and he looks pretty important to me,” she warns me then pauses to sigh again. “I am such a sucker for a man in uniform.”

  I look where she is staring and see Apollo leaning against the left wooden beam just off the front door. He is less than thirty yards away and is standing in front of the smallest two top we have, the one Eunice always keeps reserved for Elijah, the one we’d found Kelly and Cecile hiding beneath. Next to his enormous stature the table and two chairs look like they were made for children. On top of the table is a near-full pitcher of beer; meaning he hasn’t been here long.

  His right shoulder is casually leaning against the thick post that helps support our ceiling, his hat is cocked slightly on his head, and I glance heavenward for strength as he finishes off a mug of beer while staring a hole through me.

  Apollo hasn’t been up close and personal in a couple of weeks and I’d just hoped he’d maybe fallen off the face of my beach. I not proud that I’ve even given him that much thought except I’m pretty certain this massive sailor has been following me around.

  I quickly look away and make idle chatter with Andrea, who is still gaga-staring at him, speechless for once. I can’t help it and look back. Apollo is still studying me and I feel as though I am being dissected.

  And then it occurs to me that Commander Apollo is taking notes. He is looking for my Achilles heel. Who better than me to know such a look? His serious black eyes are probing and ingesting, and he scares me because I can tell he’s no novice, so I walk over to Ken’s side to shoot the breeze about nothing.

  The two raucous divers in the center of the room are holding a rusty car bumper out in front of them so the entire room can see its faded, vintage sticker: “Divers do it deeeeeeeeeper!”

  Their snickers soon turn into howls as they dance the bumper around the room, pausing in front of a table of equally inebriated young lovelies from Georgia who respond as any hot-bloodied Southern lady would, and soon the entire café is howling and clapping over this ridiculously lame ditty.

  This platoon acts like they haven’t had a woman since spring break and there are probably dozens of women here tonight who would gladly volunteer to end their torture. The ice is definitely beginning to melt. This is the kind of gesture you can expect from the divers. You probably don’t want to bring the Boy Scouts by for lemon pie on bumper sticker night.

  The bumper stickers are now in the hands of the sports enthusiasts. Stickers after slogan of football and baseball come in a wave. The Bear has lunch with God, Bobby is related to Jesus, and Spurrier is God. Tigers/The Crimson Tide/Gators all eat Bulldog meat, and simply everybody eats Gator tail or Tiger meat. Pluck a War Eagle, get scalped by a Seminole; on and on and on they go because our usual patrons prefer to discuss the SEC but they like them some Florida State, too, of course, because they like their balls in all shapes, all sizes.

  Andrea, Genie and Ken are taking drink orders back to Randy like crazy. Hobie and Kelly are working the kitchen, and all the while Hobie is telling me how “we’ve simply gotta’ have a banana eating contest. Shoot, I’ll even give you my DVD player!” he tries to bribes me as I tune back into the contest.

  “You are aware,” Andrea tells me in between the last two gulps off an almost empty beer mug from her tray (as I scowl at her), “that seven foot admiral is staring at you so hard
I wouldn’t be surprised if you ignited.”

  “Spooky, huh?”

  “The only thing spooky about this situation is your reaction to that gorgeous man,” she says and meets my eyes. “Because soldier-boy over there could command me to do everything anytime or anywhere he likes.”

  “So much for celibacy,” I say and shake my head sadly.

  “I know, right?!” she laughs and lights a cigarette then nudges me in the ribs. “But I get dibs because I saw him first.”

  “First off, you didn’t see him first, but you are more than welcome to him. I certainly don’t want him.”

  “So’s?” she asks breathlessly, “You really don’t want him either?”

  “What would I do with him?”

  We both look over at Apollo and this seems to amuse him. He nods his head to briefly acknowledge Andrea then he bends and reaches for the pitcher of beer.

  “Hello, gorgeous!” she says, although I’m pretty sure he can’t hear her over the noise. “Come to mama!”

  She actually begins to purr as she catches his eye then licks her tongue slowly across her mouth, pointedly wetting her lips. Before I can remind her that she is underage and not to be stupid, Apollo responds to her by raising the entire pitcher of beer to his mouth and draining it in less than five seconds flat.

  “He’s not even belching,” Andrea gushes as he wipes his hand across the back of his mouth, dismissing her altogether, and averting his full attention back to me.

  “You know, Andrea,” I say with a frown, “I kind of get the feeling that even you wouldn’t know what to do with this one.”

  “On second thought,” Andrea says, “I think he’s got his heart set on you.”

  “Oh, goody.” I superstitiously cross my heart just in case she is right.

  Andrea takes a drag from her cigarette and exhales a smoke ring slowly as she studies my face. “F.Y.I., it occurs to me that since you have this problem and all--”

  “I have the problem?”

  “You need to take this bull by the horns, so to speak, and experiment a little. I think you’re detached because you’ve never met your yang.”

  “My yang?”

  “Yeah, your equal and stop looking at me that way because I’m just as sane as you are. I’m just saying it seems to me you would be smart to give controlled sex a try. It might be a very valuable learning experience for you. Plus, you have all this tension. You’re wound up tighter than a nun’s a--”

  “Sex with a hired assassin? You think that’s my yang?”

  “Well, you don’t have to start with the scary ones. Try someone a little safer on for size first then--”

  “Andrea, you should stop this nonsense while you’re ahead.”

  I look over at Apollo despite myself. That devil? An equaled match, with me? Very doubtful. That man is a monster! It’d take one heck of a sign to convince me otherwise.

  Apollo is no slouch and takes advantage of my suspicious gaze by catching my eye and smiling. His beauty in contrast to his size is disturbing and I feel my face burn for some stupid reason, and look down and study my hands. He bends slightly, trying to keep my eyes in his line of vision, and smiling a smile that could almost be coy.

  I feel myself sweat in preparation of the hunt and quickly look away. I turn and walk over to the bar as fast as I can, finding only Horst nearby. But even good old Horst will do nicely (thank you very much), so I stand beside him as the contest ends and Ken turns the stereo back on, pumping up the volume as the room dissolves into conversations and laughter.

  “We’re busy tonight,” Horst finally says while I catch my breath.

  “Uh huh,” I say, reminding myself I have been through this dance a million times before and Apollo is no different from the others, just taller. He was no different-- unless you wanted to count the fact that he is infinitely more cunning and skilled than anyone I’ve ever sidestepped before…

  Aw, crap, I’m too busy for this nonsense!

  I ridiculously wonder if he would go away if I kissed someone else. So, I think about reaching out and planting a big juicy one on Horst. No, not that, then, maybe just touching Horst’s arm, just reaching out and touching his hand or finger, or elbow, come what may despite the sting.

  I really do think about it but I am suddenly approached on all sides by Alan and John, and Mandy and Tony. Then Genie appears behind Robert and she slides over to me and giggles.

  “Oh, Jimmy-Sue,” she shouts over the noise, “That hunky SEAL dude is back and asking lots of questions about you. Wants to know what you drink, if you always wear dresses, and have I ever heard you sing? He paid me fifty bucks!”

  “What’d you tell him?” Andrea snaps.

  “Water or ice tea, usually dresses but sometimes a skirt, and definitely not, that you don’t sing for nobody no more, as I’ve heard told--”

  “Anybody anymore.”

  “Girlfriend,” Andrea tells Genie seriously, “don’t go telling no man nothing--”

  “Any man anything…”

  “--about us! We women have got to learn to stick together! Do you realize the power we could wield?”

  “Imagine that,” Horst tells us, zooming in from Mars, “some guy asking questions about Jimmy-Sue,” he deadpans while everyone laughs.

  They look over at the source expecting more of the same and stop laughing on cue. Apollo nods in their direction.

  “Who is he?” Alan and Mandy want to know.

  “God!” Andrea and Genie say then break out laughing over their psychic timing.

  “God, huh?” Tony mocks, “Then, man do I have a bone to pick with Him!” Tony laughs then crosses himself quickly just in case God doesn’t have a sense of humor.

  “Hey,” Fisherman Bud tells us in a low voice as he steps into our circle with Bubba and Otis in tow, as he follows our line of vision and studies Apollo. “I know who that is! He’s top secret all the way! What’s he doing here?” Bud asks in surprise.

  “Bull!” Randy sputters.

  “I’m serious, guys, you know the Admiral fishes on my boat,” Bud insists, lowering his voice. “Well, last time the Admiral brought him. Trust me when I say that guy moonlights as a body guard for the President of these United States. Yes siree, standing right over there is a CO of SEAL Team 6,” he says lowering his voice an octave. “And that, boys and girls, is scary stuff. Buildings go boom when he shows up. People go bye-bye. He and Marcinko are blood.” Bud crosses his fingers and steals an ominous glance back at Apollo.

  “Marwhoso?” Robert asks.

  “Marcinko,” Bud sighs along with Otis, “the godfather of the SEALS. He fished with me once, and he used to be the scariest man this side of—well, this side of that man.” He points to Apollo and it seems we’re all holding our breath.

  “What’s he doing here?” Randy wants to know.

  “See, Randy, the President’s in our john,” Horst laughs.

  “Booyah!” Bubba and Otis joke loudly.

  “Yeah,” Bud says. “He’s got all the gizmos and gadget the sharpest minds have imagined, and the lethal skills to back them up. He is the strongest and the smartest of the best trained soldiers in the history of man, supported by the richest country of all time, with the most technologically advanced weaponry ever known to man or God. He has the best strategists money can buy and the most powerful military in the history of the world. Yes siree, that sailor has every single thing imaginable, everything except one,” Bud ominously pauses for effect.

  What?” everyone demands to know “What doesn’t he have?”

  “He ain’t got a war,” Bud says and scratches the side of his face. “He’s all dressed up with nowhere to go. Sure he’s got him a skirmish or two and plenty of clandestine ops, but nothing serious since Desert Storm, and this sailor is still wet behind the gills. He wasn’t even old enough to have seen Grenada or--”

  “Hello y’all,” I hear a familiar feminine voice coo right behind me. “What c’all up to?”

  Our ci
rcle opens up to let Alison-Ann enter as I stare at her while she spots Randy then immediately gives him a big, exaggerates wave even though he’s standing only five feet away. We‘re all quiet as we absorb her.

  My cousin is dressed in all this pink fuzzy stuff that must somehow be a dress, with one of my old pink grosgrain ribbons from high school in her busy, ginger hair that even this humidity couldn’t touch because it is lacquered up with so much hairspray I can smell it from here, and she has on enough blush to satisfy Elvis. Randy is staring at her uncharacteristically quiet. She looks oddly vulnerable and feminine.

  I think about grabbing her hand and leading her out of harm’s way. Maybe it’s the look in her eyes or the way she holds herself, or how she’s having trouble breathing? I can’t put my finger on it exactly, but as Ali meets my eyes I can tell she’s nervous, real nervous.

  I hate it when she comes here!

  “Angel!” Randy suddenly roars, stepping from behind his bar. “I was a lonely man in my time of need,” he says as he walks over and gives my cousin a too-big hug and almost sweeps her off her feet. “And from out of the blue comes this angel in pink! Thank you, sweet Jesus!” he emotes and winks, encircling her with his left arm. She hangs on to him as if someone had draped her there.

  “Well, “Ali begins and pauses as she blushes. “I only came by to tell y’all goodbye. Seeing how Karen wants to leave tomorrow and all. So I guess if there’s no reason for me to stay--”

  “No!” Randy tells her quickly. “I want you to go out with me the 4th of July!” He says quickly.

  He meets my glare as I shake my finger at him and mouth “NO!”

  “I just haven’t asked you yet ‘cuz your self-righteous cousin here would get mad at me,” he laughs. “I vote we let her sputter. See, I can get this boat and you can fill a picnic basket, and we can--”