suites at the Atlantis. Ka-ching!
No more fifty-yard-line season tickets to the Dolphins or box seats to the Heat. Ka-ching, Ka-ching…
KERPLUNK!
“It won’t happen again, honey,” he cried, pulling at his salt-and-pepper combover. “I promise I’ll change.”
“You’re damn right you will!” shouted Sandy. “Like you would never, ever, in your wildest dreams imagine…”
Little did Raymond Prince know he was about to take a swim with the fishes.
Literally.
Chapter 1
From the moment of impact, twenty-eight-year-old Clarence “Woody” Woods was hooked.
Both line and sinker.
He hardly flinched when that tray of mojitos cascaded onto the front of his khaki shorts and soaked clear through to his skin.
Nor did he squirm when the concoction of rum, lime and sugar leaked down his legs and pooled inside his Top-Siders, causing his toes to stick together and every synapse in his body to short-circuit.
Nope, Woody just stood there in the middle of the Spinnaker Café. Frozen stiff.
As the temperature in Miami hit ninety-two degrees.
“I am so sorry,” whispered the beauteous vision before him. “Shame for me! I am shit waitress for sure.”
“No, you’re not at all,” he said. “This was all my fault. I was spaced. Totally not looking where I was going.”
But the truth was that Woody, who had worked at the Trade Winds Yacht Club on and off since his preteens, could easily navigate every square inch of this exclusive facility. Blindfolded. But of course that was before a girl with huge Caribbean Sea–glass eyes and long auburn hair so disoriented the poor sailor, he slammed into her with the force of a tsunami.
“But look what big mess I have made of you now,” she said, pointing to his crotch.
And just like that, Woody’s six-foot frame shrunk to the size of a pea. His soggy clothes left behind in a pile amongst plastic glasses, ice cubes, salted nuts and what little remained of his dignity.
No sooner had Woody made a very speedy exit from the Spinnaker Café, than the competition arrived.
Armed and ready.
Judging from their battle fatigues, these twenty-three year-old boys clearly worshiped the preppy gods of entitlement. Pastel-colored Lacoste shirts worn loose. Collars popped upward. Abercrombie and Fitch cargo shorts, slightly frayed. Prada flip-flops. Rolexes. Vuarnet sunglasses.
In other words, all the best their parents’ money could buy.
Todd Hollings, the taller of the two by several inches, zeroed in on the new addition to the club’s wait staff. With those tits, long legs and cinched waist, her body reminded him of his younger sister’s Barbie doll—the one he used to secretly borrow for jerk-off sessions in the bathroom.
Todd turned to Barry Felds, his best friend since grade school. “Dude, get a look at that premium piece of ass.”
“Daa-aaam,” came the equally profane observation. “That girl is so fine!”
The boys sauntered up to the hostess. Before she doubled her weight in saddlebags, Todd used to think Babette was pretty hot for an older woman.
“Will you handsome devils be dining with us today?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” said Todd, mentally disrobing a certain waitress scurrying past him. “But no need for a menu. I already know what I want.”
The Trade Winds Yacht Club sat on a jut of meticulously landscaped grounds on Biscayne Bay within walking distance of the town of Coconut Grove. Its facilities, fine-tuned year after year, were top-notch. Some seven hundred strong members had access to a Mediterranean-style clubhouse with a formal dining room suitable for large parties, as well as the Spinnaker Café, an indoor/outdoor bar and grill, a large pool, a ten-person Jacuzzi and two tennis courts.
The Trade Winds marina offered one hundred and thirty slips with enough draft to accommodate sail as well as power boats up to sixty-five feet. Not to mention every amenity a picky boater could desire from 50-200 ampere electric service to individual pump-out stations.
Despite the usual drama associated with running a high-class establishment like the Trade Winds Yacht Club, Woody enjoyed his job. On this particular day, however, he wished he’d stayed home.
It was bad enough that he’d smashed into that new waitress with every diner in the café as his witness, but to have bolted from the premises with his tail between his legs? That was just unacceptable. Especially for a guy whose reputation around the club had been built on his strength of character, professionalism and an ability to stay cool in dicey situations—on and off the water.
He should have just laughed off the incident and then offered to help clean up the mess for which he was responsible. Period. That would have been the proper move to make.
Still chastising himself, Woody was just about to slip on a clean polo when his boss, Skip Edwards, lumbered into the staff locker room. Farting loudly with each step taken.
“Knew I shouldn’t have had that fucking chili,” he barked under his breath.
With his retirement only a year away, Skip’s moods were often less than sanguine.
“Hey, boss,” said Woody.
“Glad to see you’re still alive,” said Skip, his beef jerky face softening. “I was worried about you, son.”
He placed a gnarly, baseball-mitt-sized hand on Woody’s left shoulder.
“Old man Dixon told me he saw you running from the café like your balls were caught on fire.”
Woody felt the skin on his cheeks sizzle. The way dirt flew around the club, his boss must have heard what had happened.
“It was nothing…”
Bullshit, it was huge. He had no idea who that waitress was or where she came from, but he’d never reacted to any girl in that manner before.
“…Just a minor accident, that’s all.”
Skip pointed to the soggy clothes on the bench and laughed. “You mean to say, you pissed yourself?”
But before Woody had a chance to concoct an explanation, his boss took off for the bathroom.
“Just remember, son,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll leave you with one piece of valuable advice. Beware of pretty girls bearing drinks.”
Woody returned to the marina in time to witness Frank Elliot backing his forty-two foot diesel-powered pride and joy, the Nautical but Nice, into his slip.
Elliot’s wife stood at the bow. Boat hook in hand. Picture perfectly still, save for her blunt-cut highlighted tresses blowing in the breeze.
“What the hell are you waiting for!” shrieked her husband, so loudly his second mate nearly lost her footing. “Get the damn starboard line already, Louise!”
Mrs. Elliot looked left, right and then up toward the heavens for support.
“Help!” she whined.
With the Nautical but Nice inches away from the freshly waxed hull of a neighboring sloop, Woody knew he had to act fast.
“The right side, Mrs. Elliot,” he whispered loud enough for her to hear but soft enough so her husband wouldn’t.
The woman mouthed a thank-you to Woody and proceeded to pluck the correct line off the correct piling. In her excitement over a job well done, however, she managed to drop the rope into the water. Lucky for her, Mr. Elliot was busy tying off the stern and didn’t see this