Red Tide (Siren Publishing Classic) (2 page)

He paused to hand her a condom and she eagerly ripped the foil package open and slipped it on him. He slid into her and smothered her moans with his mouth while her hips bucked under him. It only took a few thrusts for his release to start. He reached up with his free hand to caress her neck. Then he squeezed, using his body to pin her against the hood and moving his other hand up to her neck.

Her eyes flew open as she struggled against him, realizing she’d made the mistake of her life.

His climax seemed to last forever as her struggles grew weaker and weaker. He was still coming when she died. When he finally finished, he kissed her cheek and whispered, “Nothing but the best.”

Saturday, September 9th

Mitch Jackson glanced down and behind her at the glassy surface of the Gulf. The greenish water beckoned her from its opaque depths while the nearby diesel slick destroyed any illusion of a normal dive. She looked at Ed, glanced briefly at Jack and Ron standing on the other side of the boat, then back to Ed.

“Clear?” she mumbled around the regulator mouthpiece.

He nodded. “Clear.”

She rolled backward off the gunwale, her right hand holding her mask and regulator against her face, her left clutching her gauge console.

In the water, Mitch automatically righted herself and bobbed to the surface. She reached for her spear gun and metal fish stringer, then kicked against the mild current to the anchor line. The Gulf felt lukewarm. She was glad she’d elected not to wear a wet suit over her bikini, only a large, baggy sweatshirt and a pair of tights to protect her legs. The usually not-so-good visibility was poor, only about ten feet, with the bottom nowhere in sight.

She dumped some air, cleared her ears, and kicked for the bottom, using the anchor rope to help her down. At twenty feet she paused to equalize her mask and ears and tighten her weight belt strap. The metal stringer she carried brushed against her leg, and she slipped it over her left arm before quickly cocking the band on her spear gun. Clearing her ears again, she continued her descent, searching for the source of the diesel slick.

* * * *

The day had started earlier that morning like any other. Mitch Jackson, she was Michelle only to her now-deceased mother, never realized where the events of the day would lead as she prepared for their trip. She enjoyed the slightly damp predawn chill that would disappear shortly after the sun rose. The cool morning air tempered the humidity and made it tolerable. She shoveled ice into a huge cooler loaded on a dock cart, right outside the marina’s bait shop. While she worked she listened to the gentle thumps of boats rocking in their nearby slips and the soft chiming of their rigging.

Next to the small marina flowed Muddy Creek. Mitch heard the hearty grumbles of bullfrogs sounding off in the saw grass stands that lined both banks. She relished this time of day because there were few people around. Pete, her white-and-brindle mixed-breed pointer, looked on with an intensity that only dogs and small children seemed to possess.

She finished up the last of their preparations for a weekend Middle Grounds trip. A pleasure trip, not a charter. Jack Torrence and Ron Smith, a couple of friends, would arrive any minute.

Ed Grey, her lifelong friend and business partner now that her father was dead, stuck his head out of the bait shop door. “How many boxes of sardines and squid do we need?”

“Um, get four of each. We’ll keep them frozen. Get some live shrimp, too.” He nodded and disappeared inside.

A few minutes later, Ed returned with the frozen bait and dumped it into the cart. “If you’ll go get the shrimp, I’ll take this to the boat and unload it.”

Mitch looked down at her dog. “Does that sound fair to you, Pete?”

The dog softly woofed at the sound of his name.

She looked at Ed. “You’ve got a deal.” She held the door open for Pete and went to the back of the shop, to the bait tanks, to retrieve their bucket of shrimp. Bob Keith said good morning, patted Pete on the head, and went back to stocking his shelves. Mitch breathed a sigh of relief.

Last thing I need this morning is to get tied up talking to him.

Mitch picked up her shrimp and returned to their boat, the
Sun Run.
Ed already had most of the ice unloaded.

“Did you stock the galley?” he asked.

Mitch dumped the shrimp into the live well. “I went to the store last night. We’re fueled up and ready to go as soon as Ron and Jack get here.” She put her hands in the pockets of her shorts and realized she’d left her cell phone in the dive shop. “I’ll be right back.”

Their dive shop sat on the other side of the parking lot, opposite Bob Keith’s store. Dan, who ran the shop in their absence, would arrive in an hour. After finding her cell she locked the door behind her.

Mitch returned to the
Sun Run.
By now, it was almost six o’clock in the morning. Ron and Jack would arrive any minute. She fired off the engines, first port, then starboard. Both diesels grumbled to life on the first crank and she let them idle so they could warm up.

As if on cue, Ron’s truck swung into the shell lot and pulled in beside her old Bronco. As usual, Jack looked wide awake and ready to go, his merry eyes shining. Ron, on the other hand, looked like he’d rather be in bed.

Jack carried his bags down the dock to the boat. “I hope you have plenty of coolers on board, Mitch. I’m feeling lucky today.”

Ed laughed. “Are you willing to make a wager on that, Jack?”

The four stared at each other for a moment before breaking up with laughter.

“Hey,” Jack replied, “I said I felt lucky, not stupid.”

Mitch helped Ron stow his gear. “You look like you’re still asleep.”

He glared at his friend. “I am. There’s only one thing I hate about going fishing with you.”

She chuckled. “What’s that?”

“Getting up when it’s still friggin’ dark out. Why the hell can’t we get up at a reasonable hour?”

“This
is
reasonable, Ron.” She smiled. “You can nap on the way out.”

* * * *

Mitch and Ed had established their pattern many years earlier. She took her position behind the wheel, with Pete sitting at her feet.

“Ready, Ed?” she called.

He cast off the bow line and made ready to release the stern line. “Ready.” He released the stern line.

Mitch shifted into forward and the cruiser smoothly slid out of the slip. The twin diesels weren’t fast, but they were reliable and easy on fuel. They sounded good this morning, smoothly throbbing under the deck beneath their feet. Dawn painted the sky behind them in fiery pastels while she guided the boat out of the marina and into the channel. Minutes later, they glided past the saw grass flats comprising a good deal of this portion of the Florida coastline. Channel markers slid by one after another as they left Aripeka behind them and made their way out into the Gulf.

The water looked like satiny glass, something only seen early in the morning before the sea breezes rippled it, or on certain afternoons when the Gulf was calm to begin with and the wind bowed its head to the scorching sun. As they moved farther out toward the head marker, Mitch left the cockpit and took her coffee up to the flybridge. She did her best thinking up there, with the salty breeze to help organize her thoughts and clear the cobwebs from her mind.

They passed several shrimpers heading east, back into Hudson. Mitch knew that as the sun rose, smaller pleasure boats would start flying past the
Sun Run
as if the cruiser stood still.

Jack stuck his head into the flybridge. “How long till we get there?”

She consulted her watch. “About four hours.”

Jack laughed. “Ron’s not going to like that.”

“Ron’s just going to have to be patient. We’ll be out all weekend. A few hours won’t kill him. If he behaves himself, maybe we’ll bring him up some lobsters when we hit the Middle Grounds.”

Jack’s eyes lit up. “That’s right, I forgot. Lobster season opened last month, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, and I’ve got a couple of good spots out there. You know that picture of me Dad liked?”

“You mean with the lobster nearly as big as you are?”

“That one. I pulled it out from under a ledge in the Middle Grounds.”

“I heard you had a little help from Ed with that.” Jack enjoyed teasing her.

She smiled. “Yeah, well I was only twelve, Jack. Give me a break.”

* * * *

They reached the head marker. Mitch eased back on the throttle long enough to allow her brand-new handheld GPS unit to cycle on the location’s coordinates. She’d checked the marine reports and found out they’d be traveling through a fish kill area caused by red tide, but it shouldn’t be an issue for them once they reached the Middle Grounds.

She left the flybridge and returned to the cockpit. Jack, always curious about electronics, tagged along.

“What is that thing?”

“My new GPS. Got it last week on sale.”

“What’s wrong with your old one?”

“Nothing.” Ed read her coordinates out of a notebook, and she punched them into the old unit, and then the new one.

“It’s a shiny new toy,” she joked. “And it’s a handheld. My other one is a dash mount.”

Ed set the autopilot and closed the notebook. “I’m done.”

Mitch put down the GPS. “You want to cook or steer the boat?”

“I made breakfast last time,” Ed said.

She smiled. “Any chance of me talking you into switching?”

He smiled back, shaking his head. “Not a snowball’s.”

“All right. Off to the slave pit. Come on, Pete.” Pete, who knew the routine, followed her, wagging his tail in anticipation. By the time she finished cooking breakfast, the sun was up with its usual vengeance and had quickly turned the cool morning into a typical tropical Florida scorcher. With the seas calm, she opened up all the cabin’s windows to catch what little breeze she could and keep the interior cool. Then she took up a position in the upper cabin, in the cockpit, to eat breakfast.

Lost in her own thoughts, she didn’t pay much attention to the men’s conversation. Ed’s voice finally pulled her out of her reverie.

“Earth to Mitch.”

She turned, momentarily startled as Ed waved his hand in front of her face. “What? Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

He laughed. “No kidding. Do you want me to drive?”

She shook her head. “No, that’s okay, I’ll handle it.”

He motioned at the bow. “Then you’d better. We’re heading right for that shrimper.”

Mitch stood and went to the wheel. The other vessel was still a quarter of a mile ahead of them when she disconnected the autopilot and took the helm. By the time she finished her breakfast, they were safely past the shrimper, and she reconnected the autopilot. Ed took over the watch again while Mitch cleaned up the remnants of breakfast. Once she finished the dishes she went aft to rig leaders.

* * * *

Ed watched Mitch from the shade of the wheelhouse while she worked. She was an attractive woman. She’d pulled her long, sun-bleached auburn hair back in a ponytail through the back of a well-worn baseball cap shielding her face from the blazing sun. She had an enviable tan that accentuated her body quite nicely. All five feet eight inches of her were fit and firm, one of the benefits of her years of diving. Her long fingers rapidly tied the leaders, mute testament to her years of training under her father’s watchful eyes.

Mitch was Ray and Susan Jackson’s only child, but she turned out to be daddy’s girl. He taught her everything he knew about boats and fishing. Susan didn’t like the fact that Michelle was a tomboy, and retaliated by teaching her more “feminine” pursuits. Mitch learned how to crochet and cook, but always followed in her father’s footsteps.

Almost as if reading his thoughts, Mitch looked up and flashed him a smile. Ed waved back and she returned to her work, leaving him with his thoughts. He turned back to the horizon and let his mind drift again. He’d known her ever since she was ten and he was a teenager. Throughout the years, and his own marriage and divorce, he’d developed feelings for Mitch deeper than friendship.

He wanted to tell her how he felt, the emotions that had built inside him, that he thought he not only loved her, but was
in
love with her. His nerves deserted him every time. He didn’t think he could stand it if she didn’t feel the same way.

He found it easier to suffer in silence.

Pete, apparently realizing he wasn’t getting any more handouts from his mom, went up to Ed and sat at his feet, wagging his tail with what seemed to be high doggy hopes. Ed laughed and gave him the last bite of his egg sandwich, patting him on the head.

“You know I’m a sucker, don’t you, boy?”

Ed wasn’t sure if Pete’s soft woof was the dog’s way of agreeing or not, but it made him chuckle and earned the dog a scratch on the head.

* * * *