Hooked

World

Prologue

Once upon a time in a faraway kingdom bursting with strip malls, luxury high-rises and enough bling to stretch across the Atlantic Ocean and back, Raymond Prince prepared to anoint a royal consort in the backseat of a cobalt blue Mercedes sedan.

With a full moon as his guide, Raymond unhooked the frontloading brassiere of his target market and chuckled to himself. Damn, if those tan-lined double Ds didn’t remind him of the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler!

Nothing like the feel of genuine nappa leather seats against bare skin, he said to the redhead whose name he’d forgotten after the second round of drinks. So luxuriously sensual and soft, eh, babe?

Oh, yes, she replied, giggling. But, Prince, you’re, you’re so, so…

"Ready to drive a hard bargain, perhaps?"

Raymond sucked in his gut and had just unbuttoned his jeans when the echo of footsteps—specifically, high heels walking in a slow, determined gait—caused his gear shift to malfunction and his heart to sputter like a waterlogged engine.

The cause for his alarm was well founded. At this hour, the dealership had long since been locked and blocked. Nobody was permitted on the lot except for his security guard, Jorge, and he sure as hell didn’t own any stilettos.

What was that? whispered the redhead, failing miserably to cover her breasts with the palms of her hands.

Probably nothing, babe, but let the Prince here check it out.

Raymond slowly opened the car door, slinked out the side and peeked over the hood.

The news was not good. In fact, when he discovered the identity of the mystery guest, he clenched his perfectly veneered teeth with such force he nearly cracked his left bicuspid. He tried to duck for cover, but alas, it was too late.

RAYMOND! shrieked Sandy, his wife of twenty years.

Despite her petite stature, Sandy possessed the demeanor of a heavy-weight wrestler with the vocal chords to match.

YOU LOUSY SON OF A BITCH BASTARD!

It’s not what you think, honey. I was closing a deal here.

With your fly open? Who the hell do you think you’re kidding?

And just like that, Raymond Prince, the successful owner/ operator of a string of used car dealerships throughout Broward and Miami–Dade counties, saw his bank accounts go up in flames.

No more private lap dances at five hundred bucks a pop. Ka-ching!

No more custom-made suits from Milan. Ka-ching!

No more gambling junkets to Paradise Island and penthouse 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 egregious mistake.

Now what am I supposed to do? Mrs. Elliot moaned. Frank is going to kill me. This is exactly why I hate coming on the boat. Man turns into a regular Captain Bligh.

Silently and effortlessly, Woody reached for a stanchion and boosted himself onto the bow. He borrowed the boat hook from the flummoxed female and fished the line out of Biscayne Bay on the first try.

Can you take it from here, Mrs. Elliot?

I, I think so, came the unconvincing response.

With the boat still shifting in its slip, Woody decided it best to stick around to make sure Mrs. Elliot tied off the cleat without incident. He recalled the time Mr. White’s secretary had not been so careful and ended up being rushed to Mount Sinai Hospital.

The severed tip of one of her perfectly manicured digits packed in ice.

It was a messy situation.

And an even messier divorce.

Woody pocketed the ten-dollar tip Mrs. Elliot insisted he accept and then ran off to help Mrs. Burke transport her groceries to the vintage trawler she shared with her husband. She being Irish and he Jewish, their boat was aptly named: Mixed Nuts. But after fifty years of marriage, the Bicker-steins—as the couple was secretly known amongst staff members—had managed to switch ethnicities.

Thank you so much, dear, said Mrs. Burke. My arthritis is really slowing me down today.

Sorry to hear that, said Woody.

I must look like a hundred and ten. An alter kaker.

Woody assumed this was a less than complimentary description and insisted she looked like a teenager.

What a sweetheart this boy is! Still nobody special yet, huh?

Nope, afraid not, Mrs. Burke.

I can’t believe you don’t have a special gal. Such a face this boy has. You look just like John F. Kennedy, Jr. Anyone ever tell you that?

Woody smiled. Just you, Mrs. Burke.

You know, my mahjong partner, Ida, she’s got a gorgeous grandchild and—

Anne, interrupted her spouse, who suddenly appeared in the cockpit, glass of whiskey in his hand. Will you leave the poor kid alone? Every week you ask him the same question, and every week he gives you the same answer.

Such an expert on the opposite sex, that one is. Mr. Lance Romance. Besides, who wanted your opinion, Harry?

And who gave you permission to play Yente the matchmaker?

Woody cleared his throat and began to pass Mrs. Burke’s shopping bags to her husband.

What the hell did you do, Anne? Buy out Publix?

All to support that fat gut of yours, Harry!

Guess you haven’t noticed your fat ass in the mirror lately, huh, honey?

Excuse me, said Woody as he handed off the last parcel. But is there anything else I can do for you folks?

With a skirmish brewing, a speedy departure from the battlefield was mandated.

No, thanks, son, said Mr. Burke. But if you see Ariel, could you tell him my damn head is on the fritz again.

You can say that again, snickered Mrs. Burke, pointing to her bald husband.

On that sour note, Woody bade the lovebirds adieu and had just turned to leave when the Hammond twins—Christopher and Jasper—charged up the dock toward him. Accompanied by their recently separated mother, a very attractive forty-some-thing blonde with legs as long as the Amazon and a reputation equally as treacherous.

Hey, dude, said Christopher, giving Woody a high five.

Hey, dude, echoed Jasper, his mirror image, save for brown rather than green eyes.

The twins, Jasper and Christopher, were in Woody’s youth sailing group and yearned to become Olympic racers. After they captured gold for their country, they planned to attend Yale like their father, play major league baseball, become firemen, open up a chain of video game stores and then travel to Mars.

So, don’t keep me in suspense, said Woody. How’d you guys rank today?

We totally kicked butt! said Jasper.

Exceeded all expectations, added his brother, the more cerebral of the two.

Awesome, said Woody. This was your most challenging regatta yet.

But their success is all thanks to you, said the twins’ mother, smiling. The best and, I might also mention, the most adorable sailing coach anyone could hope for.

Woody chose to ignore the latter comment and addressed the former.

Your boys made it easy for me, Mrs. Hammond. They’re terrific students. Eager and super enthusiastic.

Too bad they don’t have the same attitude toward their homework.

Aw, Ma, sighed Jasper. Can you chill?

Yeah, piped in his brother.

By the way, said Mrs. Hammond. The boys want you to come to their birthday party next Saturday night at our house. I promise it will be fun for kids as well as us grown-ups.

Given Mrs. Hammond’s bad rap sheet, Woody thought it wise to decline this invitation. Especially since the club had unspoken rules (often broken, of course) about staff canoodling with club members. Not to mention those members whose husbands—ex or otherwise—happened to sit on the governing board of directors.

We’d really love to have you, Woody, said Mrs. Hammond, licking her chops.

Thanks, ma’am, but I’ve already got plans.

A hot date or something? asked Jasper.

See you two monkeys next week, said Woody, choosing to ignore the question.

He took leave of the twins and their mama, and headed for the dock house, a small, gray shingled shack at the very end of the main pier. It was there that Woody found his boss hunched over his cluttered desk, slurping coffee and chewing on an unlit cigar which his doctor had forbidden him to smoke.

Fucking paperwork, grumbled Skip.

You know. It’d be much easier if you’d let me teach you how to use the computer.

I’m afraid it’s too late to teach this old salty dog new tricks. Which reminds me, that new member, Ted Page…

You mean Fred Sage, said Woody. His Bertram 450 gets delivered this afternoon.

Yeah. And from what I’ve been told, damn fool don’t know his ass from his bowline when it comes to boats. Never even owned a canoe before.

Terrific, I can hardly wait to meet him.

Well, here’s your chance, son. Seems the boat is already in the channel and Mr. Terrific has just pulled into the parking lot. As for me, my hemorrhoids and I got an appointment with the proctologist.

Fred Sage may have flunked out of community college, but he was far from dumb. A New Jersey transplant, he immediately honed in on a by-product of South Florida’s booming real estate market and started a company that delivered home insurance for the average buyer. Hassle-free. Cheap. With fast, reliable payouts. Or so his ads claimed.

Now, in the good old days, a guy like Fred Sage would never have been able to secure membership at the Trade Winds, a club established in the fifties by a group of stodgy old yachtsmen and favored by many wanna-be social climbers in the greater Miami boating community. But times they were a changing. Old money was dying