THE STARBOARD KNIFE

ERNIE LINDSEY

©2014

Copyright © 2014 by Ernie Lindsey.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

The Starboard Knife / Ernie Lindsey. -- 1st ed.

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June 2014

PART ONE

The Harlot sat gently on the open sea, twenty-one miles from the shoreline, on a cloudless, bluebird afternoon. The ocean was calm. Erica Masters, one of the two single women on board, one of ten randomly collected friends, took a sip of her margarita and readjusted her pistachio green bikini top. A cool breeze rushed past, pushing strands of loose, bottle-blonde hair across her forehead.

She said, “I think my strangest dream ever was the one where I was being chased by a shark on training wheels. Like, on land, you know? So weird.”

Alex, the yacht’s owner, leaned forward. The popped collar of his polo shirt framed his rugged metro features, made them stand out. It wasn’t unintentional. “Wait, you mean he was riding a bicycle with training wheels, or what?”

“No. The wheels, they were actually attached to the shark, like they were a part of its body.”

“Was it fast?”

“Not really. I got away, but seriously, where does stuff like that come from? What was my brain trying to work out?”

Terri, who’d spent a few years as a clinical psychologist before she’d left her practice to raise twin boys, said, “Being chased in a dream is a sign of anxiety in real life, and the fact that you were running from the shark generally means you have a tendency to avoid confronting whatever’s causing the problem.”

Erica tucked the persistent strands behind her ear again. Yet another futile attempt. “Yeah, maybe, but that was probably ten years ago. I can’t imagine what I would’ve been running from back then. I was barely out of high school. Now I just dream about baking cookies or finding an awesome pair of heels on sale at Nordstrom’s.”

Alex said, “That’s not a dream, Erica. That’s a Tuesday.”

Everyone laughed, but the jovial mood dissipated when Jenn Parker said, “I dreamed last night that some guy in a mask slipped into my bedroom. I remember seeing the moonlight reflecting off the knife in his hand.”

***

Earlier that day, Jenn walked up the small gangplank and boarded The Harlot, the world-class, one hundred and forty-eight foot, luxury cruising yacht owned by her friend and hapless suitor Alex Monts, who’d finally reached the age when his trust fund was able to do more harm than good. It was a somewhat wise move by his oil-magnate father, because the impetuous Alex surely would’ve blown his two-hundred-million-dollar inheritance before he reached the age of twenty-one.

He’d turned twenty-five last year, and, as it stood, half of it was already spent. He had houses all over the world: three in Europe, one in Thailand, two in the Caribbean, six in the US—one of which was a four-million-dollar condo overlooking Central Park. He’d bought a small private jet, then The Harlot, and more exotic cars than one person would ever have time to drive.

Jenn knew that, more often than not, it was an attempt to impress her, to woo her, to win her over. She often thought herself a touch crazy, not wanting someone with that much money to put a ring on her finger. Who wouldn’t, right?

She wouldn’t, actually, because, as much as she enjoyed it, she had morals—slightly roomy ones, but she wasn’t yet thirty, thank you very much—and wanted true love, even if it drove a rusty Yugo from the 80s. In the meantime, Alex, his desperate attempts, and his gaping wallet would do for Mr. Right Now.

Parrying his advances had become an acquired skill—it took calculated effort to keep him interested while maintaining a safe distance—and she looked at it this way: if he wanted to blow thousands of dollars or more to entertain her and her friends for her twenty-ninth birthday weekend, then it was his prerogative.

She was playing a game with him, a game that would eventually have no winner.

Alex didn’t seem to care, so Jenn let him waste his effort and money. He simply seemed happy to try.

Maybe one day she would finally pay him back—maybe with some fooling around or maybe let him kiss her—but not any time soon, because she worried that as soon as he got what he wanted, she’d be cast overboard. Figuratively. No, it was better to delay his gratification as long as possible, but how long was too long? His interest hadn’t waned yet, but it had to be soon. All men eventually gave up the chase.

Maybe not him, though. He was determined. It could be that she wasn’t just an unconquerable mountain.