Tempest Brewing Tropical Storms Part 1 by Sandra Ross

Chapter One
S HE WAS SITTING on the
upper level of the Schooner Wharf in Key West. From there, one gets
an amazing view of the marina, and further away, the
sea.
    The marina was adjacent to the "keysie" oyster
bar. The place opened for breakfast and closed at around four in
the morning, every day. It took the place's staff two hours to prep
for opening, and roughly the same time to close. It was as much a
local hang out as it was a de rigeur tourist must-see for
anyone visiting the Florida Keys. Schooner Wharf was a landmark
place, this part of the Conch Republic. Inside, there was live
music, a resident magician, a well-stocked bar, food, a hand-made
cigar roller, and a souvenir shop.
    Needless to say, Schooner Wharf is an integral
part of the commercial paradise called Key West.
    As she looked out past the moored vessels and
into the vast inky grayish --green waters of the ocean, a single
tear cascaded down her beautiful young cheek. Only one blue eye
leaked a tear, thereby ruining her mascara and spoiling an
otherwise perfectly made-up face.
    From down below, Raven - the evening's
entertainer - was singing her version of a Johnny Cash original.
The speakers' volume was set to low, however -- it allowed for
couples whispering to one another to hear each other.
    She knew that she shouldn't stay up there long,
she was on the clock, after all. Eric, the openly gay night
manager, was a friend and a really good guy. He would not give her
a hard time. She just needed a minute or two, even though, in
reality, it had already been ten. And as she gazed out into the
darkness, she absentmindedly caressed the fairly recent tattoo on
her left upper arm. The tattoo was of two interlocking hearts, with
"Bryan", her boyfriend's name, printed inside one heart, and "Joy",
her own name, printed in the other.
    Getting the tattoo did not really hurt all that
much when she decided to get it -- there was just this quick,
zapping sensation - but it itched like crazy for a couple of weeks
after. Now it does not hurt anymore, but she unconsciously caressed
her arm gently as she looked out into the sea and worried about
Brian.
    The approaching storm sent an odor of musky dank
sea salt water ahead of it. The smell stank of fetid, wet slime and
decayed sediment filled the air. It seemed to announce the force of
the storm and warned everyone of its power and might. Anything
within its path could be destroyed. Realizing this, Joy worried
that Bryan could get hurt. He was a commercial fisherman out on a
charter since early that morning and had not returned.
    Or at least he had not let her know he had
gotten back. As worried as she was, the idea that he had returned
and not contacted her was even more upsetting. They hadn't exactly
been getting along all that well, but he wouldn't just let her
worry like this, would he? Oh man, she would be pissed if he was at
some strip bar spending money on some "ho" while she was working
her ass off, and worrying about him. Now she finds herself wanting
that to be the case -- in the very least he was safe, strip bar
notwithstanding -- instead of out there, at sea, and in the middle
of the storm.
    Sure, she'd pretend to be mad, and give him a
hard time, but not too hard of a time, as long as he was safe.
    Joy sensed a motion behind her and turned to see
Eric coming up just as a loud clap of thunder boomed, causing the
old, poorly-constructed upper deck to rattle. The lightning flash
that followed illuminated her manager-friend in eerie light. He was
a handsome man of about 40 years old with blond hair and a tight
bod comparable to a surfer half his age. For an instant, he looked
like an apparition from a Stephen King novel. Joy gasped and
clutched her chest.
    "Are you all right? Do you want to go?" asked
Eric.
    "Oh my God you scared me!" Joy exclaimed.
    "Glad to know I still got it," Eric
half-chuckled, hoping to lighten the moment. "Do you want to go? Or
stay?"
    "Both" Joy responded without much thought. "I
don't want to