The boarding officer was young, buzz-cut sharp, and all business. “Captain, you the one who called in?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, gesturing toward the package dripping on my deck.
They ran the usual procedure, snapping their own photos, asking for IDs, jotting down the client list, grilling me about where and when we spotted the bale. I kept my tone respectful, clipped, repeating the same facts like a broken record. My license depended on it.
The whole time, my jaw clenched tighter. It wasn’t fear. It was irritation. Wasting daylight, wasting fuel, babysitting a package that could cost me more than just time if the wrong people noticed.
When they finally carted it away and signed off on my statement, the officer gave me a curt nod. “Appreciate the cooperation, Captain.”
“Of course.” My smile didn’t reach my eyes.
As the cutter pulled away, I caught Marcus watching me, one brow arched. He didn’t have to say it. We both knew what I was thinking: nothing good ever came from being the one who turned in a square grouper.
I throttled the engines back up, pointing us toward shore. The ride in was smooth, but the knot in my gut wouldn’t ease.
Flat calm days in the Keys were supposed to feel like paradise. But the ocean had a way of reminding you—paradise always came with a price.
CHAPTER 2
JASMINE
The rickety wooden ladder flexed as I slid it into position, the rubber feet squeaking against the tile. “There,” I said, shaking it for stability. My stomach fluttered as I climbed the last rung, stretching up on tiptoe. “If I fall off of here I’m counting on you to call 911,” I told Glen, the lone customer at the bar.
Relying on my most regular day-drinker to save my life was not a solid plan. Glen could barely save himself from the ice melting too fast in his glass. If this place went up in flames or I cracked my skull on the tile, Glen would probably make himself another rum and Coke before responding to the emergency. But I needed someone to buy this painting I was trying to hang before rent was due. Turns out making a go of it on my own in the Keys was harder than I’d imagined back in Minnesota. Back then, it had sounded glamorous—bartending nights, painting days, island sunsets. In reality, the bills piled faster than tips, and the air smelled more like bleach, stale beer, and fried fish than paradise.
Once I got the painting in position, I let the wire settle on the hook and finally exhaled. The seascape with a pelican balanced on a piling looked out of place above the dartboard in a dive bar,but selling it made the difference between real food or ramen this week. I scrambled down, dusting off my palms. “Thanks for your help, Glen.”
“No problem, Jaz. I’ll take another when you’re ready.” He grinned, rattling the ice in his empty glass. “This one seems to be defective.”
“I got you, Glen.” I chuckled, folding the ladder and lugging it toward the storeroom. The wood banged against the doorframe on my way through, echoing like a warning bell. This was a far cry from the galleries I’d imagined my paintings in when I’d cooked up the plan to move to the Keys, but you have to start somewhere.
By the time I returned, two more fishermen had saddled up to the bar, sunburnt and smelling of diesel and salt. Their shirts were damp with sweat, sleeves stiff with dried spray, and the faint metallic tang of baitfish clung to them. The Keys had a scent all its own—equal parts sea, booze, and exhaustion.
“Guinness?” I asked Brett, who was wiping his brow with a napkin. That was his usual, but he sometimes started with a shot if he’d had a good day out on the water. Or if he’d had a bad day. Alcohol didn’t actually solve anyone’s stressors, but it was still the first choice for coping with them, good or bad. The longer I worked in the Whistle Stop, the more I saw the same rhythms: fish, booze, brag, repeat. And underneath, the same hollow looks that told me the sea took more than it gave.
“Yeah, and a PBR for Nolan,” he ribbed his buddy with his elbow. “Light beer pussy.”
“Sounds like somebody needs a Jäger to set them straight,” Nolan replied, a challenging glint in his eye as he leaned forward on his stool.
This was how it started. The tension, the ribbing, the one-upmanship. I glanced out through the glass door to the parking lot. Dusk was settling in, the last streaks of coral light bleeding over the horizon. Too early for that shit. As the day slipped into night, the stories always got louder and the tempers shorter.
I popped a PBR and slid it to Nolan, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Nobody’s judging you here. For the record, I love PBR.”
His grin flickered into something genuine, less defensive.
I returned to the tap to top off the Guinness that had settled, watching the foam rise slow and thick. “Not everyone has a palate for a stout,” I told Brett as I set the perfect pour on a coaster in front of him. “And it takes all kinds to make a world.”
If there was anything this community needed reminding of, it was that diversity was a good thing. I’d spent summers here growing up, but after moving full-time I’d seen the undercurrent of ethnocentric Keys pride more clearly. Guys like Brett —lifelong Conchs—didn’t trust anyone from Miami. Which was basically… everyone. Sometimes the line between good-natured ribbing and ugly prejudice blurred faster than a shot poured too heavy. I’d learned to keep my tone light but my eyes sharp.
“You want to wait for that Jäger until after this beer?” I asked Brett, sliding the Guinness toward him with an encouraging nod.
“I’m holding out for Don Julio Reserve, but later.”
“What are you saving the good tequila for?”
“My buddy, Kai. He’s finally coming out to celebrate his square grouper catch.”
“Ah, he’s the one who found it?” The twenty kilo catch had been the talk of the town all week. I’d overheard snippets of it from tourists and regulars alike, the details swelling bigger with every retelling.
