There’s Something About Nigel
One of the driving forces that made me want to write Jolly Rogered was one of the heroes, Nigel Fortescue. Where Roger whispered his story into my ear, and politely waited until I was ready to write, when Nigel finally decided to dish dirt, he did not want to wait for a good time. He wanted his story told on his terms, and on his schedule. Lucky for me, he’s charming enough to make me forget that I’m tearing my hair out as I’m writing about his exploits.
Half an hour later, after stroking the Yank’s cheek and excusing himself to go clear the rest of his schedule, Nigel sauntered into the office, whistling the tune of a sea shanty about a good ship called the ‘Venus’, prompting a snort from Suisan as she passed back out to the front desk.
“Well?” Drew slid away from the terminal and the collection of ledgers which Nigel paid him a king’s ransom to care about.
Nigel flopped into the plush leather chair, put his hands behind his head, and regarded his former lover with a grin. “They’re so bloody cute when they come with little whimpers like that.” He emitted a self-satisfied sigh. “And when those big baby-blues look at you with wonder, it’s just enough to melt your heart and make you sick.”
Drew rolled his eyes. “I’m supposed to envy you the exotic new pet?”
“Not yet, my friend. He’s got no clue what he’s gotten himself into.”
“Yeah, about that. I’m not so sure he did the getting into. I checked his reservation and it was made from somewhere in the States, but through several bounces and out of a tunneling service located in Germany.”
“Poor bastards have to go through all that just to get a little vacation sex?” Nigel wanted to close his eyes and take a nap. Or better still, get back to the Yank and the lovely, pleasant feeling of low-grade, constant arousal the newcomer engendered in him.
“Do you think our new friend is really as innocent as he makes out?”
Nigel glanced at his longtime friend. “Judging by the way he makes out, yes.”
Drew slanted him a return look. “So what’s in it for you, then? I thought you kissed off your last Queen of Denial eight years ago.”
Nigel pouted. “I’m a fickle bitch, aren’t I?”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”
“He’s a complete neophyte. I want to show him the whole resort just to see the look on his face. Am I too jaded, you think?” Bloody virgins and their bloody ingénue eyes.
Drew was not to be put off by the temptation of speculation. “All I’m saying is that getting involved with an American can lead to heartbreak of the International Incident kind.”
Nigel’s brow furrowed. In spite of being the master of all he surveyed, the stark fact was that he was master on a kind of sufferance. As long as the Isla paid its taxes and membership fees to the Caribbean Union, they enjoyed a moderate international protection via carefully-courted goodwill with the looming behemoth to the north. That didn’t stop the Americans from establishing “embassies”–otherwise known as bases of nosiness–on international properties–whether the inhabitants wanted them or not. Yet he somehow doubted the Union would spend its diplomatic capital on his behalf, should the US wish to open up shop on his island. All the same, a steady flow of palm-greasing gold only lubricated the wheels of diplomacy when one knew which palms needed the greasing.
He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Well then,” he said. “I guess I’ll just have to pump him for information, then, won’t I? Make sure he’s on the up-and-up and all. I should go get my spy outfit on.” Nigel rose out of the chair in mock eagerness.
Drew took the bait and flicked a stylus at him. “You’re an idiot.”
“Then I’m lucky to have you riding my back. Just pull my hair while you’re doing it.”
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