Diary of a Radical Mermaid by Deborah Smith

Author:Deborah Smith [Smith, Deborah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BelleBooks, Inc.

Meanwhile, Back in the Caribbean

Chapter 15

Araizas are like a box of chocolates. I wanted to bite them and spit out their nuts.

“Oh, come now, Juna Lee,” a silver-haired patrone said in a Ricardo Montalban accent. He laughed. “Look at this wonderful party we’re throwing for you, just to keep you entertained.”

My suite was full of people, all Mers — all of them gorgeous, exotic Araizas decked out in the best resort wear and world-class jewelry, not to mention a lazy aura of privilege with a side dressing of dangerous charm. When I called them the Corleones of the Caribbean I was exaggerating a little, but they do have several centuries of, shall we say, creative buccaneering to their credit. Even by Mer standards they’ve collected a few too many ships’ cargoes the old-fashioned way, without even bothering to leave a tip on the nightstand. I’d always heard juicy rumors about their Soprano-like penchant for sending Landers to sleep with the fishes.

“Yep,” I mused, “It’s always fun to party with kidnappers.”

“You aren’t going to write about us in that blog of yours, are you?” Aphrodite asked, her white smile a wicked sliver. “You like having both your ear lobes, don’t you?”

That was just an idle threat, because no matter what Mers do to Landers, they generally don’t touch their fellow Mers. No, even Araizas would complain to the Council instead. Then a Peacekeeper like Rhymer would show up on my doorstep, and I’d find myself exiled somewhere on a rock.

Those old seafaring stories about sirens singing on rocks?

They were doing time.

“Of course I’m not going to write about you,” I lied.

Around dawn, when the party broke up and the bartenders carted the last of the rum fizzes away, I eyed my two new gorgeous boyfriends. Aphrodite’s boy toys. Guards. They lounged, looking like pouty male supermodels in their open shirts and oh-so-clingy trousers on the deck chairs of my balcony, ensuring that I’d never climb down the mandevilla vines again. So they thought.

“Boys, I’ll slip into something comfortable,” I called, “and then we’ll smoke some herbal stogies and order breakfast.” And after that I’ll turn you into sexually hypnotized guppies, and then you’ll get the hell out of my way so I can escape. They smiled at me and flexed their bare webbed feet. A subtle Mer flirtation.

I went into a bath boudoir about the size of a Manhattan apartment, rummaged through several enormous closets full of fab clothes (Araizas knew my weaknesses all too well), and selected a vintage silk nightgown from a 1930s Claudette Colbert movie. Claudette was a Mer on her grandmother’s side, by the way.

The gown was more see-through than silk. I fluffed my hair down my back, spritzed myself with extra Chanel, a fave fragrance of Mers (oh, yes, Coco had webbed toes), then sauntered onto the balcony with everything set on High Jiggle. “Good morning, boys,” I drawled. “How do you like the view?”

They looked up at me without batting a single pouty eyelash. “We’re gay,” they said in unison.

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