Author's Note:

The physical setting for Crude (as in crude oil), is an offshore drilling platform located in the Sea of Cortez, bounded on the east by mainland Mexico and the Baja Peninsula on the west.

As such, I have peppered the narrative with terms and phrases which are unique to the petroleum industry thus adding color and authenticity. But I took care none of these terms would hamper your enjoyment of the story. Staging is a dock for a boat, a bulkhead is simply a wall, and if you don't know what a combustion stack is, you need only look to the book's cover.

I am not a big fan of the overuse of dirty words in my books. But a bunch of juiced-up oil rig rats would not come off sounding like alumnae from Miss Marple's Finishing School for Young Socialites. So-o-o...

As always, thank you for your support and if you enjoy the book, please consider giving it a short review. Also, special thank you to Toni Kelley for her specialized help.

Jo-Anne Wiley

Prologue:

 

"Take these," he said, passing her the scissors, "and just get on with it." He was flustered. "For christ-sake, what's the big deal anyway?"

"But it's my hair," she cried, looking at his thinning crown. "How could you possibly understand?"

"I understand success and money- lots of money. More money than you could ever spend in a lifetime. God, don't you realize how lucky you are- that Mark wants to sleep with you? So suck it up. Here, take this, a can of shaving cream. After your hair, get into the tub and start with the razor."

"I have to shave everything?" The woman stood barefoot in her bathrobe.

He studied the slope of her breast beneath the terrycloth. He had exploited that long sleek body many times, especially when she was younger and most vulnerable, but there was no denying the squeeze he felt in his anus and he couldn't help but envy his business associate who would reap the benefits of her quivering flesh during the coming night. "Yes. Every hair. Shave your arms, legs and breasts. And between your thighs- your pubis. And your ass, especially."

The woman studied the razor she held in her hand. "My ass? This is how you speak to a respectably married woman?"

"Married?" he scoffed. "And where is the well-respected Professor Millsinger this week? I'll tell you. He's on a field trip, visiting some jungle ruins with a dozen nubile coeds in tow. Did you check to see if your husband packed his condoms? But look on the bright side- you've got the whole weekend to be holed-up with that slutty girlfriend you found."

"I told you. That's over..."

"Yeah, yeah- 'til some new slut comes along. Now, no more stalling. Get yourself into a hot tub of water. Once you've soaked, lather up and start shaving. I'll be waiting in the hall." And he stormed out, slamming the door closed behind him.

She took a last look in the mirror. Her hair was long and thick and she had lovingly tended to it for a lifetime. She took up a hank at the side of her head, opened the scissors and slid the blades next to her scalp. She turned away, couldn't watch, and made the cut.

Tears flooded her eyelashes and she cut again and again, throwing the strands of hair defiantly onto the bathroom floor until she was ankle deep.

When the last of it lay piled about her feet, she picked up the razor and stepped toward the bathtub.

On the opposite side of the door, he listened intently as the water roared from the faucet. A moment later, he heard her loosen the knot and the rustle of her robe as it slipped from her shoulders. There was the thrilling thud of soft terrycloth landing on the tiles followed by the sound of skin squeaking on wet porcelain. He moved closer to the door to listen to the hot water moving in her cupped hands as she touched herself. The vision of her shaving her thighs and vagina roved wildly in his smarmy imagination.

Then with a start, he realized she hadn't followed him to the door; she hadn't locked it.

He tried the knob. Christ...

It turned easily in his hand and with a grim smile he stepped into the swirl of steam. He saw a wet, tawny body, sleek with small but nicely pointed breasts. She had beseeching nipples. Her hips were narrow and her legs, long and slim.

He heard her gasp. "Please. Oh please, Uncle. You can't. Not again..."

Chapter One

 

Cat Baloo shifted her butt-cheeks as the seat beneath her ass tilted, lifting her feet from the floor. She was reminded of the time she had been evacuated out of Iraq. That had been on a navy transporter and the pilot had been more concerned about not getting his tail feathers smoked than he was about the comfort of his passengers. Once the wheels left the asphalt, it was straight skyward like a shuttle launch, before the towel-heads could get a bead on his aircraft with a ground-to-air missile.

And here Cat was, once again, on a demented roller coaster ride. Only this time it was in a friggin' boat.

Cat wasn't her real name, of course. She was Kylie Baldwin. But the navy boys had changed that. Even before being deployed to the Persian Gulf as an underwater demolition specialist, someone had started calling her Cat Baloo and the name had stuck.

She braced her feet as the crew-boat crested on the curl of a wave and did a dizzying wallow before plunging down the backside of the thirty foot comber. God, such fun...

Cat looked across the aisle. Alison was sitting by the opposite porthole. Her pale features were tinged with a distinct greenish pallor. Cat elbowed Tyson in the seat beside her and pointed with her chin. Tyson looked up from where she had been picking at a piece of dead skin which was reluctant to give up its hold alongside of her thumbnail and followed Cat's gaze.

Tyson balked. "Christ. If she tosses her cookies the stench will get them all started. There'll be puke rolling in the aisles."

Cat leaned back and balled her eyes with knotted fists. "Thanks for the visual. We'll never make the oil rig by nightfall and couldn't land if we did. We're in for a long fuckin' night." She unscrewed a mickey of Jack Daniel's. "Might as well get pissed."

Tyson looked past Cat and out the porthole. "Blowing a full gale, I reckon. Next best thing to a hurricane."

The crew-boat did another plunge and a pitiful groan from across the aisle drew their attention. "Bet you ten bucks," Cat smirked, "she up-chucks on the next wave." Cat passed the corn-whiskey across.

"A sucker's bet." Tyson took a long swallow from the bottle. "I'll keep my money, thank you very much. And look- here comes the Mick to check on her."

They watched Mickey Dalton, the Managerial Supervisor, second in command and responsible for the crew's female contingent, hand over hand herself along the steeply tilted deck like she was hanging from a jungle gym. She hesitated by the seat opposite, waiting for the boat to pause at the top of a wave, before letting go and dropping down beside Alison. "How you making out, kiddo?" Mickey took a look at the girl's color and realized the question ranked, in the grand scheme of things, as one of her most stupidest.

Alison was leaning forward against the seat restraint and holding her stomach in folded arms. "I swear to Christ this is my last deployment. Fuckin' oil rigs. I don't care how good the money is. I'm so done with this shit." The boat angled up the next wave and did its sideways dip before careening down. The hull hit the bottom of the trough with a jolt and Alison watched solid green water rush past, outside her porthole. "Fuckin' boat's a submarine." She pressed her cheek against the cool glass.

Mickey tried to sound sympathetic. "Latest weather forecast has things easing around midnight."

Moisture formed in Alison's eyes. "Lord. I should live so long..."

"You want more ginger ale?"

Alison belched. "I've swilled enough ginger ale to float this friggin' canoe. It just makes me wanna piss. And the smell in the head makes me wanna puke. I can't decide whether to sit down or kneel over, not that there's room in there to do either. Designed by a fucking guy, I'll bet."

The boat did another wild gyration and Alison dry heaved. "Oh shit," she swore again, trying to hold things in place.

Mickey's eyes widened and she readied herself to get outta the way. "Damn, I want Amy to look at you. You need fluids and if you can't drink them, Amy can set you up with a drip. You'll feel better."

Alison waved Mickey off. "Only if there's arsenic in the bag."

"You hold tight a minute. I'll get Amy."

 

Mickey made her way forward. The crew-boat was built like an eighty-foot cigar- long and narrow. With a center aisle and seating for two each side, the boat could transport a crew of thirty. And because standing headroom was deemed an unnecessary luxury, not to mention an expense, there wasn't a deck house. Mickey, hunched over, scanned her crew of ten women, searching out others who were succumbing to the turbulent seas. It didn't look good. She noted half her team appeared listless and a couple of them were sagging in their restraints.

Seated ahead of the women, the men seemed to be fairing better; toughened wildcatters with guts of iron, she thought grimly. Mickey found Amy, the company nurse, passing out handfuls of Gravol.

"How's everyone holding up?" Mickey asked.

Amy pushed sweaty curls from her eyes and ignored Mickey's question. "How much longer?"

Mickey exhaled. "No change 'til the morning, I'm afraid. It's a slow moving cold front with winds pegged at a steady fifty knots. The Sea of Cortez is shelving here, quite shallow in fact. That's why we're getting the violent wave action."

"Not 'til the morning..." Amy's voice trailed hopelessly. "I don't know if I'll make it."

"You're not well?"

"Not a hundred percent but the work helps; keeps me distracted. I might be okay as long as I can keep my mind off my stomach."

Mickey squeezed Amy's shoulder. "Hang tough. We need you." Mickey got a weak smile in return. "I want you to look at Alison," Mickey continued. "She needs fluids and I think it's time she had an IV."

"She still holding things down?"

"Just."

Amy passed Mickey a couple of tablets. "Gravol. Preventative medicine. Take 'em while I go get my kit."

 

Amy dropped down beside Alison and Mickey leaned in to watch. "Christ, hon, you look like shit."

Alison rolled bloodshot eyes up. "I needed a doctor to tell me that?"

"I'm not a doctor."

Alison's stomach heaved. "I could use a good mortician. Know of one?" She took a deep breath to try to hold the vomit at bay but with the hatches dogged down, the air in the compartment was hot and stale, like it had no oxygen in it. And as an added incentive, it smelled like dirty gym socks. Alison's stomach revolted a second time.

Amy pulled a stethoscope from her case. "C'mon, let's have a listen," she said, pressing the instrument to Alison's neck. Once she had counted against her watch, she unbuttoned the cuff of Alison's jumpsuit and pushed the sleeve up. "Just check your blood pressure." And she pumped the bulb on the monitor.

"How much time do I got left?"

Amy packed her instruments away. "You'll live but I'm giving you a shot and then we'll get you started on an IV drip with saline and vitamin B."

"And that'll help?"

"Sure. You'll be dancing in no time. I'll put you in charge of handing out the Gravol. Now hold tight, I gotta find a vein."

Mickey watched as Amy set up the IV, loaded a hypodermic and inserted the needle into Alison's forearm.

"Ow-o-o! Fuckin' Christ, that hurt."

Amy downed the plunger. "For a radio operator you certainly have a mouth."

Alison didn't answer. Her eyes fluttered momentarily and her head abruptly slumped to her chest.

Amy reached for Alison's seat restraint. "There. Help me get her feet up," she said to Mickey. "Get her onto her side across both seats, fetal position. If she throws up in her sleep, she won't choke."

Mickey reached for Alison's ankles. "She's asleep?"

"She'd better be. I hit her with enough Valium to bring down a horse."

"Hello ladies..."

Mickey looked up and her heart rate spiked.

Jocko had angled his anvil-broad shoulders through the wheelhouse door and was making his way along the aisle toward her. "I've just been in touch with Mark DeVillier at head office," Jocko chuckled to himself. "Mark says to tell you ladies he's charging for the extended yachting expedition. He has to cover the cost of fuel."

No one laughed.

If anyone had fuel to spare it was Mark DeVillier, owner and CEO of Pentoxx Petroleum and the reference to a yachting expedition fell humorless on nauseated senses.

Jocko scanned his crew and he spotted Mickey hunched over Alison's legs. He moved forward, expertly taking the gyrating deck in loosely placed strides. Mickey had issues but, admiring the hard edge of his profile, she had to admit, Jocko looked damned nice.

Jocko, his neck bent beneath the overhead, pierced deeply into her eyes. "Mickey. I saw your name on the roster. I'm pleased to have you alongside."

Mickey wasn't sure how she should handle him, or the situation. They had history. "Good to know you're in the wheelhouse of this demented metal coffin." Her response was glib.

He looked about the compartment once again. "Yeah. Wild ride fer-sure." His eyes dropped to Alison's prostrate body. "Seasick?"

"No- not anymore. Comatose."

"Comatose?"

"Yeah. The nurse pumped her full of Valium and has her on an intravenous drip."

"Hmm. Who's our nurse this trip out?"

Mickey reached to smooth Alison's damp hair. "Amy."

"Thank Christ for that. She's the best we got. She'll earn her keep before sun-up, guaranteed. You got a minute? A word in private, if I may."

Mickey was suddenly aware they had an audience. The sight of Jocko's rugged features, the thick blond hair and beard, had attracted the attention of the women, even the sick ones were listening closely.

"A word in private? Sure," Mickey responded loud enough for everyone to hear. "If I'm not back in ten minutes, someone fetch a bucket of cold water."

"Very funny," he grabbed her arm and steered Mickey toward the rear of the boat's compartment where they would be separated from the rest of the crew by ten rows of vacant seats. "Here," he said, pointing to the last row.

"Very romantic," Mickey commented, eyeing the toilet compartment. "So how's Mrs Jocko?" Her words were barbed but she complied, taking the outside seat next to the porthole.

Jocko dropped down beside her. "Very understanding," he answered her question. "As long as I bring home the bacon."

Mickey scoffed. "The last time I saw your bacon, kiddo, it was wrapped in latex."