Chapter 1

I could have expected a lot of things.

I could have expected to go down in a plane crash. It happens to a lot of those men – and lately women – whose business puts them in the air a lot, chasing the sweet smell of crude across oceans and continents, countries and mountains and swamps. And through some of the greediest, most gun-happy thugs you'll find anywhere in the third and fourth worlds.

I could have expected cancer. It took out my dad at 57. He'd been a strong, unstoppable workhorse of a man until lung cancer destroyed a man who, in the ultimate bad joke, never took a puff in his life. The doctors who detected it and treated it and fought it with him, told him it was probably exposure to all the chemicals you're exposed to hunting oil across the globe.

In the end it wasn't technically cancer that got him. When he was very weak, I gave in to his pleas and drove him out the airfield in western Jacksonville where his twin engine Cessna Crusader was kept waiting for him. I helped him into the cockpit, he gave me one last hug, said, "give them hell, son," and took off without clearance.

They found the wreckage of his plane in the Atlantic about ten miles off the Jacksonville Beach coastline the next day. They never found him. And that was the way he would have wanted to go out, not gasping for his last breaths hooked up to tubes and machines.

I went with some friends to O'Brien's, a Westside bar, and together with O'Brien who'd known my dad for 20 years, and some of his and my old friends, toasted his life and his success in ending it the way he wanted to.

I could more likely have expected to be shot by some jealous husband or boyfriend. I'm not particularly proud of my behavior as a young man. I fucked – as the expression goes – anything with a vagina that would stand still long enough for me to fuck it. Whether they were married or single was a minor consideration that didn't particularly bother me one way or the other.

As a married man, I looked back sometimes and regretted that I had hurt a lot of people, hurt a lot of men in a way that I would have hated to have been hurt myself. But at the time, I was a homing missile guided by my dick like most young men and I never once – as far as I can remember- worried about the men whose women I fucked.

I didn't expect what life had waiting for me.

I was twenty five when I met my Waterloo. She was red haired, with a slender body, milky skin so fine you could see the network of fine blue veins under the skin and a light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. I wouldn't have been surprised to see her in an ad for Guinness Stout on some Irish television commercial skipping across a field of heather in the brilliant Irish summer sun, clad in a summer frock, sunlight burnishing the halo of flame-red hair floating like a cloud behind her.

Everything was fine and delicate except that mouth. Wide and full lipped, made for laughing and downing pints of beer and chocolate covered cherries and long kisses and sucking a man's cock until he lost his mind. That last thought was the first one that popped into my head the first time I saw her staggering into her father's $20 million dollar St. Augustine waterfront mansion at 7 in the morning.

Assisted by two female friends who could also barely stand, all their clothing together would barely have covered one female body. There was enough skin showing to reveal a body that except for that mouth didn't appeal to me. She was altogether too slender and coltish – and young – to be my cup of tea. I preferred them older and more fully developed, meaning I liked tits big enough to fuck and asses full enough to get a good hold as you pumped.

Besides which, she was the only daughter of Orion I. Lancaster, founder, owner and head of OIL, Inc., one of the largest independent oil companies in the world and a hungry rival to the slightly bigger local Gate Petroleum Company. Gate specialized in bringing in oil to supply their own burgeoning chain of gas stations and convenience stores headquartered in Jacksonville and scattered around the Southeast. OIL Inc. found and supplied oil to dozens of buyers but hadn't gotten into the retail end of the oil distribution business.

That was the reason that the Gate owners had a net worth in excess of a billion dollars, and Oil, Inc. – meaning OI Lancaster – was worth only a measly $250 million. Even so, she was the sole heir to a $250 million fortune which meant old Lancaster was very protective. I knew all about this because my father had been one of the main oil men for Lancaster for a decade before his death and had become one of the old man's closest friends.

Because I'd grown up around the business, I knew and liked the old man and I think he'd always felt the same about me. His first wife had three miscarriages before Deirdre was born, and two miscarriages afterward before dying in a birth related disaster. That made him consider her a true miracle and unable to do any wrong. His second wife had a son, but it turned out that Lancaster hadn't been the father and when the truth was discovered, the unfaithful wife and the son by marriage were gone and legal documents stronger than steel had been drafted to ensure the fake son would never get a penny of Lancaster money.

I'd been dogging my father's footsteps in the oil exploration business since I was old enough to bug him unmercifully to take me along with him on his trips. That was at the age of nine. By ten he'd talked my mother into letting me go along with him. He brought along books I had to study and a tutor for when I was in the states. As long as I kept up my grades, he told me and my mother, I could go with him. Mom fussed, but he told her he'd grown up that way and hadn't ended up that bad. And then they vanished into a bedroom and Mom said okay.

Dad was a good father, and a good husband, but he'd grown up in the hardscrabble oil fields of Oklahoma and Texas and he never could see the harm in a boy becoming acquainted with booze and good cigars.

He drew the line at sex, because he knew he'd eventually have to come home and face my mother, but he couldn't keep an eye on me 24 hours a day in the field and in a little fishing port on the western shores of the Mexican coastline, I'd met an 18-year-old goddess. Raven haired, big hipped and with heavy breasts that I couldn't take my eyes off of from the time I met her in the home of one of his wildcatter friends.

I was 13 going on 20 and she was sweeter than honey. We stayed there two weeks and I fell in love with her and she broke my heart with a 20-year-old shrimper who came back in off a voyage and took her away from me with just a look and a smile. But 13-year-old hearts mend fast.

So I grew up tall and solid like my father, with a taste for big breasted Latin sirens, the same kind of hunger for the black gold that made the world go round and the kind of instinct for where it was and where it wasn't that had made my dad a millionaire three times before I was ten. Of course he lost it all every time, which was why he ended up working for OIL Inc. and a steady paycheck.

At the age of 25 I'd worked everywhere from Canada to Mexico to Indonesia to fields in Darkest Africa. I was gone more than I was home, but I'd gotten my diploma and I was making carloads of cash and entertaining ladies with a dick that never seemed to get satisfied or tired, so I was a happy man.

Until I had the misfortune of meeting Deirdre Lancaster. The misfortune? You'll understand later. The first time I'd seen her staggering into her daddy's mansion I didn't think much about her. She stank of alcohol and slurred her words and just stared at me when one of her blonde nearly-naked friends staggered over to me and grabbed my dick through the jeans I was wearing.

"Hey, DeDe, you gotta check this out. I think that bulge is real."

"I think..." DeDe began, and then started throwing up in a huge vase that held a massive growth of Elephant Ears. They're really pretty weeds, but Lancaster had always loved them, something about the wilds of Central America where he'd met the late Mrs. Lancaster.

"Oh shit," the blonde said, and I moved back just in time to avoid the projectile vomiting coming out of her. Their little brunette friend was quietly emptying her stomach onto an expensive Arabic rug. They obviously couldn't hold their liquor.

A phalanx of maids and butlers and chauffeurs swarmed over them and they vanished upstairs to be cleaned up and put to bed.

I had come in for dinner with Lancaster and to talk a little oil. We were through and I was thinking seriously about doing a little barhopping to see what kind of pussy was available tonight. Lancaster walked up behind me and I turned to face him.

"Could I talk to you for a minute, Michael?"

I was really getting antsy for some action, but like I said, I liked him, and he paid me very well for my services.

"Sure," I said and followed him into one of the mansion's libraries. That's another distinction between rich people and the Very Rich. The Very Rich have more than one of everything. He sat down in a very comfortable looking chair with padded arms and motioned for me to sit across from him.

"I'm sorry you had to see her like that. She's really a good girl. Just ... she was 10 when her mother died. I've dated a few women and I bought her the best companions and governesses, but they don't make up for the loss of a mother. She's gotten wild, and her friends are worse."

"No need to apologize. I haven't been a saint myself, as I'm sure Dad told you often."

"The difference, Michael, is that he was kind of proud of your tomcatting around. No one wants to see their Little Angel drunk and throwing up in vases."

"Well, I guess I can see there would be a difference."

There didn't seem to be much else to say so I lapsed into silence. After a few moments:

"They tell me you have some trips planned to South America over the next month or two?"

I was technically an employee of OIL Inc., but, like my father, I didn't work under strict supervision. I'd go out on assignments when top management told me to, but I could go out on my own and had already sniffed out two major oil fields, one in Cuban territorial waters that was secretly being prepared for a joint Cuban/British deal, with OIL Inc. being the silent partner of the Brits.

"Yes, I think there's a major field that no one has looked at in the Brazilian rain forest. Of course, getting it pumping is going to require some miracles to overcome opposition from international tree huggers and the Chinese who'll use the tree huggers as their front, but I think the oil is down there."

He leaned forward in his chair.

"I appreciate your dedication, Michael, and I have as much respect for your instincts as I do for your father's, but I have to ask you for a favor."

"A favor?"

"Yes. I can't ask you as a matter of business to do what I'm hoping you'll do. This is not business, it's personal."

I put my hands out, palms up symbolizing both my lack of understanding and the importance of what he was asking me.

"We're not the only people who have gotten wind of the rain forest oil field, Mr. Lancaster. Like I said, the Chinese and the Russians and the Saudis are all hearing whispers. Everybody knows about the Russians and the Chinese, but the Saudis are prowling all over the world too. There are a few in the Royal Family smart enough to know the ocean of oil they're sitting on isn't going to last forever. They're going to have to control other oil resources around the world to keep their Crown going."

"We're in front right now because we've done preliminary studies, we've bought officials in the Brazilian government, and we've made friends with a few of the indigenous peoples in the area. But we only have a lead. We could lose that lead."

He stretched out one large, weathered hand with a thumb and only three fingers and laid it on my knee. He wore a suit now, but he had been a wildcatter and carried a lot of scars. He had lost that finger creating his company.

"I understand what you're saying and I have talked to people about your work down there. So I know what I'm asking and I know what we're risking. But I'm going to ask you to stay here in Jacksonville for a few weeks, maybe a month."

"Doing what?"

"My daughter is currently on break from the University of Florida. She graduated from Bishop Kenny two years early. She was always a very good student, and she moved another year ahead at UF. She's taking a few months off from grad school, but she should have her Masters in Business Administration within the year. I have enough people and safeguards in place in Gainesville that I think she'll stay out of trouble, and she's a good student when she has enough on her mind and on her plate to keep busy. But she has too much time on her hands here."

'"And what does that have to do with me?"

"She is a very intelligent and willful girl, and she's too beautiful for her own good. Men are always trying to get something started with her to try to get to my money. She's smart and charming enough to twist most of the male employees I assign to her around her little finger. And she usually gets the females I assign to her in enough trouble that she can slip away from them."

I couldn't help shaking my head.

"You want me to put a major oil field on the back burner so I can babysit your little girl?"

He nodded.

"Really?"

"I have no doubt the oil deal you're working would mean a lot of oil, and a lot of money for this company. But I have a lot of money. And I will have a lot of money no matter what happens in Brazil. But there will always be more oil fields, more discoveries. I only have one daughter."

I tried one last time.

"With all due respect, Mr. Lancaster, and you know I respect you if only because Dad, if he were here, would kick my ass if I showed any disrespect, this is not a good idea. I'm no professional bodyguard or nursemaid. There are tons of people you could put around your daughter who would be a lot better at keeping her out of trouble – and from vomiting into your vases."

He patted my hand.

"I know that, Michael. But you have some things going for you that they don't."

"I'm all ears."

"For one thing, you're almost family. I know I pay you, but you grew up in this company. I've known you since you were a little boy. Like your father, you're loyal, and not just because I pay you. You're a good man, just like your father. I can trust you, and I do.

"And, you're a hell raiser. I know how many bars you've been thrown out of. I know how many 'accidents' you've had with young women that your daddy had to buy you out of. I know how many times you've been arrested and how many times your daddy – and I – have had to pay to grease the wheels of justice to get them knocked down to misdemeanors or dismissed.

"I know how many fights you've been in, and the fact that you've never lost any of them. You're a big, strong guy who knows how to fight. Which counts for a lot.

"So far all we've got is that you like me, and I have a bad habit of getting into bar fights and getting women knocked up. Not the best recommendation in the world."

"True. But, it helps that Deirdre has always had a little crush on you, although she'd kill me if she knew I'd told you that."

"A crush? Mr. L, honestly, I barely knew she existed before tonight."

He smiled.

"I know. I know you've been busy and that she was a little girl and even though she's grown up, she's not your type. That's another reason why I want you. I know you like them busty and big-assed. It makes me a little more comfortable knowing she doesn't ring your bell. But, she's noticed you for a long time. I've caught her staring at you when you weren't noticing and a few of her friends have told me she's been – very explicit – in telling them what she wanted to do with you when you got smart and noticed her."

I shook my head.

"Now I really don't know if I want to do this."

He just grinned.

"You're not afraid of bar fights or married women and their jealous husbands, but a 20-year-old college student you could power lift with one hand scares you?"

"It's not the same thing."

"I know, but I trust you. I think you can handle the challenge. You up for it?"

What could I say?

So, instead of flying over the jungles of Brazil's rain forest the next Friday night, I walked into Pelicans, a new bar/disco on Jax Beach with Deirdre, three of her blonde girlfriends, and four guys who had to be college students judging by the way they looked at me as if I was an incredibly square uncle assigned as a chaperone.

I ordered drinks and flirted a little with her friends, which was the easiest way to blend into the group. One of the prettier ones and I clicked and when she dared me to get out on the dance floor I took her up on her challenge. She was a pretty good dancer, but hell, when you looked like her and showed as much skin as she did, all you had to do was move around with or without rhythm and nobody – guys especially – would complain.

When she started moving in close, rubbing her very hard nipples against my chest and giving me the equivalent of a hand job with her thighs, I had to back away a little. If she kept it up – I'm not made of stone and I couldn't watch the boss' daughter while I was off premises fucking her friend's promised land.

I made excuses to get off the dance floor and when I returned from a not-really-needed visit to a bathroom, she'd already been swept off by a tall young stud who was engaged in simulated or maybe not so simulated sex in a corner.

I went back to Deirdre's table. She sat sprawled in an adoring ring of her four admirers. There were a lot of empty shot glasses, wine glasses and bottles scattered around the table. She seemed a LOT more drunk than any of the four guys. They were all having a good time, laughing and teasing her. I looked around and noticed that her two female friends had vanished onto the increasingly crowded dance floor. I didn't like the way things were going.

I grabbed a chair and pushed my way next to her, crowding out the nearest drooling guy. He gave me a dirty look but I gave him a dirtier look.

"Deirdre, sweetie. You look like you're about to pass out. Why don't I take you somewhere for some coffee and air. I think you'd feel a lot better and we can come back in later. Okay?"

She raised her head to stare at me bleary-eyed and said, "Do I know you? Oh, you're tall, dark and a house servant. You my chaperone tonight? Thanks for the offer, but my friends, my buds, will take care of me. They take care of me so good. Don' you guys?"

A good looking blonde, who might have been legal – barely – reached out to squeeze one of her small breasts which brought a squeal from her and stared at me with a confident sneer on his face.

"Yeah, Captain Do-Right, we take REAL good care of her; we'll bring her home when we're done with her."

Two of his friends backed him with the same shitty grins that almost dared me to argue with them. The only one of the four who gave me even the slightest moment of concern was a dark skinned kid with straight black hair, Asian and Caucasian features intermingled and the kind of thick body you sometimes see on Polynesian football players and wrestlers. He didn't run his mouth, just kept observing me coolly.

Deirdre let her head hit the table with a thump. I shook her shoulder but she just drooled onto the table. She was out of it, and she hadn't drunk THAT much.

Now I knew what was happening. I could have called the cops but to get her away from these guys I'd have to put them down first, and if the cops came when we rumbled, there'd be reports and calls to parents and all the embarrassing things I didn't want to happen.

I stood up and grabbed her shoulder and tried to lift her up, but she slid through my fingers like mercury back into her chair. I motioned to a waiter and when he came over stuffed a $100 bill in his shirt pocket. He bent forward,

"This drunk young lady is Deirdre Lancaster, the daughter of one of the richest men in the city, probably the state. He is a very protective and grateful father. I'm her bodyguard. If this guy or anyone else tries to leave here with her in tow, tell the management to call the cops and her father because she's been date rape drugged. I'm going outside with these three gentlemen to discuss the matter. Back in a few minutes.

I kept my eyes on the Polynesian but he sat quietly.

I walked ahead of the three motor mouths who were happily telling me what they were going to do when we got outside. I hadn't taken a full step when I felt motion behind me and half turned, caught the arm of the guy trying to crack a beer bottle over my head. I half hoisted, half threw him over my shoulder. I made certain that he came down face forward on a wooden packing crate that had contained expensive bottles of booze at one time.

I couldn't decide if the cracking and splintering sounds came from the thin boards of the crate, or cracking of teeth and facial bones. Whichever, he didn't try to get up and gain revenge. He just lay there bleeding and crying.

Behind him came the other two. A wild swing led the first one to stumble past me. As the second one came at me rearing back a big fist, I stepped into him and poked my finger into his eye, he gasped which turned into a choking gasp as I struck him in the throat with a knife hand thrust. He couldn't catch his breath which made it hard for him to block the first shoe I buried in his crotch. But he was pretty tough. He didn't go down. The second kick left him rolling around on his back in the alley trying to curse and catch his breath at the same time.

"You fucking son of a bitch, I'm going to break your neck and feed you your balls," the third guy said as he completed his stumble and came back at me.

"Okay, but I'm not going to drink anything you give me so it might be tougher for you than it usually is."

He swung at me but was careful not to overshoot and leave anything for me to grab on and pile drive him. He came at me and at me and I kept swatting his punches away with no great degree of difficulty. We could do this all night but the Polynesian kid might decide to dive in or some of his other friends might show up. So I stepped forward and left myself open. He stepped inside, tripped me and holding my right arm tried to slam me down in a modified wrestling or MMA submission move.

Unfortunately for him, as he was moving I spun around with the goal of putting him in an arm lock submission. Now when somebody is behind you with a good grip on your arm and you have no leverage to break the hold, anybody who's ever done this with a live partner knows you go with the hold and try to make an escape or tap out after you go down.

You DON'T try to throw the guy behind you over your shoulder. If your opponent isn't ready for it or quick enough to ease up on the pressure, what happens is you hear this sickening CRACK which is the sound of an arm being torn out of the shoulder socket shredding bones and tendons and giving an orthopedic surgeon enough work to send at least one kid to college.

I'd been in a couple of training matches when something equally stupid was tried so I had just enough warning to let go and he caught me with one arm and threw me over his back. I didn't hear anything crack, but I did hear him scream. The arm had probably been pulled out of socket, or close enough to hurt like hell. I looked around and saw the Polynesian kid headed my way.

I focused all my attention on him and made myself loose and ready to move in whatever direction was necessary.

I studied his face, particularly his eyes. You can usually read an antagonist's moves and intentions from his eyes better than any other tipoff.

"We going to go round?"

"You've had some training," he said.

"Some in a gym. Never messed around with belts. Mostly street fighting. Learn as you go."

"I guessed. I've got black belts in karate and judo. Started when I was four. My dad pushed me, but after a while I got to like it."

"I'm impressed. I've never kicked the ass of anybody with your credentials. But there's always a first time."

He looked me up and down, and said,

"I can take you. No doubt in my mind. But you're good enough, and wild enough, that you might accidentally hurt me, or I might accidentally kill you. This was supposed to be a fun night out, not a battle to the death."

I set my body in a defense posture.

"Your definition of a fun night out and mine are completely different. Drugging a woman and taking her somewhere for a gang rape she's helpless to resist, that's not a fun night out. I don't have to rape women to have fun. I feel sorry for you fuckers if you think that is fun."

I glanced over at the ruin that was his friends.

"Whether you kill me or I hurt you, cops are coming into this. I've told people inside you were date rape drugging her. If there's a death back here and a lot of people saw us come back here, the cops will be all over you. And when her daddy finds you that you drugged his daughter, he won't need 'no steeenking cops' to handle you. You'll just vanish. Guys that got rich in the oil business are not your typical buttoned down business types."

He bent down beside the guy with the arm out of socket.

"Bobby, Bobby, hold on a second. Take a deep breath and close your eyes. Go limp."

An instant later he did something and Bobby screamed loud enough to wake the dead. Then he went limp for real. The Polynesian held his head and lowered him to the floor of the alley. After a moment Bobby raised his head and said weakly, "What'd you do. That almost feels right."

"Just gave you some relief from the pain. I need to get you guys to an emergency room. Beaches is probably the closest."

Bobby looked over at me.

"Kill that fucker, Mo. Tear his arm out. I can wait."

Mo gave me a studied look, than turned back to his friend.

"I think the cops will be here sooner rather than later and we don't want to be hauled in for a brawl. Besides which, her daddy will back him up and he's a very rich and powerful man. I don't want to tangle with him."

"You afraid of this fucker, Mo? I've never seen you back down from anybody."

"Not afraid of him. But ... you've got a beat up arm that can probably be rehabbed and you'll still have a shot at the minors. If he hadn't let go of that hold, your arm would be gone. You might still have it but it'd be dangling at your side for the rest of your life. All your dreams, all your plans, would have gone up in smoke, all for a piece of ass. That's crazy. I kill him and my life is over. What the fuck kind of night out is that, Bobby? You're risking everything for a crazy bitch. You might be willing to throw everything away for her, but I'm not."

Mo turned to me.

"I know what you did for Bobby and I appreciate it. Walk away from this and no hard feelings."

I stared at him and tried to take in his words.

"No hard feelings? You stupid bastard. You were trying to drug and gang rape the daughter of a man who's been good to me. You expect me just to forget about that? No way in hell. I'm waiting for the cops and if you want to try and kill me, come at me. You might not be as good as you think."

He shook his head.

"You really don't know what the hell you're talking about, do you? You think we were drugging her to get her to someplace private and have our way with her virginal bod?"

"Well, yeah."

"Go in there and talk to some of the waiters, a bartender or two. Take her somewhere and have them do a tox screen on her."

"What?"

"Yeah. The light begins to dawn. The tox screen will show she's got enough in her to be relaxed, but she's faking the rest. And some of the waiters and bartenders will tell you we've carried her out of here blitzed more than a few times in the last six months. She knows every one of us and she's willing going every step of the way. When we get someplace private every one of us will fuck her, two and three at a time, and she'll be begging for more. Your sweet little virginal maiden loves it up the ass, loves pulling trains, loves playing a victim of rape who gets carried away and really gets into it."

"You're saying she-"

I tried to get my head around it. I was more than familiar with role playing in the bedroom, but this sounded far beyond any kinky I was familiar with.

"Yeah, I'm saying none of us are rapists. We just found a really kinky bitch who likes to party, and we're more than happy to party with her."

He looked down at his friends.

"Your call. You bring the cops in and it'll be embarrassing for us until the lawyers prove this was just consensual rough sex. But it will come out. But your little friend is going to be a hell of a lot more embarrassed. Bobby down there has a father who's been a big contributor to Republican and Democrat governors for 20 years. He's not going to let Bobby take the rap for this and he's big enough that he can cause her daddy a lot of grief. You still want the cops called in instead of just letting us walk away? You could take her somewhere you can sober her up and figure out a story her daddy will buy?"