Page 52 of Shaken Knot Stirred

Houston was back in Port Haven. But he didn’t have any leads to run down. I mean, how do you find one tiny blonde chick in a city as big as this?

Pay came out of the boathouse. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together like it was his birthday.

“Why do we do this again?” Win said quietly.

“For pack and city,” I responded with absolutely no excitement.

As Pay got closer, he and Win each drew out their wallets and flashed a crisp $100 bill.

“I say he keeps us waiting two hours this year,” Win said.

I snatched both bills and stuffed them into my back pocket. I always held on to the money.

A lifted truck careened into the Yacht Club parking lot, scattering onlookers.

“Isn’t our dad still on the City Council?” Pay asked as we watched the truck run through the parking lot to find a space big enough for it. Beg never let valets touch his vehicle.

“Which one?” I asked.

“Samuel,” Win said flatly. We all made a disgusted sound. He was the father we liked least.

“We should get him to ban those fucking eyesores.” Pay said, nodding at the truck.

We watched Beg hop out of the cab and saunter across the parking lot. I promptly handed the two bills to Pay.

“I told him to be here two hours ago,” he said, pocketing the money. Win should have expected that from Pay.

“So, the sabotage has begun already,” Win said, shaking his head and turning his face up to the sun. He might pretend this was all a bore, but he loved it as much as Pay did.

When Beg got close enough, Win turned on a heel and headed for the docks. No warm brotherly greetings for Beg, apparently. Beg was last fall in line. He was sucking on a juice box, of all things.

We rounded the boathouse and gaped at the boats Pay had prepared for us. Pay had won this annual tradition last year, so our rules stated he got to pick the boat.

“What the fuck are those?”

“Skiffs?” Win and I asked at the same time.

The rich teak wood of the antique boats gleamed in the morning light. We had had a skiff at the pack’s beach house. Beautiful boat, and nearly impossible to capsize. But it was not built for speed or comfort. Seaford Skiffs were designed as duck hunting boats. They sat low in the water. I peered into the hull. Just bare floorboards, an anchor and oars.

“No row boats?” Win asked, and I smirked.

This was the opening event of the Dinghy Races. The Knight and the Bridge packs had been racing each other since the founding of Port Haven. Now it had become an international event. Teams from all over the world brought their crews and boats to claim the substantial prize money. But there was a race for everyone. Canoes, jet skis, even a DIY washtub race. But first we had to get through this one.

When the Knight and Bridge packs merged, it became tradition for the children to participate in the first race. The winner of last year’s race chose the craft. It had been rowboats last year, broken down, patched up, shambles of a dinghy. Pay had only won because he’d sabotaged Beg’s boat and it sank halfway through. Sabotage was also a tradition.

I bent and picked up one of the life vests that Pay had laid out for us. The clasps gave a satisfying plastic click.

“Aw, let me help the baby into the vest. Did you bring swimmies too?” Beg pinched me on the shoulder and wrenched one of the tightening straps.

“Get the fuck off, man.” I spun, put my weight on my back leg, and brought up my hands in nice loose open fists.

That was another Knightbridge tradition – working out our issues with punches.

Beg laughed and uncoiled the rope from the cleat of the second boat.

“You remember how to do this?” Pay asked. His tone was snarky, but I knew the question came from genuine concern.

“Tack,” I pointed in one direction, “jib,” I pointed in the opposite direction, “don’t get hit by the boom.”

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