Aloha, page 50
Harvey tilts his head in a single nod. “Let’s have it then. What’s the favor?”
Oh, right. I’d nearly forgotten.
“Okay, so, my stepsister is about to get married.” I glance at my watch before waving my hand towards the direction of the beach where the wedding is minutes from starting.
“Mmhmm,” Harvey murmurs.
“To my ex-boyfriend.”
Harvey runs two fingers across his forehead, as if the beginnings of a headache are developing.
“Obviously, I can’t show up to the wedding alone.” I shrug, indicating how impossible that would be. “And I’ve already told the entire family that my new boyfriend, named Ben, would be coming with me.”
Harvey’s eyes widen.
“But then his appendix,” I add, my voice nearly a whisper. “So if you could just—”
“No.”
Harvey doesn’t even wait to see if I’m going to add anything else. He’s already four feet away, his suitcase gliding beside him as he takes off without so much as a backward glance, his spare hand moving to once again reassure himself he still has his wallet.
Asshole.
I mean, I get it, but still.
Fuck the univer—
“I’ll do it.”
The words come from behind me, the voice a low rumble. Sexy. The hairs on my arms stand on end, my entire body is at attention and I haven’t even seen him yet.
Do not get ahead of yourself. He’s probably not even talking to you. He’s probably a clown. Like an actual clown hired for the legal conference, or my stepsister’s wedding.
I’m aware that neither scenario makes any sense, but I am who I am.
I exhale and turn.
I take him in and yes, he is indeed sexy. And he is, in fact, talking to me. And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I will someday retell this story.
Our story that is beginning right now.
He’s… beautiful. Perfect. At least half a foot taller than me, if not more. Thick brown hair, trimmed to perfection. Strong jaw and a nose that might have been broken in some childhood stunt gone wrong. I want to press my thumb to his bottom lip to see if it’s as soft as it looks, right before I press my own lips against them. His eyes though, those are his best feature. Warm. Brown. Small laugh lines at the edges. Completely focused on—and amused by—me.
And he smells good. That cannot be understated. It’s a very important detail. His hair is ever so slightly damp, and I imagine him using the hotel-provided shampoo without giving a shit if it’s scented to smell like the beach. I want to lean in and sniff him, but I’ve made this weird enough already.
Focus, Gigi.
“You’ll do what?” I ask, a smile threatening my lips.
“I’ll be Ben.” He’s already stuffing the conference lanyard into the pocket of his suit coat.
“You heard all that?”
“Every word. I wasn’t even pretending not to listen. You’d have noticed if you hadn’t been so wrapped up in selling that atrocity of a story.” He pauses, then whispers, “Boom,” while making the explosion gesture with his hand.
Then he winks at me.
Winks, for crying out loud.
With one of those perfect brown eyes, like this is all so amusing. Like he heard my entire insane story and, instead of being horrified, was amused. Because he took it for what it was meant to be, a lighthearted attempt to rescue myself from a shitty situation. And he’s all in. Along for the ride.
Lord help me.
Still… it would behoove me to clarify.
“You’re willing to skip your conference to help me?” I rest my weight on one hip and tilt my head to the side, as if I have all the time in the world for his answer. I don’t. The wedding really is starting in a matter of minutes.
“The conference is bullshit. You think we actually come to Hawaii to discuss gambling law? It’s a tax write-off for a week on the beach.”
“Are you sure?” I press, sure this is too good to be true. That he’s too good to be true. “Harvey seemed pretty intent on attending,” I deadpan.
“Harvey’s a fucking loser.”
“Hmm.” I eye him. I want to believe I’ve had a change of luck, so very badly. “What’s your name?”
“Ben,” he quips, a playful smirk on his face.
“It’s not,” I reply, snaking my hand into his jacket pocket to nab his lanyard.
He doesn’t stop me.
“‘Lawson McCall,’” I read out loud. “‘International Gambling Law Conference, Attendee.’” I stuff the lanyard back into his pocket and stare at him for a moment longer as if I’m thinking this over.
I’m not. Not really. If I procrastinate any longer I’ll miss the wedding. And I didn’t fly to an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean just to let everyone think I was too brokenhearted to show my face at the wedding.
Fuck. That.
“What’s in this for you?” I ask, brows raised, as if I’m in some position to negotiate. I appreciate that he’s playing along though.
“The privilege of doing a good deed.”
I glare.
He laughs. “How about this? You’ll owe me a favor. To be called in at some point in the future.”
“I’m not sleeping with you,” I tell him. That’s a lie. I definitely might.
“Of course not,” he agrees, shaking his head as if the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind.
He better be lying.
Then he places his hand on my lower back, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and we slip into the wedding moments before the arrival of the bride.
And I know without a doubt I’m exactly where I need to be.
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Not Made To Last
Jay McLean
Chapter 1
Olivia
Standing over the lifeless body, I nudge it with my toe and watch it shift an inch.
I’m being dramatic.
Obviously.
So is the person I just hit with my car. Hit would be a slight exaggeration. I tapped it.
Him.
Not it.
But, going by how he’s lying on his side in the middle of the road, completely silent and unmoving, you’d think I ran him over with a semi at full speed. I was rolling to a stop when he came out of nowhere—dressed in all black, in the middle of the night—and now that I think about it… I’m pretty sure he hit me.
“Are you okay?” I ask, waiting a few seconds for a response that never comes. “I’m sorry.” I hunch down with my hands on my knees for a closer inspection. The headlights on my still-running truck illuminate the space around him, but I can’t see much of anything with his hood over his head the way it is. He’s tall, built, and that’s all I can make out from his fetal position.
I take a moment to calm my thoughts, stand to full height, and look around. We’re in a part of town that I often frequent, not because I’m invited, but because my second job brings me here. I’d just delivered a pizza to a house a block away—the most lavish home I’ve ever come across. I’m sure if I looked up the address online, it would be described as an estate, whatever that means. Either way, it’s pretty clear that my beat-up old Toyota Tacoma and I—we don’t belong.
Here, I’m surrounded by the rich.
Not rich.
Wealthy.
Big difference.
Not that any of it matters. If my eighteen years on this earth have taught me one thing, it’s that at our cores, we’re all the same. We’re nothing but flesh and bones and organs; entire bodies that are overworked, minds that overthink, and hearts that have the potential to break.
We wake up every day with goals set, hoping for that tiny piece of joy we obtain when we achieve them—all the while knowing in the back of our minds that we have absolutely zero control over this shit-show of a thing called life.
Pessimistic? Maybe. But it’s also the truth. And it’s not as if I share these thoughts with anyone, because that would be horrible. Life is crappy enough—there’s really no need for the reminder. Besides, people my age are made to believe they have the world at their feet. We can achieve anything, so we’ve been told, and I’m sure as hell not going to be the one to break it to anyone.
I heave out a sigh and blink back the fog, forgetting momentarily about the possible dead body by my feet.
He still hasn’t moved.
I feel like I’ve been standing here for an eternity. In reality, it’s likely been less than a minute.
Squatting down, I gently settle my hand on his arm. “Where are you hurt?” I ask.
Nothing.
“Can I do anything?”
Still nothing.
“Do you need me to call an ambulance… or take you to the emergency room? I…” I don’t know what to do here, and now I’m starting to panic because maybe I did hit him.
The body moves.
Groans.
Progress.
I release the breath I’d unknowingly been holding and attempt to refocus.
“Ohana?” Max calls from the back seat of the car. “What’s happening?”
Shit.
Shit shit shit.
At the sound of Max’s voice, the figure moves again, and when his face comes into view, my panic doubles.
Triples.
“Ohana?” Max again.
I keep my gaze on the confused gray eyes in front of me and, not knowing if I’m lying, say over my shoulder, my words aimed for Max, “It’s okay, buddy. Everything’s fine.”
It takes a moment for my victim to roll to his back, tilt his head up, then speak. “Drive much?” he croaks.
All the air rushes from my lungs at the sound of his voice. I used to spend hours imaging it, then, later, re-watching whatever clips I could find of him online. But I’d never heard it in person.
Until now.
Rhys.
Thank fuck I don’t whisper his name out loud like I do in my head.
Rhys. Rhys. Rhys.
As in Rhys Garret—co-captain of the St. Luke’s basketball team and, of course, the most popular and powerful guy roaming that school. Or at least he was. From my understanding, he graduated a few weeks ago, and I… I know way more about him than I should. Especially considering he has absolutely no idea who I am.
Nervous energy crawls through my veins, and thoughts fly through my mind faster than I can catch them. It sucks that the one thought I latch on to is: please don’t sue me. “Are you okay?” I extend my hand, praying he’s well enough to take it. “I’m sorry.” Sorry that he came out of nowhere and got in my way.
Rhys accepts my offer, his large hand dwarfing mine as he slowly comes to a stand. I try my best to help him up, but with his towering height and nothing but muscle, I doubt I’m having much effect. Finally, he lets go of my hand and twists slightly at the waist, soothing his palm along his right hip. His low wince slices through the summer night air, and he states, “Yes.”
I look from his hip to his hand, hanging lazily at his side, then up the length of his body until my eyes meet his. “Yes?”
“Yes,” he repeats.
“Yes… you’re okay?”
“Ohana?” Max calls out again.
I glance over my shoulder, through my car’s windshield, and to the backseat, where Max’s face is lit up by his iPad. “One second,” I call out, then look back up at Rhys, my neck straining from our height difference—my 5’4” to his 6’3”, and… I catch myself there, at the absolute peak of pathetic.
Look.
It’s not as if I stalk the guy, but his height is listed on most websites that include his name, and it’s right there beside his weight and a line above his birthday. Which, if I’m not mistaken, was only a few days ago. He just turned nineteen. All information which is completely irrelevant to our current circumstance. “So, you’re good?” I ask.
“No, I’m not good.” He shakes his head, eyes unfocused as he looks down his nose at me. “So, yes, take me to the emergency room.” Without another word, he moves slowly to my car, a noticeable limp in his swagger, and all I can do is watch, frozen, wondering how the hell I got into this situation.
Because I offered to take him?
I didn’t mean it. Not really.
Rhys opens the front passenger door, illuminating the interior.
Illuminating Max.
I rush to get in the driver’s seat, my pulse racing, and glance from Rhys to Max and back again. My supposed “injured victim” sits carefree, legs kicked out, hands resting on his thighs. A slow smirk forms on his lips as his gaze switches between Max and me. Eyes the color of slate, he homes in on mine, his head tilting slightly. “You’re not from around here, are you?” he murmurs.
I’m in denim shorts and a plain white tank, no makeup, my hair in a messy knot. My brow bunches as I glare at him. “I didn’t realize my attire screamed lacking financial wealth.” I should’ve hit the gas the moment I saw him.
He sighs, rolling his eyes dramatically. “That’s not what I meant.”
I don’t care what you meant, I say. Not out loud. Just to myself. Because fuck him and his judgmental ass. I face forward, put the truck in gear, and begin the drive, waiting until I’ve rounded a corner to glance up at the rearview, at Max in the back seat, headphones on, eyes focused on his iPad. I’ll be sure to check in on him later.
Rhys must sense my concern because he turns his entire body around, his injury seemingly forgotten. “You okay, kid?”
Through the rearview, I see Max look up and nod once.
Rhys extends his arm, his hand a fist, ready for knuckles. “I’m—”
“Timothy!” I cut in. Timothy? It was the first name I could think of, and I blurted it out before I could stop myself. Max doesn’t need to know who he is. In fact, I’d highly prefer it that way.
“Right.” Rhys draws out the single word. “Timothy.” The humorous lilt in his tone has me cringing. He’s still facing Max when he asks, “And you are?”
Without thinking, I reach out, place my hand on the side of his head and force him to face forward. “He’s… off limits.”
Chapter 2
Rhys
Off limits?
The fuck does that mean?
If this girl has a kid, then… it’s whatever—no big deal.
Maybe she’s ashamed of having a kid young, out of wedlock or whatever. I don’t know. The things people are self-conscious about these days blow my mind.
Ignoring the dull ache pulsating from my hip, I glance behind me again. The boy’s around five or six, dark-skinned, with thick glasses sitting crooked on his nose. Then, I focus on the girl behind the wheel. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s my age, give or take a year. Dark hair piled high on her head, perfectly straight nose, and rounded cheeks—stained pink from her blush.
She’s cute; there’s no doubting it, but considering what’s transpired the past few minutes, she might also be insane.
Just my type.
I peek over at the kid again. Maybe he’s not hers, at least biologically. Not unless his dad’s genetics are far stronger than hers. It’s possible. Or perhaps she’s just babysitting. But then why not just say that? Why attempt to shield us from each other? Also, why the fuck am I Timothy?
Hmm… now I’m intrigued.
And my intrigue never ends well.
“So…” I start, unsure where to go from here. “How are you?” Odd thing to ask considering what got us here, but what else is there to say?
“You mean besides hitting you with my truck hard enough that I have to take you to emergency?” Her eyes flick to mine, muddy brown beneath long, dark lashes. “I’m doing… fine...” The last word comes out as a question, and she focuses on the road again.
I focus on her.
On her teeth as they clamp down on her full bottom lip—worrying. On her eyebrows as they lower with each passing second. On her eyes as they continuously shift from me to the road and back again.
I bite back a smile, because she looks like a modern-day Snow White, only, unlike the fairy tale, this little princess wasn’t wandering through a forest and stumbling across a cottage. No. Tonight, she was driving around in an old truck… and slamming straight into me.
Some might call it fate.
Kismet.
A series of unfortunate events.
“Everything okay?” she asks quietly, glancing at me quickly with her eyebrows raised. She just caught me watching her. Staring at her. Scrutinizing every damn inch of her.
Do I care?
Not even a little bit.
I’ve already decided that her cheeks are her best feature. At least on her face. I’ll be sure to study the rest of her later.
“How bad are you hurt?” she adds, the softness in her voice conveying her concern.
“I’m all right.” I shrug, trying to play it cool, but my eyes drop to her legs, all smooth skin and thick thighs, and sure, maybe an illicit thought crosses my mind, but now’s not really the time to voice them.
Besides, she seems too nice for that.
Too pure.
Too… sweet.
Like a perfect little porcelain doll.
Breakable.
All assumptions, of course, because I don’t know shit about the girl.
I know enough, based on her clothes and the car she drives, that she doesn’t come from money, and I have no idea what she was doing in my neighborhood, and the more I think about it, the more the whole babysitting theory makes sense.
Am I being judgmental? Absolutely. But am I lying? Nah.
My phone rings, pulling me from my thoughts, and I quickly shove my hand into my hoodie pocket to retrieve it. I silence the call without ever fully comprehending who’s calling.
“Was that your parents?”
I scoff at the thought. “No.”
“Is someone looking for you?” she asks, the panic in her voice palpable. And now I’m starting to feel guilty for using her like this.
