by Bea Paige
Some days I wish I was still that little girl whose parents were alive. Everything was so much simpler back then. There wasn’t any fear or worry, just wonderment.
Wonderment… It’s such a pretty word. A state of awed admiration and respect, according to the English dictionary.
It’s another word to add to the many that fill my numerous notebooks.
Words that form lyrics, that eventually turn into songs.
Sometimes the words come spilling out of me. Other times the notes are what I hear first, forming in my head as though they’ve been put there by magic. There’s a sense of wonderment when I write a new song, and that keeps the fears I have at bay. Death and sadness are just a memory when I’m writing in my notebook or strumming my guitar. The joy I feel when doing so, that’s how I choose to remember my parents. I feel closer to them when I play the guitar and sing.
Stepping up onto the warm stone heated up by the sun, I take a seat on a flat piece of rock that dips in the middle to form a deep rockpool, my sand-covered feet sliding into the water. Placing my notebook down beside me, I lean over and cup some water into my hands dribbling it over the bare skin of my legs and watch those same see-through fish swim about my ankles. They’re like little flashes of light that weave through the seaweed, disturbed by my wiggling toes. For a moment I admire my pretty pink toenails and the way they make my tan seem darker. My toes, those tiny fish, this cove, the sun on my skin and sand in my hair, all make me happy.
Happy to be alive.
Leaning back on my hands, I tip my head back, allowing my sunhat to fall off my head as I close my eyes against the bright sun. My skin feels tight from the sand and saltwater spray, my lips a little dry, but despite that a wide smile forms on my face.
“There is no better feeling than the sun on your skin and sand in your hair,” my mum used to say, and she wasn’t wrong.
This right here, is what peace feels like.
Happiness.
Humming quietly to myself, I listen to Hozier and let my mind drift for a while. I think of my best friends and what they must be getting up to. Lots of partying in clubs and dancing until early in the morning, I suspect.
The three of them have this wild streak that scares me sometimes. They’re not afraid of anything. The world is their oyster and this island is a ball and chain. Sometimes I wonder how we’re even friends. Though, of course, sharing a class with only a few children means that none of us had much choice in the matter. It was each other or no one.
As I move my feet in the water my thoughts stray to my new job and whether I’ll actually pluck up the courage to sing in front of a crowd like Lola wants me to do. I mean, strumming my guitar and writing lyrics during my breaks is one thing but singing for an audience is something else altogether, especially doing it sober. These songs I write are so personal, a close-up view right into my soul, if you like. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to share them with anyone other than my Grandma. She’s the only person I’ve sung my own songs to. My friends have heard me sing, but never the lyrics I’ve penned.
They’re sacred.
Grabbing my wide-brimmed straw hat and shoving it back on my head, I pick up my pen and notepad and start to scribble down some new lyrics, my swirly handwriting moving across the blank page. Pretty soon I’m so engrossed in what I’m doing that the next hour or so passes by in a heartbeat.
I’m not sure what eventually makes me look up.
Maybe it’s the sudden ache in my fingers from holding my pen so tightly. Maybe it’s the piercing caw of a seagull circling overhead, maybe it’s the way my skin begins to prickle or maybe it’s the sudden flash of something out at sea, caught in my peripheral vision.
“What the hell…?” I mumble seeing two things at once. A schooner floating in the distance and someone swimming towards the beach.
I stand, forgetting that my notebook is in my lap. It falls into the rockpool, the words on the page blurring as it sinks to the bottom, forgotten in the moment.
All I can do is watch in surprise, then admiration and awe as a man with strong shoulders and powerful arms cuts through the water towards me. When he’s closer to the shore, I hold my breath as he stands upright, water running in rivulets over his skin as he swipes his dark hair back off his forehead to reveal a face that is terrifyingly beautiful.
He’s a god. A living, breathing, Poseidon.
With every step closer, the ocean reveals his body inch by tantalising inch. My hands begin to tremble and the hairs on my arms stand upright as my skin breaks out in goosebumps once more. It’s a familiar feeling that should warn me off him, only it doesn’t. I’m too enraptured.
I lift my fingers to my face, as though checking that I’m actually awake and not dreaming, then force myself to blink several times, half expecting this man-god to disappear and with it my body’s strange reaction. But he’s still there when I refocus my gaze and this time my whole head prickles with a sensation that’s so powerful, so overwhelming in its intensity that I should be running scared. I should be afraid, but I’m not. I’m mesmerised.
Entranced.
Bewitched.
Words pop into my head, words that don’t seem to fully describe how I’m feeling.
My body, however, does that well enough.
There’s a heat beneath my skin that rushes up my chest and neck, spreading out across my cheeks. Somewhere deep inside, warmth pools outwards from my stomach, causing a sensation between my legs that’s so powerful, so instinctual, that I can’t help but let out a whimper just as he turns to face me, this man-god, his lower half still covered by the water.
When our eyes meet, he doesn’t smile, he doesn’t even acknowledge me. He simply moves through the water all bronzed and covered in black tribal tattoos that wind up his arm, across his shoulders and down his chest. I catch the glint of several silver rings adorning his fingers, and at once the shine reminds me of all things desirable but untouchable. As he moves towards the shore, I notice how his black swim shorts hang low on his waist revealing a pronounced V-shaped muscle and a trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the waistband. His legs are strong and muscular too, and more tattoos wind up his right thigh, the swirls as mesmerising as he is.
My heart thunders so loudly it rivals the sound of the waves as I blatantly ogle him. “Hey,” I wave, feeling immediately stupid when he scowls at me.
The smooth skin of his forehead creases into a frown and even from this distance I notice how the muscles in his cheek clench as I watch him. For a moment, I’m left with my hand high in the air, the breath whooshing out of my lungs as he stares at me for the briefest of moments.
In those few seconds, as droplets of water slide over his skin and perspiration breaks out over mine, I know somewhere deep down inside of me that he’s the one. He’s the one my Grandma warned me to guard my heart against.
Four
Malakai
“Hey,” the girl calls, waving at me, her face hidden by the shade of a wide-brimmed straw sunhat.
Halting my stride, my heart still thundering from the effort of swimming in the ocean, I look at her momentarily, struck by the length of her tanned, shapely legs and curvy figure. Much to my disgust, my body instantly reacts, my cock jerking in my swim shorts. It’s been a long while since I’ve laid eyes on a woman, let alone fucked one. A year alone at sea can make a man hunger for a woman’s touch until he’s turned mad with want.
But, I’m not here for that.
Women are trouble, and I know without even talking to her, that this woman is more trouble than most. Gritting my jaw, I scowl at the leggy siren. Then, like the arsehole I am, I stride across the beach ignoring her greeting completely. I’m not here to make new friends, only to visit a couple of old ones and to get my boat fixed.
Out of my peripheral vision, I can see the woman’s arm drop and her shoulders sag and whilst a small part of me feels guilty for being such a prick, the rest of me is relieved. I’m no Prince Charming and I’ve been
alone for too long to be anything other than who I am.
A loner, a drifter, an arsehole to some, and a man who prefers the wide-open expanse of the ocean than human connection. I am who I am.
On the rare occasions that I do step foot on land for provisions and such, I keep to myself and never, ever, get involved with anyone. I may as well be a eunuch for all the use my cock gets. I can’t even remember the last time I slept with a woman. Two years? Maybe three.
Pushing thoughts of my non-existent sex life out of my head, I forge onwards over the sand and head towards the set of stone steps that I know are carved directly into the cliff face of this small, but beautiful cove. The last time I was here, it was twenty years ago, and I had been a sixteen-year-old kid in love with a girl who’d fallen for my best friend, Blake. Annabelle had been a force of nature. She was captivating, wild, free. She lived like she loved, with everything she had. There hasn’t been one single woman who’s held a candle to her. Even all these years later.
When I heard news of their deaths eight years ago, a part of me died too. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t seen her or Blake since we were kids, I mourned the loss of the girl I’d once loved and the man she chose to be her husband.
Annabelle Silva and Blake Beaumont were, and are, a match made in heaven.
As I make my way up the stone path, ignoring the bite of sharp stones against my bare feet, a long-forgotten memory hits me like a sucker punch to the stomach and I have to hold onto the weather worn railing to steady myself or risk toppling over the side…
“Kai, wait! Please just let me explain,” Annabelle calls after me as I rush across the sand. She’s yanking her cotton dress over her naked body and try as I might, I can’t help glancing over at her. She’s so fucking beautiful.
“You don’t need to explain a thing to me, Anna. I can see with my own eyes what’s been going on,” I retort, ignoring the bitter sting of tears that prick my eyes.
“Stop! Kai, please just stop,” she begs, reaching for me, her fingers grasping my arm. Despite everything I’ve just seen, despite my shattered heart, I do what she asks. I stop. I’ve never been able to say no to Anna, not to the girl I love.
“What do you want from me?” I round on her, my fists clenching as I look at Blake over her shoulder. He’s struggling to put his jeans back on and is stumbling around, hopping on one leg. It would be comical if it didn’t want to break his fucking neck.
“I want you to know that Blake and me, we never meant to hurt you. You’re our friend.”
I laugh bitterly, brushing at the wet tears on my cheeks. I don’t cry. Not me, not Malakai Azaiah Dunbar. I come from a long line of tough men and they never cry. Especially not over a woman.
“I love you. Doesn’t that mean anything?” I admit, feeling weak for showing how broken I am.
“We didn’t mean for you to find out like this,” she pleads, reaching for me, but I yank my arm free from her hold.
“When, exactly, were you two going to tell me that you were fucking, huh?”
“We’re not fucking…” She shakes her head, giving me a disappointed look.
“No? I’m pretty sure Blake was balls deep inside of you just now, Anna.”
“Enough!” she snaps, her pretty face screwing up in anger.
I must’ve really pissed her off because Anna rarely gets angry. Always so kind, so understanding, so warm. Except the girl I just saw wasn’t any of those things. She was sexy, passionate, intense, and she was supposed to be mine.
“You make it sound dirty, Kai, and what we were doing was far from that. We were making love. There’s a difference.”
If she’d taken out a knife and plunged it into my heart, it would have hurt less.
“You love him?” My voice quavers and I hate it. I hate that she fucked my best friend. I hate that she chose him. I hate that my heart is fucking breaking.
“Yes,” she replies gently, her own eyes brimming with tears. “I love him. I’m sorry I couldn’t love you that way, but I can’t help how I feel, Kai. You’re my friend…”
“You’re our friend,” Blake adds, stepping up beside Annabelle now that he’s finally got his jeans back on.
I look at him, at the boy who’s been by my side since we were twelve and I break. I swear to god, I hear my heart fucking break in two. He has his arm around Annabelle’s shoulder, holding her tight against him and it ruins me. Because here in front of me is a boy who’s claimed my girl as his own and I know that I will never be able to stay friends with either of them. It’ll hurt too much. So I do the only thing I can. I walk away.
“Not anymore,” I spit.
The memory is still as painful today as it was back then. Twenty years might have passed by, but that doesn’t make it any easier to remember. In fact, it’s so much harder now because I never got the chance to make peace with Annabelle and Blake. I never got to say goodbye.
“Hey, are you okay?” a pretty voice asks me, one that sounds so familiar that chills run over my skin. I need to get a grip, it’s just the woman from the beach not a ghost from my past.
Ignoring her, I draw in a breath, and continue climbing the stone steps.
“You looked like you were going to pass out or something,” she continues, climbing the stairs behind me. There’s concern in her voice, but something else too. Curiosity, interest even.
“I’m fine,” I bite out.
“Yeah, if you call a personality lobotomy fine,” she mutters.
“I’m not here to make friends,” I snap. I’m not sure why I choose to say that of all things, but it’s what comes out of my mouth regardless.
“Then tell me what, exactly, are you doing here on my beach?” she snaps back, that curiosity making way for annoyance now as my foot hits the top of the stairs.
Her beach? What the fuck?
I twist on my feet, staring down at her. She has that bloody ridiculous straw hat on and despite looking up at me, I can only see the bottom half of her face because of the way it flops over her forehead. From this position, I also have a bird’s eye view of her cleavage encased in a navy swimsuit that shouldn’t be sexy but somehow is. My mouth suddenly goes dry at the sprinkle of freckles across her shoulders and chest that only seem to draw my gaze back to her ample cleavage.
For fuck’s sake. This is not what I need right now. Get in, get out. That was the plan. I do not need a distraction.
I. Do. Not.
“This beach belongs to the Silva family, and as far as I’m aware Ma Silva is the only surviving heir,” I comment with as much conviction as I can muster.
The woman before me laughs, the light, tinkling sound sending my pulse racing as it draws more long forgotten memories to the forefront of my mind. Coming back here was a mistake. I’m clearly losing my fucking head.
“Not the only surviving heir,” the woman responds, before removing her sunhat and smiling at me with eyes that are the exact same shade as the girl I once loved.
“Annabelle?” I whisper, knowing how ridiculous that sounds the moment her name leaves my lips, because this girl can’t possibly be the Annabelle I knew. She’s dead.
The girl’s smile falters, her deep blue eyes flashing with a pain that reflects my own.
“No, I’m Annabelle’s daughter.”
Five
Connie
“Grandma, you need to explain to me why you’ve let a stranger use our bathroom. Who is he?” I ask for the hundredth time as I watch her make a pot of tea, even though it’s eighty-two degrees outside. Tea is her answer to every problem, that and avoiding awkward questions, it would seem.
“I’ll make some sandwiches too,” she responds, placing the teapot on the table and opening the fridge pulling out ham, cheese and lettuce.
“Grandma, answer me!”
“Enough, Connie. Let me just get my bearings. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him,” she berates me, placing the items on the counter as she begins to make up some sandwiches.
“But
who is he?” I repeat, feeling more and more frustrated at her refusal to tell me anything. “How does he know you? How does he know mum? And why the hell did you offer to give him Grandpa’s clothes to wear?”
Finally, she turns around to face me and looks at me as though I’m an imbecile. “Because if it hadn’t escaped your notice, he isn’t wearing all that much.”
I almost say that of course it hadn’t escaped my notice, given he’s built like a god and is about the most beautiful man I’d ever laid eyes on, but I don’t. I get the feeling that remark would go down like a lead balloon.
“You’re being infuriating. I just want to know who he is…”
But, really, I want to know why my heart won’t stop beating like it’s finally got a reason to be happy. I want to know why one look from this man is enough to set my skin on fire. I want to know why he knew how to get to our house, and why in the five minutes it took us to reach here he didn’t say one single, solitary, word to me. But more than that, I want to know why he called me Annabelle and looked at me like I was both his reason for living and the cause of all the pain in his eyes.
“He swam to shore from a boat you say?”
“Yes. A schooner. It’s anchored in the cove right now. But that’s irrelevant. Him, here in our home, using our things, dressing in Grandpa’s clothes isn’t. Who. Is. He?”
“I’m an old friend of your parents. Ma Silva and I know each other well,” a deep voice responds. A voice that instantly makes my skin prickle and my breathing halt.
Turning in my seat, I face the man who is clearly more than just a stranger. Well, to Grandma at least. He walks into our kitchen as though he knows this house as well as we do and when Grandma opens her arms and pulls him in for a hug, my mouth hangs open in bewilderment. The hug only lasts a few seconds. Grandma senses his discomfort as much as I can see it, but she covers the awkwardness with a smile, the laughter lines about her eyes creasing with mirth.
“Well, you truly are a sight for sore eyes!” she exclaims with a gentle laugh, and a familiarity that confuses me given I’ve never met him before. “Those old clothes really don’t fit you all that well.”
