by Bea Paige
I’m no longer the little girl he accused me of being. I’m so much more.
“Let’s see what you have to say,” I murmur, swiping my finger upwards across the screen of my phone, trepidation filling my heart.
Meet me at Grant’s boat shop in half an hour. Come alone. I’ll deal with Lola and Ma tomorrow.
That’s it. No apologies. No great declarations of love… Okay, that was never very likely, but still, a girl can dream. There’s nothing in his text to explain why he’s returned so suddenly after a whole year of being away. I’m not sure what I was expecting in his text, but it wasn’t that. It’s short, to the point, demanding, and void of any kind of possible emotion.
I should’ve known.
I rest my phone on the rock beside me and stare out to sea remembering the day he arrived on the island.
He was so breathtaking.
So beautiful.
My heart might have beat erratically, but my soul.. it had held its breath. I was mesmerised. I was caught in his… his everything.
He was mine. He is mine.
Malakai can deny the connection between us all he likes. He can hide behind a threat that has never materialised, but I know the truth. We belong together. My skin prickles, just like I knew it would. A warning flashes across every inch. A warning that I once again choose to ignore. He’s back. Inside, my relief finally makes way to anger. It surprises me with its force, almost taking my breath away.
I’m suddenly seething. Shaking. Mad as hell.
For the first time in over a year, my anger makes itself known. He left without a word. He read every damn message I sent but never responded. Lola mourned him again. I mourned what could’ve been, and even though I texted him regularly, I never once asked him to return. I never once got angry.
Now I’m furious. Now I’m livid.
On the outside, however, I’m as calm as the ocean before me as I school my emotions. I might have dreamed of this day for the past year, but if Malakai thinks he can just walk back into my life and pick up where he left off, as though the past year hadn’t happened, he’s got another thing coming.
He better be ready to grovel. He better be ready to get down on his knees and beg my forgiveness because I’m not the same lovesick girl he left behind a year ago. I might’ve longed for him. I might still ache for him, but I will not let him walk over me again. I won’t.
Gritting my jaw, I force myself to remain seated. I don’t get up and rush to the harbour to search for Malakai like he’s demanded, even though every single part of me wants to. Instead, I wait for Peter to arrive.
Ten minutes later he steps onto the beach wearing cut off denim shorts and a blue Hawaiian shirt that’s he’s left hanging open to show off his tan skin and solid six pack. He’s tattoo-free and when I asked him a few days ago why he never chose to adorn his body with a tattoo, he’d simply replied; ‘my body is a temple’. Admittedly, his response had made me laugh for the first time in months, but despite that brief happiness I couldn’t help but think of Malakai and the tattoos that covers all those scars he was determined to keep hidden.
“G’day, Connie. Why so sad?” Peter asks, as he plonks himself down beside me on the rock and slides his bare feet into the rock pool next to mine. His golden tan, light blonde hair and fit body is attractive, but I just don’t feel that connection to him.
“Not sad, just thoughtful,” I shrug.
“Want to share?”
I shake my head. “I’d rather swim.”
“Then let’s swim,” he says, standing.
When he holds his hand out to me, I take it, ignoring the fact that Malakai is right here on the island. Ignoring the fact that my heart is pounding at the thought of him so close by. Ignoring the building anger and the utter relief.
Malakai Azaiah Dunbar has kept me waiting for over a year.
Now he can wait for me.
Twenty
Malakai
I look at my watch for the fourth time in the last ten minutes. She’s late. An hour late. I’ve picked up my phone to text her a dozen times demanding she come but deleted every single one. Behind me Grant sighs heavily.
“Mate, you need to calm the fuck down. You’re going to wear a damn hole in my floor.”
I swivel on my feet and glare at him. “Don’t tell me to calm down. Connie’s been hanging around with some douchebag for the past couple of weeks and is mostly likely with him right now. I asked you to keep an eye on her god-fucking-dammit!”
Grant frowns, shaking his head. “I have kept an eye on her! No harm has come to Connie.”
“But she isn’t fucking here!” I roar back, fully aware of how unhinged I sound.
“Look, I don’t know where this is all coming from. The kid is just some backpacker from Australia who’s taken a shine to Connie. A passing summer fling at best. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
My teeth grind together. “I asked you to tell me if anyone tried to get close to her.”
“And I did…”
“Are they fucking?”
Grant throws his hands up in the air. “How the hell would I know if they’re fucking? I might be good at keeping tabs on people, but I’m not a voyeur, or your fucking skivvy, I might add.”
“They better not be fucking!”
Grant shakes his head, giving me one of his looks. Unbeknownst to everyone on the island, Grant is an old friend of mine. Well, more of an acquaintance given I don’t do friendships all that well. He’s the one who sold me Princess all those years ago. At the time, he had a boat building business in Brittany. We got to talking and I told him about this island, though little more than that. He’d recognised a man on the run, just like I did. We’ve both got shady pasts, but we don’t discuss them. It’s better that way.
Then, about three years ago Grant sold his business and moved here permanently. Ever since, he’s kept me informed about island life. He was the one who told me that Lola had come to live on the island. It took him a while to figure out that we knew each other, but once he realised the connection, he let me know. He’s also been instrumental at keeping me up-to-date with the Palace after I asked him to keep an eye on the place for me. A few years ago he reported that the Palace had people staying there. It wasn’t hard to work out who that was, though I never told Grant about my connection to the place or the person who owns it. Fortunately for everyone here on the island, it has stood empty ever since. Taking my anger out on the floor, I begin pacing up and down again.
“You want to talk about it?” Grant cocks a brow and waits for my response.
“No.”
“Fair enough.”
That’s the thing about Grant. He’s never probed too deeply into my past and has always respected my need for privacy. It’s why he never thought to tell me about Connie before because I’d never mentioned my connection to Ma Silva and Annabelle. Though, he’s probably worked that out by now. He might not pry, but he isn’t an idiot.
“She’s an attractive young woman, Malakai. Are you really all that surprised someone’s taken a liking to her?” It’s more of a statement than a question, but it pisses me off, nonetheless.
“Not surprised, no.” I’m just really twisted up about it, not that I’m ready to admit that to anyone who might actually give a fuck.
“Look, they’ve been hanging out together. As far as I can tell she’s put this Peter lad in the friendzone. Though the guy is persistent, I’ll give him that,” Grant continues.
“And you didn’t think to tell me about how close they’ve been getting?” I growl, unable to control my temper.
“You asked me to keep an eye on Connie, make sure she was safe. Peter is hardly a threat.”
I grunt a garbled response and Grant pulls a face. “Next time be more explicit,” he says.
“More explicit about what?”
We both snap our heads around. Connie has just entered the boat shop, over an hour late.
“That’d be my cue to leave. Catch you la
ter, Malakai,” Grant mutters, nodding his head at Connie before exiting the shop by the rear door.
I don’t acknowledge him leaving. I can’t. I’m fucking struck dumb by Connie’s closeness. I can’t speak, let alone move. She’s here.
My Little Siren is here.
She’s no more than ten feet away, and I have the sudden urge to rush forward and crush her against my chest. I want to go to her. I want to pull her into my arms and kiss her breathless. I want to yank down her denim shorts, rip off her swimsuit and fuck her raw. I want to hold her and kiss every goddamn inch of her skin. My body sways, drawn to her inexplicably. Somehow, some way, I manage to keep myself glued to the floor.
Jesus Christ, I expected to be affected by being near her again, but not like this. This is too much, too intense. It’s a violent attraction that has my head spinning and my skin burning.
Does she burn for me too? Fuck, I hope so.
“Well?” Connie insists, still standing in the doorway with the sunlight streaming in behind her. It keeps her face in shadow but hugs her body with a golden glow. I’ve never been jealous of the sun until now. “Haven’t you got something to say, Malakai?”
Swallowing hard, my mouth pops open, but no words will come.
“What do you want, Malakai?”
Her question comes out harsh, brittle and that makes me pull up straight, that makes me stand to attention. I don’t know what I expected, but this coldness wasn’t it. Has this interloper, Peter, turned her head so irrevocably that she no longer sees me? Where has the girl gone who sent me all those texts? Who kept me awake at night, who soothed my soul with her sweet words? God knows I didn’t deserve to receive them, but day by day I began to rely on them. She kept me sane. All that time she kept me sane and all that time I never responded.
Her eyes narrow at me, her nostrils flaring. I see the repercussions of my silence right here in front of me. She hates me. She should.
“Come in. Shut the door,” I finally manage to grind out, biting back all the words I want to say, biting back the apology that sits on my lips.
Connie hesitates, her face still shadowed in darkness, then she looks over her shoulder at someone leaning against the siding outside. I catch her beautiful profile and draw in a sharp, painful breath.
“I’ll see you later, Peter. I’m going to bring my guitar and sing a few songs at Lola’s Shack tonight,” she says.
Sing tonight? Since when does she sing for an audience? The last time I was here Lola told me she didn’t have enough confidence to sing in front of strangers. Has this Peter fucker somehow helped to boost her confidence? Has she sung for him, has she pressed her eyes closed and let those private words flow like she had that morning at the harbour? My fucking gut twists at the thought that she might’ve shared a piece of her soul with someone other than me.
“Cool… Are you sure you’re okay?” a jovial, accented voice responds.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“You know where to find me if you need anything…” His voice trails off, and whilst I’m almost one hundred percent certain he can’t see me within the darkness of the shop, I sure as shit can see him. The prick’s no more than twenty tops and he looks like he’s just walked out of the waves with a surfboard.
Motherfucker.
Over the past year I’ve heard talk about the King and how he’s been recruiting youngsters to do his dirty work. If this shithead is connected to the King, then he’s as good as dead. Even if he’s not, his arse is gonna end up in the English fucking Channel regardless. One thing is painfully clear, I do not like him hanging around Connie. He needs to back the fuck off.
“Who the fuck is that?” I snap, an insane jealousy making acid in my blood. I left her. What the fuck did I think would happen? She’s a beautiful, sweet, soulful, and sometimes sassy girl. A dick hardening combination.
Connie ignores me. “See you later, Peter,” she says softly. There’s familiarity there. She likes him. I catch the cute smile that she gives him, and I have the sudden urge to rip his fucking head off right here, right now, regardless as to whether he’s connected to the King or not. “Prick,” I can’t help but mutter.
Connie snaps her head back around. “I see some things haven’t changed…”
“Shut the door, Connie,” I order, forcing my hands into my jean pockets so I don’t reach for her and claim her mouth as my own, like some love-starved pussy. I’m fucking stronger than this.
“Please,” she prompts, but whilst I’m sure she meant to chastise me, the word sounds like a plea. Immediately, it takes me back to the night when she begged me to kiss her and I’d given in. Just one kiss… that’s all I’d promised.
“Please,” I repeat, forcing the coldness into my voice whilst trying not to fucking crack and throw myself at her mercy.
Connie steps into the shop and closes the door behind her. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust as I blink back the dark spots caused by the sunlight. When my vision clears I have to hold in the groan that has risen up my throat. She was beautiful when I left her. Now she’s goddamn stunning. Her hair has grown longer and falls almost to her waist in a tangle of wet waves. Her figure is more curvaceous. The swell of her breasts are high and tight against her swimsuit, the roundness of her hips and slim waist making her the perfect hourglass shape. But it’s her eyes that hold my attention the most. Within them is a deep longing and a blind anger that has my skin heating, my heart fucking stuttering and my cock jumping to attention.
She’s mad. So fucking mad, and I can’t blame her in the slightest. I deserve all her rage, all her anger. I deserve every last drop. I need her to hate me because if she caves, then I’ll cave too, and neither of us will survive the consequences of that.
“What do you want, Malakai?” she repeats bluntly, folding her arms across her chest.
Now isn’t that the fifty-million-dollar question? What do I want? It’s a simple question that has a very complicated answer.
I want her. That much I do know.
And yet it can’t be that simple. It isn’t that simple.
I can’t have her. There’s too much at stake. If this Peter prick is one of the King’s men, then she’s in immediate danger. Even if he isn’t, she’s still in danger, because if the King finds out I actually give a shit about Connie then he will hurt her to get to me. Knowing that is like a knife to the gut. I can’t possibly tell her that I came back because I missed her. So, what the fuck do I say?
“Well, if you’re not going to say a damn thing, then allow me… because I’m not afraid to tell you how I feel, Malakai. I’m not. I’ve waited for this day for over a year. Are you ready to hear what I have to say?”
Fuck, no. No, I’m not ready.
Despite that, I straighten my back and glower, reverting to type because if I don’t force myself to be angry, to plaster on the mask I’m so good at hiding behind, then I’m going to drop to my knees and beg for her forgiveness. I’ll even hand her the damn metaphorical whip so she can punish me for all my fucking sins.
“Cat got your tongue?” she goads.
“I…”
She rolls her eyes and places her hand on her hip, jutting it out in a sexy pose that’s not intending to turn me on, but does anyway. Fuck, this girl does stupid things to my blood pressure. Steeling myself, I force myself to sneer at her.
“Have at it,” I goad her, a wicked smile pulling up my lips to hide the fact I’m a fucking mess inside. She narrows her eyes at me, then rips me a new one.
My Little Siren doesn’t hold back.
And I fucking adore her for it.
Twenty-One
Connie
Anger is a strange emotion. It somehow grounds me in a way that lust, that love can’t. It pushes away all other emotions and allows me to remain strong in the face of the man I haven’t stopped thinking about for the past lonely year. All that longing, all those pretty thoughts, those foolish hopes and dreams have made way for this fiery rage, and I grab hold off it
with all my might.
Stepping further into Grant’s boat shop, I feel that anger I’ve locked inside rear its head. Like a fire-breathing dragon it unfurls its long neck, smoke pouring from flared nostrils ready to eviscerate this man my heart and soul are already lost to.
“What is it? Cat got your tongue?” he pushes me, prodding me to react.
Lifting my chin, I meet Malakai’s hard gaze and scoff, looking him up and down. “You got a damn cheek, Malakai!” I seethe, proud that my voice refuses to wobble with the tears of relief that I know are brimming inside.
“Anyone would think I’ve pissed you off somehow,” he smirks.
“Are you for real? You text me out of the blue over two weeks ago, saying we need to talk but don’t call me, and then you send another message this morning clicking your fingers and expecting me to come running after a year of nothing. Well, fuck you and fuck that!”
I’m fully aware that my foul language is rivalling the potty mouths of all the fishermen here in this harbour, but I don’t care. I don’t care. Malakai doesn’t deserve the pretty words and the beautiful lyrics I’ve filled my notebooks with over the last year. He doesn’t deserve the emotion I’ve bled into all the songs I’ve written for him.
“Is this your idea of some fucked up, twisted, booty call? Because if it is, I’m not interested.”
Malakai’s eyes widen but he doesn’t move, he just glares, stripping me bare with his greedy gaze. “Yeah, that’s exactly it. You were so fucking good, Little Siren, it’s taken a year to come back for more,” he grunts, his lips curling up with his sarcasm.
Little Siren. His nickname for me. The way he says it has my core clenching with desire, but I push the feeling roughly away, alongside his hateful, condescending words.
“Then what are you here for, huh? Did you get bored suddenly sailing around the damn world and wanted someone to fucking torment?” I stamp my foot, fully aware how childish that appears but I can’t help myself. I want to kill him. I want to throw myself into his arms and kiss him until both of us are gasping for breath. Every cell within me calls to him, wants him. But the anger, the anger makes sure I don’t do something stupid like professing my undying love right here, right now.
