by Ann Denton
Kenneth hasn’t said a word all afternoon, not since Alec explained Danny’s plan to him. But, when my chef notices my tears, he comes over and takes my hand. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at me, just takes my hand and walks next to me, sharing in my grief.
We walk until what I guesstimate is three or four in the afternoon. I don’t have a way to judge other than the heat, but it’s blazing hot. It’s the time of day I’d normally bustle around getting snacks ready and setting up evening events, enjoying the crisp feel of air-conditioning. Today, our dogs are dragging. My feet pine for running shoes. My stomach gurgles and my mouth is as dry as the Dust Bowl. I’m starting to lose focus. Instead of mentally reviewing the items in my boxes that we might use, I keep picturing pitchers full of iced sweet tea, burgers fresh from the grill, a nice soft pillow to sink my head onto.
Alec calls a stop. We don’t really halt, so much as just stop dragging our feet. That’s how worn down we are.
“We need to rest up,” Alec declares. “We’re aren’t in any shape to do anything like this. Plus, we should wait for darkness. Let’s make camp and find something to eat.”
Peter Brown and I get assigned to gather mangoes while Kenneth hunts for the more difficult plants he wants to snag for dinner. Alec is going to set up camp.
“It’d be great if you can catch a parrot too,” Kenneth calls out after us as we walk off.
I turn around to give him an incredulous stare and Peter just flips him off.
“Well, you don’t have to set the bar low,” Kenneth grumbles. The sound carries down the hill toward us and Peter and I share a look.
That’s all it takes. We double over in laughter. Peter doubles as well as he’s able, which isn’t much given how swollen he is. I hope to high heaven that my bites don’t get that bad.
“Shit, is he for real sometimes?” Peter asks as he holds aside a tree branch for me like a gentlemen. “Catch a parrot. Yeah. Right. I’ll just use my bare hands and—” He jumps, whacking a leaf.
“He might just want to complete the flavor profile,” I shrug.
That just cracks Peter up all over again. “The flavor profile? We’re gonna eat mangoes and fucking leaves over a campfire. In other words—mush. Flavor profile … Good one,” He holds up his hand for a high five.
After I give it to him, I ask. “So, what happened with the gambling?” It is possibly the most direct and uncomfortable question I’ve asked in my whole life. Usually I hate putting people in the hot seat. But something’s tugging at me and I feel like I need to know.
Peter scratches his neck uncomfortably, which just leads to him scratching all over.
“Stop that. You’ll start bleeding again. Never mind, you don’t needa’ answer.”
“No … no. You’re right. It’s just … it’s fun.”
“It’s fun?” That can’t really be all can it? Losing thirty thousand dollars for fun? I shake my head as I grab a mango that’s on the ground and tuck it under my arm.
Peter doesn’t answer for awhile. But when he gives me a boost and helps me pluck a second mango stuck on a high tree branch, he confesses, “I’ve never really thought about it, I guess.” He sighs. “I lost my job a few years back. And it was hard. Had to move back home. It used to be something I’d do just to get out of the house, I think. And my first win—it wasn’t the lottery—” he gives me a sardonic grin, “but it was enough to get me out of my parent’s house. Let me rent a place. And then I kept going. It just kind of snowballed. I didn’t even realize it.” He shrugs, bending to pick up another fallen mango and groaning as the bend stretches the swollen skin of his back.
I watch him crouch down to scoop up the fruit, wondering about what he said. Is it really possible to just let something like that happen to you? I’d never—but then I think about it. My old job wasn’t an addiction. But security was. I used to cling to security like a drunkard clutches the bottle. I didn’t used to be much better than Peter Brown.
But I’ve changed … I think.
Before coming to this island and meeting my guys, I didn’t take risks. Now … well, I’ve chosen three guys, and we’re stuck in the middle of this chaos. Some risks have been my choice. Some haven’t. Either way … I don’t think I’m the same Katie who stepped off that jet a few weeks back. If we get out of this, I don’t think there’s gonna be any going back to that, which makes me quiet as the possibilities swim through my head.
We spend the next two hours tromping through the forest, getting bit up by mosquitoes who, apparently, think the motherfucking sheer material of my dress is an appetizer. I hit myself so many times to smash the fuckers that I look like a whackadoo, and by the time we tromp back to our campsite with five measly mangoes, I also look like a walking pest-control billboard. Bug bodies and blood drip and ooze off me.
When Kenneth looks up from his pile of leaves and sees what we’ve got, his expression falls. Like seriously, jaw to the ground, eyes welling up with water, cartoon-level disappointment. “That’s it?”
I scratch the back of my neck, “Well, yeah. This island wasn’t really designed for people to live off the land.”
Kenneth chews his lip in response. His eyes get dark, and I can see all kinds of curse words running over his face—they’re in the microflare of his nostrils, in his furrowed brow, in the tension that pulls up his shoulders.
I cringe, expecting the verbal blows to start.
But he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t unleash. He just takes the mangoes from us, and places each one of them in a woven basket along with a handful of nuts and some sticks. Then he shoves them all onto the makeshift prop stick he’s turned Alec’s hanger weapon into—the bundle of hangers are shoved into the ground and he’s bent a couple so that his woven baskets can dangle over the tiny fire he and Alec have made. It’s small enough that the smoke won’t be a big cloud piercing the canopy of the trees. It should go unnoticed, unless the Russians are tromping through the woods nearby, and then—well, I don’t need to think about that part of things.
Kenneth turns to prep some small, round purple fruits he found. He cuts the fruit with his newly acquired pocket knife and hands it around so we can each eat one. Seeing him so upset though, dulls my appetite. I only eat about half my fruit and hand the rest back.
“What are you doing?” Kenneth snaps.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat! Eat!” He thrusts the fruit back in my face aggressively.
I swallow hard and shrink back, grabbing the fruit. I move to the other side of the makeshift camp.
Alec eats his fruit and follows me, while Kenneth pokes a straightened hanger at our measly dinner like he’s stabbing it.
“What’s his problem?” Alec asks.
I shrug and whisper. “I dunno. He got really mad one time when Heather didn’t eat his food. Maybe I offended him?”
Alec shrugs and rolls his eyes. “He’s worn out and on edge.” His hand comes to rest on my shoulder. “But if he snaps at you again, I’ll take care of it.”
I lean into him. “Thanks.”
“Of course.”
“I mean … for everything.” I clarify. “All last night and today.”
He leans down and kisses the top of my hair. I’m certain it’s a disaster, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His hand rubs my upper back, comforting me and reassuring me, but also just surprising me at how comfortable his touch is.
While Kenneth cooks and grumbles behind us, Alec shows me the sleeping area he cleared and the hovel he’s made out of brush and a tablecloth we snagged at my villa. I smile at his primitive construction—it’s better than I could do, but not by much—thank him, and try to ignore the fact that a ginormous bug just skittered across the tablecloth covering the ground. I’m definitely calling middle at nap time. Even if Kenneth is being a grump, I’d rather he face the bugs than me. Or, maybe I’ll just sleep on top of Alec. I imagine his pecs serving as my pillow as we walk back to the fire. Getting swoony is a serio
us error in judgment on my part. I nearly face plant into the fire. A pair of strong arms saves me, swooping around my middle and pulling me back.
I look up to see the object of my daydream. Night dream? Wet dream? I’m not quite sure. I stare up at Alec’s brown eyes and go a little weak at the knees. His gaze is just … intense, like always.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” I stare up at him sheepishly. At my feet, something starts smoking.
“Out of my way!” Kenneth pushes me aside and reaches his hands for the baskets. One of them is on fire. He yanks it, cursing and shaking his hand like he’s gotten burnt. But that doesn’t stop him from snatching all of the other baskets out. He lines them up and uses his stolen pocket knife to cut open the baskets. Three of them release the delicious scent of cinnamon and baked almonds. Three of them have gorgeously cooked mangoes that look like pie filling inside. One—well, it’s a burnt mess.
Kenneth grits his teeth and hands us the unburnt portions, taking the burnt one for himself.
“You can have mine,” I try to push my mango toward him.
“No.”
“I don’t mind—”
“I do!” Kenneth snaps. He stands and tromps off through the undergrowth, smashing it aside. He's clearly agitated. And I get it. We're all at the end of our ropes—tired, exhausted, and worried. But then he smacks a tree trunk and kicks it. He curses. Alec and I exchange a worried look. Kenneth’s mood has been going downhill since the Russians arrived but this … this is something more than exhaustion.
“Just let him cool down,” Peter waves him off as he lifts his woven leaf basket onto his lap and pinches a piece of roasted mango in his fingers. “It’ll be fine.”
I stare for a second at Heather’s former harem contender. Mr. Smooth and Slimy Backdoor. And I ask myself if I want to take life advice from a man who gambled away money he didn’t have, planned to pimp that money out of my best friend, and ran away instead of facing his problems. A man who can’t even articulate them.
Nope.
I stand up and push my food toward Alec. “You can have extra. I’m gonna talk to Kenneth.”
“You sure?”
I put my hand on his shoulder and smile. “Yeah.”
Peter makes a scoffing noise as I turn away. “Stupid. Let him cool off.”
Alec chucks a pebble at Peter’s face. “Shut it.”
The part of me that hates confrontation crumples at Peter’s words and wants to slink away. But I can’t. Kenneth’s been getting progressively worse. I don’t know if it’s sleep deprivation or what, but we all need to be on the same page for tonight. And there are no pools around here I can ask Alec to toss him in so we can hit the reset button. I swallow hard and tromp around a couple bushes, following Kenneth’s angry path of destruction pretty easily.
He sits in a small opening in the trees, one that’s a perfect circle, with dappled light. But, unlike the meadow for the sparkly vampire I liked to read about before I learned what real romance books were, this opening isn’t filled with flowers. It’s just bare, like a space one would use to meditate. It has a calming vibe. Kenneth definitely seems to be embracing that vibe, because he’s sitting cross-legged, breathing deep, and muttering to himself as he does neck circles.
I sit down next to him, unwilling to interrupt his chi or whatever it’s called. I breathe deep and start to mimic him.
After the neck circles, Kenneth opens his eyes. When he spots me, his gaze narrows but he doesn’t say anything. He does some back twists. Again, I follow. We go through three or four movements until it seems Kenneth’s mood has settled. His eyes no longer have that furious gleam. His shoulders are relaxed.
He stretches out on the ground and stares up at the canopy of the trees. I lay down next to him and just share in the moment, trying to be there, but not overwhelm him if he doesn’t want to talk.
After a long stretch of silence, punctuated only by the slap of our hands on motherfucking, buzzard-sized mosquitoes, Kenneth swivels his head to look at me. I turn my head to meet his gaze and give a half smile.
He looks pensive for a moment. But then he says, "I hate being hungry."
That’s it. It’s all he says before he turns and looks back up at the sky.
I’m confused. That’s his big revelation? He acted like he was gonna tell me something significant. Maybe he thought it was significant. He hates being hungry. We all hate it. Does he think he hates it more because he’s a chef? Does he mean he gets hangry? That would explain a lot of this afternoon. But I still feel like I’m missing something.
“Why?” I ask.
I almost think he didn’t hear me. He takes awhile to answer. But, when he does, he keeps his eyes trained on the leaves above. "My parents went to jail when I was fourteen. Dealers." I turn to look at him, and while his eyes stare straight up, his body tenses. My eyes slide down and see him clenching his fists.
My heart curls up like a fern trying to protect itself. Because I can hear the hurt in his tone. And his pain hurts me. I can just imagine Kenneth, my Kenneth whose smile can light up a room, as an awkward teenager, alone. Abandoned. Just like Heather. I know she used to cry herself to sleep nearly every night those first two years. Not because we’ve ever talked about it, but because she basically lived at my house. And when she thought all of us were sleeping, she’d shake the bed with sobs. I have no idea if Kenneth had someone to take him in. I have no idea if he had friends or family or anything at all.
“I had to fend for myself,” Kenneth adds, his voice soft. “Eventually, I wised up and lied about my age. Got a job at a restaurant. It was the first time in years that I wasn’t hungry.”
God—I clutch at my chest. Hearing that makes me angry and furious and heartbroken all at once. And now, his single-minded focus on work makes sense. His choice of work. I want to hug Kenneth. I want to wrap myself around him and make all kinds of ridiculous declarations about how I’ll take care of him and stick by him and even if he wants to stop the sex, I’ll be his friend. Forever. Because if I can put up with Hurricane Heather as a best friend, he’d damn well better believe I can put up with just about anything else.
But I don’t do any of that. I don’t say any of that. I just lay next to him and accept him. As is. Because sometimes telling the truth is hard enough. The pity that comes with it can be unbearable.
Chapter Sixteen
Heather
So I’m supposed to keep these bozos occupied for hours. But Suity and Blob make that near impossible. Both end up coming within ten minutes of starting to play with themselves, on several different occasions. It doesn’t seem to matter if I toss on penis pumps or cock rings. It doesn’t matter if I have them butt fuck my Eiffel Tower dildo while I do a little strip show. That shit would give most guys pause, but it’s like their dicks are auto-programmed by a microwave timer. Three minutes. Done! Ding!
I don’t count their orgasms, but they have serious face-palm numbers. Luckily for me, Blob has a little bit of a delay factor between rounds. Moreso than the others, anyway—I probably only have to distract him half as many times. J2 is hot as hell, and I grew up with a little bit of a Terminator crush, so that part’s not bad. I even get him to say “I’ll be back,” once after he comes. And that revs me the hell up. But seriously? Having guys shoot off before they even take care of me … that’s not sex etiquette. It’s fucking rude. It’s like these guys have never been to an orgy before. They have no stamina, no self control, have no clue what the fuck edging is, even when I try to get the twins to explain it.
Blob’s response to their explanation is, “People do this? The edge?”
What the fucking hell? These Russians could probably drink me under the table. But I could sex them under the table, over the table, on the table. They really need to spend far less time chasing people around with guns and more time having fun. It's solid life advice.
When Blob collapses on the couch holding his floppy tits like he can't breathe, I know I need to find a
new distraction technique. There's no way these guys can keep up with me for four more hours. I think for a bit about what I could possibly do that might take some time. I mean, when this was a harem competition, Katie set all kinds of shit up for us. Surely, I can use something—I figure it out. Damn! I’m a genius. I get the twins off real quick to ensure all the guys are chillaxing in a post-orgasm haze so I can implement part one of my brand-new, genius plan.
I say, “I gotta pee.” I walk over to my bedroom and grab an outfit off the dresser. I take a quick shower to wash off all the cum on my tits—seriously, I get that guys think that’s hot, but the aftermath is fucking annoying. It makes me want to rub come inside their asscrack and say, “Good, now don’t move. Let me stare at it. It’s dry? Okay, you can go wash it off now.” I always fucking miss a spot. Today, I’m sure I miss several, because I’m in a hurry. I’ve got gunmen to distract, bombs to build, it’s a busy day.
I toss on some clothes. Probably more than I’ve worn since my golf date on that other island. But, this next little bit calls for running shoes. So, I wear a purple golf skirt that matches my peekaboos, a low cut t-shirt that will hopefully keep eyes off my hands and on my chest, and some badass rainbow-colored New Balance trainers that I bought in Utica Square (aka the fancy mall) back home. I stick with commando because I always go commando and honestly, I only packed underwear for the plane to be polite.
I just smile at the twins when they come to check on me. “Just doing my hair,” I bat my eyes and use my pick to give myself a part. When I turn on the blow dryer and start doing a blow out to curl my hair, R&R back off. They’ve stayed over at my villa before, and they know my hair routine can last a couple hours.
Once they’re gone, I set down the blow dryer but leave it running.
I climb into the jacuzzi tub that’s been the source of many a fun time and yank at the window next to it. It takes a little shoving, and I crack a frickin nail, but I get the sucker open. And then I squeeze my ass out of the villa and book it.
