by Kat Bastion
I arched a brow, sipping my iced tea. “Sure you need the caffeine?”
He stilled, his entire demeanor changing on a slow exhale. “Are we going too fast?”
Yes. “Do you ever not think about sex?”
“No. Should I?”
I shot him an exasperated look. “Yes.”
My head still reeled from the dichotomy of the last hour: him in my every thought when he wasn’t in front of me to him invading my senses in person—while I tried to suck in steadying breaths of air.
Balancing on the razor-edge of control, I stood the moment Mase paid the check.
“Time to shop, surfer boy.” My armor solidly slid back into place.
After we swung by his place and emptied the truck bed, including the surfboards for the time being, we hit Kula Hardware, entering through the lower nursery area. He walked the few lower aisles on both sides of the register, scanning the items for sale from weed killer to potted orchids, then we went upstairs.
He grabbed two five-gallon buckets, then handed me one.
I watched him begin to load various items into his. “Why do you need two tool belts?”
He walked farther down the aisle. “Don’t.”
Confused, I followed.
Two wood-handled hammers went into his. Two sets of leather gloves got tossed into mine: one extra large, the other extra small.
Shaking my head, I pulled out the smaller gloves. “I don’t do manual labor.”
“You do assist, assistant. And I decide what you assist with.”
A heavy snort escaped before I could stop it. Would’ve stomped my foot and crossed my arms if I thought it’d help. But appearing to go along with his plan now and giving him shit later had to be easier than going head-to-head with his stubborn ass. “Fine.”
“Good.”
As our buckets continued to fill with matching tools, I got an uncomfortable his-and-her vibe in my own local hardware store. I tried not to read into the implications of that.
When we passed the locks, he dropped a few different kinds into his bucket. He then counted out ten that closed with a small thumbscrew. “For the windows,” he explained when I gave him a questioning look.
Back downstairs, he veered us toward the pesticides. “Not that stuff.” I tugged his arm, leading us toward the other side. “We need different things.”
“Okay. Lead the way, oh valuable assistant.”
I scowled. “Stop calling me that.”
“What do you want me to call you?”
“My name works; it’s Leilani.”
Silence followed.
Ha. Happy I’d shut him up for the moment, I chose what he needed and dropped it into the bucket resting at my feet.
“A machete?” His gaze traveled a few feet to the right, landing on a red Radio Flyer wagon. “Seriously? My inner Indiana Jones is diggin’ the retail organization they’ve got goin’ on here.”
When I brushed up against him, he stilled.
“Hmmmph.” The low contemplative sound ruffled my hair as he pressed in closer. “I prefer Lani.”
A hard ache punched into my gut, flared up through my chest. Even though I vaguely remembered him calling me Lani once when we’d first met, it hadn’t impacted me then—when we’d been strangers, when it hadn’t been so real. In Maui, however, everything became painfully real as bruised emotions I’d stuffed down long ago boiled to the surface. Through a shaky exhale, I struggled to find my voice, make it strong. “I don’t.”
“I think you do.”
I whirled around, raw emotion sparking into anger. “You don’t get to—” My words got stuck in my throat.
The overwhelming compassion in his expression stunned me. Tenderness shone in the depths of his eyes. My heavy breaths grew short and choppy as I suddenly felt lost—and found.
He stared hard, eyes narrowing, like he tried to decipher the secrets I held tight inside, buried down deep. His head tilted, then he exhaled on a slow nod.
Somehow I felt exposed, like he knew without me uttering a word. Which was stupid. But felt real all the same.
“You don’t…” My voice cracked.
Do not lose it in front of him. Not in the middle of Kula Hardware.
“I don’t get to.” He agreed, tone so soft I had to strain to hear him. “It’s true. Nothing gives me the right to take anything you don’t want to give. But if you let me—if you take a chance and trust what we had on a beach thousands of miles and a handful of days ago—you don’t have to be afraid.”
Arms crossing, I took a step back with a frown. “I’m not afraid.” Then I took a deep breath. I’m not.
“Okay, then. Stop flirting with me, and let’s get the rest of what we need.”
My mouth fell open as my arms dropped to my sides, fists clenching. “Mase. I’m not flir—” His name echoed in my head, and he watched my expression as a sudden revelation hit me. He’d insisted on being called by a nickname. I railed at the idea with mine. Yet something undeniable told me both were for the same reason—family.
He leaned forward, the scruff of his jaw brushing my cheek.
I shivered from the touch, closed my eyes when his warm breath danced over my ear.
“It’s okay, Lani.” He spoke my name on a hushed tone, as if weighting it with significance. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
On a slow inhalation, he drew back, brows slightly raised. As if he hoped I’d take a chance. And promised to keep my secrets safe.
My chest twanged again. Only not for things lost long ago. For what I stood to lose in the here and now. So I didn’t argue with him; I gave him the tiny thing he wanted that felt so enormous.
Because some long-dead part of me wanted to be able to trust again.
Mase…
Leilani’s eyes sparkled with tears.
The slightest tremble shuddered through her.
Her lower lip quivered until she bit one corner.
But finally, on a deep breath, her lips tugged into an almost smile, and she shook her head. “You’re impossible.”
Good. We’d delved into all the seriousness she could handle. And in the middle of it, even if she hadn’t actually verbalized it, she’d granted me permission to call her Lani—a nickname clearly personal to her; I wouldn’t squander the privilege. But I did feel obligated to keep things upbeat. “Wrong. I’m not only possible, I’m probable. I think you meant incorrigible.”
“Incorrigible?” Her brow wrinkled, then she smirked as she lifted her lighter bucket onto the counter beside the register. “Ohhh…you mean hopeless.”
I pegged her with a deadpan expression. “Relentless.”
The male cashier wisely ignored our nonsensical debate and began to ring up our items as I added my overflowing bucket to the counter.
Lowering my head, I murmured above her ear. “Annnd…maybe you meant irresistible.”
She shivered, then stepped back a good three feet before her gaze locked with mine. “Unbelievable.” The right corner of her lips twitched up before she pressed them together, forcing the smile away. “And ridiculous.”
“Tenacious.”
“This conversation,” she clarified.
“Me.” I insisted, taking a step closer, showing her I wouldn’t give up.
The cashier cleared his throat. “That’ll be one-eighty-five fifty-three.”
Neither of us reacted…to him.
My attention strayed to the tempting rise and fall of her chest, the hard swallow at the base of her throat, the way she licked her lips as she stared at me with those endless almost-black eyes.
You want me.
Too bad we were in the middle of a hardware store.
I arched a brow at her. “Didn’t realize tools would be so stimulating, did you?”
She coughed out a laugh. “Hammer.”
“Nailed it.”
“So very screwed.”
“Yeah, ya are.” My voice lowered. “Because I drill…with serious power.”
Deafening silence followed.
The credit card slip printed.
Then the cashier let out a heavy sigh. “Just sign here and you’re all set.”
Dude probably wanted our lame-ass word-association porn-comedy out of his store.
Saving the day, I winked at Leilani and grabbed the buckets off the counter. Then we headed back toward the truck. Weaving our way between rows of one-gallon plants, she tugged her bucket from my grasp. “I’ve got mine.”
Up the asphalt parking area, toward the front of the hardware store, two older male teens stepped out of a pickup as they waited in line for gas. The driver glared at us. “Go home, haole!”
Leilani froze in her tracks, body rigid. She sucked in a sharp breath, closed her eyes, and shook her head. “This isn’t gonna work.” Dread sank into her tone.
All the headway we’d made, the lightheartedness…the intimacy? Gone.
I frowned, unhappy with her instant about-face. “What isn’t?”
“You” —she pointed a finger at me then aimed it at the silken skin between her breasts— “me.”
“Sure, it is.”
Her expression hardened further. “No, it’s not.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re white.”
“So?”
“I’m not.” She gestured her arms wide, palms tilting upward. “We’re not.”
“So? What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Everything.” She thumped her bucket onto the ground below the tailgate of her Tacoma, then plopped her hands on her hips. “Look, this was a colossal mistake. Keep your money. Get out while you can.”
“No.” I hoisted my bucket over the tailgate before looping a strap through the handle. Then I crossed my arms, staring her down. “I’m in. That’s your money. Work is work. And paychecks have only one color: green.”
Furrows etched into her forehead as her brows pinched together. “You aren’t safe here.”
“Where is anyone safe? Wayward sharks, texting drivers, stray bullets.” My voice broke on the last syllable. What the hell had made me say that? I sucked in a steadying breath, then pressed on, refusing to back down. “Safe is overrated, anyway. I played it safe for a while. Nice and expected, protected. Pre-med, remember? No thanks.”
“It’s just…”
“So what if I’m white?” I stepped closer, then dragged a finger up her bare arm, lingering on the smooth skin over her shoulder. “You’re the most gorgeous shade of honey-dipped bronze I’ve ever seen.”
“But—”
“So, I’m a minority.”
She glanced up toward the gas pumps, even though the verbal bullies had already pulled forward, out of sight. “It goes way deeper than skin color.”
“Enlighten me.”
“You’re not just white. You’re haole…outsider.”
She paused, as if the simple explanation made a difference. When my impassive expression told her it didn’t, she continued with her case, “Couple hundred years ago, outsiders stole our islands. Enslaved Hawaiians. Later, the egotistical sons-of-bitches gave us sliced-up pieces of our land back. White means outsider; but it runs deeper than that. Corporations steal our land, pollute the water.
“But you? You’re more than haole. You’re a surfer. Surfing’s a beloved thousand-year-old piece of culture the Hawaiians reclaimed. Then some punk Australians showed up and, in the blink of an eye, turned the sport pro, shared it with the world.”
She crossed her arms, angling a glare at me. “Every year, more haole surfers come into our turf, wanting to make a name for themselves.”
“Hey” —I held up my hands in surrender— “you invited me. Makani offered me the sponsorship.”
“I know.” She heaved out a sigh, then broke apart her arms and ran her hands through her hair. “His heart’s in the right place. My brother thinks he can fix everything. One person can’t fix all this. Even a handful can’t. It’s too big.”
I stepped into the shade and leaned a shoulder against the wall. It made her face me, turn her back toward where the hecklers had been. “Maybe that’s the problem. If someone believes they don’t make a difference, they’re right. But one person does matter. Look at Ghandi. Look at Mother Theresa. They believed in what was true to their heart, against hatred and indifference—against all odds.”
“They beat Ghandi.”
I snorted. My plight didn’t scratch the surface of his. “I think I can handle it.”
“Can you?” She did that arm-cross thing again, jutting her hip out a couple of inches—her attitude stance. Fucking adorable.
“Yeah.” I didn’t kid myself. I’d seen the ratio here. I’d entered a region where my skin color made me the clear minority. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve traveled the world growing up. And a big part of my inner bearing believes being a part of the land means being a part of the community too. Means I respect the locals, support them. I intend to continue that philosophy wherever I go.”
And no place on earth—nor any people on it—would deter me from the freedom I sought.
Her eyes narrowed a fraction, her head tilting slightly to the right. “Fine.”
After a decisive nod, she bent to pick up her bucket of supplies. She swung it up into the truck with a grunt and dropped it down into the back corner with a clunk. As I secured it with the strap, she walked to the passenger side of her truck. Hand gripping the door handle, she paused, glancing over her shoulder. “You coming?”
“Fuck yeah.”
Wherever she agreed to go with me? I followed. Even if tension sparked the air between us; I got the strong feeling I needed to get used to it.
We headed back to the house, unloaded the hardware supplies, then spent twenty minutes focused on changing out the door locks. When I dusted my hands off and looked around, she headed toward the truck.
“Ready to hit the surf?” she asked.
“That question better be rhetorical.”
She leaned against the side of the truck bed, then dropped a heavy stare at me. “Let’s see what you can handle.” Challenge sizzled through every staccatoed word.
Not one cell in my body had been programmed to back down. Not to her. Not to a wave. Most definitely not to any idiotic prejudices, no matter the dumbass reason—especially not because of race.
We loaded our boards, then she got behind the wheel. The early-afternoon ride lasted well over an hour. We blew past Ho‘okipa, heading farther east. And the entire time, she played the quintessential tour guide: pointing out where she’d gone to elementary school, food joints she and her friends preferred, sweet spots to go surfing if the waves were setting up right.
But the last thirty minutes fell mostly silent as she concentrated on Hana Highway’s hairpin turns. I gaped at impressive waterfalls that tumbled from lush green cliffs before the rushing water disappeared below bridges we drove over. “This is what Disneyland tries to emulate.”
She glanced at me during a rare straightaway. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Never been?” Surely Hawaiians visited mainland California from time to time.
A short headshake. “No.”
I made a mental note to sneak a detour into one of our travel itineraries to hit The Happiest Place on Earth.
A few minutes down a nondescript turnoff makai of the highway, she pulled over and parked on a grassy shoulder behind a handful of other cars. We grabbed our boards, then negotiated our way down a slippery path covered in vines that seemed eager to trip us. The humidity had doubled with zero air current, signaling mosquitos to hover over every exposed inch of skin like miniature fairies with gnashing teeth. I forged on, lured by the boom of crashing waves and the scent of fresh salty air.
Before long, the jungle opened up to reveal a narrow swath of beach.
A group of six surfers waited in a lineup right as one of them dropped in on a sweet seven-footer. Four Hawaiians stood at the water’s edge, turning to fully face us when we moved into their peripheral s
ight.
“Hey, howzit.” Leilani gave the shoreline group a chin-up, then splashed into foamy water that flowed over her feet.
“Go home, haole!” one of the group shouted.
Original. The racist broken record seemed to be a theme.
Following Leilani’s lead, I greeted the welcoming committee with my own friendly nod, then ignored them, heading straight toward the waves after her.
In the span of time it took to stride forward three steps, a big Hawaiian blocked my way. Big. I tilted my head back, gaze rising from his massive pecs up a thick neck until we finally stared at one another eye to eye. “Where you goin’, haole?” His dead-calm tone was unnerving.
“Fuckin’ haole,” another heckler spat out from somewhere behind me.
I nodded toward the ocean, where Leilani had stopped and turned in shin-deep water. “I’m about to surf.”
“No.” Big Guy lowered his head an inch, glowering at me from under dark brows. “Not heah, yo’ not.”
“Go home, haole!” the heckler repeated, closer, as if he’d crowded into my right-hand blind spot. “Go swim wit’ da groms.”
With quick splashes, Leilani jogged back. Then she planted the tail of her board into the sand beside me and dropped a hand to her hip, narrowing her eyes. “Leave him alone, Koa.”
Feeling a sudden need to protect her, I took a step forward, angling her behind me. “I got this, Lani.”
“Lani?” Koa shot a death glare over my shoulder. “Whooziz fuckin’ haole callin’ you ‘Lani’?”
The situation had raced zero-to-sixty dangerous. Unnecessarily. “Look, brah—”
Blind Spot stepped around me, revealing himself: another seriously muscled Hawaiian. “He ain’t yo’ fuckin’ brah,” he snarled. “And you ain’t hangin’ wit’ Lani. Got it? She’s our girl.”
Suddenly she stepped between Blind Spot and me, and she slapped a palm on his chest. “I’m no one’s girl, Ke‘eaumoku.”
After leveling a glare filled with challenge at Ke‘eaumoku, then at Koa, then toward the rest of their gang who’d gathered around us, she waited for a reply. When nothing but heavy breathing followed, she grabbed my hand. “C’mon.” She stared at them while speaking to me. “We’ve got plenty better surf spots.”
