by L. B. Dunbar
I’ll find you were her parting words. Where have you been? I thought, calling out to her.
As she seemed to disappear, I’d thrown myself into my new business the moment I returned to the mainland. I’d missed the second hurricane and had no idea if she’d fared the same. Then I didn’t care. She’d left me behind, I argued. She must not have meant all the things she said.
I love you. You have tamed me. I am a part of you and you are a part of me.
A memory flashed of her lying next to me in a tree house. Her voice as she read her part of The Little Prince. She was the fox after all, sly and cunning, as she had escaped me. A true vixen.
I sighed, staring out the window of the executive suite. Resorts were no taller than three or four stories on the island. This one had the best view of the ocean, and I intentionally had my office stationed here. Turquoise-colored water calmed my racing heart. This was my second home. It was as close as I could get to the original island.
Bring her back to me, I thought, calling out across that sea, whispering to the isolated island somewhere out along the horizon.
Bring my Mouse home.
6
The Island hears you calling
Terrence Jackson Corbin IV had an easy life. He returned to the mainland and forgot all he learned on the island. Barking orders, he started from scratch, with a big pile of support from his father. Terror Corbin, Terrence Jackson Corbin III, knew how to get things done. Despite his original decree that his son needed to learn a lesson—never get caught—the plan seemed to work. His son did learn and came back a different man in many ways. More determined. More ruthless. More focused. Terror gladly supported his son’s new venture.
However, his father failed to see that Tack, as he’d taken the new name permanently, was more than different. He was changed at heart. He learned the value of asking. A woman gave him permission. And he earned love in return. Love requited—received in payment for healing and forgiveness. Unfortunately, Tack no longer asked. He’d returned to himself, although he knew right from wrong. He took once again, but with better cause. He wanted to help others, although he could no longer remember what changed him to act in such a manner.
But that night, as he lay in bed, he recalled the memory of her. Had he imagined her? he pondered. Had she been a dream? He refused to believe she was imaginary. When he closed his eyes, he felt her next to him, her cheek pressed to his arm, her back warm against his front. He could taste her lips, remembering how she nipped and sucked at his, her tongue lingering with his. He could feel the heat of her wrapped over him.
As it had on so many nights, his palm increased the friction, rubbing the rock-solid length at the base of his abs. A dribble of sticky moisture seeped from its head and he used it to lubricate himself. In his mind, it was her that he slid through. Her body rocked over his, drawing him into her. He felt the familiar tingle spread up his thighs and across his lower back. His hips bucked as he worked over himself, imagining she was ready to be filled by him. Her sighs whispered in his ear.
I love you, she said, and he released, falling back on the bed in anguish and relief.
Where are you? he called out as the memory of her drifted into the darkness of the bedroom around him. He was no longer in a heated tent. The waves did not roar feet outside his dwelling. She would not wake next to him.
You make me wild, he whispered. A new kind of wild, where he worried and he panicked and he sensed her loss.
+ +
Juliet Montmore had nothing, but then again, she had everything. She returned to the mainland to a betrayal so deep, so piercing, it seemed worse than any circumstance, minus one. She took her notes and her heart and she disappeared, scampering off the grid and into the mountains. Here she met her first friend, and together they developed a plan to do good for others. Juliet was pleased, but she wasn’t satisfied.
She’d never understood the concept of pieces missing from a person. She’d been alone so much of her life, she decided the only piece necessary was one—herself. Curved and edged, she used the cutouts of her life, the negative experiences, to protect herself, until one night they hadn’t. Then she met him. She discovered his sharp corners and jagged edges fit with hers, or so she thought.
In her head, she knew the truth. It had been an experiment. In her heart, she felt doubt.
But when she closed her eyes, she sensed the solid wooden roof over her head. The breeze rustling the leaves, and the warm breath of him against her neck. She felt the thumping of her heart and the heat of his hand over it. She’d moved his hand, holding power over him, to please her. Pretending his fingers dragged through the valley of her breasts, cupping one and peaking the nipple of the other, she moaned in her bed. She’d flip to her back and let her knees fall open, recalling the first time he truly entered her. Slick and fast, he slipped in to the hilt, and she’d never felt more complete. Two parts of a puzzle joined as one.
Her fingers played his role, stroking and spreading, and she heard his voice in her head.
Let me in, he’d asked, and she had. Body, mind and heart, he filled her until he was gone.
I love you, she whispered in the dark night as she coated her fingers and called out his name.
She remembered watching him as she walked away, memorizing the color of his eyes, the cut of his chin, and the curl of his smile. How she longed for his lips, but he faded in the darkness, swallowed up by thick foliage in her mind and leaving her to wander, incomplete, missing him.
7
Juliet
I fell to the bed, bouncing back from the firmness of the mattress. My eyes closed instantly as I was enveloped in the soft comfort of a thick duvet and a gentle island breeze coming through the balcony door. The bed was a large, four-posted creation with thick layers of sheer netting acting as a canopy overhead and tied off at the four posts.
“One hour. Then pool time,” Miller snapped, smacking my ass and heading to his adjoining room. We’d been on the earliest flight possible—6:00 a.m.—and eleven hours later, we finally arrived. I rolled to my side and stared out the window at the still-bright evening sunlight. The mountainous landscape flooded my memory. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply, and the richness of tropical, floral fragrance overfilled my olfactory nerves. My lids flipped open again. My mouth watered for fresh fruit. Every sense was going to remind me of another island.
And everything else was going to remind me of him.
My knees curled up to my chest, and I rubbed at the familiar ache over my left breast. I didn’t think I had the strength to see him.
An hour later, I did.
Dressed in my new yellow bikini, I sat on a sunbathing lounger next to Miller, sipping my second rum punch. The pool was filled with lingering children and a scattering of adults. Miller and I had been giggling about swim attire, and the inappropriateness of some on particular body types. Miller didn’t care what size you were, and I was always one to promote that women should own their body, but we both agreed clothing should flatter. The older woman with the red-crotchet string bikini and thong didn’t work for us.
I’d heard a splash in the pool, that of an expert diver cutting through the surface of the water. The echo of the diving board still rang in the air. Collectively, I sensed every woman around me slowly holding their breaths. Even Miller perked up, looking around in wonder. And that’s when I saw him.
He broke the surface yards away from where he had entered and rose from the water like the god of the ocean. He was waist-deep, and the rivers of water teeming off his body gave the impression of a waterfall cascading over stone. The woman to my left dropped her drink. The woman to my far right gasped. I hadn’t pulled my eyes from him. Two long, muscular arms rose from the pool and all-too-familiar hands swiped over his head. One pushed back his hair, the other combed through it. That’s when I noticed the tattoo at his side. Etched under his arm to the left of his heart were two script lines, impossible to read at this distance.
He’d begun to slo
wly walk in the general direction where I sat, and my heart raced in my throat. I wore a sunhat, and I reached up to pull the brim down, and then slunk down in my seat. I didn’t take my eyes from him, but I didn’t want him to see me. I tipped my head to the left, but my eyes couldn’t pull away from the masculine display. He pressed up on the edge of the pool and those long arms extended to lift his body, exposing European swim trunks in jet black. More rivers streamed down the bulk of his thighs, and I swallowed. Despite two rum punches and a bottle of water, I was thirsty, so very thirsty. I had to pull my knees together, the pulse at my core so intense I worried those around me could hear the beat.
He paused at the edge of the pool, adjusting the waist of his shorts before tugging down at the hem, and then a woman approached with a towel. She was tall and thin and blonde, and I recognized her instantly. The family friend. The one with the angry eyes. She giggled as she swatted at his chest. He gripped her wrist, tugging her forward and held her hand pressed to his skin.
“I can’t look,” I whimpered aloud, turning my head even further and pulling the brim down to shield my eyes.
“Etty,” Miller sighed beside me, but I refused to watch. I couldn’t bear it if he kissed her. Every move he’d just made was so similar to the way he’d been with me. If he touched her jaw the way he had cupped mine, and pulled her in for a kiss, that would be the end of me.
“Etty, did you see him?” Miller exhaled as he spoke in a hushed tone.
“I saw.” I remained turned away, and Miller rolled his head to face me.
“What’s wrong?” Miller sat upright and swung his legs over the lounger.
“I’m going to go back to the room. I’m tired.”
Miller looked back in the direction of Tack and the woman and then faced me again.
“That’s him. That’s Tack Corbin, isn’t it?” Miller confirmed what I already knew.
It was him, and he hadn’t noticed me.
8
Tack
“Abby, I told you I’m not playing this here,” I snapped, gripping her wrist and pulling her to me. I was pissed. Juliet was here, and she hadn’t come to see me. She’d checked in, and I’d been told she went down to the pool, but I didn’t see her. Three bourbons and my head was spinning. I decided I needed a dip to cool off. Abby followed me. Just like she followed me to St. Croix.
The Goodwins were lifelong family friends. As blue blood as the Corbins, our families settled Virginia centuries ago. Abby liked to think we were destined for one another, betrothed in the cradle and all that historical crap. I knew better. While we’d been playmates as children, forced together by our parents and the same social circle, Abby and I were nothing alike. She was a socialite. She wanted a large ring, a big wedding, and an expense account for doing nothing. That made her no good, in my book. Fucking her was out of the question. But it didn’t prevent her from being a decoration on my arm when my investors insisted I bring a date to entertain their wives. It also sent her the wrong message.
“Friends,” I reminded her almost every single time I called on her services to escort me.
“Friends,” she agreed, but her eyes told me otherwise. It’s one of the reasons I did not invite her on this trip. It’s one of the reasons she followed me.
“You might need a friend,” she had said when she arrived unannounced and checked into a room near mine. She’d been here almost a week, and twice she’d tried to convince me to take her to bed—no strings attached. It’s as if she sensed the only person I wanted tied to me was going to be at the resort. Only that person was avoiding me.
Abby’s nails dug into my skin, and she stepped closer to me.
“Damn it, Abby. Don’t play like this.”
“Who is she?” Abby asked, as I searched over her shoulders and around the edge of the pool deck, concerned Juliet might actually be a witness to Abby’s flirting.
“Who?” I snapped my attention back to her brown eyes.
“The girl you’re looking for. Who is she? Who do you want? I can be her for you.”
Aw, Abby, I thought. You could never be my Mouse.
“It doesn’t work like that,” I said, releasing her wrist and taking the offered towel.
“It can.” I looked away as I dried myself off, rubbing the towel down my chest and along my arms.
“They’re going to have to hose off this pool deck when you’re finished,” she teased.
“Why?” I scoffed.
“Because every woman just creamed herself watching you exit that pool and then rub your body with that towel.”
“Don’t be crass, Abby,” I bit, as her eyes raked my body. Her comment was something I’d definitely say, but directed at me, knowing Juliet could be one of the women present, made me uneasy. I scanned the pool deck again, noting someone opening the iron security gate and exiting the area. She wore a large brimmed sun hat, despite the evening hour, and a conservative yellow bikini with a mini-scrap of material tied at her waist. I’d recognize that walk anywhere, as I’d followed her through jungle trails and steep climbs visualizing that body beneath mine.
“Shit,” I murmured, wrapping the towel around my waist and brushing past Abby. I briskly dodged around the haphazard lounge chairs, making my way to the pool gate.
“Mouse!” I called out when a tap came on my shoulder.
“The Mouse Trap, actually.” A man with overly styled hair, deep set eyes and a smile of puffy lips stood behind me. He was a head shorter than me, and his extended hand hinted he’d said something to me.
“I’m sorry, I don’t—“
“Miller James. With The Mouse Trap, one of the not-for-profit organizations selected for your Humanity competition.” He paused, looking in the direction of Juliet. “And might I add, you do.” His eyes returned to me, roamed my body, and then he spoke again. “Yes, you do.”
“Pardon me?” I asked, still not introducing myself.
“Miller,” he repeated. “I’m her partner.” And his head nodded in the direction of a disappearing Juliet.
+ +
“What the fuck?” I barked, pacing my office the following evening. Dinner was in an hour. She’d been here a full day, and I hadn’t run into her again. The feeling was all too familiar to the times she’d disappear on the island. Those were the moments I believed I’d dreamed her. I thought I’d made her up for my own nefarious reasons. She always came back to me, though, until the one time she promised she’d find me and didn’t.
Branson sat on the couch, arm extended along the back. “Look, you need to calm down. She’s here. You know it’s her.”
“Then why do I have so many doubts? She hasn’t come to me, and now I’m concerned I’ve made another mistake.” Maybe she really didn’t want to ever see me again. Maybe the girl on the island had been a figment of my imagination, a dream girl. No, dammit. It was her, I was positive; she was still the same no matter where we were, and her partner, as he introduced himself, seemed to know who I was in relation to her.
“You need to settle down. And stop drinking. You aren’t going to get answers if you’re wasted.” I downed the rest of the burning liquid in the crystal tumbler, slamming it on the sideboard when I was finished. I sat with a heavy thump in the chair opposite him.
“Why is she doing this?” Both my hands slipped into my hair. I was too warm. My heart raced. I just wanted to hold her.
“Did you ever read her dissertation?” Branson asked.
“No. I was there,” I snarked, but then my eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I think you might have some answers if you had.” Branson leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. I slumped back in the leather chair, my hands cupping the edge of the arms, preparing myself for something.
“Paraphrase,” I demanded, assuming Branson had read her study.
“It was a social experiment. Take a convicted criminal, place him on an island. Through self-reflection, and visualization, the convict finds healing, forgiveness, and restoration.”
“That sounds a little hippy-dippy, but I suppose it isn’t too far off.”
“In her report, she imagined you.”
“What?” I shouted, sitting forward again.
“The report claims she saw a man on the island, but she eventually writes it off, decides that the experience wasn’t real. He was part of her imagination. The process was a vision quest. Another study, one produced by a Lillian Varga, refutes Juliet’s. It states, in short, that Juliet was part of a social experiment where two convicts were placed on the same island for retributive purposes. The intention was to study how they fared together, as the victim faced her attacker, when said perpetrator was equally aggrieved with what he had done.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said, sitting back in my seat again. With another hand swipe through my hair, I was certain it all stood on end. Lillian had been her academic advisor and mentor in the restorative program. Had Juliet not understood her own part in the experiment? Or had she played me? “Did Juliet know I would be there? Does it state she knew I was there, a pawn in their research?”
“It doesn’t in Juliet’s. Her report says she visualized you—although she doesn’t name you specifically—allowing herself to take control of her own life in response to what you’d done. She claims she found restoration through manipulating your interactions.”
“Manipulating—” Branson raised a hand to stop me.
“Lillian refutes Juliet’s claim, saying you were both intentionally placed on the island, together, and that Juliet experienced you in a manner opposing her own report.”
“Meaning?”
“What Juliet says she visualized, actually happened in person.”
