by Piper Lennox
He shuts off the water, grabs the dishtowel, and shakes his head at the window. “Gregory and Wendy’s concerns are pretty valid. Paradise Port has a history of....” His voice trails, but comes back as he turns and leans against the sink. “They did it to Kona Tours, they’re doing it now, in Aruba—”
“How did you know that’s what they were worried about? And since when did Port ‘do anything’ to Kona Tours?” I push out from the table a little, twisting on my seat to look at him head-on. “You were there for that buyout, Dad. The Lee family wanted to be bought out.”
His eyes dart to the dish towel balled in his hands. “Paradise Port really didn’t give them much of a choice. The Lees knew if they didn’t take it, they’d have to compete with Port, or become totally reliant on them. Either one was a losing battle.”
“You’ve been listening to the rumor mill too much, Dad.” I push away my plate and stand. “I get you feel bad for the Lees ‘losing’ their business, but they were already on the downswing. Big-time. I remember the numbers—I saw them. If it weren’t for Port buying them out, they would’ve gone bankrupt.”
“I know it’s not what you want to hear,” he says patiently, which is strange. My dad tends to react big, or not at all. Especially when it comes to one of his sons talking back, no matter how old we get. “But it’s true. I was there. I saw so many things go on that I...I turned a blind eye to, because I wanted to see the good parts. I let them convince me it was all ethical, and that everyone was benefiting—”
“They are.”
“Port is....” He scratches his beard and exhales, hard. “They use the wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing approach. Just because they do something with a smile—”
“What did you say?” My stomach’s filled with not just one searing coal this time, but a handful, clacking against each other and working up into my throat. I can feel my pulse inside every limb. I hear Wendy’s simpering voicemail in my head again.
He starts and glances at Mom, who’s focusing entirely too much attention on her food.
“Dad.” I wait until his eyes are back on me. “Did you tell the Kalanis to back out of the deal?”
He doesn’t even have to answer. The way he shuts his mouth and balls the dishtowel up again says it all.
I slam my chair against the table, the noise making Mom flinch, and stalk out to the driveway.
Both of them call after me. I climb into my truck, gun it, and tear out of there, tires spitting gravel, engine drowning every sound. My own breathing, their voices. The endless loop of my name, echoing down the road.
Seventeen
Tanya
After Luka walks me to my room, winking when I notice my favorite vodka is already here, like magic (along with his favorite gin), I fall into the couch and smile. Even the nasty text Oscar sent, complete with a petty screenshot of his early flight home, can’t get to me right now.
The euphoria doesn’t last too long. Yes, I had a great time with Luka. And yes, it was the best sex I had since…well, the last time I was here. But I’ve still got a story to write.
The resort doesn’t like guests seeing its underbelly and inner workings, and goes to ridiculous lengths to hide them: the elevators they use are tucked into their own locked rooms, behind doors emblazoned with “Employees Only” in gilded script. It takes an employee key card to open them.
Or, failing that, a code.
I make sure the hallway is empty when I type it in, the four numbers I’ve seen Luka punch into keypads time and again: 0429. The light flickers to green, and I go in.
The executive offices used to be downstairs, but are now on the top floor. Why they don’t use the space for killer suites—available for a killer fee—is beyond me. Luka might have a head for business, but he could learn a thing or two from me about perfect vacations.
Thankfully, no one boards the elevator while I’m on it. I changed into a simple black dress and heels, hoping to look more official and less like a resort guest. Now that I’m seeing myself in the metal doors as the elevator rises, I’m not so sure anyone will be fooled.
Parker probably won’t, that’s for sure. As Luka’s assistant, he’s witnessed him slipping out of my hotel room enough times to know I don’t belong up here.
But you don’t need info from Parker, I remind myself. Not cold, hard facts, anyway; just a few names dropped, here and there, to lead me to some.
The elevator opens. I take a breath and step into an open area of cubicles, lined with frosted-glass offices. It’s late, but the place is still buzzing with chatter.
He’s in Luka’s office, organizing a stack of papers on the desk. A large coffee is dangerously close to the edge. I keep my eye on it as I knock.
He looks at me, then past me, as if wondering why security isn’t hauling me away. “Can I help you?”
“Hi, Parker...I don’t’ know if you remember me—”
“I do.” He looks at the forms in his hand, obviously low on patience. “Luka isn’t here.”
“Oh.” You can do this. It’s no different than the interviews, few as they were, that I did at the paper. “He’s probably grasping at straws on that Kona Seg deal, huh?”
“Yeah, you know him.” Unconsciously, he echoes my quiet laugh. Then, suddenly, he stops. “He told you about all that?”
“No, no.” I wave it off as I make my way to the bookshelf, where Luka keeps stacks of business books and knick-knacks. “I just heard it through the grapevine. I mean, with the Aruba thing going on, it’s not surprising every little thing is coming out of the woodwork, you know?”
He bounces the chair with his feet, giving a reluctant nod. “Yeah, only a matter of time, I guess. The locals here have put us under the microscope since...” He sighs, produces some eye drops from his pocket, and puts them in. “...Kona Tours, I think? But let’s be honest, nobody was happy about us coming in to begin with.”
“Well, I am.” I flash him a sweet smile. “I love it here.”
“I meant locals.” He blinks the drops away and sniffs, then motions back to the papers. “I’m not trying to be rude or anything, but—”
“No, I totally understand.” I back away, palms up, and smile again. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“You didn’t.” He forces a polite face in my direction as he remembers, perks or not, I am still a guest. “If I see Luk, I’ll let him know you stopped in.”
“Thanks. Have a good night.” I wave and make my way back to the elevator. Slow, but steady—look like you’re supposed to be here.
I used to be a pro at sneaking around. Hell, I still am, even if my skills could use some sharpening. R-rated movies as a kid, closed parks after curfew as a teenager, abandoned buildings those few miserable times when, in my runaway days, I couldn’t find a youth center or couch to crash on by nightfall.
The elevator’s occupied, so I bypass it as casually as I can and head for the stairs.
Kona Tours. Of course. I can’t believe I needed Parker to remind me. The Lee family is my ultimate source right now, rich with all the information and leads I could possibly use.
On the way to my room, I check my watch. Luka isn’t supposed to be back until ten, at the earliest. I can look up the Lees’ contact information online, using mutual friends of Luka’s. The chances are good his parents are friends with them. Locals around here are a tight-knit bunch.
I slide my key down the sensor strip, hear the click, and push open the door.
“Shit!” I almost jump back, the sight of Luka is so startling, out of place. It shouldn’t be; how many times have I unlocked doors just like this one, greeted by trails of petals to the bedroom, candlelit shadows on the wall, or even just the sight of Luka in nothing but his boxers (or nothing at all), waiting for me?
“Hi,” I smile, when I tame the heart attack. I slip off my heels. “You’re early. I, uh, I hope you don’t mind that I stepped out for dinner. I hadn’t eaten anything today.”
He’s tense. I just know he was pacing bac
k and forth until I opened the door.
“What is this?” His finger stabs the air in the direction of my computer.
Which, I now realize, I left open.
Even from here, I can see the stark black text of my notes and leads, the open tabs with every article on Paradise Port scandals and hearsay I could find.
“You’re unbelievable.” He drags his fingers through his hair, pressing his tongue against his cheek. “Un-fucking-believable.”
“Luka.” I hold up my hands. The paper prepared me for this: not everyone will like your questions, your stories. Granted, I don’t have security on hand to wrangle jilted subjects away from me, but I can handle it.
“I’m reporting the story I see in front of me.” I toss my key card on the table and fix a drink. I think about making him one, but decide against it. Liquor’s probably the last thing he needs. “I’d think you of all people would understand. I’m just doing my job.”
“You don’t have a job,” he spits.
“I will,” I counter, “once I get the story finished. You told me not to marry Oscar and use guys as my safety net, the way my mom did?” I take a huge swig, grateful beyond words for the burn, emboldening me. “Well, now I’m back to relying on myself. I’m making my own safety net.”
“Yeah, by lying through your goddamn teeth.” He takes such a big step towards me, I almost stumble back. But I don’t. If there’s one thing about the old, pre-Oscar me I never should have let go, it’s my ability to hold my own in a good argument. “I told you before, we’re not driving anyone out of business. We aren’t trying to monopolize towns and ruin locals.”
I sip my drink again, keeping my eyes steeled on his. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
He squares his jaw, hands tensing into fists. If I didn’t know Luka well enough to be one-hundred percent sure he’d never harm a woman, I’d wonder whether he was about to kiss me or hit me. With a stare like that, it’s easy to think those are the only two options.
“Nobody knows the affiliate program better than I do.” I smell a thick sweetness on his breath, like lemon-lime soda. “The entire thing, in every single Port location, started with my pitch. My design. If you publish this shit, you’re going to ruin all of that.” His eyes skate between mine. He swallows. “You’re going to ruin me.”
The cranberry juice cramps my mouth like a dart inside my cheek. I look at the floor.
“I’m just trying to get my shit together,” I whisper, “before it’s too late. Before I’m back where....”
“You’re not your mom.” I can hear his anger lessening. “She put herself in that situation, over and over.”
“Exactly. Because she wanted somebody else to handle it all for her.” I straighten my shoulders. “I’m taking control of my life.”
His chest rises and falls with the pace of a hummingbird. “You don’t have to find some big story to do that. Especially one that isn’t true.”
I don’t mean to laugh. “Come on. We both know the Aruba location’s going to close, the locals there hate it so much. Port bought out two businesses there last year alone, they’ve cleared God knows how many acres—”
“Forget Aruba. Forget Paradise Port. I’m standing here in front of you, right now, telling you this location—my location—isn’t doing that shit.” He ticks off a list on his fingers. “We’re branding all the affiliates. Putting their logos on our stuff, the signs. The employees that work each one of those things is going to have a unique uniform. Guests will know exactly what local company they’re working with when they rent a Segway, when they buy a local wine, or even when they get a fucking snow cone down on the beach.”
The silence his voice dissolves into hits me harder than any of his arguments could. Finally, that guilt I’ve been ignoring ever since this idea entered my head unfolds. I can’t pretend not to feel it anymore.
“If you have to ‘break a story,’” he says, tamping his sneer when I start to pull away, pissed all over again, “break the real one. We aren’t out to take over Kona, or anywhere else. We give credit where it’s due.”
“Have you actually talked to any of the business owners Port has ‘bought out’ over the years?” I step away from him, too afraid of that gravity, his ability to pull me into his orbit without even trying.
“If they got bought out, it’s because the owners wanted it. We want to help these companies. And even if Paradise Port doesn’t—which, trust me, they do—I want to. I’ll make sure it happens, even if I have to make every sign and uniform myself.”
“Fine.” I finish my drink and cross the room to my computer, making a big show of it as I erase the notes and close out the articles, then shut the entire thing down. “I won’t do the story. Happy? No one will know.”
“There’s nothing to know.”
“God, you’re clinging to that for dear life aren’t you?” I laugh again. This time, it’s completely intentional. “No offense, but you sound really naive right now.”
He walks past me and splashes some gin into a glass. I can smell the singe of pine already, and it does something to me I wish it didn’t.
God, this is not how I wanted this night to play out.
“No offense,” he says, “but you sound really heartless right now.”
“Me? Are you kidding? Says the guy who’s gonna tear down some poor woman’s house and build on the fucking ashes, even though he knows her personally? That’s heartless.”
“There you go again, twisting shit however you want to convince yourself everyone else has the problem, not you. You can’t even admit that wanting to write that story was selfish.”
“How is that any worse than what you’re doing, buying that lot to build your Barbie dream house?” The vodka dries out my throat like sunbaked sand. The scent of the gin is stronger now, lacing his breath in the space between his face and mine.
“Maybe I am kind of selfish. But so are you.” I point, my finger landing in the center of his chest. He doesn’t move. “People like us are all about independence, which means looking out for ourselves. That’s what we do.”
“I’m not just looking out for myself. I’m looking out for my employees, who’d lose their jobs if this place tanked. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a bunch of bullshit rumors ruin innocent peoples’ lives.”
I edge around him. This time, I pour straight vodka into my glass and take a gulp, no juice. “Nice speech.”
“God, Tanya.” He’s shouting now. I can’t help but wonder if anyone will hear. “Just because you only look out for yourself, doesn’t mean that’s what I’m about. Quit projecting on me. And while you’re at it? Quit calling it ‘being independent,’ and pretending you aren’t—”
“I’m not what?” I have to interrupt him. I can’t wait and listen, or feed him the words like I did to Oscar.
Because, even if I am a slut, or a bitch, or any of the names dozens of guys have flung my way, I can’t stand the thought of hearing a single one in Luka’s voice.
He takes a breath. I turn back to the alcohol and drink, fast, numbing myself against the bullets aimed right for my head.
“Lonely,” he says. For all his shouting, he’s quiet now.
I stare at the label on the bottles. My eyes follow the flowing cursive of his gin, the sharp angles of the vodka.
I turn. “Lonely?”
“Yeah. Lonely.” He walks over and presses himself so close I have to look away. If we make eye contact, I know that gravity will catch me.
His arm reaches around my waist. I swallow the regrouping sting in my throat.
He grabs the gin bottle.
“You’re right,” he says, setting down his glass on one side of me and stepping back, the entire bottle now in his hand. “I can be selfish. I like being able to rely on no one but myself. We definitely have that in common.”
He breathes hard as he swigs. “But I’m sick of being lonely.”
I feel my brow furrow. Like so many other reactions Luka brin
gs out in me, I can’t control it. “That’s your pitch?”
“What pitch?”
“You just admitted you don’t want to be lonely. Which means you don’t want to be with me. You want to be with anyone.”
Luka stares at me, that smirk rising to his face along with the bottle. “Trust me,” he laughs, taking another drink, “if I wanted to be with just anyone, I wouldn’t pick you, Tanya. I wouldn’t pick a woman who lives an ocean away and then some, who’s as shitty with relationships as I am. Who fights me on every little thing.” He turns his stare on the bottle, picking at the label as his smile fades. “Who doesn’t want to be with me longer than a week.”
I open my mouth to protest. To fight.
But for once, I don’t have a single comeback at the ready.
As much as I miss him on those planes bound for home, for all the sleepless nights I pretend I’m in a hotel suite in the dark of Kona...it never lasts.
I don’t let it.
“I do want to be with you,” he says, shaking his head, like he can’t believe he’s saying this, either. “I wish I didn’t, because God, how much easier would everything be, right now, but...but I do.”
A flush crawls across my chest. I blame the vodka. “When did you…. How long have you felt this way?”
He hesitates, nervous. It’s not something I see often.
“Since...South Point,” he says, and lets out the smallest, softest laugh I’ve ever heard, that crooked smile flickering back.
“The cliff?” I set down my glass as the memory surfaces. The wind howling off the earth. The scent of the ocean, so powerful I couldn’t smell the perfume I’d put on for him—even when I held my wrist to my nose, a pulse point beating against my lips.
When he pretended to push me and I screamed, laughing, because I knew he’d never really do it. The grip of his fingers as he pulled me back against him and kissed me, our mouths still smiling, the ocean roaring below.
I’ve replayed that moment so many times it’s turned into the default. The one image, more than any other, that I see when I think of Luka.
