by J. Haymore
“Right. Reason.”
There’s also what Kyle said about Emily yesterday. He was right about her, as much as my heart rejects hearing anything negative about my sister. He was also right about how I’ve always compared myself with her. I’ve always found myself unable to measure up to Emily, and that’s led to insecurity, depression, a lack of self-esteem… God. I’ve been so screwed up.
“Are you sure you want to come to dinner?” I ask. How’s he going to enjoy himself with me and Ethan?
He doesn’t meet my eyes. “You know, a part of me knows it’s a shit idea. But if I have the chance, even for one dinner, to make sure that asshole isn’t going to hurt you again, I’ll take it.”
* * * * *
Ethan takes us to an exclusive Japanese restaurant in downtown Honolulu. The food is exquisite after all the prepackaged food and canned goods we ate on the Temptation. The sashimi melts in my mouth, and the sushi is an explosion of taste. I can’t get enough.
Kyle continues to be sullen and annoying for the first part of dinner—so much so that I regret even the idea of bringing him—but Ethan orders sake, Kyle drinks a lot of it, and eventually, he starts to loosen up. By the time dinner is over, he’s definitely drunk. Not quite pass-out-and-then-worship-the-porcelain-goddess drunk, but several steps beyond buzzed.
At least Kyle’s a happy drunk. He makes me laugh when he’s had a lot to drink, and tonight’s no exception. He tells us about the North Shore, about a turtle he befriended while waiting for a wave, about a couple of “gnarly” wipeouts, about the seaweed wig he obtained when he came up for air after catching a wave.
We all avoid the topic of Mick. Thinking about it all will only make me crazy. It’s so insane it seems surreal. I have to put it behind me. All of it—the Temptation, Mick, Nalani, Kyle’s confession, Ethan’s betrayal. For once in my life, I want to move forward, not back. And I want to do it with Ethan.
The limo drives us back to the hotel, and the three of us take the elevator to our floor and walk to our door. As Kyle fumbles with the card key, Ethan tugs me back.
“My room?” he asks me softly.
I glance at Kyle and chew the inside of my cheek. “I need to keep an eye on him.”
Ethan’s lips tighten, but then he nods. “Okay. Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Yes!” Kyle exclaims as he finally manages to get the door open. “Come on, T. It’s almost time for Saturday Night Live reruns!”
How Kyle could possibly know when Saturday Night Live reruns air is beyond me. “Just a sec,” I tell him. “You go on.”
I want to say good night to Ethan.
Kyle stares at us for a moment, then his eyes narrow for a fraction of a second before he laughs. It’s his fake laugh—the one most people believe, but I know isn’t real.
“Sure, sure. Have a great make-out session here in the hall. Hopefully the ambiance of the tacky carpet and gray walls will inspire you.” He turns to Ethan. “I bet she tastes good, doesn’t she?” Ethan immediately goes solid beside me—all his muscles that were relaxed just a moment ago go so tense, he feels as unbendable as a rock. But Kyle is oblivious. “Sweet. Like you can never get enough. You have no idea how much I want some of that.”
“What the fu—”
I step forward, shove Kyle inside, and grab the door handle. “Get in there and turn on Saturday Night Live, Ky. I’ll be in in a second, okay?”
I shut the door firmly and turn back to Ethan.
“Jesus Christ, who the fuck does he think—”
“Shhh,” I say.
Ethan bristles. “I’m not leaving you with him.”
“Of course you are. He’s not going to touch me. He’s probably already forgotten what he just said. Trust me, Kyle would never hurt me, and he’s the most forgetful drunk I’ve ever known, okay?”
Ethan stares at me, jaw working.
“I need to take care of him, tuck him in, and let him watch TV for a bit. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Ethan shakes his head, then yanks me into his arms and buries his face into my hair. “I want you to stay with me.”
“I wish I could,” I say, meaning it.
He kisses me on the lips, and when he pulls back, I murmur, “Thank you for dinner. That was the best meal I’ve eaten in…forever.”
“I’m glad you liked it. After everything that’s happened, I just wanted for you to have a nice time.”
“I did,” I assure him.
He glances toward the door. “You sure you’re going to be okay? He’s not going to try anything?”
“You know I can trust Kyle. He’s never—not once—done anything to hurt me.”
“You’re right. He hasn’t. Someday I’m going to tell him how thankful I am for that.” He kisses my forehead. “Lock the dead bolt on your door. The security team is nearby, but—”
I pull back, brows raised. “Security team?”
“Are you really surprised?” he asks drily.
Well…no. I guess I’m not. “But maybe we don’t need them now that Mick—”
“They stay.” He gives me a tight smile. “You can never be too careful, Tara.”
Justine
June 17, 2014
And…they’re off!
Let me back up.
As soon as the news came that Ethan was going on the ridiculous voyage across the Pacific Ocean, I jumped into action. There was no alternative, of course. I need to keep tabs on my man at all times. It’s been over a year, but his attention on Little Sister hasn’t decreased. In fact, it’s turned into an obsession. The man is consumed with keeping this girl safe.
This is the second time Ethan has traveled with her without her knowledge. The first was to Cabo San Lucas. I joined them on that trip but took pains not to reveal myself, of course. In Cabo, Ethan kept his distance from her like he always does, but he was watching over her like a hawk. Ensuring her safety. I cannot believe how irrational he’s become about it.
I watched over them both, making sure he kept his hands off her. He did. But…something changed. I could see it in his eyes when he watched her. I think he likes her, Diary. He admires her from afar, but when he catches himself looking, he frowns and turns away and attempts to focus on something else, his hands clenched as if he’s rebuking himself for being attracted to a relative of his big-boobed bimbo.
Such a martyr, my Ethan.
But now…this voyage across the Pacific. Do you see what a problem this is? Ethan and Little Sister are going to be in very close quarters. They’re going to get to know each other.
I couldn’t join them, of course. But I could install my eyes and ears on the vessel. I did so in the form of a man—one who is an expert sailor as well as an expert criminal. I have, in fact, diagnosed him a sociopath after doing a thorough study on his behaviors and history. Certainly my old roommate Ginny would agree, even with her limited abilities when it comes to psychological diagnoses.
I gave him a new identity and all the tools necessary to accomplish everything I might require of him.
What more could I ask for? For the meager sum of a million dollars, he is going to observe and report in every day. If something untoward occurs, I have prepared him to take immediate action.
If she touches Ethan, there will be consequences.
If things go too far between them, then the consequences will be severe indeed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The next day, as I get out of the shower, there is a knock on the door. It’s room service, bearing trays of fresh Hawaiian fruit, eggs, toast, bacon, coconut pancakes—the works. The server wheels it all in, and as I open a drawer to find him some cash for a tip, Kyle moans and covers his face with his pillow. “Turn off the light!”
I return to the man with the tip and an apologetic smile as he studiously keeps his eyes averted from Kyle. “Thanks,” I say.
“Mahalo. Have a nice day.”
He leaves, and I lift the clear plastic lid off the fruit. Tucked against t
he edge of the plate is a note. I open it and read: “Because I know how much you missed fruit on the Temptation. E.”
Smiling, I refold the note and look at the plate, piled high with pineapple, guava, kiwi, papaya, as well as peaches and strawberries, the two fruits I used to complain about missing on the Temptation.
“Really, T?” Kyle grouses from his bed.
“Really what?”
“You’re not going to turn off the light?”
“Okay, sure. I’ll turn it off.” I do, then I sweep open the curtains to reveal a beautiful jewel-blue sky punctuated by white, fluffy clouds. I wish I could see more than the parking lot below, but today I’m determined to get outside and explore a bit.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Kyle groans.
I snort. “Your own fault. That’s what you get for getting drunk off your ass on sake.”
“I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.”
I head back to the breakfast Ethan sent us. “I was with you all night, and I can guarantee there were no trucks involved.”
I pour myself a cup of coffee, then add in a generous amount of cream and plenty of sugar. My gaze catches on two small pills on top of a tiny plate next to the sugar bowl. There’s a slip of paper next to them that reads, “Ibuprofen for Kyle.”
I laugh out loud. Kyle responds with a grumble, as if the sound of my laughter hurts his ears. I pour him a cup of ice water and take the two pills and the water over to him. “Compliments of Ethan,” I tell him.
He peeks out from under the pillow. “Huh?”
“Here, this’ll help.” I hand him the pills, which he stares at suspiciously. “Take them,” I tell him, stern.
“Fine,” he grumbles, and pops them into his mouth. I hand him the water, and he takes a big swallow, then plops back down on the bed.
“There’s plenty of sausages and bacon,” I tell him, “and eggs too. Want some?” Kyle has always believed in the theory that greasy foods are the best hangover cure.
“Yes.” His voice is muffled under the pillow.
“Then you’re going to need to come out and sit with me.”
He finally shuffles out of bed, wearing only his boxers, and we sit and eat and eat until I’m so full I can’t take another bite. By the end of breakfast, Kyle doesn’t look as pasty, and he actually has started to talk without punctuating every word with a moan or a groan.
“I think I’m allergic to sake,” he says around a mouthful of egg. “I’ve never been so hung over in my life.”
I raise my hand. “I call bullshit on that one. Remember the Sigma Pi party you went to after spring break? I spent half the night watching you puke in my toilet. And the next morning you started puking all over again.”
Kyle grimaces. “I’d blocked that from my memory, thank you very much.”
The phone rings, and I answer it, smiling when I hear Ethan. “You up?”
“Yes. Thanks for the breakfast. Especially the fruit.” I glance at Kyle. “And Kyle says thanks for the ibuprofen.”
Kyle snorts.
“You’re welcome,” Ethan says. Then, “Will you be ready by eleven?”
“Ready for what?”
“I have a day planned.”
“A day, huh?”
He sounds smug. “Yes. A day. A day in Hawaii. Just you and me. And we’re checking out of here today and moving hotels.”
“Oh? This is news to me.”
“I spoke with Mitsumoto, and he gave us the go-ahead. We’re moving to a resort on the ocean.”
“Kyle too?”
“Kyle too. He has his own suite.”
My brows rise at that. Suite? Kyle definitely can’t afford a suite at what is, no doubt, a five-star resort. “What about me?” I ask.
“I got you a suite next to Kyle’s. But I doubt you’ll be seeing it much.” Ethan’s voice is silky, and it rubs over my skin in the subtlest caress.
My teeth graze my lower lip. I’ll pay for Kyle’s room. I want him close to me.
Still, he’s going to insist on paying for it himself. He can’t afford it—he’s on the verge of being cut off by his parents. I don’t blame them, and neither does he, really. After all, he graduated from college over a month ago and seems to have no ambition for anything but surfing. At some point, he’s definitely going to have to grow up and get a real job—and it’s going to have to be one that doesn’t involve flipping burgers. His major was art history, though, and it’s almost impossible to imagine Kyle as a museum curator or having any job that has to do with his major.
“Okay,” I tell Ethan, deciding to figure out what to do about Kyle later.
“Good,” he says. “Will you be ready at eleven, then?”
“Um, I’m not sure. I need to see what Kyle’s up to today.”
“Surfing,” Kyle supplies, forkful of sausage heading toward his mouth. “I’m going to try Canoes today. Better for my stomach than the North Shore.”
I look at him blankly, but obviously, Ethan hears him and also understands what he’s just said, because he says, “Tell him we’ll give him a ride.”
“We’ll give you a ride,” I say. Kyle shrugs, and I tell Ethan, “Eleven it is. See you then.”
As promised, Ethan knocks on our door right at eleven. His eyes rake over my body—I’m wearing white cropped skinny jeans, a blue paisley tank with a keyhole opening in the back, and cute black-and-white flip-flops. His lips curve into a self-satisfied smile, dimples flashing. “Nice.”
“I’m paying you back, you know.”
“Sure.”
I know he really has no intention of letting me give him anything for these clothes. It’s going to be a battle of wills over a few items of clothing—and no way is he going to win.
But that’s for later—it’s impossible to deal with it right here and right now, even though the package Aunt Jo sent me containing my bank card, some cash, a cell phone, and my ID was delivered via FedEx yesterday. If I try to hand Ethan a couple of hundred dollars right now, he’d probably laugh in my face.
Truth is, I really do like the clothes. They fit perfectly, and they’re comfortable and casual while managing to be really nice at the same time. I don’t know how he—or whoever he hired to buy them—managed to do it.
Kyle and I gather our meager belongings, which we stuff into a dry-cleaning bag, and the three of us go downstairs to check out. When we walk outside, the same limo we had last night awaits us at the front of the hotel.
Our first stop is Canoes, a surf spot on Waikiki beach. Ethan and I stroll the beach as Kyle rents an enormous orange longboard and heads into the water.
The beach and the water are crowded with people of every shade and size, from blinding white to bright red to ebony—tourists from all over the world. But the pristine beach is beautiful, and the water is jewel blue. Ethan takes my hand, and we skirt the edge of the water as we walk along the beach. With Ethan holding my hand like this, I feel safe and confident, my self-consciousness about people seeing my limp fading away to nothing.
I like the silence of us being together…just being close, without feeling the need to talk. Just existing together.
The sun beats down on us, and the moment I start wishing for a hat, we turn toward the road that runs along the beach, and Ethan stops in a store that sells everything from Tylenol to tourist knickknacks and T-shirts. He gives me a wry look over a standing tree covered with mostly tacky hats.
“Well, I know they’re not the height of fashion, but how about this one?” He points to a straw hat that is actually rather nice. It’s the one I would have chosen, anyhow.
“What makes you think I want a hat?” I ask coyly.
He shrugs. “I don’t know if you want one, but you need one. I don’t want you to get burned. The sun out there is fierce.”
He’s right about that. “That one’s perfect.” He buys it, along with a tube of sunscreen, while I grind my teeth over the fact that my cash is back in the limo.
“I see you’re g
oing to make a habit of buying stuff for me,” I tell him as we leave the store.
He takes the hat out of the bag, tears off the tag, then fits it onto my head. “So what if I am?”
“I am perfectly capable of paying my own way,” I say.
“I know that.”
“Then it’s not necessary for you to—”
“Hey.” He takes my chin in his hand, tilts my head up, and looks me directly in the eyes. “I like buying you things, okay? It appeals to my Neanderthal male instinct to provide for what’s mine.”
All the stubbornness drains out of me at that. What’s his. He thinks of me as his. Once upon a time, that kind of behavior coming from a man would have sent all kinds of warning sirens blaring in my head.
But now, all I can do is sigh, because when he says that, contentment and security sweep through me in a warm rush. I want to be his.
As long as he can be mine too.
I’m the first to tear my gaze away. He takes out the sunscreen and, using his thumbs, wipes it over the bridge of my nose, then rubs it over the tops of my shoulders. I stand there, still, letting him spread it where he wants, just thriving on the sensation of his touch on my skin.
“There,” he says huskily when he’s finished. “Now you won’t get burned.”
“Thank you.”
We head back to the beach, and I take off my flip-flops and hook my finger around their straps. At the water line, we stop, and I search the horizon for Kyle among the myriad surfers that dot the waves.
“Look for orange,” Ethan says. “He’s over there.”
I spot him just as he’s paddling to catch a wave, which he does easily. He’s so comfortable on that enormous board as the wave peels out under him, he takes two steps back and two steps forward, doing a little dance. Then he moves all the way forward and curls his toes over the front of the surfboard.
Ethan chuckles. “Hanging ten, huh?”
“Showoff,” I mutter. Kyle’s ride ends, and he does a graceful swan dive into the water. I roll my eyes. “He’s always like that.”
“He’s good.”
“Yes, he is.” I just wish surfing could be his career. He’s good, but he’s not world-class—not good enough to make a living at it.
