Hula Girl Page 5

  “Well, I know one thing,” she says.

  “What’s that?”

  “You must have been raised by a strong woman.”

  I laugh. “I was, for sure. My mother is the best person I know.”

  “Mine is that for me. She’s my best friend. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her.”

  “Yeah, I know the feeling.” I don’t elaborate, but I get the sense that she understands that I truly mean this, especially when she tells me more.

  “I was thirteen when my dad died,” she says. “It was sudden. We were pretty much financially fucked.”

  I grimace, not at the profanity, but because of how much I identify with her financial straits. Everything always comes down to money.

  “She was devastated by her grief,” she continues. “I was, too, of course, but she needed me. So, I stepped in to help. Sort of by sheer force of will, I figured out what needed to happen for us to survive. I suppose I’ve been ‘wound tight’ ever since.”

  Though she laughs, the throwback to how I described her stings. “I didn’t mean—” I start.

  She holds up a hand. “It’s okay. I get what you meant. I know I can seem closed off.” She laughs ruefully. “My ex would agree with you wholeheartedly on that.”

  “Oh, jeez,” I say, “I really didn’t mean to be such a dick. Listen, I’m sorry I said any of that.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “But I am worrying about it. I sometimes don’t know when to shut my mouth. I’m sorry about what I said.”

  She meets my eyes for a long, silent moment. And then I see a shift in her gaze. It’s the moment where she’s decided she’s done talking about it because she says, “Maybe we can drop the heavy conversation? I’d love to just … have fun.”

  Though I absolutely enjoyed our brief back and forth sharing session, I’m glad to do as she asks. “Of course. Whatever you want, Hula Girl.”

  She laughs. “I like the no-names thing, too. That sets the right tone.”

  “Two poke,” Makai announces, dropping our bowls down on the table unceremoniously.

  We share a look before laughing at Makai’s interruption. When she smiles, her eyes brighten. That I have the power to make that happen gives me a thrill—and makes me want to do it again. And again.

  What is it about her?

  I can’t say. All I know is that I’m glad she got lost this morning.

  And that I found her.

  6

  Ava

  The more tequila I have, the more I enjoy the fact that I don’t know Surfer Boy’s real name. As we eat and drink and chat, I realize the lack of a proper name is giving us permission to do what we really want: flirt until we can acceptably leave this place—together.

  The poke was just as he described. I declared myself obsessed after the second bite and he was delighted. We’ve each had another serving of tequila. Make that two servings each. Makai, as Surfer Boy calls him, eventually just leaves the bottle on our table.

  I drag my finger over the ornate bottle of Dos Artes Reserva Especial. “You’re right. It’s good. Smooth.” Like your muscles, like your tanned skin, I almost add. He’s just as gorgeous in this dim light as he was in the bright morning sunshine.

  “Goes down easy,” he says, his voice just a touch lowered for effect.

  I’m surprised to feel myself blushing and the innuendo. I’ve never been shy about sex. That coquettish, girly thing of pretending I don’t really like sex just isn’t me. I definitely like sex. It’s a shame that I’ve been so busy working the last few years that I haven’t had nearly as much of it as I’d like, in fact. But the naked lust in Surfer Boy’s eyes takes me aback. There’s no doubt that we’re in tune with how much we want each other.

  “I’ll have to get some of this in LA,” I say.

  “When do you head back?” he asks. He’s leaning on his hand, elbow on the table, watching me languidly. Not that I think he has any other mode. He’s relaxation personified. The prototypical surfer dude. I can’t imagine he’s ever been wound tight in his life.

  “Three days, not counting the day I leave.”

  “What made you vacation on your own?”

  “Nothing made me do anything,” I say with a laugh. But that’s a lie. The truth is that Randall made me come here. But I can’t go into that because I’ve already lied and said I wasn’t a lawyer. “I actually haven’t had a real vacation in six years. This was overdue.”

  “Six years? What kind of job do you have that’s kept you from vacationing for six years?”

  Whoops. I scramble to think what I can tell him. I consider saying I’m the owner-operator of the house cleaning business that is actually my mother’s. But I don’t want to lie to him any more than I already have.

  Instead, I swallow, and say, “Let’s leave the ‘real world’ out of this … thing we’ve got going here.”

  He watches me appreciatively. “I can do that. I happen to be really good at—how did you describe it? Living one wave at a time?”

  I wince. “Sorry. That was a total oversimplification, wasn’t it?”

  “Nah. You’re right, I’m just a surfer boy,” he says with a laugh.

  “No other ambition?”

  “I’ve had my fill of ambition. But that’s a whole other story. One that belongs in that real world we’re ignoring.”

  That bit of information intrigues me. He’s hinted that he is more than he appears to be but, like me, he doesn’t want to talk about what all that entails.

  “Look at us. Just a couple of mysterious strangers,” I tease.

  He squints just slightly at me. “I suppose you’re right. But, at the same time, you don’t feel like a stranger to me at all.”

  “I, uh.” I stop, stumbling over my tongue as I realize he’s right. He doesn’t feel like a stranger to me either, no matter how I’ve danced around the truth. There’s something about him that feels comforting, welcoming. So much so, that I told him about my father. I never talk about my father. “Well, tequila does seem to make people extra friendly.”

  With a knowing nod, he says, “Uh-huh,” as if dismissing my weak effort to explain away our connection.

  “So, you’ve lived here all your life?” I ask, trying to steer us into different, more banal territory. I’m not ready to accept, let alone admit, that he and I have anything more than a random hookup in the making.

  “Pretty much. I’m considered a local haole.”

  “What does that mean.”

  “White boy,” he says. “But one who has been accepted for the most part.”

  “Only for the most part?”

  “Now, it’s all good. When I was a kid, it wasn’t always so easy. Can’t blame locals for having some resentments after the way their culture and sovereignty were subjugated.”

  I raise my eyebrows. Not at the characterization of how Hawaiians were mistreated, but at his vocabulary. My Surfer Boy doesn’t seem so uncultured himself.

  “But you’re saying you took the brunt of some of those resentments?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “There was a time where I really felt like an outcast, to be honest. I got run off from the beach, run off the road while riding my bike, threatened at school. Then I got in with some friends who were real locals. Good guys. That helped a lot.”

  “And how long have you been surfing?”

  “All my life, basically. I grew up sort of wild, always on the hunt for adventure. Riding waves is the biggest, best adventure I could find.”

  “Those waves this morning looked really big. You must be good.”

  He hesitates, leveling his eyes on me in a way that is so sensual it makes me shift in my seat.

  “I’d say I am.”

  I feel my cheeks burning again and I wish I could wave it away. He does something to me whether I like it or not.

  Thing is, I suspect I do like the effect he has on me. A lot.

  “You should come out with me to see for yourself,” he adds.
<
br />   “With you?” I ask, confused by the offer.

  “Yeah, I can use a longboard and help get us up on a wave. We could ride it … together.”

  I’m lost for a moment in his gold-flecked eyes, my mind caught on the way he said ride. And then I laugh, realizing I’ve been played. “God, that must work so well with the pretty tourists.”

  He looks offended and I wonder whether I’ve gotten things all wrong. But then he smiles in that gorgeous crooked way of his, making me want to bite his bottom lip.

  “What I really prefer,” he says, leaning toward me over the table again, “are hula girls.”

  It’s a good save and I let him have it. “I’m not sure I have the proper moves of a hula girl.”

  “Oh, I think you do.” His gaze is pure sexual suggestion. “Why don’t you test it out.”

  “Here?” I look around and focus on the fact that Makai is chatting with someone at the end of the bar but also glancing our way.

  “Would you rather get out of here?”

  “And go where?” Yes, I want to go to bed with him. I want it so much, in fact, that I’m aching for some kind—any kind—of touch by him. But I’m not above also wanting him to work a little harder before that happens.

  “Uh,” he says, hesitating. He’s trying to read me, to see if I’m putting him off. “Just down the road, there’s a little inlet to the beach. It’s a full moon. We can test those hula moves by the water.”

  I make a show of considering this idea before gesturing at the tequila. “Take the bottle with us?”

  He looks at me, squinting slightly with amusement and delight. “Hell, yeah,” he says with a sexy grin.

  7

  Ava

  The thing about island life is that it gets really dark at night. It’s the kind of dark that I never experience in LA where light pollution makes this kind of stargazing impossible. Even with a full moon, I’m enamored by the blanket of stars in the sky.

  Surfer Boy grabs my hand to keep me from wandering in the wrong direction as we cross the road. When he doesn’t let me go once I’ve lowered my eyes to pay attention to where we’re going, I don’t mind. His hand is large, easily enclosing mine and feels good.

  When he steers us off the road, toward the ocean, the rocky path makes me hesitate. He’s already gone ahead, somehow navigating his way in flip-flops with ease. Turning back, he looks up at me. It’s only three or four feet down, but it feels like more.

  “This is it,” he says, holding out his hand to me. “Come on, Hula Girl.”

  “I feel like I’m going to break my ankle on those rocks.”

  “It’s fine. It’s not as scary as it looks. I just did it, right? You can do it.”

  I take one tentative step and feel my foot roll. “Nope, not going to work.”

  “Come here, I’ll help you.”

  He steps as close as he can to me while still standing on the sand. But it feels awkward.

  Taking my hand, he looks me in the eye and says, “I got you.”

  Why I should trust him the way I do when he says this is beyond me. But in the end, I fall into him and he catches me, wrapping one arm around my waist and the other holding me tight just under my butt. As his grip loosens and my body slides downward against his, my mouth falls open as I register the heat of him against me. Once I’m on my feet, he doesn’t pull away. Neither do I. Instead, we stand like that, our bodies touching, looking into each other’s eyes, his arms still around my waist. My breathing has quickened just being this close to him. I swallow hard to try to contain myself.

  But, god, he’s just so hot.

  He leans even closer to me, lowering his face to mine. I can smell the soap on his skin, the tequila on his lips. With his strong arms around me, the sound of the gentle tide, and the moonlight, it’s an intoxicating moment. Just as I start to close my eyes in anticipation of his kiss, I see movement out of my peripheral vision that startles me.

  “What was that?” I ask, pulling away.

  Following my gaze, he smiles. “Turtles.”

  “What?” I wonder if I’ve had too many sips of that tequila.

  “Come on.” He takes my hand and pulls me toward the shoreline.

  It’s there that the movement I’d seen comes into focus as several large sea turtles are slowly making their way into the water.

  “I love these guys,” Surfer Boy says, crouching down to get a better view.

  I don’t join him in that position but instead stand by his side, staring at the creatures that are at once reptilian and majestic. And then I feel his hand on my calf. It’s a gentle brushing at first, as his palm moves cautiously over the outline of my muscle.

  I never would have thought this part of my body would be an erogenous zone, but his touch is sparking little fires on my skin, especially when he trails his fingers along the back of my knee and then in between my lower thighs. Letting my hand fall to his hair, I suppress a whimper of pleasure as his hand glides upward. He’s no longer gentle, though, as he squeezes my inner thigh with urgency before grazing his fingers against the increasingly needy spot between my legs. I close my eyes and surrender to his touch, to the way he teases me by tracing the strap of my thong and caresses my backside in a way that tells me he’s having a hard time restraining himself. At the same time, he’s pressing his lips to my thigh with slow, lingering, reverential kisses.

  Just when I think my legs might give out, overwhelmed by the stimulation he’s generating, he pulls away. Standing, he slides his hand along the side of my neck, his fingers in my hair, and takes my mouth in his. It’s a commanding, confident move that makes me moan at the exact moment our parted lips meet and our tongues tangle, desperate to taste each other. He pulls my body to his with such unexpected force that my breath leaves me, and I have to break our kiss.

  I look at him and he looks apologetic, as if he just can’t help himself, that having me in his arms somehow isn’t close enough. I can’t lie—being desired this intensely is a total turn-on.

  I reach up and grab him by the back of his head to pull him to me once more. Once more into a kiss so deep, so full of need and want, that I can’t imagine how we’ll ever satisfy each other. But I’m open to trying, that’s for sure.

  And so is he, by the feel of it. He’s hard and pressing insistently against me.

  “My place is just up the beach here,” he murmurs as he plants kisses under my ear and along my neck.

  I nod vigorously and suddenly he’s got my hand in his again and is pulling me along the shore in strides suited to his long legs, but which makes me struggle to keep up.

  “Wait,” I say, and he stops abruptly. I take a deep breath and then hold out my free hand. “I need a drink after that.”

  Smiling, he releases my hand, so he can remove the top of the tequila bottle we took from the restaurant.

  “Sorry, no glass,” he says.

  Raising the bottle, he tips it to my lips, easing the liquid into my mouth so that only a dribble spills onto my bottom lip. He doesn’t let that get too far, though, as he leans down and presses his lips to mine, sucking gently at the spot where the alcohol escaped.

  God, he’s good.

  “Where did you come from, Hula Girl?” he asks as if I’m the one to have weakened his knees and not the other way around.

  I can only smile at him. After a quick swig for himself, he takes my hand once more and we’re walking briskly over the cool sand.

  There’s nothing but beach from my viewpoint. It’s water to our left and deepening vegetation and the road beyond that to our right. I can’t imagine where his place could be. But after a few more minutes of walking, he pulls me to the right. Before I can ask where we’re going, I see an opening in the trees and bushes. It’s a little hut almost entirely tucked away from view. Glancing backward, I notice that the entry to the water here is particularly rocky, meaning that tourists probably don’t frequent this beach and making for a perfect hideaway.

  Reaching behind the over
growth of bushes by the front door, Surfer Boy releases some unseen catch and the door edges open.

  He turns to me with a grin, saying, “Shhh.”

  “Who am I going to tell?” I reply with a laugh, looking around at the barren beach.

  When he flips a switch inside, I see that “his place” is no more than a one-room shack that looks like a strong breeze could knock it over. The lights aren’t a central overhead unit but rather a string of small multi-colored globes, each wrapped with twine to look like fishing net. Those, along with the five or six surfboards leaning against the walls, give the hut a charming beach chic vibe. There are stacks of books on the floor, an acoustic guitar propped in a stand, and a skateboard next to it. The central feature of the space is the queen-sized bed, sparsely covered by a navy-blue sheet and a single pillow, telling me Surfer Boy really is all about the basics.

  He scrambles to straighten out the sheet, then pats the end of the bed.

  “Have a seat,” he says. “I’ve got glasses for that tequila.”

  I watch as he goes to a countertop along one wall that seems to serve as his kitchen. Underneath is a mini-fridge and open shelving with a few boxes of crackers, cereal, assorted condiments, and a handful of plates, bowls, and glasses. On top is a hot plate and a coffee maker.

  “So, this is where you take the ladies to wow ’em,” I say as he hands me a tumbler too full of tequila.

  Sitting next to me, he laughs and spreads his free arm out to showcase the place. “Impressed?”

  “Is this really where you live? Or is this more like a crash pad?”

  “I really live here, Hula Girl.” He takes a big sip from his glass. “Now, about those moves you were going to show me—”

  Laughing, I say, “Oh no. I’m going to have to finish this obscenely large glass of tequila before I’m up for that.”

  He knocks his glass against mine. “Cheers to that.”

  But before I can take a drink, he does that thing again where he slides his hand into the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling me confidently, possessively, into him for a kiss. Though his kiss is what I want, I’ve accidentally sloshed some tequila out of my glass and onto my leg. I’m ready to ignore it, but he looks down and sees the liquid slowly rolling over my upper thigh.