by Bea Paige
Ignoring her obvious distaste, I address the room. “Drink up everyone, The Shack is closing as of right this fucking second…”
“Now hold on…” the little prick Peter begins, his twang grinding on my last nerve. “Who do you think you are?”
My head snaps around as I glare at him, my lips pulling back over my teeth. “Your worst nightmare and I have more right to be here than you do, arsehole. The Shack’s closing as of five fucking seconds ago.”
He has the audacity to look at Connie who is watching the whole scene unfold with her mouth popped open. I don’t even want his fucking eyes on her, let alone anything else. I need to do something about this kid and fast. He needs to go.
“Last time I heard, Lola owns this place and in her absence Connie’s in charge. She gets to decide when this place closes. Besides, Connie’s about to play.”
“No!” My anger punches me violently in the gut. I don’t want her to play. I don’t want her to sing for any of these drunk, undeserving motherfuckers. Her beautiful voice deserves an avid, singular audience. Me. I narrow my eyes at this Peter prick. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. You choose.”
Silence fills the air which is heavy with sweat, booze and tension. No one moves. Seconds tick by and I’m about to revert to type and go all Punisher on his arse when the sound of a guitar playing forces me to be still.
Slowly, I meet Connie’s gaze and she gives me the tiniest hint of a smile that has challenge written all over it. Try and stop me, it says. I move towards her, pulling up sharply when she starts to sing. Like every other fucker in this place, I’m enraptured. There aren’t many voices that can cut through alcohol addled brains, but Connie’s breathtaking voice does exactly that.
My Little Siren haemorrhages her soul for the room to witness, and I fucking hate it.
Twenty-Three
Connie
Words slip from my lips like honey from a beehive, drawing in the hen party who were standing outside. They’ve re-entered The Shack with a crew of fishermen, some have coupled up, others stand to the side, but all of them are watching me. Tomorrow afternoon the hen party will leave with only vague memories of some untamed men who smell of the ocean and a girl who sings love songs like her heart has been bruised a thousand times over. I’m not sure how they’ve ended up on our little island, but according to one of the girls, there are rumours building on the mainland of a bunch of hot, single fishermen, and lo and behold here they are.
Either way, it’s good business for Lola and the one and only B&B on the island.
Focusing my attention on my captive audience, I keep singing, holding onto the high notes and drawing out the low notes with the gentle strum of my guitar.
The whole time, I’m well aware of Malakai’s eyes on me but I don’t let his penetrating glare stop me from singing this song.
I wrote it for him, after all.
Over the last few months I’ve sung every other night at the shack. Mostly well-known ballads. I’ve had requests to sing other songs too, and I’ve always delivered. Every time I’ve sang, I’ve grown a little more confident. This is the first time I’ve sung one of my own songs.
I wasn’t going to.
But when I saw Malakai enter, dressed in a dark form fitting shirt and black jeans, all broody and severe looking, I decided it was time. I recall the morning when he watched me sing and I remember the way he’d looked at me then, how he’d opened up a little. I want to recapture that. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, but somehow I know that this will hurt him more than it hurts me.
And there’s a sick kind of satisfaction in that.
Inside, my anger still bubbles. When I returned home for dinner, Grandma Silva had sensed the sudden change from my false happiness to broiling rage. She’d put it down to me having a tiff with Peter. A stupid assumption, really, given Peter and I only ever laugh when we’re together. He’s not confrontational. He’s not bullish or arrogant.
He’s not Malakai.
I didn’t tell Grandma he’d returned, mainly because she would’ve tried to prevent me from opening up tonight. I didn’t want the argument, or for her to see quite how much he’s gotten under my skin and buried himself in my heart. I’ve been an island since he left, outwardly strong, standing alone, surviving the elements, but ever since our confrontation this morning, I’ve begun to crack. My shores have been battered by his silence one too many times, and after this morning’s messy reunion, I’m crumbling.
This is my way of fighting back, of gaining a smidgen of control over a situation that I have no control over. Malakai is a law unto himself. His display just now, proof enough of that.
So I sing, pouring every ounce of emotion into my words. I let him feel my anger, my pain, my desire, my lust and unrequited love. The words flow free, my fingers strumming the chords with ease. I must’ve played this song a hundred times or more, in the privacy of my room, and whilst I’m singing for an audience, there’s only one person here I’m truly singing to.
Him.
Malakai.
Can’t you feel the weight of my stare?
I wanna touch you.
I’m burning, burning for your love.
I wanna kiss you.
Coated in your solemn vow
I wanna love you…
As the song comes to a close, I make sure that I look Malakai directly in the eye because unlike him, I’m not afraid of this energy between us. I revel in it. Even in anger it makes me feel alive, so damn alive, and I’m grateful because I’ve not really been living this past year.
His eyes blaze with an honest desire that lashes at me, wreaking havoc on my resolve to stay strong, to stay angry. I keep singing until the last note disperses and the room erupts into cheers.
The only person who isn’t clapping is Malakai.
He gives me one lingering look then turns on his heel and walks out. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peter watch him leave. For a brief moment, a look of hate rolls like thunder across his features before it vanishes and he’s smiling once more.
“Another everyone?” he says to the crowd.
They all cheer, drowning out the keening sound of my soul.
Plucking the fret, I give them what they want, but my heart is no longer in it.
It left with Malakai.
“Goodnight, Peter. Thanks for walking me home,” I say an hour or so later.
We’re standing at the boundary of my garden, an awkward kind of silence clogging the midnight air between us. As I reach for the wooden gate, Peter reaches for me, his fingers curling around my wrist. “Connie… We need to talk.”
Funny how those are the words Malakai sent me in a text message heralding his return and yet we still haven’t talked. I’m no clearer as to the reason why he’s back than I was about the reason why he left. Though I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to work that out. He ran from me, from his troubled past… Is he really back for the same reason? Are there forces at work here that I’m not aware of? Is the King closing in on Malakai? A flutter of fear settles inside my chest at the thought.
“I’m kind of tired, it’s been a long day,” I lie. The truth of the matter is, I’m wired and distracted. But Peter is not to be rebuffed.
“You sang beautifully tonight. No one could take their eyes off you,” he says, swallowing hard. I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down with nerves as his gaze flits from my face to my hand that’s still cupped in his. A sick feeling builds inside my chest as I watch his finger make a swirling pattern on my palm. I don’t want his touch. God help me, there’s only one man I want to touch me.
“Thank you,” I respond, trying to pull my hand away. He grasps hold of me tighter.
“You know I like you, right?” His eyes narrow, a flash of something I don’t like cutting through the tentative words before it vanishes, making me wonder if I’m somehow projecting my screwed up feelings about Malakai onto him.
“I know,” I whisper, giving him a half smile that
comes out as a grimace. At least he can admit his feelings. There’s strength in that.
“Can I kiss you?” His gaze lifts to meet mine and I see the want in his eyes, the fiery lust. Any other girl would be turned on by it, would appreciate it, would reciprocate. I can’t.
He’s not Malakai.
He’s not the man I want.
Yet, I nod my head, yes. Maybe if I let him kiss me I can get Malakai out of my thoughts. Maybe I can push him away as violently as he seems keen to do to me. Peter steps closer, drawing my hand up to his cheek. He turns his lips to my palm and kisses me there.
I feel nothing.
No attraction. No lust. No desire or burning need.
Just… nothing.
As Peter steps closer, I force myself to remain in his hold and not run. When he presses his cool lips against mine, I wait for the spark to alight. When he slips his tongue between the seam of my lips and strokes my tongue with his, I wait for something, anything, to grasp onto. But only a deep sense of betrayal fills me. I’m not Peter’s. I never will be.
Gently pushing against Peter’s chest, I step back. “We really should get some sleep, Peter,” I say with a soft whisper.
He frowns, swiping a hand through his hair. “Is this something to do with that man, the one who tried to close The Shack early today?”
“No,” I find myself saying, wrapping my arms around myself to hold onto the lie. If I tell myself often enough that he doesn’t make my heart sing, maybe it will make it real. Maybe it will become the truth.
Peter nods sharply. “I see. So, it’s just me then?”
“It’s not you…” I begin realising how lame that sounds. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’ll just have to up my game. Us Aussies don’t give up that easily. You’re worth it, Connie Silva.”
Even in the half light from the bright moon and speckled stars, I can still see the hope brimming in Peter’s eyes. I should shut it down right now. I thought I had, because there’s no room in my bruised heart for him like that, it’s already so filled to the brim with Malakai that it feels on the verge of bursting. It’s so painful that I rub my chest to stop the ache.
“Peter, I…” but he doesn’t stick around.
“See you in the morning.”
“You don’t have to do that. I can manage the breakfast rush. Lola will be back before lunch tomorrow anyway,” I reply, watching him step away from me.
“Of course I’ll be there. Besides, I get to spend more time wooing you, right?”
“I don’t think that’s…” I start, wanting to make it clear I don’t want to be wooed, at least not by him.
“Dream of me at least…” he calls with a quick wave and a tentative smile. I watch him pick up his pace as he jogs towards the B&B situated half a mile down the road.
“The only person I dream of is him…” I mutter to his retreating back, sighing heavily. I’m pretty sure neither of us will sleep much tonight. He’ll have a rowdy bunch of drunken women from the hen party to contend with and I’ll have Malakai. Just like my heart, my head is filled to the brim with thoughts of him.
Fishing my door keys out of my pocket, I walk down my garden path. A shiver scatters over my skin, and even though it’s August and warm still, I can’t help but feel cold. Stopping at my front door, I stare at Peter’s figure disappearing off into the distance. My guilt at not feeling the way Peter wants me too is shoved forcefully away by memories of Malakai from a year ago. They merge with my encounters with him today. Like a potent mix brewed up by a witch, this is one potion that leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. A love potion gone sour.
I sang for Malakai and he walked. At least Peter had stayed.
I may as well have slit my wrists and let my life blood pump from my severed veins for all the good it did. My love for Malakai is a wasteland, barren and without any sustenance to give it life.
He’s not even been back a day, and already I’m a mess.
“Shit,” I mutter, a restless kind of energy burning in my veins and making me feel on edge.
Knowing I won’t sleep a wink, I quietly open the front door and tiptoe upstairs. Stopping at my grandma’s door I peer through the gap and am relieved to see that she’s sleeping peacefully. Making my mind up, I grab a picnic blanket and throw from the airing cupboard and head back outside.
Five minutes later I’m lying down on the cool sand of Broken Shores staring up at the stars and wondering how the hell I’m going to survive the wild, unquenchable thirst that I have for Malakai. The physical attraction between us is unquestionable. Any idiot within five meters can sense it, feel it. Peter did.
I’ve been able to keep the pain at bay this past year by holding onto the tiny hope that he’ll return and profess his love for me. When he didn’t do that earlier, when he laughed in the face of my anger. When he belittled everything I said. It hurt.
I’m in agony.
I wanted him to feel some of that agony too and so I severed those arteries and allowed my soul to pour free from my veins. I wanted to punish him with my words. Has it worked? Is that why he left The Shack earlier, his sudden threats abandoned?
Pulling the throw up over my body and my hoodie around my head, I allow my thoughts to drift until the soothing sound of the ocean lapping against the shore and the gentle caw of the terns nesting in the cliff face lull me into a troubled sleep.
Twenty-Four
Malakai
Connie awakes with the sunrise, her body unfurling beneath the deeply pink sky. The colour reminds me of her swollen, lush pussy, goddamn heaven to look at, to lose myself in. She stretches her arms, reaching up above her head, her eyes fluttering open. The throw she had wrapped around her slips into her lap as she sits up and pushes the hood of her sweater back off her face.
She yawns, rubbing at her eyes, utterly oblivious to me watching her. I’m leaning against the base of the cliff, my bare feet buried beneath the sand. I’ve been here all night, taking up this spot the moment she settled down and fell asleep. I’d followed her and that Peter prick back home, not trusting his intentions.
When he’d kissed her, I’d very nearly lost my head.
The only thing that prevented me from beating the shit out of him was Connie. I’m fully aware that my jealousy, my possessiveness, would have let the proverbial cat out of the bag, so I didn’t act. This is my punishment for leaving her, for fucking touching her when I knew I shouldn’t have.
Instead of punching the little shit, I watched Peter make his move, biting down on the inside of my cheek until the metallic taste of blood made me gag. Her body language told me she wasn’t interested in his advances. She didn’t mould herself against him. She’d held herself stiff, her eyes open the whole time his were closed.
I’d breathed a sigh of relief.
When Connie came out of her house a couple minutes after entering, of course I had to follow her. She might have lived on this island her whole life and felt comfortable enough not to be afraid of getting jumped in the middle of the night, but I know danger is only ever one bad decision away. This island has changed over the past year. There are more tourists for a start, with no authority to handle the sudden influx of unknown people. All it would take is one psycho to take up residence here and the islanders are fucked. Look at this Peter prick. He’s an unknown, literally. As of yet, my search for his real identity has come up blank. Not even the dark web has helped. The little fucker is a mystery that I do not want hanging around Connie.
As a result, whilst Connie slept peacefully, I remained awake, watching over her.
I’m watching her still. I should leave, sneak off now that she's awake. I don’t.
Over the gentle waves lapping against the shore, Connie’s voice lifts into the air. She’s singing that damn song again. Every word a knife piercing my skin, reminding me of the night we spent together. I should never have kissed her the way I did. I lost control. I was weak. Yet I’ve lived off that one night, those few kisses and the
taste of her pretty sunset cunt for the past year.
It will have to do. It must.
Connie starts to walk towards the shoreline, her figure encased in watercolour, the sea a deep pink swathe reflecting the sky above us. When she removes her trainers, then her socks and hoodie, I sit up straight. “What are you doing, my Little Siren?” I whisper to the terns cawing above me.
Entranced, I watch as she removes her t-shirt and slides her jeans over her hips with a wiggle that has my cock hardening painfully. My breath catches, the pulse in my neck throbbing in time to the one in my cock. I’m hard. So damn hard for her.
Goddamn Connie and her luscious curves.
Before I even have a chance to consider what I’m doing, I snap open my jeans, violently pulling down the zipper and gripping my cock. I’m not sure if I want to squeeze the erection out of my dick or pump it until I come over my hand like a fucking teenage boy. When Connie removes her bra and knickers, her rounded arse a perfect peach that I want to take a bite out of, I loosen my hold on my cock and slide my hand up and down the firmness. I guess I’m going to indulge my inner fucking teenager. She sings, her voice lifting up into the air and washing over me, cutting me deep.
Goddamn Connie and her soulful voice.
I’d been so affected by her song, by her words last night, that the only reaction that didn’t involve drawing her into my arms and kissing her breathless, was to walk away. Every step had been leaden, burdensome. Just like now, my insides had caught alight.
With hooded eyes I observe my Little Siren as she walks slowly into the water, the ends of her long dark hair grazing her backside as she sings. The sudden urge to chase her down and wrap her long hair around my fist is a brutal one. I don’t act on my impulse, I just take it out on my dick, corkscrewing my fist up and down in a violent wank that borders on masochistic.
In contrast, the ocean laps at Connie’s skin, gently rising up her legs and kissing her pussy with the barest of touches, like it too can’t bare not to touch her. She pauses, the palms of her hands floating above the surface as the sunset coats her in a glow that takes my breath away.