by Cathryn Cade
The easy smile on his face said he expected her to say 'Sure' like a normal woman. To stroll and pick through the racks of clothing and bling, and maybe hold things up and say 'hey, big guy, whadda you think?'
She rubbed her suddenly sweaty palms down her thighs, and shrugged. "Sure." She could do this. She'd just keep both hands on her purse, that was it. And use her eyes, not her hands.
And ignore the tension spiraling in her middle. The fear, and the urge to make it all go away...just for a little while.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
If Moke hadn't been staring at Shelle's ass and legs in her short, snug dress, watching the way those fine stripes undulated, he never would have seen her hand move.
He blinked, a slow frown of disbelief drawing down his brows, as she turned away from the long, open rack of rings that she'd been admiring. Nah, he couldn't have seen her do what he thought. He was imagining things.
Rising, he strolled over to the rings, nodding to the young Asian clerk, who was straightening necklaces under a glass countertop nearby. He waited till the girl tossed her long hair and went back to her task. Then he looked down at the rings, all stuck in rows of grooves, in a black velveteen rack.
He stiffened, feeling the blow as if a mighty fist had just punched him right in the solar plexus. "What the fuck?" he muttered, a hot lake of lava forming in his middle.
Among the rainbow of semi-precious stones set in silver rings, there was now one blank spot.
Shelle had stolen the amber ring. Picked it up, tried it on—because he'd seen the color flash in the light, and thought how it suited her—then she'd set it back in the case and moved on to look at other rings...before she'd fucking palmed the one she liked.
"Can I show you any of those?" the clerk called to Moke, tilting her head to smile at him. She was pretty, in a dainty Asian way.
He stretched his mouth in an answering smile. "No, but thanks, eh?"
Then he turned and stalked outside. He moved slowly only with the greatest effort, as every muscle in his body burned with anger.
Shelle was waiting on the sidewalk outside, ankles crossed, playing with the ends of her hair. When he walked up to her, she gave him one look out of haunted eyes, and then moaned, a low animal sound that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
She looked suddenly sick, pale under her tan, like she might vomit right there, on the sidewalk.
Part of him wanted to cradle her in his arms—the other part that was enraged by this side of her, grasped her elbow and bent to speak into her ear in a low, but furious voice. "Don't feel so good, eh, tita? Maybe you should stop stealing shit that don't belong to you, yeah?"
She drew a shuddering breath, and then nodded, hard enough that her hair spilled over her shoulder and his. "I—I know. You're right. I...I can't believe...I mean, I haven't in—so long. It's been so long. Like three years since I...but I did. I did it. But I'll—I'll go put it back. I will."
Taken aback by her rambling speech, by the stark sincerity in every halting word and the pain vibrating off her, Moke let her pull away from his grasp. Let her walk away.
What the fuck was up with her? She’d stolen, but it didn’t seem to bring her any pleasure. Or maybe it was just getting caught that was painful. Was this all a show to get him off her case?
From the shadow of the overhang, he watched as she walked back into the little shop. She said something to the young clerk, and went back to the rings. Then she dropped her purse on the floor, and squatted gracefully to pick it up. She came back up holding the ring in one hand, her purse in the other.
"Oh, my gosh," she called loud enough for Moke to hear, waving the ring. "I must have dropped this when I was in here before. I'm so sorry, here you go."
The clerk hurried to accept the ring. "Oh, thank you. No problem, I'll just put it back."
They shared a little laugh, the way women do. Shelle moved on to the glassed-in display case, examining the necklaces, then shrugged, miming her disappointment at finding nothing she wanted, turned and walked back outside.
She didn't look at him again. Her shoulders sagged as she stopped by his side. "Okay. Done."
"Nice," Moke muttered. "Looked like you had some practice at that too."
He turned to prowl away through the open-air mall, and she followed.
"Yeah," she said, her head down. "How to return something without consequences. One of the first things a klepto learns."
He snorted. "Oh, sure. Like you don't usually keep what you take."
She stopped dead, nearly getting run down by a stroller. "I don't! I mean, I didn't—back when I was...when my addiction was active."
The young father pushing the stroller jerked to the side just in time. Moke gave him a nod of thanks, and drew Shelle into the cool shadows of the Kona Canoe Club. The open air cafe and bar was half empty at this time of day.
"I need a beer," he muttered, walking to an empty table by the railing.
They sat, looking out over a stretch of lawn, and Kona-Kailua Bay, a subdued green-gray under the afternoon clouds.
"What can I bring you folks?" asked a cheery young waiter. His blond hair was shaved up the sides, the top slicked back into a tail. He smiled at Shelle like he knew her, but she didn't notice.
'Don't bother, kid, you can't afford her,' Moke wanted to say.
Moke ordered a local amber, but Shelle shook her head. "Just ice-water, thanks."
When the waiter was gone, Moke regarded her with as much restraint as he could muster. "So you expect me to believe you steal shit when you're 'stressed' but then you take the shit back?" Not that he'd seen her sporting any jewelry. But he found it hard to believe a thief as skilled as she wasn't keeping her loot. Hell, you could sell anything at pawn shops, that was probably her gig.
She pulled her sunglasses down from her hair and set them firmly on her nose. With her expressive eyes hidden, her face was stoic though her voice was still huskier than normal. "I do expect you to believe that, yeah. I'm not a—I don't steal because I want the—the things. I'm—I have kleptomania. It's an addiction. And if you don't believe me, you can look it up."
"Yeah, I heard of it."
Everybody had, but it had always been more of a joke than anything else to him. Teens calling each other 'You klepto' when they pilfered each others' food, that kind of thing.
He'd never actually met anyone who was one, or at least who admitted to it. No wonder—pretty fuckin' embarrassing to admit you steal shit on a whim.
His beer and her water arrived. Moke took a long drink and set his glass down. "So why you do it? I mean, what gets you off about it?"
She took a long drink of water, and turned the sweating glass in her hands, the bar logo appearing and disappearing behind her slender fingers.
"It's when I'm stressed," she said. "And uh...I've been under a lot of stress lately, as you know. I don't...I don't shop. I mean, window shop, like other people. I stay out of stores and such, unless I really need something. And there’s no stores at Nawea, you know, so..." she shrugged. “I was fine there.”
He made a noise to let her know he heard, and slugged another drink of cold, refreshing beer. Maybe he could go behind the bar, stick his head under the tap, and just keep drinking till the hot feeling in his middle was drowned out.
Fuck, this gorgeous, sexy wahine was a common thief.
"Stop looking at me like that," she hissed, leaning forward over the little table. "Like I'm something you have to wipe off the bottom of your boot."
He had no reply for that. So he swiped a hand over his face, and shrugged.
He was not only shocked, he was disgusted and pissed off to discover she'd managed to hit two of his biggest triggers, bang on the money.
This sexy, feisty, funny woman was a squatter—not really her fault—and a thief.
That last one...he didn't know if he could get his head around.
In the biker lifestyle, he couldn't help but see addictions, and their consequences. Brothers w
ho couldn't seem to make it through a single day without drinking or toking up, one who was a recovering opioid addict, and another who couldn't keep his pants zipped even though he had an old lady who'd do anything for him.
He knew women, some of them old ladies, who battled substance abuse as well. And while he might judge those folks in his own mind, he did not show it. That wasn't what being a brother was all about. It was about accepting each other, faults and all, and living wild and free.
But this...fuck him, this felt like she'd reached past his defenses and yanked out something in his chest, a fragile piece of him he guarded from the world. One he'd thought maybe, just maybe he could open up and show her. That she'd honor it, keep it safe. And that this might be more than just a hot, tropical fuck.
Yeah, no chance of that, not anymore. And this was why he kept his distance from women, why he fucked and ducked. Because this shit burned.
He drained his beer and lifted it to signal the waiter he wanted another. "Okay, so talk to me. Help me get it," he invited, sitting back with his arms crossed.
She stared back at him, and then gave a huff of disgust, re-crossing her arms.
"Right. And what am I supposed to say now? Oh, wait, I know."
She folded her hands under her chin and bowed over them. "Thank you, Moke. Thank you so much for allowing me the chance to open my guts and let you poke around inside. Except...no."
She shoved her chair back with a jerk, and stood, grabbing her purse from the back of her chair. "You've already made up your mind about me, so hell no! I'm done with you, and with this shit."
Then she turned on her heel and stalked away through the tables and along the mall.
Moke contemplated just letting her go. Then he rolled his eyes, pulled out his wallet as he stood, dropped some bills on the table to cover the beer he'd drunk and the one he wasn't gonna get to enjoy, and went after her.
Wasn’t it just fuckin’ great that now, when he’d love to see the back of her, he couldn’t let her walk away?
His mood foul, Moke followed Shelle along the esplanade that led around the bay to the east.
He didn't bother to catch up, just kept her in sight, wondering where the hell she was going, and why he cared. He sidestepped a stout, white-haired woman stopping to admire a painting in the window of a gallery, and shook his head at a pair of panhandlers selling wilted leis.
As he moved past the bulwark of Bubba Gump's, and a sunburned family giggling as they had their picture taken on the bench with the big shoes, a breeze rustled the palms on the edge of the bay. And his phone vibrated in his pocket.
He palmed it, looking at the screen as he walked along the narrow walk by the cement breakwater. A steady stream of traffic rolled by on his left, and the waves splashed up on the rocks, the white spray catching rainbow colors in the sunset.
Stick Vanko's name waited on his phone.
He swiped to take the call. "Stick," he said, stopping by the rail, keeping an eye on Shelle, who had stopped several feet ahead to gaze moodily at the waves. Her hair blew out behind her in tumbled waves, the color rich in the setting sun. Even in a plain sundress, she was easily the hottest wahine on the street.
"Moke," the Flyer's president answered, his deep cool voice faintly accented with his Russian upbringing. "How are things in Hawaii?"
"Some good, some not so good," Moke said. He moved out of the shelter of the palms to find the breeze. It blew over him, cooling the sweat on his skin. "How's it there?"
Stick grunted. "Fine here. But that situation in Seattle? Gonna need your help with that."
"You found them?" he demanded. Anger deepened his voice and rolled up through him in a hot wave, burning away the chill as if it hadn't even been there.
A tour bus roared by, the big diesel motor obscuring Stick's next words, and Moke held his phone closer and stuck a finger in his other ear. "Say again?"
"I said, our Seattle relative called me. He's ready to move...but wants to make sure he's making the move on the right items. The woman still with you?"
Moke stopped in his tracks, staring at Shelle, who was sitting on the cement railing, hands planted at her sides, shoulders hunched as she watched the waves splash on the lava rocks and run back.
"Yeah," he said slowly. "She's still with me." At least for now—because he wasn't sure he could stand to look at her much longer.
Fuck, he'd been on the verge of falling for her, but now...no. Just no. Maybe she wasn't as big a thief as his old man, but it still felt like a betrayal. As if she'd ripped off part of her perfect, hot, feisty veneer and revealed rot beneath. Like in one of those horror movies some of the brothers liked to watch at the clubhouse.
"How's she doing?" Stick asked. "She gonna be okay?"
"Yeah," Moke said. "She's...a fighter." With one dark, ugly crack in the armor she wore against the world. Festering, like the infection in that fucking knife cut.
"So," Moke asked, because Stick wouldn't have called unless it was important, "What you need from me?"
He hadn't seen his father yet, but he'd gotten what he came for, pretty much. He could leave now, or soon. Should get with that Kona Realtor Lenny had mentioned, the Ho'omalu cousin.
"Seattle will be ready to move, soon as they get hands on," Stick said. Keeping it vague, because he knew Moke was on his own phone, not a burner. "Be good for all of us, if we could help seal the deal. To make it work, need you to be ready to come back...and bring your girl with you."
Oh, fuck no. Moke stared at the gorgeous woman on the esplanade railing. They wanted him to bring her back to Seattle? That meant that far from being done with her, he'd have to stick with her like glue.
"You there?" Stick called, over the roar of another tour bus coming along the street. "Need you with me on this, brother."
"Okay," Moke replied, loud enough to be heard. "I'm in. As for her, I dunno. She's not exactly my girl. Call you back soon as I get somewhere with less ears, okay?" Too many people around here, and for all he knew, one of them might be some geek trying to pick up other phone convos, or bank codes.
He shoved his phone back in his pocket, and strode to Shelle. Standing behind her, he crossed his arms and did his best to keep from roaring his frustration and fury to the bay, the sky and all the people clustered around.
"Ready to head back to Nawea?" he asked.
She tossed her hair back, and as the breeze changed, her hair slid over his shoulder and throat, living silk. "No," she said. "But I have to get my stuff, so I can get out of your way."
"Yeah, about that," he gritted, as Asian tourists stopped beside them to snap photos of each other against the backdrop of the bay, and the threatening rain clouds. "We need to talk."
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
With what she'd done, and what Moke was probably about to say to her weighing like lead in her middle, Shelle followed him across the street.
She knew what it would be, some version of 'Bitch, I'm sorry I ever picked you up off the beach. Don't wanna look at you anymore, so hit the road. And this time, you can hitch a ride with someone else.'
And the worst of it was, she couldn't really blame him. She wanted to, because that was so much easier—blame the accuser.
No, she was furious, but not with Moke.
She knew how his dad had stolen from him to buy booze when Moke lived with him, and thus how much Moke had developed a hatred of all kinds of petty theft. And she knew how the man had essentially tried to steal Moke's birth-right, the family property.
The ball of anger in her middle was at herself. Why, of all the times, had she chosen now to slip? Why couldn't she have waited till she and Moke parted ways, leaving him to remember their time together with a smile, instead of the disgust she'd seen on his face outside the jewelry shop?
Of course her anger, her rage burned deeper than that—the molten force of it was aimed squarely at the bikers who'd attacked her, and their miserable, murdering boss. She'd like to face them again, this time with them helpless,
and her with a weapon in her hands.
They passed a sandy volleyball court where tanned, athletic people in brief sportswear leapt and whacked a bright orange ball back and forth over the net, while others lounged on the short grass around the court, waiting their turn. Tourists watched from the lanai of a bar and restaurant next door, smiling and clapping for a good shot.
Someday, Shelle vowed, she was coming back here on a real vacation. Sit on that lanai with one of those fancy drinks, gorge herself on fried shrimp, and watch the ocean.
And her only worries would be what activity to engage in next—swimming, paddle-boarding, or more shopping, or sex.
Because she'd be with a guy, a hot, sweet, dependable guy with a good job and a healthy bank account that matched hers.
And no, he would not be a big Hawaiian with a square jaw, huge muscles and dark eyes that she'd learned to read to test his mood, since his stoic face showed so little. He'd be...blond, okay, like one of those volleyball hot-shots. And blue-eyed to boot.
Yeah, and dolphins would fly over the bay and fart rainbows for her viewing pleasure.
She scowled at the pair of round, muscular buns at her eye level as a few steps ahead, Moke climbed the stairs up to the parking lot. The best she could hope for now was for Moke to let her gather up her things, and be on her way, to find someplace safe while she waited for Vicky to come home.
The rest was just silly daydreams.
They drove back to Nawea in silence, punctuated only by Moke asking if she needed to stop at a grocery store for anything. She shook her head, and they drove on.
Back at the big, gracious white house Shelle hopped down from the pickup, and waited on the wide steps before the entryway, ready to head upstairs and pack on the double.
But to her shock, Moke unlocked the big wooden doors, let her in, and then stopped her with a quiet word. "Wait."
One foot on the steps, she froze. Then she set her jaw and turned to face him, holding onto the carved newel post for support. "What? I'll hurry, and...you'll be rid of me. So if you have something to say, fine. Say it."