New Honey in Town

by Cathryn Cade

  "Here," she said. "I found these in your shack. And no, I wasn't gonna keep the ring—I just forgot it till now. But you go ahead and believe I was."

  She let go, and his hand came up reflexively to grab the envelope. The ring fell free, and landed glancing off his bare foot to land on the carpet, glinting dully.

  Shelle sneered. "Lucky for you, it's not worth much. Even I wasn't tempted to keep it."

  He squatted to pick up the ring, and came up with his gaze locked on hers, his frowning.

  "Hey, cut me a break here. You admitted you got a habit—an addiction, one that I saw in action just yesterday. What the fuck am I supposed to think?"

  "Maybe this," she hissed. "That I would never steal from anyone I know, or from their friends! M-my compulsion is for public places—stores and that. Not people I know."

  They stared at each other for a long moment.

  "Okay," he said finally. "Good. You ready to go?"

  He didn't believe her. Fine. Not like she cared what a—a biker thought of her. She curled her lip at him.

  "Yeah, I'm ready to go," she said. "As far away from you as I can get."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  It was all kinds of fucked up, but Shelle’s pout made Moke laugh. "I'll buy you a ticket," he said, patting her ass. "Just let me know where."

  "So funny," she muttered. "Keep your giant hands off me."

  And such was his insanity, that instead of letting her go, he caught her around the waist, swept her around against him.

  "Glad you think so," he muttered. "You're the only one." He bent and gave her a swift kiss on her soft mouth.

  But at a sharp sting on his lip, he reared back, and clapped a hand to his lower lip. "Ow! Da fuck? You bit me!"

  She gave him a look so hot with fury he was vaguely surprised he wasn't smoking.

  "Yeah," she hissed. "And I will again, if you try to put your mouth on me. Who the hell do you think you are? You think you can accuse me of—of stealing from people who've been kind to me, and then I'm just gonna snuggle up with you again? Hell, no!"

  He would've replied in kind, but tears filled her eyes, and brimmed over, one trailing down her cheek. She turned her back on him, but he saw her head dip as she reached up to swipe the tears from her face.

  His retort died unspoken. Dull heat burned over his cheeks.

  "I’m…sorry," he muttered. "Won't happen again."

  And yeah, so the knowledge that she didn't want his kisses anymore, that he'd destroyed whatever remained of the connection between them stung worse than the bite on his lip...because he knew he deserved it.

  Not for going through her shit, because the thought of any of the art curios strewn around this place going missing on his watch sent a chill through him. But for assuming that her feelings were so shallow that they could still mess around.

  He shoved the envelope and the ring into his wallet. "Let me know when you're ready."

  The ride into Kona town was long, and silent.

  Moke dropped Shelle off at a tidy condo on the seaside in Kona.

  He lifted out her backpack for her, and seemed about to say something, but she did not stick around to listen. Grabbing the pack from him, she hustled across the parking lot to the entryway. She'd see him again all too soon. Until then, she just wanted to forget about him, and the coming ordeal in Seattle.

  A creaky elevator carried her up to a third floor lanai. Walking along it, she found Vicky and Dave's condo.

  'E hele mai', read a cheerful sign with flip-flops on it.

  She knocked, and Vicky answered, wearing a turquoise flowered caftan and a huge smile, her gray hair curling about her round, tanned face.

  "Shelle girl," she cried, and enfolded Shelle in a warm, perfumed hug. "Here you are. Come in, hon, come in."

  Shelle did, and found Shelle's husband, a stocky, balding man, waiting on a comfortable settee. He wore a heart monitor on a cord around his neck, and instead of rising to greet her, he held out his hand with a tired, but welcoming smile.

  She was soon ensconced in a comfy rattan chair, an iced tea in her hand, admiring the view of Kona-Kailua Bay and chatting away with Vicky, while Dave snoozed nearby.

  "Is he going to be okay?" Shelle asked quietly.

  Vicky smiled at her husband. "According to the docs, he will be. Gave me one heck of a scare, but we're going to make some changes in our diet, and when he's stronger we'll get to exercising." She nodded decisively. "I waited years to find this man, not going to lose him now."

  "And how is your rental?" Shelle asked. "Is it still there?"

  Vicki sighed. "Yes...but most of the neighborhood isn't. I don't think we'll be going back there anytime soon. Not sure what we'll do. First we have to get Dave well—then we can decide."

  She turned back to Shelle. "Now, I need to catch up on you. What have you been doing at the Ho'omalus' place?"

  Hoo, boy. Gazing into the kind but penetrating gaze of the woman who had shepherded Shelle and dozens of other foster kids through the toughest years of their lives, Shelle opened her mouth, and then closed it.

  "Have you ever known any guys who belonged to, uh, a motorcycle club?" she asked.

  Vicky's head went back, her brows went up, and for a long moment she stared at Shelle. "You mean bikers? One or two. And how about you?"

  Shelle found herself telling Vicky about meeting Moke. How she'd been camping on the beach when Moke found her. How he'd taken her in, given her work and brought his cousin to hang out with her.

  Vicky's mouth twitched in a smile. "And do I sense that maybe the two of you got up to a little more than talking?" she asked.

  Shelle's face burned. "Uh...yes. But then—then I found out he's a biker. And I don't... well, everyone knows bikers are dangerous. Some of them are horrible. They treat women like dirt."

  Vicky nodded slowly. "That's true. But some of them are... a bit wild but they can also be the kindest guys you'll ever meet. There was a club in Redding that had a huge charity ride every year. Brought in thousands for foster kids." She tipped her head. "Which kind of biker is this Moke?"

  Shelle shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Lifted her iced tea glass and realized it was empty. "I'm not sure...somewhere in the middle, maybe?"

  Vicky leaned in and took the empty glass. "Well, this sounds like a discussion for more than tea. Time for drinks." She rose, and padded quietly into the condo's kitchenette. She brought a pitcher out, full of a pale blended concoction. "Pina coladas," she said. "My new recipe."

  Shelle carried the pitcher, and Vicky brought glasses, napkins and a dish of nuts. The two of them tiptoed out onto the ocean-side lanai. The sun was out, but the lanai was shaded by a trio of palm trees, and a breeze made the space comfortable. The ocean sparkled below, white lacy surf dashing on the rocks. Directly below, a pool was surrounded by a patio full of deck chairs and several people sunbathing.

  "Talk," Vicky ordered.

  Bolstered by cold, delicious, pineapple-coconut froth, Shelle talked.

  "So, he gave you a place to stay, paid you well over the going wage for cleaning, brought his cousin to stay to help you feel more comfortable," Vicky summarized. "What exactly is the problem?"

  Shelle pouted. "He...he's bossy. And he doesn't trust me. And he lied to me—he didn't tell me he was a biker."

  "He doesn't trust you," Vicky repeated. "Oh, hell. You had a lapse, huh?"

  Shelle nodded miserably. "He took me out to dinner in Kona. And then we went shopping...and I stole a ring. I don't even know why. One minute I was having fun, and then I just—I just took it."

  Vicky reached over and took Shelle's hand in her warm one. "Okay. So, what happened to bring this on? Something at dinner?"

  "Yeah. We—we were celebrating. Moke found out that his family property here belongs to him, not his dad. So he can sell it, and buy the auto repair shop where he works, near Spokane. And...I thought, he liked me. A lot. So I guess I kind of freaked."

  Vicky squeezed her hand. "Beca
use having someone like you a lot means..."

  Shelle looked at her, and tears filled her eyes. "It means he's important—because I like him a lot too—liked him, I mean. And that scares me. I don't want to go through that again." Didn't want to—it was all past tense now anyway.

  "Honey," Vicky said, her grasp steady. "Remember the truth. Your dad left because he had an addiction. He didn't choose to abandon you. And your boyfriend—what's his name, Eric? He left you because shit happens. You two fell out of love, if you were ever in love. And he did it in a hurtful way because he was immature, and selfish. Does that mean that will always happen?"

  Shelle sighed, and sniffled. "No. But...Moke's a biker."

  "Hmm. And why is that bad, if he's the kind that just likes to party and ride in his spare time?"

  Shelle shrugged, her gaze falling away. "I just...don't like them."

  "Hmm. But for now, you just have to decide—is the way you feel about him more important than his hobby? Or is that aspect of his life more important than your feelings for him?"

  "Okay. I'll think about it."

  "You do that. And think about this too. You're a beautiful girl with a true heart, a fine mind, and a whole lot to offer a man. Don't you ever settle for a man who doesn't see that, and treat you that way."

  Shelle smiled at her foster mom. "Okay. I will."

  "Good. Now, more pinã colada?"

  Shelle held out her glass, and Vicky poured. Then she smiled, a patient, tolerant smile that sent the hairs standing up on the back of Shelle's neck. Because she knew that smile—it was Vicky's 'tell me what's really bothering you, because I'll never give up until you do' smile.

  "Oh, shit," she mumbled, her shoulders sagging.

  "Yes?" Vicky inquired, tipping her head like a friendly, inquiring bird.

  "Uh...there may be another reason I don't like bikers," Shelle said. "I kind of...had some trouble in SeaTac."

  She told her foster mom the whole story, from finding the wallet, to the bitter end, when she'd bought her plane ticket and fled here to the islands.

  Finally finished, she sat back and slurped the last of her drink. Then she grabbed a handful of macadamia nuts and crunched them, waiting.

  Vicky finished her own drink, and poured them both some more, emptying the pitcher. "Well," she said. "That's quite an adventure, honey. It's...well, it's like one of those suspense novels you know I enjoy." Her lips quirked. "Right down to the hot, protective hero."

  She and Shelle looked at each other and started to laugh. Shelle tipped back her head and let it out. "You're right," she said between gusts of laughter. "My life is so ridiculous right now...it's like a novel."

  "The kind you don't quite believe would ever happen," Vicky wheezed, "But you keep turning those pages to find out what the hell happens."

  They laughed some more.

  Then two of them sat and drank their tropical drinks and enjoyed the view, and each other's company.

  When their glasses were empty, Vicky shooed Shelle off to change into her bikini and enjoy the condo pool, while Vicky fixed their dinner.

  "I don't have a bikini," Shelle said. "Don't even have a swimsuit—mine tore on the rocks."

  Vicky smirked. "You do now. I did a little shopping in Honolulu, when Dave was feeling a bit better. Go look on the bed in your guest room."

  Shelle did so, and found a teeny two-piece, flowered in tropical green-and-white, with a matching pareo. She swiped her blurred eyes and then hurried to change into the suit. It fit just right—thank you Lycra. She tied the pareo on and went out to show Vicky. "Thank you. You even got my favorite color."

  Vicky waggled her brows. "Of course I did. Now off with you, and have a nice paddle. I'll just holler at you from the lanai when it's time to come up. Oh, and beach towels are in the cupboard behind the front door."

  Dave woke up in time to come to the table. The three of them ate salad, rice and shrimp on the lanai as the sun set over the western side of the bay.

  Shelle was feeling very relaxed after her swim and a glass of wine.

  Plus, she was intensely relieved to discover Dave was a nice man, and she loved the way he looked at Vicky, like she was amazing and wonderful all rolled into one. Which she was, of course.

  "Now, here's my idea," Dave said with a smile at his wife. "Shelle, since you're only here for a few more days, and Vicky's been cooped up with me in a hospital, I want the two of you to go out tomorrow and go shopping. Have a nice lunch, and see the sights."

  Vicky raised her brows at him. "We'll see how you're feeling in the morning, then we'll decide."

  Dave winked at Shelle. "Good, then you'll be going."

  Shelle laughed, because they were stinkin’ sweet together.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Alone at Nawea, Moke grabbed a couple of beers and a bag of local potato chips, and took them down on the beach.

  Finally, he was alone. He could be at peace, without the temptation of one ornery, too-hot-for-his-peace-of-mind tita.

  He drank one of the beers, ate some crunchy, salty-sweet chips, and waited to enjoy his solitude.

  Peace did not come.

  It was the letter, he told himself. Burning a hole in his pocket, not letting him relax until he knew what it said. That was all—wasn't because he was missing a fiery wahine.

  He pulled the crumpled envelope from his pocket, ripped it open, and carefully unfolded the letter, which had been written on lined notebook paper. The kind he'd used when he was a keiki to practice his letters and words.

  Fuck him, it was from his mother. Feeling as if he'd been punched in the gut, he read

  Dear Matty,

  By now, guess you figger out I am a bad moma.

  But I never told you why, and I dont kno if your pop will say. He's so mad at me. Just want you to kno, you arnt the reeson I left. Its me.

  Dont kno if you remembr, and I kinda hope you dont - but I hit you. You wer nauty but no more then any keiki. I got so madd I wen knok you down an bus big mark on your face. Hated myself. What kine moma do that?

  But I did it agen when you broke my vase. Coudnt stop even tho I felt so bad ever time. I think somethen is broke in me.

  So wen I met Brudda Herman and he said come live at the church farm, I wen. I will work in gardan ther and pray and not be mean to you no more.

  Your pop promisd to give you dis when you a few yaers bigger. Brudda Herman say forgiv. I hop you can do dat.

  Your moma, Tina Ahuela

  PS I sined the propperty over to you son. Go to Amos Lee the layer, its ther. Lenny knos about it too.

  PS Heres my wedding ring from your pop, not much but its yours.

  Moke sat, staring down at the piece of faded, stained, folded notebook paper.

  So many long years these words had lain, waiting for him to receive them. Pop was supposed to give the letter to him twenty years or more ago. But he hadn't, and so it had been left to Shelle to find it, and deliver it.

  Moke shook his head, a rough sound escaping his throat. Her—why did it have to be her? The woman he'd let in, and then shoved back out—of his mind and his heart.

  Had she seen this? Read it, and smirked at his pathetic family history?

  Wait, of course she hadn't. The envelope had been tattered, stained with years of seeping water or whatever, but it had been sealed. No one had opened it since the day his mother laid it out for his pop to find it and deliver to his son. Which Timo had sure as hell not done.

  Moke re-read the letter. And this time, he allowed his emotions to well up—anger, yes. But along with it, a deep sorrow and poignant regret for the family he'd had and lost. The parents who had brought him into this world, only to realize neither had the desire or aptitude to be real parents. Or, who knows? Maybe if his mother had stayed, Timo might have stayed sober.

  Never know now, that was for sure.

  Lucky for him his Auntie Shirley had stepped up, along with the Ho'omalus. Hadn't been for these people, his life could have gone
in a diametrically opposite direction. Spiraling down into anger and hopelessness. Living from one beer and joint to the next, like Timo.

  And like everyone on this fucking island had assumed Moke would do too. So they'd never given him a chance to show what he could do, if he had someone to believe in him.

  He'd had to believe in himself, had to take his dreams clear over to the mainland, where he made them come true by his damn self.

  Okay, that wasn't strictly true. He'd met Pete and T-Bear, and then Stick and the rest of the Flyers. They'd accepted him into the fold, let him prospect and learn and become one of them. His family, come what may. A loud, crazy-ass, sometimes violent family, but they were all his, and he was theirs

  So he did have family, and a damn good life. Maybe...maybe time to let old hurts go, and get on with it.

  Alone on the quiet beach, he bowed his head. He sent a wordless prayer out to the Hawaiian skies...maybe to God, maybe some to Pele, to help him forgive, and just let it go. To get on with his life. And leave his parents in peace with the choices they'd made.

  And he felt like maybe, some of the old hurt hardened up like cooled a'a lava, and fell away. The silver surf washed up on the beach at his feet, and back out again. In, and out. And slowly, peace filled him, soothing the jagged edges in his chest.

  He opened his second beer and drank. Wishing he had someone here to share the moment with. A sweet, feisty wahine, who would listen to every word, her beautiful, hazel eyes fastened on him. Maybe her hand on his thigh, or even sitting on his lap, her arms around him, her hands in his hair.

  Lying back on the warm sand, he stared up at the shifting palm fronds overhead. At the light glinting between them, blinding him and then receding to cool green. Like the little flecks in her hazel eyes. She was with him, even though she wasn't.

  Under his skin, like a siren of old. One look in those eyes and a voyaging fisherman was caught.