A is for Alpha

by Kate Aster

  It was different when I wore the Ranger scroll on my uniform.

  Now, only able to hear the roar of Hawai‘i’s surf with one ear instead of the two that God gave me, I’ve been relegated to the life of a bartender who doubles as a bouncer when tourists have too many mai tais and get handsy with our waitresses.

  I glance at my watch. In a few short hours, I’ll also be the half-deaf bartender with a kid under my wing.

  Yep, my sex life is about to come to a screeching halt.

  “I’ve already got her signed up with a preschool in Waimea,” I remind them. “And I might have found a babysitter for the nights when I have to work.”

  I checked out that babysitter I’d met in the parking lot the other day with a friend of mine who bartends at the Queen Ka‘ahumanu Resort and Spa. Annie’s the real thing, he told me after poking his head into their keiki care yesterday to see if she was legit. The Queen K is pretty particular about who they hire to take care of their guests’ kids, so I’m feeling like I hit the jackpot that day I nearly tripped over her in my parking lot.

  I’ve got a preschool, a babysitter, and a cabinet full of boxes of mac-and-cheese. I’m ready for this.

  “I’m not changing any damn diapers,” Fen growls.

  “She’s out of diapers, dickhead,” I say. Then, that looming trace of doubt enters my consciousness, as it has a lot this past week. Shit, is she? How would I even know? I slide a sideward glance at Dodger. He’s a doctor. He’d know. But he’s unreadable, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to actually utter the question and give him the satisfaction of seeing just how little I know about kids.

  Even though that’s probably abundantly apparent by now.

  I scheduled a few days off work at the bar so that I can be on hand 24/7 for her to help her settle in. It’s not like I can’t afford a little time off; advertising’s been up thirty-five percent this past year on the website I built a few years ago. And if I didn’t enjoy the hell out of bartending, I could give it up.

  It might be fun to show Stella the island I now call home. I would have loved exploring this place when I was her age, maybe hiking out to the petroglyphs or swimming in one of the protected bays where it’s not uncommon to come face-to-face with a dolphin or sea turtle. I even bought her a pint-sized Portable Flotation Device to keep her safe—the Coast Guard-approved kind that all the good parents get their kids. Lancaster said she’s a pretty good swimmer, but I’m not taking any chances. It’s a big fucking ocean.

  My plan is in place, complete with contingency plans, just like when I was back in the Rangers putting together a mission. And by the time I’m ready to get back to work next week, her mind will be filled with this island, not fretting about where her daddy is or what he’s doing.

  Truth is, I’d like to feel sorry for myself.

  But it’s kind of hard to when I think about Stella. She’s a little kid and she’s getting shipped off to someone she likely doesn’t even remember. Last time I saw her, she was barely talking, calling me “Unca Cam” even though by now she’s probably been told that I’m not a blood brother to her dad. Just an honorary one because we both once wore the Ranger scroll.

  And I know that my real brothers will come around when they meet her.

  “Where are you planning on hanging that thing?” Fen eyes the sparkly wall decal that I’m attempting to flatten out on our floor.

  “In my room.” I plan to give Stella my bedroom, and I’ll be sleeping on the couch. Dodger has a small office with a daybed just off the living room and I could have asked to take that over for a while. But I have my pride. “She’ll have plenty of room in there to play so that you’re not the slightest bit inconvenienced while her dad is off fighting for your freedom.”

  Dodger angles a glare my way. “We all did our time in the Army, Cam. Don’t play the guilt card.”

  Fen shrugs. “He can play it all he wants. I don’t feel guilty. I’m not the one who signed on for the Family Care Plan. Besides, you should feel guilty for doing it without checking with us first.”

  “It was years ago. We didn’t live together back when I signed it. Hell, I never thought I’d need to actually take her. Neither did Lancaster.”

  Crossing his arms, Dodger frowns. “Put it in my office,” he mutters.

  “What?” I ask.

  “That—” He waves his hand in the direction of the floor. “—godawful castle decal. Put it in my office. She can have my office as her bedroom. The daybed is the perfect size for a kid and my office has a nice view of the ocean. Besides, your room has a private lanai. Not good for a four-year-old.”

  I stare at my brother in disbelief. This is not the same guy who hung me by a wedgie from the doorknob back in middle school. “Thanks, man.”

  “Don’t thank me. I just don’t want to start every day seeing your ass sprawled out on the couch,” he grumbles, turning on his heel and disappearing into his office.

  Still mildly stunned by the charitable outburst, I glance at Fen.

  “Don’t look at me,” he snaps. “I’m not giving you any concessions. This place is still one-third mine. I will belch, curse, and whore to my heart’s content so long as I reside here. And I’ll do it—” He scoots over slightly. “—from my third of this leather couch.”

  I don’t bother arguing with him because, despite occasional belching and cursing, I’ve never seen him whore around in his life. In fact, his taste in women is far more refined than mine has ever been.

  After flattening out the decal for a while, I retreat to Dodger’s office to affix it to the wall above the daybed. It’s a hefty bed, crafted from locally-harvested koa wood by a carpenter in Kukuihaele. We got it for any visitors who might want to come from the mainland, and I don’t think any of us pictured we’d ever have a preschooler sleeping in it.

  My brothers slip away without a word later that afternoon. Dodger started an urgent care facility up the road with another M.D. He does a hell of a business there, and now that they’ve hired a couple nurse practitioners to help, he can pretty much set his own schedule.

  Fen is likely doing the evening shift at the helicopter company where he works. He loves his job and I can’t blame him. He’s got a hell of an island he gets to show off.

  I knew they’d be gone when Stella’s plane touched down, but I can’t help wishing they’d join me tonight when I go to the airport to pick her up. It would be good for Lancaster to see that I’ve got their support.

  Except that I don’t.

  When the alarm on my iPhone chimes, I take one last long look at our bachelor pad as I stand in the doorway. Between the three of us, we keep it in pretty good shape for a trio of brothers who were reluctant to load the dishwasher when we were younger. Shutting the door behind me, my stomach stays in knots as I head to the airport.

  Parking is pretty easy at Kona International Airport—a far cry from the big airports on the mainland. It’s open-air, so as I stand opposite the security gates waiting for their plane to touch down, I can still feel the ocean breeze against my face. The sound of jet engines and the screech of wheels touching down is followed by a scurry of activity as the personnel prepare for the arrival of another flock of tourists.

  I can’t see Lancaster and Stella disembark the plane from where I stand. But I know that as they exit, they’ll hear about a dozen alohas from airport workers. It’s the custom here—that immediate welcome—and one I’ve valued since the first time I arrived here for training at Pohakuloa.

  For residents like me, that immediate aloha is also a reminder to tourists—one that says, “Hey, you’re on the island now. We don’t honk our horns. We don’t look at our watches. Relax already, or go the hell home.”

  From the other side of security, I spot her—eyes wide, two ponytails sticking out from the sides of her head, and a stature about a foot shorter than I’d pictured, clueless as I am about kids.

  She clings to the hand of her father, and only then do I dare look at him—Lancaster, looking li
ke only a shadow of a man right now. Lancaster, the guy who saved my ass in the Rangers too many times to count. The guy who can tear down an M4 in twenty-three seconds, and take down a hostile with his hands tied behind his back.

  The guy who right now looks like his heart’s just been yanked out of his chest.

  Looking at him, any self-pity evaporates from me, and all I can feel is sympathy.

  Chapter 4

  ~ ANNIE ~

  “I’ll give you five hundred dollars if you drop whatever you’re doing and come to my place right now.”

  At the sound of the voice on the other end of my phone, my chin tucks in toward my chest as I stride across the parking lot of the Queen K Resort. I hadn’t recognized the number when I picked up the call, but took it anyway, hoping it might be from someone who had seen my fliers.

  “What?” I ask, certain it must be a wrong number. After showing up for work at six in the morning, I’ve just clocked out from a much-needed eight-hour weekend shift at their keiki care and all I want to do is go home and soak my feet in the sorry-looking thing my landlord calls a bathtub.

  I’d hang up—I don’t have the energy to deal with a prank call or maybe some bullshit telemarketer who’s about to attempt to sell me a time share. But the words five hundred dollars sound pretty good to a girl with ramen noodles waiting for her for dinner… again. So I decide to give this person fifteen seconds of my time.

  “Who is this?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s Cam Sheridan, the guy you met in my condo’s parking lot a few days ago.”

  My heart does a flip-flop, the kind a goldfish does when it’s out of water. “I remember you.” I try to say it casually so he won’t suspect that he’s been joining me in bed every night the past week in my fantasies.

  “Yeah. Remember that kid I told you about? The one I’m taking on for a few months or so? Well, she showed up yesterday and things aren’t going well over here.”

  Of course, I remember his story. How many men would take on someone else’s kid while their friend deploys? “How is it not going well exactly?”

  “She came in late yesterday. Her dad spent the night just to see that she got settled in. But he left this morning, and now she won’t even come out of her room.”

  “Poor thing.”

  “Oh, I’ll be okay,” he answers, oblivious. “It’s just a shock for me, you know? I don’t really know anything about kids.”

  “I meant poor her.” Men can be so clueless sometimes. Even the hot ones.

  Correction. Especially the hot ones.

  “Oh.” He pauses awkwardly. “Of course.”

  “She’s probably scared and overwhelmed.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I figured. And I was ready for a lot of crying, you know? I really was. I dated a drama major once—”

  I suppress my snort because he’s saying it dead seriously.

  “—but the silent treatment is scary. I mean, it’s like she’s a teenager and freezing me out, you know?” His voice is hushed. “I meant every word I said. I’ll pay you five hundred dollars cash if you’ll drop whatever you’re doing and come here right now.”

  Picking my jaw up off the ground, I say, “That’s a little more than I usually charge, for the record.” I feel morally bound to point it out.

  “Consider it a big tip. If I don’t get help, my next call is to a child psychiatrist and the bill will be a lot higher, I’m sure.”

  If he was living anyplace but in a luxury waterfront condo community, I’d say he was bullshitting me. But I think this guy is serious.

  Five hundred dollars?

  I’d have dropped everything for free—the poor girl needs all the support she can get—but I can’t deny the extra money will certainly make this month’s rent a lot easier. “Okay, then. I’ll be right there.”

  He gives me his unit number as I get into my car.

  When I hang up the phone, I can’t resist tapping in a text to my friend back on the mainland. “Are you sitting down?”

  Exactly three seconds goes by before Samantha texts me back. “Lying down. It’s late here. U woke me, bitch.”

  “Sorry, Sam.” I’d tell her to turn her phone off at night like everyone else does, but I’m too excited to state the obvious. “Remember Hot Guy from the parking lot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just got a call from him. Needs a babysitter NOW and paying $500!” I add about six or seven smiling emojis.

  “Holy shit. U sure he’s not expecting a blowjob?”

  Even though it was meant as a joke, I can’t help the way worry festers in my gut, considering my history. But I’ve got pepper spray in my purse and my need for some cash forces me to throw caution to the wind. I respond only with a meme, one with a guy’s eyes rolling upward.

  After a few more quick texts, including one with his address and unit number just in case he’s a lunatic and I go missing at the end of the night, I stop by the grocery store with the full intention of wowing him with my kid skills in this last-minute job.

  I pile some baking supplies into my cart, including plenty of chocolate chips, and load them into my car.

  Chocolate chip cookies. There isn’t a kid alive who can’t be smoked out of their room by the scent of homemade cookies.

  Barely a half hour later, the sight of my sad, used hatchback that I bought for a song raises eyebrows as it sputters up to the security gate of his lush, resort-style community.

  “Hi. I’m here for Unit 210. I’m the babysitter.” I’d bet my last paycheck the guy at the gate is the same guy who tried to flush me out of their parking lot. I can’t quite tell because everyone looks the same when you’re ducking behind a car like a felon on the loose.

  With that trademark aloha smile, he nods and hands me a visitor’s pass to hang on my mirror.

  I peer through my windshield discerning the numbers on the two-story condos along the coast. With my window open, the scent of plumeria flowers wafts into my car. When I was a live-in nanny for the Shimozatos, they took me to a luau for my birthday. I always remember the intoxicating scent of the plumeria lei that the hostess draped around my neck when we arrived that evening.

  As the same scent wafts into my car now, I can’t help shutting my eyes for a moment, letting it fill my lungs before I roll up my windows. There’s something enchanting about this island, making me almost feel as though I could click my heels right now and be transported back in time to that birthday luau, and erase everything that happened since then.

  If I could just start over.

  But reality is stronger than even the magic of this island, so I open my eyes and roll up my windows. Because in my reality, five hundred dollars will go a long way.

  When I rap on the door of Unit 210, the man who greets me only distantly resembles the hot, confident guy I met in the parking lot several days ago. Sure, the sight of his biceps as the peek out from the sleeves of his t-shirt still liquefies my insides.

  But the look on his face is sheer panic.

  “Thank God, you’re here.” The words rush from him. “I wish I had babysat when I was a kid rather than mowed lawns. Then maybe I’d know something about how to lure her out of her room.”

  He mowed lawns? The statement causes my brow to furrow as I pull off my sandals—a strict custom here in Hawai‘i when entering someone’s home—and leave them alongside his doormat. My assumption based on his address was that he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. But that doesn’t mesh up with a kid who mowed lawns in his childhood.

  He ushers me in.

  The soles of my feet step onto the cool imported tile, the kind you see in foyers on those interior design shows. Dark inlayed koa wood trims walls richly painted in a warm cream, and niches display Hawaiian art. At the wall opposite the door, a subtle pineapple mosaic greets visitors with Hawaiian hospitality.

  Damn. I should have mowed lawns as a kid.

  “Where is she?” I ask.

  My eyes can’t help being drawn toward the oc
ean view as we walk into the home. My mouth gapes—I can feel it—and I slam it shut. I’m here to take care of a kid, not drink a margarita on that lanai even though I’d sell a kidney to do that right now.

  He walks me into a small room off the main living space. An explosion of pink greets me, a stark contrast to the Hawaiian décor of the rest of the place. Underneath a pink castle decal, a little girl is curled up on a daybed topped with a soft pink duvet and several pink throw pillows, her arms wrapped tightly around a pink-maned unicorn.

  “Hi,” I say softly.

  “Stella, this is my friend…”

  “Annie,” I finish for him, since he seems to be struggling.

  “I like your unicorn,” I tell her. No response. The little girl’s lower lip juts out even more, deepening her pout. “Does he have a name?”

  “She,” she corrects.

  “Of course. With a pink mane, I should have guessed that.” I pause. “I bet I can guess her name.”

  Her eyes finally meet mine, sparking with challenge.

  “Pinky,” I offer, always starting with the obvious.

  Her head shakes slightly.

  “Sparkles,” I say. “Because her tails sparkles.”

  She shakes her head again.

  “Am I close?”

  She only shrugs in response.

  “How about Star?”

  Her eyes widen. “It’s Starlight,” she tells me. “How did you get so close?”

  My mouth curves upward. “Because your name, Stella, means Star.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I just know.” I beam, grateful the Latin I took in high school finally paid off. I dare to sit on the side of her bed. “I was going to make some chocolate chip cookies. Want to help?”

  She shakes her head no, just like I was expecting.

  “Well, how about I leave your door open and you can come join me when you want?”

  I leave her in her room, knowing that in ten minutes, she’ll be out of there. No heartache can’t be cured by a plate of homemade cookies.