by Cathryn Cade
A kiss from the right wahine, and a man was bound forever.
But this wahine had bonds of her own to fight. Maybe time to learn more about the addiction that bound her.
His ancestors who had voyaged here, had to use what they brought with them, and what they found here to survive. They'd improvised, learned to get themselves out of most any kind of trouble that came along. Maybe he could help a pretty, feisty wahine do the same.
Although she'd probably tell him to shove his help where the sun don't shine, if he offered. Which he might just deserve.
Sighing, he heaved himself to his feet, and headed back up to the house.
He had some reading to do.
As luck, or maybe Pele would have it, Moke had no sooner made his decision to forgive and forget than he was tested.
His phone sounded a bass guitar riff, his generic ringtone.
He looked at the number and snorted. His father.
"Yeah?" he said.
"Matty," a cracked voice said in his ear. "This your, uh, your pop. I hear you been looking for me."
When Moke said nothing, Timo cleared his throat roughly. "Thought maybe...we could meet. Have a beer or two, yeah?"
Moke forced his jaw to open. "Okay. When?"
"How 'bout da Kolohe...say six o'clock?"
"No," Moke said. Some of the things he had to say, could not be said in public. And intent to let go or not, he wasn't sure he could maintain his cool while he said them. "You come down to Nawea. See you at six."
When Timo Ahuelo stepped out of his old, battered pickup truck, Moke suffered a nearly physical blow of shock.
His father looked old for his years.
Much shorter than Moke, he'd gone gray. His skin was deeply weathered, but despite this he looked unhealthy, puffy and slack. The years of drinking had taken their toll. He seemed uneasy in the house, shifting on his feet, gaze darting from Moke to the house and back.
"This place, pretty fancy, yeah?" he said.
Moke shrugged. "We'll go down to the beach, then." He led the way, his shoulders stiff.
Timo noticed the cooler right away, but held back until Moke motioned to it. "Beer?"
"Yeah," his father said, already moving to it. "Don't mind if I do."
They sat, and Moke opened his beer and took a sip, watching his father.
"So," Timo said. "You been up to the place, I hear."
Moke slanted him a hard look. "Yeah. I been there. Cleaned up all the garbage and shit your squatter buddies left, and kicked their asses off da place. Cleaned out the shack, too."
His father scratched his short, silvered hair. "Guess my housekeeping's not the best, eh?"
Moke took another long drink of beer, striving for calm. He didn't find it. Not that he was going to, in a bottle. "Ya think? You let the place go to hell. Weeds, vines everywhere. And garbage everywhere else."
Timo gazed unseeingly out at the sea, holding his beer loosely between his knees. "I know I let the place go... but, I never did it to hurt you boy. Never knew you cared. You always been so tough. Didn't think you cared much about me, or the place, ‘specially now you got your fancy place on da mainland."
Moke snorted. "Fancy place, huh? Pop, it's an auto-repair shop, with two bays and a little office. And I lived in a biker clubhouse for four years, with a communal bathroom and kitchen. Now I got one side of a duplex, my partner and his old lady live on the other side."
He shook his head in disgust. "And only reason I got that is, I worked my ass off to get it. You, you had the property to live on, didn't have to do anything but take care of it...and you let it go to shit. Why? Just to get back at my mother, for leaving?"
Timo took all this in, and then nodded vaguely, his gaze falling away from Moke's. "Glad you doing good, boy. Tell you what, you wanna sell the land...do it. You got my permission."
Moke stared at him. The old man had chosen not to hear his question.
"The fuck?" he demanded. "Old man, I cannot believe you. You give me your permission? I don't need your fucking permission! Mama left the land to me, and you know it. You've known it all these years."
Timo grimaced, his lower lip shoving out like a toddler's. It was not a good look on a sixty-year-old man. "Thought if I held onto the place, you'd come see me sometimes."
"Come see you?" Moke bellowed, erupting from his chair. "I've been here on da island for five—count 'em—five days! And you knew it, and you didn't bother to show your face. So don't talk to me about coming to see you."
Timo shifted in his chair, eyeing the cooler. "Think I'll just have another beer," he mumbled.
Moke dropped his empty bottle in the bucket, before he gave in to the urge to throw it as far and as hard as he could. "Yeah, you have another," he said. "Why don't you take it for the road?"
Timo was silent for a moment. Then he rose, and bent over the cooler. "All right. Better take two, den, yeah?"
He rose, a sheepish smile on his face. For a moment he looked up at Moke. Then he nodded and looked away. "All right, boy. Take care of yourself."
“Wait,” Moke called. “Where you living? You got a place?”
Timo shrugged. “Yeah, be fine, boy. Don’t worry ‘bout me. Living with a nice wahine down Paleo way. Got friends there too.”
Moke nodded, suddenly exhausted. All right then.
Timo walked away, into the dusk. A moment later his old pickup started up, and drove away.
Leaving his son standing on the beach. Steady as a rock on the outside...but on the inside, reeling like a palm in a typhoon.
What had just happened? His father had just walked away, like their family, their shared past was less important to him than a fish that escaped the hook.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Moke yanked off his tee and walked into the water, where he dove under. He swam the length of the little bay, then back again. Again and again, until his arms were leaden and his breathing labored. Then he floated, staring up at the stars winking on in the heavens, brilliant and clear as they were here. And incredibly distant.
He had what he'd come home for, but he felt as if he'd lost much more.
He had the land. But in return, it seemed he must finally give up on an old dream—one he hadn’t realized he’d still harbored deep in his heart—that he could come back, and his dad would be glad to see him, that things could be as good as they used to.
Although, they'd never been that great, he admitted finally. His dad hadn't wanted to be a single parent. He'd shoved Moke off on Auntie Shirley as often as possible, and made sure Moke got to school mostly so Timo could go fishing and not worry about Moke being cared for and fed.
They'd never been close, and that would never change, not in Timo's lifetime.
Moke had come home, but except for old friends, and for his extended family—and for one gorgeous, sexy, ornery wahine, he was alone here.
Maybe this was how Shelle felt all the time. He wished she was here right now, warm and passionate and argumentative. She'd give him hell, and he'd apologize to her for being an asshole, and then bury himself in her sweet depths, and make love to her till neither of them could walk.
They wouldn't be alone, they'd be together.
Except she didn't want him around...or was it him who didn't want her around? Fuck, he couldn't remember anymore.
He just knew he missed her like crazy, like a chunk of him was cold and open. Like only her presence would heal the gaping wound in his heart.
Since Moke did not have his wahine, he comforted himself with the second oldest remedy known to man—he got shit-faced, staggering drunk.
Not trusting himself in the Ho'omalu's home, he spent the night on the beach.
He woke with the morning sun in his eyes, and the surf lapping at his ass. Lifting his head, he let out a heartfelt groan. Oh, fuck, what had crawled into his gut and died?
He spied the empty whiskey bottle lying on the sand before his face, sunlight glaring off the clear glass. Oh, right. This was his own st
upid, lolo fault.
He made it up as far as his hands and knees, but stopped there, groaning again. Whiskey was the devil, the enemy. Never, never again. Not ever.
The cool sea water lapped at his arms and legs. With a mighty effort, he crawled into the water far enough to float. Then he rolled onto his back, closed his eyes and floated. Good enough, till he was sober enough to walk.
It took a while. By the time he traipsed out of the water, the sun was high.
Luckily, clouds were rolling down off the mountain. They muted the sun like a benediction. He sighed with relief. Now, he might survive.
He arrived on the lanai of the big house to the sound of gentle, masculine laughter.
Lifting his heavy head far enough to squint that far, Moke saw Uncle Hilo in the kitchen doorway, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand, his face wreathed in a smile. "Boy, you look like the ocean didn't want you, and spit you back up on da beach."
Moke grimaced. "Sounds about right."
Hilo held out the coffee mug. "Here, this will help. But whew, you betta go up and shower. You smell like da floor up at Kolohe."
Moke took the coffee and slurped it without a word. When the first drink stayed down, he drank some more. Then without a word, he headed through the kitchen, and up the stairs to the shower, leaving Hilo chuckling behind him.
By the time Moke came back down the stairs, he was clean, dressed in fresh shorts and tank, his hair combed back. The smells of bacon, coffee and mango drew him into the kitchen again.
"Fixed you breakfast," Hilo told him, turning from the stove. "You betta be hungry, or I'll have to eat it all."
Moke was hungry. "Mahalo." He took the loaded plate Hilo offered him, and sat at the island.
Hilo sat too, not in Shelle's place, Moke was strangely relieved to see. They ate in silence. Then Hilo refilled their coffee mugs and gestured toward the lanai. "Come on out. Then you can tell me what's lying so heavy on your heart you try to drown it in whiskey."
Seated in the shade of the lanai, a soft breeze rattling the palms and wafting the scent of the plumerias to him, Moke sighed.
First, he told Hilo about his meeting with his father, and the letter from his mother.
“Ahh,” Hilo sighed. “I felt this might be a part of your pain. Sometimes, young Matty, there seems no justice in the way children are apportioned to their ohanas, their families. Just remember this—you are a good man. You have a true heart, a warrior’s soul, and people who love an admire you. Here, and in your new home, yeah?”
The elder man’s words soaked in, healing and warming.
Moke nodded. “A’e. I do.”
Hilo gestured. “Then this shows that the foolish ones who bore you may have wounded you, but they’ve not destroyed your ability to love.” A smile ghosted over his face. “Which I think brings us to the second reason you tried to fit into a bottle.”
Moke groaned, embarrassed as a teen questioned by his father. “Yeah,” he admitted.
If he were in Airway Heights, he would have gone to Stick, or to Rocker, the club VP. But he wasn't there, he was here. And he needed impartial counsel. Hilo would never repeat what he told him. Hawaiians might not live in communal villages anymore, ruled by their chieftain. But if they did, Hilo would have sat in a place of honor.
"Shelle is her name," he told Hilo. "The wahine you healed. She's... a tough tita, a fighter. But she's got a big problem."
Hilo listened, nodding at points, smiling a little at others. "And this bothers you because you like this wahine, yeah?"
Moke sighed again. "Yeah. She's...she makes me feel..." he shrugged, unable to find the words.
Hilo chuckled. "Okay, boy, I know. She makes you feel good, like there's nothing you cannot do if she's by your side."
Startled, Moke opened his mouth to argue this leap...but then blew out a breath. "Yeah. That's it." She really did. Which based on how short a time he’d known her, was lolo. But there it was.
"But how can a wahine make you feel this way if she has such a big fault?" Hilo mused aloud. "I don't know...maybe it's best if you let her go, boy. Walk away, before this problem of hers drags you down with her."
"No!" Moke said. He gave Hilo a look of disgust. "She's not like that. I mean, she's fighting it. Told me she hadn't relapsed for nearly three years. And this time was only because I..." because he'd placed her in temptation's direct path. Not knowing or understanding her need to avoid scenarios like the Kona shopping mall.
He gave Hilo a look of dislike, and the elder shrugged innocently. "Hmm, doesn't sound like you need me to guide you, boy. You know what to do."
"No," Moke said, scowling at the morning scene before them. "I really don't know what the fuck to do."
Hilo chuckled again. "Simple. Go see her, boy. Gaze on her loveliness, hold her and kiss her if you must. But talk to her. Get to know her—and let her get to know you."
He slapped his hands on his knees and rose. "And now, before I start sounding like a character in one of those delightful cartoon movies, I must go. Got a boat shop to run."
Moke rose with him. "Uh...mahalo, uncle." He wasn't sure Hilo's advice was sound, but what the hell, he didn't know what else to do.
"Any time, boy. Bring her out to see me, yeah? Honokohau Harbor can use some more pretty wahine, less trophy fish."
Moke snorted. That was true.
He watched Hilo drive away, and then turned back to the house. He had a lot to get done today. Talk to a Realtor, go see his Auntie Shirley, check in with David about when the family was coming home, and check in with Stick about any progress with finding Albany and the Rattlers.
But first, he was gonna do some reading, everything he could find about kleptomania.
CHAPTER FORTY
The next morning, Vicky wanted to go shopping.
Shelle tried to talk Vicky out of taking her along. Because, what the hell? The woman knew about Shelle's addiction, and that Shelle had relapsed only the week before.
She mentioned this, though more politely. But strangely, her foster mom would not listen to her protests. She merely smiled and exchanged a secretive look with Dave. "You'll be fine," she said. "Now get ready, and we'll go."
For anyone else, Shelle would simply have refused to go. But since it was Vicky, she gave in.
She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Clean white tee and denim cut-offs, check. Flip-flops, check. Makeup, check. Hair pulled back on top, with the rest falling down her back, check. Face pale under her eye-makeup and lip-gloss, like someone who wanted to toss her breakfast, check.
She didn't exactly pout on their short walk into town, but she may have come close. She wondered what Moke was doing. It was a lovely morning, with little puffy clouds sailing in the blue tropical skies, the water was a sheet of azure with white boats cruising at sea, and paddle-boarders and swimmers in the bay. The temperature was perfect, and as they walked past a big, old hotel, a bridal party was gathering on the sea-side lawn, everyone laughing and talking.
Happy, happy, hah. The nearer they got to the shopping center, the more Shelle wanted to hurl.
She stopped dead at the entrance to the shops. "Vicky, I really don't think—" she began.
Vicky looked past her and smiled. "Oh, there you are," she said. "Aloha."
"Aloha," rumbled a deep, familiar voice.
Shelle whirled, her hair belling out behind her, her mouth agape. "What are you doing here?"
Moke stood there, as if she'd conjured him. In his usual tee and shorts, he looked handsome and edible and smug as he grinned down at her. "Going shopping."
In shock, she didn't resist when he took her right hand, threading his fingers through hers. "You...you don't want to go shopping...do you?"
He shrugged. "Yeah, I hear you don't either, so we'll suffer together."
"Ready?" Vicky asked, as if the two of them hadn't spoken.
"Ready," Moke assured her, and walked after her into the open-air mall. And since he'd appropriated her hand,
Shelle had to stumble after him, or apparently, be dragged.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, trying to ignore how good he smelled, and how good his big hand felt holding hers.
He gave her a look that started at her feet, traveled upward, lingered on her lips and then met her eyes, his full of heat and something else—something that made her blush and look away. "I'm your shopping buddy."
"You mean my monitor?" she mumbled. "I don't get you at all."
"No, I'm not your monitor. I'm your buddy," he told her. "You'll figure it out."
"Let's go in here," Vicky chirped, heading into a trendy clothing shop.
"I can't afford this place," Shelle said. But she went, because Moke did, and so she had to, right?
Right, and she could keep telling herself that as often as she wanted. But it was actually fun having the chance to look at all the pretty, summery clothing, and poking through the sale rack of cute tops and shorts. Because with a two-hundred pound male attached to her, there was no way she was getting into trouble. Even if she did get the urge, her dominant hand was taken.
And yes, it was fun holding hands with him. She could not remember the last time she'd held hands with a guy...if ever. Eric? Nah. Come to think of it, the only time he'd initiated physical contact was when he was horny. Which had been okay with her, because she hadn't wanted to hang on him either. Huh.
She fingered a cream flowered top with a plain front, and tiny straps criss-crossing the cut-out back.
"You should get that one," Moke said. "Sexy."
She looked up at him in surprise.
He shrugged. "Don't have to show everything to be sexy. A tease is nice too."
Gah, now she was blushing again. She flipped the price tag out. Huh, the top was on clearance. "Well, I can't try it on with you attached to me," she said.
He pulled it off the rack. "Yeah, you can."
He opened the nearest tiny dressing room, and held the three-quarter length door for her. "I'll hold your purse." He held out the top in one hand, and crooked his fingers with the other.