by J. C. Long
Maka looked himself over. “What are you talking about? I look great.”
“You do. The thing that’s wrong with you is that this is what you wear after work, but you wear Hawaiian shirts to work.”
“Aloha print,” Maka corrected. “You haole just don’t understand Hawai’ian sensibilities. Go inside; get ready. We’re leaving in ten.”
I stepped inside the condo. A sudden flashback swept through me, stopping me in my tracks. Right there, in that very living room, I wrestled with an intruder. The lock on my front door had not done its job. It had allowed a breach of security—a break of my safety and trust. I doubted I could ever sleep soundly with that lock again.
“I’ll get this lock changed,” Maka said, jiggling the offending object. “I’ll have the same security system my apartment has installed. It’s much better than this flimsy piece of shit.”
“You don’t have to do that, really.” I made my way into my bedroom to change clothes.
“I know I don’t need to, but I’m going to. And by that I mean I did already. The team will be by tomorrow to install it.”
“You know, most people ask for permission before they make decisions regarding other people’s property.” I pulled out a pair of dark wash jeans and a teal polo shirt, holding one in either hand and examined them.
“That’s a good color for you,” Maka commented from right over my shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin, wheeling around and skittering back so hard I bumped into the same boxes I fell in the night before. “You really should clean those boxes up. They are like a beacon for cockroaches.”
“Why are you in my bedroom?”
“Because we were talking?”
“Well, want to go out into the living room?”
“Why?”
I held up the clothes in my hands. “I’m about to change.”
Maka held up his hands in a so what? gesture. “Your point?”
“So, my clothes are coming off.”
“I don’t mind.” Maka’s face made it clear that it was not an argument he understood.
In the interest of time, I turned my back on him and undressed, shucking off my shorts and T-shirt and shimmying into the new outfit as quickly as I could. When I turned around, buttoning my pants as I did, I swore I saw a smile on his face.
“Are you ready now? We’ve got a place to be.”
“Where, exactly?” I asked, fixing the collar of my polo.
“It’s a secret, so let’s go.” He left the bedroom and then stopped, glancing back at me once more. “I was right, the teal looks good. Now come on.”
Maka led me out to his car, a blue Ford Fusion, spotless, the sort of look that cars got when they were often washed or tended to by their owners. Maka was a man who kept his car well cared for.
“So, where are we going?” I asked once I was inside and buckled up.
“I told you it’s a secret. I promise you’ll like it, though.” Maka looked like he was really enjoying torturing me, so I decided to stop letting him see that he was getting to me.
“Well, wake me up when we get there,” I said with an exaggerated yawn and stretch. “I’m tired.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and closed my eyes. I told myself I was only imagining the weight of Maka’s gaze. For a moment, the steady hum of the tires on the road, the gentle swaying of the car, the soft freeform jazz radio station that was playing so low in the background I barely noticed all conspired together to make me feel drowsy.
As I drifted in that semihaze of being not asleep but not quite awake, the Ohashi family came back to my mind, and I wondered what case they wanted to bring to Carrie.
Carrie!
I sat up suddenly, remembering. “Maka, can I ask a question?”
“I thought you were sleeping.”
“I’m serious. I told you earlier that I was going to talk with some leads Grace gave me. Well, one of them was an appointment Carrie had before she died, the same day. She apparently left it abruptly, after getting a message on her phone, saying she needed to go back to her office.”
“Okay,” Maka said slowly, waiting for me to explain where I was going with this.
“Well, you checked her phone records, right? You saw her messages with Grace. Do you know what message she might have gotten before she went running back to the office? What could have made her do that?”
Apparently Maka bit his lower lip when he was thinking—his white teeth flashing out, gnawing at the supple flesh had my blood stirring like crazy. It had been a long time since I’d had any fun, but I didn’t realize how bad it was. If this guy—albeit a gorgeous guy—doing something as simple as biting his lip got my motor revving, I was in desperate times.
“The only text messages we read from that day were from the company bank, talking about an automatic bank transfer. Unless she got some messages she deleted.”
“Or her attacker deleted them,” I said, a sinking feeling in my stomach. “Which means that’s another possible clue gone.”
“Or there was no clue to begin with, and she simply forgot something at the office.” Maka didn’t sound like he believed that any more than I did, but I guess he had to play devil’s advocate.
I slumped down in the seat, squinting in the late evening sun. Maka reached across and flipped the passenger-side visor down, blocking the sun from my face. I looked to him, surprised. He’d noticed something as minor as that discomfort and set out to alleviate it. Why did he keep coming to my rescue? I didn’t believe that guys like him existed outside of Shonda Rhimes television shows.
A guy could really fall for Maka Kekoa.
We rode in companionable silence after that. When we’d been driving for nearly forty-five minutes, I turned to Maka. “Where exactly are you taking me, Maka? If you weren’t a police officer, I’d think you were taking me somewhere to kill me.”
He shot me a dazzling grin in reply. “There are worse places to be murdered, right?”
From the way his smile set my heart aflutter, I think I agreed with him.
The road he turned down off the highway went along the coast, and the sunset glistening off the water was exactly the image of Hawaii that I saw on television. For the first time since I arrived, perhaps because I had been viewing it for so long through the haze of Trevor, I thought that this was a truly beautiful place.
It helped that I was riding next to a truly beautiful man.
We came to a stop in a big clearing packed with cars. There was a big wooden sign, lined with flowers, at the far side of the parking lot, with words burned into it. The one word I recognized was lūʻau. I looked at Maka in surprise. “You brought me to a luau?”
“Why are you so surprised? I told you I would.”
“You said ‘soon.’ I didn’t expect that to mean the next day.”
“Do you not want to go in?”
“What? Of course I do! Let’s go.” I unbuckled my seat belt and threw the door open before he could change his mind.
“Excited?” asked Maka with a laugh.
“Yes! Ever since Grace moved here, she would tell me all about the luaus, and I always wanted to come to one. So yes, yes I am excited!”
Together we made our way along a path toward a large copse of trees. There was a big stage and tables sprawling out from it like at a dinner theater. Along the back and side of the table area were long tables laden down with food. Men and women in the outfits like Maka wore in his hula picture walked around the clearing sporting trays of drinks.
“There are a lot of lūʻau places here on the island,” Maka said. “And yeah, a lot of them are really fun. This place, though, this is a private lūʻau—not open to just anyone.”
As he said this, we drew up on another smaller arched trellis gate, this one with two big men dressed in normal clothing standing in front of it, holding clipboards. “Names?”
“Maka Kekoa and plus one.” Maka pointed to his name on the list and the two men stepped back, allowing us through.
I looked at him with a grin as we passed through. “Getting your name on VIP lists, Detective Kekoa?”
“Perks of being me,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “The owner of this place is actually a friend of mine from my surfing days.”
“So, does everyone in Hawaii surf? Is that like a requirement for living here?” I teased.
“Not a requirement,” Maka smiled, “but there are tax incentives.”
We found a small table for two and sat down. Nearly every table was filling up fast. The stage remained empty, but there was a crackle of anticipation in the air, like something was imminent. I glanced at the stage several times, expecting someone to come out on it at any moment.
“Can I get you a drink?” A pretty Islander came to our table, smiling at Maka before looking me over. She had skin that was a similar shade to Maka’s, her hair, long and luxurious, tied into a braid, flowers woven through it. She wasn’t just pretty; she was stunning. “You brought a cute friend this time, I see, Maka. Way better than that grouchy haole you brought last time.”
Maka rolled his eyes, snickering.
“Wait, who was the grouchy haole you brought last time?”
“Benet.” Maka snickered harder, and I joined in. Grouchy definitely described Benet. It was good to know that Grace and I weren’t the only ones who felt that way, too.
“So,” the woman went on, cocking her head to one side, studying me. “Who’s your plus one this time?”
“Leilani. This is my friend Gabe. Gabe, this is my cousin, Leilani.”
“Like…your real cousin?” I asked. Realizing it might have been an offensive question, I added, “I only ask because Grace told me it’s common to call people cousin—or older men and women uncle or auntie.”
Leilani laughed, and I relaxed a bit, deciding she wasn’t offended. “Real cousin. Maka’s father is my mother’s brother. How do you two know each other?”
Leilani’s tone was knowing, something suggestive about the way she emphasized know, and Maka glared at her, though she seemed unfazed by it. That cleared up any questions I might have about whether or not Maka was out to his family.
“He’s my neighbor,” Maka said, a warning in his tone.
Seeing Maka put on the spot was kind of fun, so I decided to keep it going. “We met the day before yesterday. I’m also involved with a crime he’s investigating. Oh, and I stayed at his apartment last night.”
Leilani’s eyes widened, and Maka kicked my shin gently under the table.
“It’s not what you think,” I continued, unable to hold in my smile as Maka tried to tell me to shut up with his eyes, “though he did watch me change.”
“Oh really?” Leilani then said something quickly to Maka in what I assumed was Hawaiian. Judging by the exasperated look on his face, she was continuing the teasing.
“Can we get those drinks now, please?” Maka begged.
I took pity on him and put an end to his torment. “Yes, I’ll definitely have a drink. What do you suggest?”
“Okolehao,” Leilani said immediately.
“No,” Maka said, shaking his head adamantly. “Leilani, no. ‘a’ole, ‘a’ole.”
“What’s okolehao?” I inquired, wondering why it got such a reaction from Maka.
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Maka assured me.
“It’s traditional Hawaiian alcohol,” explained Leilani, ignoring her cousin.
“Is it strong, then?” This I directed at Maka.
“It is here,” he said cautiously. “I think maybe something a little lighter would be better.”
I bristled a bit. “What, you think I can’t handle strong alcohol?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He thinks I can’t handle my drink, huh? Well, I’ll show him. I turned to Leilani. “I’ll have this okolehao thing.”
Leilani grinned triumphantly. “And what about you, cuz?”
Maka shrugged his shoulders. “Fine, okolehao it is.” When Leilani left to see to our drinks, Maka turned to me. “I’m just going to say that I totally reserve the right to say I told you so tomorrow.”
“I can handle my alcohol,” I said defensively, to which he just gave me a you’ll see look. It made me wonder if I’d made a mistake with this stuff. Or was Maka teasing me? I didn’t know him well enough to know what his brand of flirting looked like.
“Leilani seems like a fun girl,” I observed, watching her as she wound through tables, talking to regulars, laughing and touching their shoulders or arms.
“Fun is definitely a good adjective for her,” Maka said, shaking his head. “Sometimes too fun, if I’m honest. Though, that’s my auntie and uncle’s fault. They named her Leilani, and they treat her like it, too. It means ‘lei of heaven’ or ‘royalty,’” he explained when I just looked back at him blankly. “Her parents definitely treat her like royalty, too. She gets whatever she wants, does whatever she wants, and doesn’t ever really see the consequences of her actions.” Based on his tone of voice, though, I guessed that Maka was just as guilty of indulging her; there was no judgment or reproach there, just a simple statement of fact.
“‘Lei of heaven,’ huh?” I turned back to Maka, intrigued by this new topic to explore. “What does your name mean?” Did my eyes deceive me, or did Maka actually look embarrassed by my question? It couldn’t possibly be that bad, could it? “Come on, what does it mean?”
“Nothing,” he replied evasively.
“Okay, that’s fine.” I leaned back in my chair nonchalantly. “I guess I can just ask Leilani when she comes back.”
Maka narrowed his eyes at me. “You don’t play fair, you know that?”
“I know,” I said with triumphant glee. “So you’re going to tell me?”
“Fine. My name means ‘favorite one.’ I was the second born, but my father really wanted a son, so that’s the name he chose.”
“What’s your sister’s name?” I asked. The expression on his face caught me by surprise. He looked away from me, down at his hands on the table. “I’m sorry, if I…” I trailed off as Leilani returned to our table, carrying what looked like two mason jars full of water. As soon as she placed the jar in front of me, though, I knew it was not water.
“Wow,” I said, the fumes of the alcohol making my eyes tear up. Nope, definitely not water.
Maka raised his jar up, his eyes daring me. “Huli pau!”
Full of regrets, I lifted by glass and clinked it against Maka’s, resigning myself to my fate. “Huli pau.” My stomach knotted in violent anticipation of the torture to come, but I wasn’t going to turn around and embarrass myself now by chickening out. This was my fault, and I’d suffer the consequences like a man. At least on the outside. On the inside, though, I’d cry like a baby.
As my first drink of okolehao burned its path down my throat and into my stomach, the only thing I could think was that I could feel it there, inside me. Most drinks, you swallow them, they go down, and then you forget about them. Not this thing, though.
“This tastes like rubbing alcohol,” I hissed, shuddering and reaching for a glass of water, which only helped a little bit.
“It’s moonshine,” Maka said, drinking from his as if it were actually water.
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously at him. “What are you drinking?”
“The same thing you are.” Maka held his glass out for me to sniff, and I turned my head aside. “Leilani, why don’t you bring us a pitcher of pineapple juice and two glasses?”
“Are we quitting?” I couldn’t hide the hopefulness that crept into my voice.
“No, just trust me.”
Leilani returned with the pineapple juice and glasses and Maka proceeded to pour the glasses two thirds full of pineapple juice and then added a third of the okolehao. “Okay,” he said, shaking the glass to stir the concoction before passing it to me. “Try it now.”
I sniffed tentatively at it. The pineapple juice certainly reduced the nose-hair burning smell of it. As for the tas
te, well nothing for that but to drink. I took a sip and then a bigger drink. “Oh! Wow, that’s actually much better!”
The sun was basically gone now, and tiki torches had been lit along the perimeter and at various stages throughout the spread of tables. An MC, a large Islander man with a booming voice in no need of a microphone, came onto the stage and made an opening speech, but by that point, I was already viewing the world through the vapor haze of okolehao. I didn’t realize it right away, and when I did I was surprised. How had it crept up on me so stealthily?
I eyed the mason jar. I’d have to tread carefully with this stuff.
After the speech, a roar of applause and cheers went up from the spectators, drawing my attention back to the stage as three men, bodies muscled and oiled, stepped out onto the stage, carrying something in their hands.
“I see your attention has returned,” Maka said, mock-scathingly. “Though I definitely can’t blame you.”
“What are they about to do?” I asked.
“Just watch and see.”
“But what are they—whoa!” A flash of fire on the stage interrupted me, as the three men, in unison, stuck whatever they were carrying into a torch near them, lighting the ends on fire. Drums began to play, a driving, rhythmic tone that spoke of history and ritual and the heartbeat of the planet. And the men danced.
It was powerful and enchanting, the fire leaving burning streaks in the air in its wake as they twirled and danced and moved their bodies. I couldn’t look away; it was like their dance cast a spell over me—and not just me, I realized, but the whole crowd. A hush had fallen as conversations died down, every ounce of attention focused on the three men on stage.
When it ended, we in the audience let out collective breaths that I doubted anyone realized they’d been holding.
“They were fire dancers,” Maka explained to me when the applause died down. His voice carried a tone of awe that surprised me a little. He’d probably seen that sort of thing a hundred times over in his life.
“They were awesome.” I fumbled with the pitcher of pineapple juice, sloshing some on the table, and Maka took the pitcher from me.