Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
A few minutes later, I’m sitting with a Diet Coke across the table from Kimo, who sips at his beer. “I don’t usually drink so early in the morning, but going to meetings and getting dressed up makes me nervous,” he informs me.
I eye him skeptically. He’s hardly dressed up, compared to literally anyone else in corporate America, but from what I’ve seen of his wardrobe so far, I guess a button-up shirt, dress pants, and shoes that actually cover his feet does constitute a considerably more polished look. Although he’s already changed out of said shoes into a pair of, you guessed it, flip-flops. And as I look on, he shucks off his dress shirt, revealing a plain white T-shirt underneath. I have a feeling he’d do the same thing with his pants if I weren’t sitting here. The only other person in this ax-throwing club at eleven on a weekday morning is the guy behind the empty bar, who’s shamelessly scrolling on his phone, so I doubt he’d care very much.
“You sure you don’t want to split some chili cheese fries?” Kimo asks. “They have this really good nacho cheese dipping sauce.”
“There is literally nothing enticing to me about anything you just said,” I return briskly, folding my arms and settling back in my chair so I’m at the best angle to glare at him. “And enough stalling. Tell me why you paid off my loans.”
Kimo laughs under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a real ballbuster?”
“Yes. You. In front of my boss, as a matter of fact.” I haven’t forgotten, even if he has. I forget nothing. “Now talk.”
Another sigh from Kimo. He wraps his hands around his sweating beer glass, considering. “It’s probably gonna sound dumb to you. Everyone always thinks coming into a bunch of money would be the best thing ever. Hell, I used to think that. But, I don’t know. Even though there was nothing illegal about the way I got the money, it doesn’t feel like it’s mine, you know? It was starting to feel bad for my soul to keep it. So I’ve been trying to give it all away to good causes.”
I frown at him, but now it’s my processing frown, instead of my stern frown. “That doesn’t sound so hard. There are plenty of people who need money.”
Kimo slaps his palm down on the table. “That’s what I thought! And believe me, I’ve given away a lot of it already. And I put aside trust funds for my niece and nephew—not too much; I don’t want it to change them, make them feel entitled. Just enough so they can get through some of the early hurdles in life and be able to take some chances, go after their dreams. I paid off my māmā’s mortgage, stuff like that. But...people get weird when you suddenly come into a lot of money. You have people—old friends, distant relatives, organizations, financial advisors—all coming out of the woodwork, trying to get a piece of you, trying to convince you they deserve it more than anyone else. It gets a bit overwhelming. I like to do my research, you know? Make sure the money’s going where it’s supposed to, and not going to the greedy bastards I was trying to take the money from in the first place.”
Still processing, I take a long sip of my Diet Coke. That all sounds...reasonable so far. Not quite relatable, since I would never feel guilty about having enough money to cruise through the rest of my life, but I suppose I can see where he’s coming from. “How much money are we talking?”
“When I started, or now?”
Another sip as I consider. “Now.”
“Three hundred million, give or take.”
I choke. Luckily it’s only liquid and not a chili fry going down the wrong pipe, but still, I pound at my chest until I can breathe again. Three hundred million dollars? No wonder a few hundred thousand dollars in student loans didn’t give him any pause. The amount of money he’s talking about is...staggering. Life-changing.
Kimo winces at my reaction. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Believe me, I know. It’s kind of a lot of money.”
Kind of a lot of money. Right. And Taylor Swift is kind of famous. John Stamos is kind of handsome. Thank you very much, Captain Understatement.
But, if he’s being careful with the money, and trying to vet where it’s going, I can see why it might be hard to get rid of three hundred million dollars. Although...
“You didn’t vet me,” I accuse him. “You said you like to do your research, but you only met me once.”
Kimo laughs, shaking his head. “I only had to meet you once to know you’re the real deal. Totally and unapologetically yourself, no bullshit, freakishly honest.”
I bristle instinctively, but he’s smiling at me so guilelessly, I feel like there must be a compliment in there somewhere. “Thank you?”
“Believe me, it’s a good thing. I meet so many people who just want to kiss my ass. Meeting you was...high tide.”
The fond look he’s giving me makes me feel weirdly squirmy inside. Not in a sexy way. But in a I feel like my teacher just praised my writing and read my poem out loud to the entire class kind of way—embarrassing but also flattering. I’m assuming that’s how it would feel, anyway. I’d never do anything as dorky as write poetry.
I clear my throat, keen to move on. “How did you know I had student loans?”
“You mentioned having to pay off your loans, which is why you couldn’t call a plumber.”
I feel that little furrow between my eyebrows puckering into a frown again. “But how did you find my loans to pay them off? A random stranger shouldn’t be able to access my account, even to make a payment.”
“That’s adorable that you think I couldn’t break into your account.” Kimo winks at me. “Happy birthday, by the way. Why are you spending it following me around?”
It takes me a minute to catch up. He would have seen my date of birth if he accessed my accounts, hence, the birthday wish. As to the other part...I shrug, not wanting to get into it. “I thought I was going to be at work all day so I didn’t make any plans.”
“Only now you’re not stuck at work, because of me!” Kimo raises a hand to high-five me. “You’re welcome!”
I leave him hanging. That’s right, I’m a stone-cold bitch. “I’m pretty sure you got me kicked off the case, actually.”
Kimo has the good grace to look chagrined. “Ooh. Sorry.” He lowers his hand. “I’m sure I could put in a good word with Jay, get you back on the team. Especially considering the terrible tragedy with your dog this morning.” He quirks a smile at me. “You’re a pretty bad liar, you know that?”
Despite myself, I have to roll my lips to keep from smiling back. “Who says I was lying? Maybe I really loved...” I think quickly, saying the first dog name that comes to mind. “Comet. Maybe I’m devastated.”
Kimo raises an eyebrow at me, not quite buying it, but not contradicting me, either. “In that case, I think we better do something to get your mind off him. Celebrate your birthday, all that.”
“You can’t simultaneously mourn the loss of your dog and celebrate your birthday with one activity,” I inform him practically.
“In a normal dog death, sure. But with him being creamed by an ice-cream truck and trampled in a parade, we’re playing by some unusual rules.”
I can’t help it. I smile. I quickly take a sip of my Diet Coke to cover it up, but I can tell by the pleased grin on Kimo’s face that he’s caught me. He stands, motioning for me to follow. “Come on. Let’s throw some axes.”
The hint of a smile quickly fades from my face. “What?”
“Come on,” he urges me again. “It’s gonna be fun...”
* * *
The lone employee gets us set up at one of the booths. There are nets on both sides, presumably to keep the axes from flying off, and at the far end is a wooden target for us to aim at. Our booth comes with one big ax and one tomahawk, both hanging up by the entrance. The employee offers to show us the basics, but Kimo quickly waves him off. “I got this, brother. Thanks.” He takes another quick sip of his beer, then sets it on a table by the booth’s entrance before getting into position. “All right, the basics are this—feet about shoulder width apart. You right- or left-handed?”
“Right,” I inform him, trying to mimic what he’s doing with my stance. Okay, so I wasn’t exactly thrilled about the idea of throwing axes, but if I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it right .
“Cool. So, you’re gonna pull your arms back behind your head, so you can almost reach your shoulder blades. Then step forward with your right foot and let the left kind of spring up behind to keep that momentum going forward as you bring your arms up. Release when you’re about here. Keep your eye on the target and just sort of let the ax loose when it feels right.”
He shows me the motion, and I do my best to mimic it, but I don’t like how imprecise his directions are. Kind of spring forward? Release about here? When it feels right? How am I supposed to make any kind of sense of that? “What angle should my arms be at when I release? Seventy-five degrees, or more like twenty-five degrees?”
Kimo scratches the underside of his jaw. “Angle? I don’t know. It’s not an exact science, or anything. It’s more about the feeling. Listen to your body.”
My skepticism must show on my face because he laughs. “Just watch...”
He picks up the big ax with his right hand, using his left to pick up his beer. This time he doesn’t set the beer down, just holds it in his free hand. “So you bring the arm back, then swing it forward. Use your legs for momentum. See, how I’m kind of springing forward? Then when it feels right?—”
The whole time he’s talking me through it, he’s slowly making the motion as he’s describing it, bringing the ax back then forward, back then forward. He pauses to take another sip of beer before abruptly swinging the ax back and launching it forward. It tumbles through the air before thwacking right into the center of the bullseye.
Kimo grins at me, proud as a peacock, no false humility on this one. “See? Easy.”
I take a moment to process what I saw. On the one hand, I am nowhere closer to understanding how I’m possibly meant to mimic what he’s doing. Despite his instructions on how to throw properly, his posture is loose, he’s using only one arm, and I saw no springboarding off the left foot! Furthermore, his eyes were on mine the entire time, not the target. I’m frustrated at the seemingly impossible task he’s set for me.
On the other hand...I’d be lying if I said that demonstration wasn’t hot. Extremely hot, for reasons I don’t totally understand. I have never been someone impressed by athletic prowess, and I certainly have never been drawn to the laid-back surfer type who sits around day drinking and singing “Hakuna Matata,” or whatever. But the combination of him tossing that ax one-handed, sipping a beer, not even looking at where he was throwing, and managing to hit the target...
New fetish, officially unlocked.
I clear my throat, turning away to sip my Diet Coke. When I look back, the cheeky smile on Kimo’s face lets me know that he’s on to me. He knows I liked what I just saw, and he’s not going to pretend otherwise just to make me comfortable. Humble, he is not, but I actually kind of appreciate that. As previously mentioned, false modesty has never been my thing.
But two can play this game. “Kind of warm in here,” I say, shrugging off my blazer. Underneath I’m wearing a silky camisole that shows off a whole hell of a lot more skin, including my toned shoulders and arms. I also happen to know my breasts look spectacular in it.
Kimo’s eyebrows rise. He’s the one to clear his throat now, taking a sip of his beer. “Ready to try?”
I meet his gaze square on, holding it. “I like a challenge.”
His lips quirk up in a smile, before he motions to the small tomahawk, still hanging on the wall. “You might want to start with the little guy, just while you’re still learning the motions?—”
I shut that idea down immediately, moving forward to retrieve the big ax from the target. My competitive streak won’t allow me to practice with the girly ax, even if I am a beginner and have zero idea what I’m doing. “I’m more of a big ax kind of girl,” I tell him over my shoulder.
As soon as the ax is actually in my hands, however, I immediately begin to rethink that position. It’s much heavier than I thought it would be. I can see why he suggested using both arms. But even if I do so, I’m probably still going to look a little ridiculous trying to throw this thing around like it weighs nothing.
I bet Kimo could throw you around like you weigh nothing , a naughty, unhelpful little voice in my head chimes in.
I push away the visual of that, determined not to embarrass myself. Actually, if I’m being honest, I’m determined to do more than just not embarrass myself. I’ve never had any desire to throw an ax before, but now that the challenge has been presented to me, I’m resolved to be the best person at throwing axes that has ever lived in the history of mankind. It’s not a conscious choice, it’s just how my brain works. When I do something, I have to be the best at it, or what’s the point?
Kimo just chuckles behind me. “You like big axes, huh? I’ll keep that in mind.”
Oh, so that’s what we’re doing now? I feel my body instantly respond to that low rumble of a laugh, him standing just off to the side and behind me—not touching me, but close enough that I can feel the heat of his body. “I know my way around a big piece of wood,” I tell him matter-of-factly, before swinging the ax back and springing it forward, letting it fly loose.
My innuendo doesn’t land all that well, though, considering that the ax thuds dull-side against the target and ricochets into one of the nets before dropping onto the floor.
This time there’s nothing naughty or sexy about Kimo’s chuckle. He’s just laughing at me, at my complete ineptitude. Embarrassment floods through me—no, not quite embarrassment, more like anger. Anger at myself for doing so badly, and anger at him for witnessing it.
“It was my first try,” I protest as I clomp forward to retrieve the ax. I will not switch to the tomahawk, so help me God. And if Kimo even suggests it, he just might become my next target practice. “And you didn’t exactly give me clear instructions.”
“Might help to have some beer,” he suggests. “Relax a little.”
“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning,” I snap back.
When I turn around, Kimo has set down his beer and he looks contrite, both hands up in a gesture of peace. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. Come here.”
Brave man, to invite me into his personal space when I’m irritable and holding an ax. I frown at him, but he motions me closer. “Come on. I’ll help you, I promise. I’ve been doing this for such a long time, it feels like instinct, so it’s hard to explain how I’m doing what I’m doing, you know? Maybe I can show you instead.”
That’s right—it’s his fault, not mine. I let him position me in front of the target. His hands press down gently on my shoulders, trying to get me to lower them. “Try to relax. This should be fun. It’s not a competition.”
Everything’s a competition , I want to snap back, but for once, I manage to bite my tongue. His hands are big and warm on my skin, and his body presses in close to mine. I feel simultaneously soothed and alert, the tension draining out of me as a new kind of awareness awakens. One of his hands slides down to touch my hip bone, the other one still on my shoulder, as he maneuvers my body to where he wants it. “Like that. Feel how your balance moves to your center?”
Oh, I’m feeling something in my center, all right. “Yes,” I agree, not wanting him to stop whatever he’s doing.
He takes hold of my wrists, his arms pressed in over mine as he pulls them back, up, and over my head. I’m gripping the ax, so I’m trying to be mindful of where he’s standing behind me, but I’m also aware of him behind me, the front of his body pressed into the back of mine, moving and flexing against me. “As you pull back, try not to just let your arms do all the work. Everything is connected. When you move here, you should be moving here”—he pushes into my back—“and here.” He nudges the back of my leg with his knee. “It’s all one motion.”
He guides me through the movement a few more times, back and forth, back and forth. I’m sure there’s something I should be learning, but it’s hard to stay focused with him controlling my body like some kind of sexy puppeteer. (Another new fetish, unlocked?) I’m lost in the sensation of his big body coaxing mine to do what he wants. When I feel his warm breath at my ear, a shiver runs through me that I’m sure he must feel. “Ready?”
“R-ready,” I manage to stammer.
This time when Kimo encourages me to swing my arms forward, I’m doing it on my own, though the rest of his body continues to urge on the rest of mine. I release when it feels right, and the ax arcs through the air, thunking satisfactorily into the target. Bullseye.
I shriek, gleefully spinning around to embrace him excitedly. “I did it! I’m amazing!”
Kimo chuckles. “Attagirl. I knew you had it in you.”
It isn’t until his arms come up around me that I fully register what I’m doing—I’m hugging him. As a rule, I’m not much of a hugger. I don’t like having people in my personal space (with the obvious exception of sex). Bodies are smelly and awkward, and being held by someone for undetermined periods of time feels a bit like being trapped in a cage. Hugging Kimo, though, isn’t terrible . In fact, it’s downright...tolerable. His skin is as warm as I anticipated, his body somehow both hard and soft. He must have put on some cologne for the meeting this morning because he smells like soap and sandalwood and big strong man, and when his arms wrap me up gently and pull me in closer to his chest so I can hear the faint thrum of his heart, I feel...
Small. Safe. Nice.
If I’m not mistaken, he likes the feeling of being pressed up against me, too. I feel the slightest stirring against my stomach before Kimo steps back. “I’m gonna order another beer, hit the head, if you wanna keep practicing on your own for a minute.”
I frown at his retreating back—because that’s the only way to describe what he’s doing: retreating. It’s what he did last night, too. Against all odds, we seem to be vibing, but just when things start to heat up, he retreats.
This dynamic with Kimo is beyond strange. There’s obviously an attraction between us, but I have no idea why he didn’t go through with sleeping with me last night. I suspect he might be an idiot, or possibly crazy, or possibly both, and he’s not anywhere close to my type, but I still find myself responding to his body in ways that are... unsettling. But, hey, I’ve never needed a great connection of the minds before, and a great connection of the bodies is all I’m really looking for, even if on paper he’s not my ideal man.
Maybe Kimo is struggling with the same thing—he’s attracted to me but knows he doesn’t want anything serious. I’ve heard some guys can feel guilty about that kind of thing. In my own life, I’ve yet to experience a man feeling guilty about anything, but there’s a first time for everything. Maybe all I need to do is make it clear to him that I’m not expecting anything beyond a quick encounter, and then we can both be on our separate ways. I’m not going to be on his custody case anymore anyway, so what’s the harm?
Picking up Kimo’s glass, I throw back the dregs of his beer for courage, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Here goes nothing,” I mutter to myself before following Kimo into the men’s room.