Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
I wake to the sun streaming into my face and Kimo still snoring softly at my back. One of his heavy arms drapes over my midsection, pinning me to the bed. I feel like that should have kept me awake, but honestly, it was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a really long time.
It must have been all the kidnapping , I reason with myself. That’s why I slept so well. The life-and-death threat of danger looming over my head, those high peaks of adrenaline, and suddenly crashing down... Or that other high peak I experienced last night. Or some combination of the two.
Yep. Let’s go with that.
Whatever the case may be, I know I need to get out of here. If I don’t do post-sex cuddles, I really don’t do morning afters. Of course, I don’t know just how exactly I’m supposed to get out of here. Last night the police officers gave us the rundown of this place—apparently there are no cars on the whole island, which probably means no taxis either, so I have no idea how I’m supposed to get to the airport. (Sidenote: There had better be an airport. If a boat is the only way off this godforsaken island, I may have to stay here forever.) I don’t have my phone, so I can’t even Google an escape route. And even if I could, I don’t have my wallet, so unless the airline accepts IOUs, I’m pretty stranded.
Okay, plan B. Maybe I can’t escape, but surely there’s a way I can keep this from becoming an awkward morning after. Maybe Kimo will let me even the scales this morning by letting me give him a blow job. Then things won’t have that stilted, strained morning-after feeling, because it won’t be after , it will still be during , and there will be no sleeping before we part ways.
But Kimo changing his mind on that front seems unlikely this morning, since he wouldn’t even let me do it in the heat of the moment last night. I could try to jump straight into morning sex, but since we still don’t have a condom, we’ll just get stuck in limbo again. Unless...
Surely I can find a condom, now that it’s morning! There has to be a convenience store open somewhere, for all the sundry needs people might have on this island, sexual or otherwise.
There is the pesky detail that I still don’t have my wallet, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. If the shop owners in this town are anything like the police officers, they’ll be over-the-top with their hospitality. Last night the marine rescue officer practically begged us to come stay in his home; it was only at Kimo’s gentle but firm insistence that we ended up getting a hotel room. And even then, the officer ended up paying for us, trusting that Kimo will pay him back as soon as he has access to his money again. If Kimo hadn’t cut things off there, we might have left the island with the man’s wallet, the title to his house, maybe even his firstborn grandchild.
But maybe the officer’s kindness was due more to Kimo’s easy charm than the officer’s innate generosity. After all, this is the same man who befriended one of our kidnappers, just by chatting with him about a video game. Hell, he convinced me to sleep in the same bed as him last night, just by asking. I’m not sure which was the more impressive feat, honestly.
Without Kimo there to play Mr. Nice Guy, I’m not sure I can persuade anyone to give me a condom without money. Unless the clerk happens to be a perv, and will take a boob flash as payment. Here’s hoping! Otherwise I guess I’ll just have to be...nice? Friendly?
Hey, it’s worth a try.
I manage to wriggle my way out from underneath Kimo without waking him—or maybe he’s just a sleep-through-an-earthquake kind of guy. Either way, I make it out of bed and sneak across the room, wondering if my shoes have dried out from the night before.
They haven’t, but I see something I missed earlier in the pile of goodies from the gift shop: a pair of flip-flops. Great. I hold them up for inspection, frowning. Generally, I don’t trust a shoe made out of plastic, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers. And anyway, maybe wearing them will enable me to channel my inner Kimo and help me turn on the charm!
I’m, unfortunately, still in my tiny Mackinac Island sleep shorts and tight T-shirt that makes my boobs look like a million dollars. Paired with the flip-flops and no makeup, I definitely look like I’m making the walk of shame home from a wild night of debauchery. Not totally wrong, I suppose. And anyway, I don’t know anyone on this island, so why should I care?
Out in the lobby, I find the oldest woman alive, Bea, sitting at reception and crocheting. At the sight of me, she blinks through her coke bottle glasses, as if she’s not entirely sure whether I’m a real living person or someone coming to guide her to the afterlife. “Oh, hello, dear. Do you need anything?”
I think about just asking her directly where I can find condoms, but I remember my earlier fear about the shock of it killing her, and I don’t want that on my conscience. Besides which, leaving a dead body in my wake will only prolong my time on this island. “Are there any stores open? Someplace I can walk to from here?”
“I’m not sure when Doud’s opens.” Bea sets down her crocheting and shuffles over to her desktop computer. She presses a button and it whirrs to life. After a long minute of waiting, she presses another button, then begins the slow one-finger-pecking typing of a person who was raised when telegraphs were still the fastest form of communication.
I, too, will be approximately 140 years old by the time she finishes looking this up. “Never mind. I’ll just walk there myself and see. Which direction?”
Bea points a shaky finger straight out the doorway. “But be careful!” she calls after me. “I saw some strange men in dark clothing outside.”
Probably the grim reapers, coming to collect on their overdue payment , I think unkindly, not pausing in my stride.
It isn’t until I’m already outside that I wonder if Bea might be referencing the kidnappers—who, so far as I know, are still at-large.
Luckily for me, I quickly realize “the strange men” are not, in fact, the kidnappers. Nor are they grim reapers.
They’re photographers—and as I step out into the bright morning light, they all turn on me like I’m a crust of bread and they’re a flock of seagulls, and then I’m hit with a barrage of shouted questions and clicking cameras.
“Are you the mystery woman?” one of them calls to me. It’s impossible to tell which one, since they all look vaguely similar, and since their faces are mostly obscured behind their cameras or microphones. There are a few film crews present, too.
I raise a hand to block the sun, which is shining directly into my eyes. “What?”
“The one who got kidnapped with Kimo Kapono.”
“What’s your relationship to him?”
“Are you his assistant?”
“Are you his girlfriend?”
Before I can orient myself, much less answer, a strong arm engulfs my shoulders. Kimo. He swiftly guides me back toward the entrance of the hotel. “Lay off, guys. Not cool. You wanna talk to me, you talk to me. Don’t bother my...”
Kimo seems uncertain of what to call me, so he just doesn’t call me anything, but I can tell by the roar of questions that follows us through the door that his silence has been noted.
Behind the lobby desk, Bea continues to crochet placidly, seemingly unconcerned by the mob of reporters outside. I cast a wary glance over my shoulder. “How do we know they won’t follow us in?”
“Because I told them I’d sue their asses six ways from Sunday if they come into my place of business,” Bea says calmly, not even looking up from her project. “Can’t make them leave the public street, though.”
“Come on.” Kimo places a hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the room. “I’ll call Jay, see if he can find a way to get us out of here incognito.”
Jay? As in...Jay. My boss. Glancing over at Kimo, I notice for the first time that he’s shirtless, his sweatpants low on his hips, like he just rolled out of bed and tugged them on, which is likely what happened. And I’m dressed like...like Morning-After Barbie. A bunch of reporters just took our picture, looking like we definitely just had sex, and now Kimo’s going to call my boss and pull him into the whole mess.
I groan, covering my face with my hands. “I’m so fired.”
“Nah.” Kimo pats my shoulder reassuringly. “Jay’s cool. Let me handle him.”
It should be reassuring. After all, I’ve had a front-row seat to just how well Kimo “handles” people. But Jay isn’t a normal person. Jay is a cutthroat, top-of-his-game lawyer who’s going to be pissed that I’ve gotten so involved with a client. No matter what he says to placate Kimo, I’ll be edged quietly out of the company within a week, if not fired altogether.
Kimo must sense my concern, because he pats me on the shoulder again. “I got this, Mattie. Have a little faith.”
I answer by groaning again into my hands.