Chapter 1 #2
“You are if I say you are,” Jameson shot back at me. “This is your favor. Do it, or make an enemy you can’t afford to.”
I scowled, my hackles rising. I did not like being told what to do, but I couldn’t ignore the fact that I did owe him.
Fuck. My grip on the edge of my counter tightened. Tangaloa handed out the joint without prompt, and I quickly took it. “Fine,” I said, smoke billowing from my mouth at the word. I took another hit. “Where do I meet your people?”
Tangaloa and I rode up on the Hilton at Waikīkī.
It was a massive resort that drained money from tourists faster than a corner whore drained the balls of frustrated husbands.
I remembered some news coverage once saying that it was ‘twenty-two acres of paradise within paradise’.
The Hawai‘ian culture was monopolized by people who had no idea what it meant to be Kānaka ?ōiwi.
My ancestors walked these islands long before James Cook was even born, let alone captained the ship that discovered our home.
Tourists were annoying. They cared for the perfect Polynesian experience without caring what their trash was doing to our paradise.
I might be a dirtbag who had fed a man alive to a shiver of sharks for threatening my sister, but I would never do anything that threatened my land.
As far as I was concerned, the laws of nature overruled the laws of man every time.
We wandered through the hotel lobby filled with suitcases, screaming kids, and a lot of fake leis.
Looked like hell to me, not paradise. It was why I always wore a rubber, regardless of what the girl or girls in the shoot claimed they were on.
I was never getting saddled with a crying baby or a paternity suit.
The sweet scent of artificial coconuts infused the air around the large pool area complete with water slides, ocean view, pool bar, and a sea of white lounge chairs.
Jameson hadn’t been kidding when he said I’d know his men when I saw them.
Even amongst a variety of tourists of all shapes, colors, and ages, they stood out like dorsal fins.
One was a mountain of a man, even larger than Tangaloa.
My ex-brother-in-law was six-five, muscular, and clean shaven.
Like me, he had the darker skin of someone who had the islands in their blood for generations.
Unlike me, he had arms the size of tree trunks, but I had better abs and a bigger dick.
Given Tangaloa’s profession, some were surprised that I was the leader of the two of us.
With them sitting down, I couldn’t tell how tall the big one was.
He had brown hair and a full beard, but his eyes were covered by a pair of pink sunglasses of all things.
I was honestly surprised they covered his wide face.
He wore slippahs—though he would call them shoes or flip-flops—and a pair of swim trunks, but that did not make him a tourist. Even with the girly glasses covering his eyes, I could tell he was alert for anything.
His companion looked like he was avoiding bursting into flames.
He had on so much white sunscreen that he’d be kicked out of a wedding for trying to compete with the bride.
Of the two of them, he was the one huddled under the shade of their shared umbrella at their round table.
He also was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, pants, and tennis slippahs.
A large sunhat hid his hair, but the number of freckles on his face hinted at his ginger roots.
Neither man was paying attention to Tangaloa nor me as we approached. Both were watching the pool intently, where two very beautiful women were standing in the water having a conversation with a tourist troll.
The big man’s grip on his chair intensified, and I knew he was seconds away from springing.
I gave Tangaloa a quick nod, and he waded into the pool to save the troll’s life.
The kid couldn’t have been more than twenty, and did not deserve the slow, painful death the Royal Bastard brother was no doubt plotting for him.
Since the big guy was wearing a wedding ring, it didn’t take a genius to guess that one of the women was his wife.
I didn’t know which belonged to which, because I couldn’t see their hands, but both were beauties.
One couldn’t blame the troll for trying, but he’d missed the mark on that one.
Plus, enough Hawai‘ian blood had been spilled at the hands of haoles.
I pulled out the seat between the two facing the pool as Tangaloa took the troll by the scruff of the neck to march him away from the women. “Sheath your claws, malihini. The kid’s young, not lolo.”
Both turned their attention to me, and I realized that I hadn’t snuck up on them. They might have been focused on their women, but they weren’t unaware of what was around them.
“What did you call me?” the big one demanded.
“Malihini,” I repeated. “Tourist, newcomer, non-kama?āina.”
He blinked. “What?”
I cracked my neck, already frustrated. “Not native to Hawai‘i.”
“Why didn’t you just fucking say that then?” he snapped.
“Because you’re on my island, asking for my help. I talk how I talk and won’t change that for you.” I held my hand out to him. “Aloiki Ka’ana’ana.”
He hesitated before taking my hand, but I had a feeling that was because he was trying to process my name, not out of malice. “Mark Jacobs, but you can call me ‘Aftermath’.”
I nodded to him before turning to the vampire sitting across from him. “Matthew Phillips.” He offered his hand too. “Everyone calls me ‘Red’.”
I saw his cheeks flame up under the layer of sunscreen. “Can’t imagine why.” His cheeks blazed hotter.
I sat back just as a waiter approached us.
I ordered a beer for both Tangaloa and myself.
A friend owned a local brewery, Shakaloha, and their signature lager was a favorite of mine.
Since both already had drinks, I didn’t ask them if they wanted anything.
Besides, they were grown-ass men who didn’t need me to order them refills or pick up their tab.
Like Aftermath, I was wearing only shorts and slippahs. I would turn vegan before I wore a shirt. I took my papale-style hat off and placed it on my knee.
“How do you know Jameson?” the one who was trying to pass for a polar bear asked.
“That’s my business. Yours is figuring out why the Bloody Scorpions are on my islands.”
Red and Aftermath exchanged a look. Tangaloa, dripping from his dip in the pool, came over to the table just as the waiter brought our beers.
“Aloha,” he said with a nod. “Tangaloa Ano.”
Both introduced themselves again before Aftermath turned to me. “Our Prez, Capone, said we were meeting one man, not two. Who is he?”
I took a sip of my beer. “Guess your Prez was misinformed.” I saw Red pull out his phone and assumed he was texting his President. “Tangaloa’s with me. That’s all you need to know.”
Until I knew if I could trust these two, I wasn’t cluing them in on the fact that Tangaloa was family, despite the divorce papers.
I loved my sister, Kalea, but she’d taken Tangaloa’s heart out and stomped on it before setting it on fire.
I’d kill for my sister, but Tangaloa was my brother long before he put a ring on her finger.
She hated that we were still friends, and she hated even more that I sided with Tangaloa in the divorce.
If she wanted me to side with her, maybe she shouldn’t have slept with a coworker and gotten pregnant by him while Tangaloa and she were trying for a baby.
For three wonderful weeks, Tangaloa had believed himself to be the proud father of my beautiful niece, Pualani—until a blood test showed that he couldn’t be the father due to his blood type.
Tangaloa was gutted. I loved my niece, and I would never blame her for my sister’s actions, but it did something inside me every time I saw her because I knew how much her existence killed Tangaloa.
Any other man might have gotten even, might have done something to avenge his failed marriage and broken vows, but not my brother.
He’d simply walked out. He was good with me in his life as long as I abided by two rules: never mention my sister and never mention my niece in front of him.
I still had to come up with a lie as to where I needed to go in a few weeks, though he was smart enough to figure out it was my niece’s second birthday party. But I was happy to tell the lie, and he was happier believing it.
I trusted Jameson, but that didn’t mean I automatically trusted his men.
I knew who Jameson was, and I knew what to expect from him.
These two? Just because they wore the Royal Bastards cut—figuratively, because neither were wearing their colors now—did not make them trustworthy.
It got them a meeting with me, and nothing more.
I would kill for my sister, but I would burn bridges for Tangaloa. While some might question that logic, I stood by the belief that it was easier to kill than it was to live with turning once-friends into enemies.
Though if there was one thing I might have in common with these two haoles, it was the understanding of brotherhood.
Tangaloa was watching me spar with Aftermath like he was watching an amusing fencing game.
Due to his size, people often misjudged him for being a fighter.
And while Tangaloa was no harmless puppy, it was true I was the deadlier of the two of us.
The difference was, Tangaloa had the patience to wait for the opportune moment to strike, whereas I was impatient to feel the blood of my enemies on my hands.