Chapter 19 #2
We struggle on the sand, my flip-flops providing zero traction while the balance he’s garnered from years of surfing gives him a significant advantage in the “wrestling while holding a knife” department.
Just when I’m wondering if my amateur detective career is about to end in the worst way possible, reinforcements arrive from the most unexpected source.
Cats and roosters emerge from the lava rock crevices as if they’ve been summoned by some supernatural force that specializes in dramatic timing and animal-based rescue operations.
Spam leads the charge, followed by his usual cronies and what appears to be half the feline population of Kauai, all yowling with collective fury as they quickly surround us.
Twelve roosters join the cat collective, circling like feathered sharks with enough chaos to make even a desperate murderer reconsider his life choices.
“What the hell—” Breezy starts, but he’s cut off by the poultry pandemonium surrounding us.
I almost break free in the confusion, elbowing his ribs hard enough to make him grunt, but he recovers and wraps his arm back around my neck ten times harder and pressing the knife ever so much closer until the blade feels as if it’s about to puncture my skin.
Footfalls run in this direction, steady as a heartbeat drumming through the sand.
“EVERYBODY FREEZE!” Koa’s voice cuts through the animal chaos with trained authority, and I spot him less than twenty feet away, panting with his weapon drawn, looking like an action hero with impeccable timing and a serious commitment to his fitness regimen.
“Oh, thank goodness,” I pant, still pinned and immobile with that knife to my throat.
“Put the gun down or I’ll cut her throat!” Breezy shouts, using me as a human shield while trying to avoid stepping on any of the chickens conducting their own tactical assessment.
The knife presses hard against my jugular, which is currently providing percussion loud enough to be heard in neighboring towns. Around us, cats yowl and roosters crow, creating a backdrop that’s part nature documentary, part horror movie, and yet entirely surreal.
Koa’s jaw ticks as he calculates angles with professional assessment. The muscles in his jaw tighten, his eyes meet mine, and I see both determination and barely controlled fury. I shake my head at him just enough.
“Let her go, Breezy,” he growls. “This doesn’t have to end badly for everyone.”
“It’s already ended badly,” Breezy thunders. “Everything is ruined!”
Spam releases an ear-piercing yowl so startling that we all turn toward it instinctively. In that split second, I twist my body and drive my knee into Breezy’s groin with enough force to make him double over and release both me and the knife.
I stumble forward as Koa pounces with controlled violence that makes my knees forget their function. Even in a life-threatening situation, I can’t help but appreciate how his biceps handle the overpowering dangerous criminals thing with some serious efficiency.
Other officers appear and take custody of Breezy while the luau guests who followed the commotion applaud as if they’ve just witnessed dinner theater.
They return to their mai tais and the far more important question of whether the haupia or malasadas deserve their full dessert attention. The answer is both.
Koa moves toward me with focused intensity that makes everything else fade to background noise.
Moonlight catches in his hair while stars provide romantic lighting that’s either a cosmic coincidence or nature’s own special effects department working overtime.
The ocean whispers against the shore as the pale light shimmers over the water, and it’s a whole dreamy tropical fantasy playing out, minus that whole murder thing.
He pulls me close, his hands framing my face as he examines me in the silvery light. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” I say breathlessly.
“Why didn’t you come get me? Call me? Wait for me, for Pete’s sake?” he growls, and somehow looking angry makes him ten times more handsome, which seems totally unfair.
“I wanted to,” I start, then pause as he tips his head expectantly. “Well, I would have wanted to if I’d thought of it.”
“You would have wanted to if you’d thought of it,” he repeats, like he’s trying to process the logic behind that statement and coming up empty.
“In my defense, I was operating on pure investigative instinct and possibly lingering adrenaline from all the other times I’ve accidentally stumbled into life-threatening situations since arriving in paradise.”
“Investigative instinct?” he muses with a dry humor that makes my heart do stupid acrobatic things.
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling, with relief and exasperation mixing in his expression.
His lips crash over mine, and he’s kissing me—hard and fast first, as if he’s claiming his territory, then soft and slow, as if he’s savoring the fact that I’m alive and safe in his arms while waves lap the shore and palm fronds whisper in trade winds that carry the scent of plumeria and successful amateur detective work.
When we finally come up for air, I’m dizzy from either the kiss or the recent near-death experience. Honestly, I can’t tell which has more dramatic effect on my cardiovascular system.
Murder, as it turns out, is a shockingly effective aphrodisiac when it ends with the right man holding you under tropical stars, roosters crowing like they’ve got opinions, and cats staging their own investigation nearby.
Life-or-death situations have a way of clarifying things, and what’s suddenly crystal clear is this: I’d rather face danger in a cocktail dress and terrible shoes with him than play it safe with anyone else.
He cocks his head to the side. “What did we stop for?”
“Who says we’re stopping?” I say as our lips reconnect in the most delicious way.
Evidently, my love life requires a homicide to get interesting. And if that’s what it takes to keep this hot detective’s lips glued to mine, I say bring on the bodies.
It’s wrong, I know.
But if this is being wrong, I don’t want to be right—or arrested, but mostly right.