One Breath (Isle of Kala #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

ONYX GREER

February

I crawl to the entrance of the blanket fort and poke my head out the opening where Benson is. He’s on his stomach, watching the television across the room. I sit beside him to see what has him so hypnotized.

There’s a woman on the screen singing. She’s blonde, young, and radiant. Filled with energy and wearing a… swimsuit?... with tassels that flare when she moves. The song is upbeat, filled with life. A ballad if my seven-year-old knowledge knew what that meant.

The video is old. Not super old, but it’s still not as clear as most of the shows we watch.

The camera pans out and looks at the audience—people for what feels like miles! Crowded so close together and jumping like waves on the ocean. I can hear them screaming and singing along when the camera moves over them.

“Whoa,” Benson says, and I turn my attention to him. “Look at all those people.”

I look back to the screen, but Benson’s little brother catches my eye. He’s sitting off to the side, equally mesmerized by the woman on the screen as Benson is. Cash’s eyes shine, lips slightly parted. He stares as if he’s there. Ensnared by the magic of this woman from another lifetime.

“Can you imagine being that popular, Onyx?” Benson asks. “We could go everywhere and people would come. They’d love us. We could see the world and all those people!”

They’re staring for very different reasons. Benson wants the life that the girl has. He wants the possibilities, the opportunities, the success. Cash is enthralled by the music.

“Hey, Cash!” Benson calls. Cash doesn’t seem to hear him. Benson gets up onto his knees and yells again, this time throwing a pillow at Cash.

It hits Cash in the side, and he turns to look at us.

Benson laughs. “Want to come into our fort now?”

Cash nods. He glances at the TV again and then gets up. We part to make room for him, and Cash lies on his stomach between us, chin propped on his palms as he once again gets lost in the music.

Benson singing the wrong lyrics pulls me from my thoughts. The memory. The moment that truly started the trajectory into creating our band, Whiskey Horizons.

I change the beat briefly in response to Benson fucking up my lyrics. I hate when he fucks with them. He does it on purpose. I think he wants to be able to say that he’s a songwriter, but we both know that when we perform his lyrics, the audience doesn’t like them. They’re… weird. Disturbed.

He changes my lyrics so he can say he co-wrote the song. We’ve talked about this, though. Many, many times. Changing my lyrics doesn’t give him the right to put his name on it. Nor do I give him permission to mess with my song. He sings it as is, or he doesn’t fucking touch it.

Benson glares back at me and then rolls his eyes. He doesn’t mess with my lyrics for the rest of the song.

This song sounds much better with a slower rhythm. A quieter beat. Something seductive and hyped. Something like the singer we watched on TV in our blanket fort all those years ago. A ballad. A love song.

Benson demands that we’re a punk rock band. Not that he gave us a punk rock name. Whiskey Horizons? What’s punk rock about that? We don’t dress the part. We don’t truly sound it. And I sure as hell can’t write punk rock to save my life.

So Benson does what Benson does and yells into the microphone and plays his guitar. That leaves me and Bryce—our bassist—to match the beat he’s set.

I’m relieved when the song ends. I hate the vibe it gives when it’s screamed. That’s not how it’s supposed to be heard.

I lead us into the next song, arguably our most popular.

The audience at the Hinky Dinky Bar on Etsumi is a mix of locals and guests of the island chain. There are enough regulars who recognize the song and give a whoop of encouragement that it has the others turning their attention to us.

This is what Benson lives for. He wants giant crowds. He wants to be worshiped like the woman we watched as kids. The gathering of maybe sixty people is as good as he’s going to get. And this song—my song—is as close as he’s gotten so far.

As long as he doesn’t fuck it up. He’s tried many times, and the crowd gets angry. I don’t even bother hiding my smug smile when someone yells ‘sing it normally!’ in response to him changing up my lyrics.

It’s a constant fight within him. He knows my lyrics are what everyone loves, but he desperately wants the angst of being a songwriter.

My attention drifts to the bar. I’m not the least bit surprised to see Cash there.

He’s sitting at the far end, his back against the wall, with his best friend Elijah Cain—Lie—beside him.

They’ve been besties for as long as Benson and I have.

The difference is that their friendship has grown as they have.

Mine and Benson’s? My attention drifts to Benson, and I frown.

He’s not the little kid who was awestruck by the massive audience anymore.

He’s not the happy, energetic kid who used to run around the island with me, sneaking up on our neighbors and jumping out with a ‘BOO!’ He’s not the kid who used to throw impromptu concerts as we were learning to play our instruments, and we’d gather crowds of our neighbors who loved what we were doing.

Somewhere along the way, Benson… broke. He turned angry.

Mean. Hostile. Most of that is toward his younger brother, which completely and utterly floored me the first time I saw it.

Benson protected Cash like he was Benson’s little chick.

He was fierce. He included Cash in everything we did.

Cash was our backup dancer during our concerts.

Then one day, Ben simply snapped. I swear, it happened overnight. We were teenagers, and I came over one day and barely recognized him. He was just so angry. I was even more shocked when it was all pointed at Cash. The only thing he’s ever said that Cash did was that his kid brother is gay.

Like… dude… we’ve grown up on a gay island resort. You have gay dads. Nearly every single person we’ve ever met is part of the LGBTQIA+ community. And you’re angry because Cash is… gay?

Yet, years later, that anger fuels everything that Benson has become.

I’m confident that his anger is why he determined we were a punk rock band.

That’s why he has to scream our lyrics instead of singing them.

He yells at any regular who makes it apparent that they like our music, making sure that he tells them we’re not gay!

What the actual fuck.

There’s something else going on there. There has to be.

This whole thing simply doesn’t add up. Part of me thinks that’s the reason I stick around, because I need to know what happened and how to undo it so I can get my best friend back.

This man singing right now—if it can even be called singing—is not my best friend. I don’t know who he is most days.

I think I also stick around because I’m afraid that his increasing hostility is going to turn violent. Since his anger is always pointed at Cash, I imagine Cash will be his victim.

My attention returns to Cash again. He’s kind of small. I don’t think he’s much taller than five and a half feet. He and Lie have that in common. They’re the cute twinkies who hang around the bar. Big smiles. Contagious laughter. Their presence screams fun and happiness.

They couldn’t look more different. Lie has the Latino complexion that his mother has—flawless skin with a beautifully tanned hue, midnight dark hair, and eyes just as dark.

His smile is radiant, flashing stunning white teeth as he laughs at something the bartender said.

Or maybe he’s flirting with the bartender.

I’ve heard him flirt with Laiken Hazelwood many times.

It’s funny because not only is Laiken old enough to be his father, Laiken is also Lie’s dad’s bestie for like, thirty years.

Anyway. Cash has creamy-white skin that looks like it should burn the second the sun touches it.

His hair is on the long side, sandy brown, and he’s constantly pushing it from his face.

His eyes are a lovely shade of brown. Like bark or milk chocolate.

His smile is far shyer than Lie’s. Where Lie wears basically nothing—and what he does wear is practically painted on—Cash wears clothing that’s often too big. Concealing his small frame.

Cash glances in our direction, as if he can hear me thinking about him. Admiring him? Is that what I’m doing? His smile fades, so I think maybe he’s not looking at me at all. Maybe he’s looking at his brother.

That’s when I realize that Ben’s singing one of his songs. I inwardly groan. A glance at the audience shows many making faces in our direction. One turns their back on us entirely. Most of everyone else has already tuned us out.

I mean, he’s yelling about putting people in woodchippers and burying them alive. Dropping them into the ocean tied to a cement block. Honestly, if we had true police on the island, they’d be looking in Benson’s backyard for bodies and under his bed for weapons.

When I look back at the bar, I tense. Cash and Lie are surrounded by a group of men. I don’t recognize them, so they’re from the island resort. Not residents.

Lie outright flirts. It’s obvious from across the room. Cash is less obvious. He’s far more shy. His cheeks pinken. He drops eye contact often. He has this quiet innocence about him that guys eat up.

My shoulders tense as one of the strangers puts their hand on Cash’s forearm. Cash gives him a shy smile, and though he doesn’t pull away from the man’s touch, he turns his attention to his drink and takes a dainty sip. I’m not sure he actually takes a sip.

Laiken is right there. Always hovering. Protecting his best friend’s kid and bestie. Which means I know they’re not being lewd or… presumptuous.

Still. The tension in my shoulders has my rhythm off. Bryce and Benson notice. Both look in my direction and try to adjust their tune to match my beat.

Because I know it’ll set Benson off if he sees me watching Cash and not keeping on beat, I force my attention away from Cash and look in the opposite direction. I focus on the song. On the notes. Not on the words.

I think every song I’ve ever written has been a love note to Cash. Since we were kids. The very first song I made up lyrics to on the spot was for him. Watching him dance and describing the kind of joy it brought me. How much I smiled when he was around. How his happiness made my stomach dance.

I was nine, maybe. He was seven. Far too young to mean anything, but the words were for him all the same.

Every song I’ve written in the past thirteen years has been for him. Because of something he’s worn. Something he’s laughed about. Something I heard him say to Lie. Something he said that he liked in passing. Something he showed me on his phone when I asked what he was looking at.

It’s all for Cash.

I’ve never known what to make of that. He’s my muse.

More than that, he’s… beautiful. Hypnotic.

Every person I’ve ever been attracted to has something in common with Cash.

Hair the same shade and falling in a similar fashion.

A similar shy smile. A shirt much like the kind Cash wears—too big but intriguingly sexy.

The only people I’ve hooked up with remind me of Cash in very loud ways. Am I living out a fantasy with them because I know I can’t touch Cash? If I touch Cash, Ben will lose his mind. The rage will be like the volcano on Makara, but it won’t just smoke and smolder. It’ll erupt, and we’ll all burn.

If for no other reason, I can’t ever touch Cash because he’s far too good, too sweet, too kind to be the victim of the molten fury that his brother will unleash. I need to protect him. I will always protect him. He’s worth protecting.

“Thank you,” Benson says into the mic. “We’re Whiskey Horizons, and we’ll be right back after this short break.”

He sets his guitar in its stand and hops down from the stage. There are a couple guys watching him walk past who, thankfully, Benson doesn’t notice checking him out. I stop long enough to give them a warning. “Unless you want to be yelled at, don’t show your interest in him.”

“How about you, sweetheart?” one asks, winking.

I grin and return his wink. “Sorry, boo. Not tonight. I don’t think I’m up to handling both of you.”

Both men beam at me. See? There are kind ways to say you’re not interested. You don’t have to be an asshole, but since that’s Benson’s only mode, it’s just easier to circumvent any interactions he has with the bar patrons before Benson notices.

I join Benson and Bryce at the bar where Sam is filling drinks for them. He already has my tonic with grenadine ready and slides it toward me when I join them. I flash him a smile. “Thanks. Put it on my tab.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Sure thing, hot stuff.”

“He’s not gay,” Benson snaps. “Stop hitting on him.”

Sam sets Benson’s glass down with a snap, making the contents splash over the side. He leans forward, eyes flashing dangerously. “I promise you, Ben, my bite is far worse than my bark. Keep pushing me. See what happens.”

Benson stares. For just a second, he doesn’t respond. Then he visibly shakes himself out of the moment and glares. “If you stop—”

“I wasn’t talking to you, Benson, so shut your fucking mouth,” Sam warns. “If I hit on you, then you can tell me off. But I promise you. I’m not into small dick energy, so you’re not my type.”

Benson looks fucking offended. I hide my amusement behind my glass as I take a sip. Bryce’s laughter turns into legitimate coughing as he chokes on his sip. A few nearby customers snicker and laugh.

Benson’s face turns purple-red. He’s furious.

Unfazed, Sam pushes his drink toward him and then walks away. I follow his progress with my eyes only until I can see Cash at the opposite end. He’s looking this way. Watching.

With a heavy sigh, I turn Benson back toward the stage.