8. Eight
He’d been about to kiss her. Why hadn’t he kissed her, and why was she so upset that he hadn’t? She knew better. She really did. So, what was wrong with her? He didn’t close the distance, and Kat reminded herself she shouldn’t care. He had just woken up from being poisoned after all.
She sat back from his foot, looking at her handiwork. Her grandmother would be so proud of her—she was rather proud of herself. Maybe if music didn’t work out, she would think about becoming a practitioner in Indigenous healing.
She wasn’t against modern medicine. Hospitals were important and played an important role in society, but Kat believed there was also a place for the ways of Indigenous medicine. Look what she had done with what the earth had provided. Maybe she’d just avoid going back to society altogether.
She might be starving right now, but at least on the island she could breathe clean air, feel the breeze on her face, and the sand on her feet. She was living how her ancestors had—at one with the earth. Maybe that was what she needed to do when they got off this island— because at some point they would . . . right?—move back into nature.
Her family had land they didn’t use. Maybe she’d build a tiny container home. The problem was there wasn’t even a road to get to their parcel. It wasn’t theirs originally. It was land her ancestors were forced on. After her grandfather had passed, her father had done some digging—god knew her mother had no urge to learn more about her background—and they had taken a trip to the southeastern states to see her ancestors’ original land. It was lush with rolling hills and running streams, nothing like the arid, red, sandstone plains of Oklahoma.
Kat thought back to the emotion she had seen on her grandmother’s face as they had toured the Trail of Tears exhibit at the Smithsonian. She had seen her reflection mirrored back at her. “So many of our people lost,” she had whispered as she wept at the destruction of her people. Kat’s people.
Her mind strayed to the current missing and murdered Indigenous women. So many were lost without a trace. Her grandmother’s words swirled around in her head. Maybe West was right, maybe she was hiding behind her Whiteness, and she wasn’t doing enough, but what weapons did she have?
Her stomach growled, and Kat felt her face heat up.
West smiled. “I’m starving too. What have you been eating?”
“Just the overripe papaya, and I haven’t seen too many of those. I think it’s past their season. We need a fire and a way to fish, or we need to find some nuts or berries. I know nothing about cooking fish though.”
“Your grandmother didn’t teach you anything about cooking?”
Kat laughed. “No, she’s the worst cook ever. Thanks to government subsidies and canned food, a lot of Native communities have poor health and have lived off food from a can or package, especially those like my grandmother who have no familial recipes.”
West looked away from her, taking a great interest in a beetle-looking bug walking across their path. She could sense he was uncomfortable. It was why, as a rule, she kept her heritage to herself, but at least West asked her questions. He may have been uncomfortable, but he still wanted to know more, and for that, Kat was grateful. She lived in a strange in-between world, with no clear sense of belonging. She was adrift in more ways than one.
Was she White, or was she Indigenous? Was she both, and would the world accept her for being both? Would she be able to accept herself? Was she going to be a musician, a singer, a songwriter, or something else? Was she going to fight for others like her, or was she going to escape? The questions continued to swim around in her head all while she should have been worried about finding food, but rather than thinking about eating, or even her future as an Indigenous woman in a White world, all she wanted to think about was West’s perfect mouth, and how it had been so close to being on hers.
“We’re not too far from the beach. I thought if we could catch a fish, we could eat something real.”
“Do you have my knife? I noticed you using it earlier.”
Kat searched the pockets of her pants. “Shit, it’s somewhere around here.” She dropped to where she had been making West’s concoction of herbs for his antivenom, her hands raking across the dirt.
He stopped her, lifting one of her hands closer to his eyes, concern on his face. “What happened to your hands?”
She pulled it back, unwilling to let him get close again. “It’s fine. I just couldn’t get the damn coconut open. Your knife was useless in that regard.”
He picked her hand up again, genuine worry in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Kat, I shouldn’t have left you to fend for yourself. I should have paid attention to where I was stepping and avoided that snake.”
She felt the warmth of his hands as he massaged her raw palms. She forced herself to break away from the mesmerizing sensation before she lost control.
“West, stop. I can take care of myself.”
“Kat. You’re missing the point. You don’t have to. This whole situation is my fault. I do something stupid, and you end up in the crosshairs. Can you please let me take care of you for once? I’m not just a pretty face you know.”
Kat knew he was more than a pretty face. She had always thought so. He was a brilliant musician and singer. He was good with people and was always kind and attentive to his fans, even when they could be overzealous. She didn’t know how he dealt with it so well. He was a good person, just not to her. She had never thought he dealt with insecurities based on his looks.
She saw something silver under some brush and grabbed it, the cool metal soothing her hands.
“Here.” She shoved the knife at West. “You want to do something, catch a fish and figure out how to cook the damn thing because I sure as hell don’t know the first thing about making a fire without a lighter.”
An hour later West had fashioned a stick into a rather impressive spear, but as he had never been spearfishing, he hadn’t caught a fish yet. Kat was sitting on the beach, the setting sun behind her glowed with the brightest reds and oranges. She deserved to be painted right there by Monet or Renault—someone who could capture the beauty not only of the landscape but of the woman within it. She sat on the rocky shore impatiently tapping her foot on the sand, waiting not so patiently for him to catch a fish. Every time he missed he could tell she was struggling to keep her mouth shut.
“You could figure out how to start a fire,” he yelled over his shoulder. He was knee-deep in the water, and even from a distance he could feel her fiery stare on him.
“I don’t know how,” she called back.
“Haven’t you seen a movie? Take a stick and . . .” He took the spear in his hand and rolled it back and forth to simulate making a fire.
The action made him picture her hands gripped around a stick, stroking it back and forth, and it transported his mind to another shaft he’d like to see her stroking.
He had wanted to kiss her earlier, and now he was mad he hadn’t. Fuck, she was pushing him off his equilibrium. He was always in control with women—they threw themselves at him, and he decided if he wanted to make their night. Conceited? Most likely, but the truth. He gave women what they wanted, and they always left satisfied. Except for Gia—she had kept him on his toes, making it interesting enough for him to come back again and again until her tantrums and pouting had lost their charm. Even if their make up sex was fantastic, West knew she wasn’t worth the effort anymore.
Kat couldn’t be more different. She wouldn’t be fake with him; she had already told him more truths about herself than Gia ever had. She was real and raw and all the things he hadn’t realized he had been missing, and he should have kissed her. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that if he crossed that line, there would be no going back for them. Something had ignited within him when his lips had touched hers long ago, and if it happened again, he might not walk away from her this time.
“People don’t start fires like that,” Kat said, walking toward him, dipping her toes into the ocean. She stood still and let the wave pull her feet under the sand.
“Yes, they do.” He just didn’t know how.
She cocked an eyebrow. “Okay, Boy Scout, how?”
“I don’t know . . . it’s friction or something. You need a stick and to get some of that coconut fluff.”
She looked at him with disbelief in her eyes. “Maybe I should try spearfishing.”
“Seriously?” He flexed his biceps to make it clear who had the muscle power to throw the makeshift spear.
“You’ve been at it for over an hour. How about I try, and you go do your little friction thing.” She rubbed her hands together.
“No, I think I can catch the fish.”
“You made the spear. Don’t worry, you’re still just as manly if you make the fire.”
West hadn’t been paying attention, and before he knew it, she grabbed the makeshift spear from him.
He held on to it. It was a matter of pride now. “No, Katy, go make the fire.” He said, using the name he knew she hated to distract her.
But she wasn’t giving up. He knew it must hurt her hands and he was being an ass, but she could end this by just letting go.
“No, you tried, let me catch the fish.” She pulled hard on the spear, frustration on her face.
“Stop, you’re going to hurt your hands more.”
“Then let go!”
“That’s horrible logic. You let go.”
His face was inches from hers, the tension between them palpable. He had to end this. With a swift movement of his leg, he unbalanced her, making her stumble backward into the water.
But she still refused to let go, and in an act of stubbornness, he kept his grip on it too. They both fell into the water. Her warm, pliant body was under him as he tried not to crush her. She pushed him to the side, grabbing the spear. Sitting up he used one hand to wipe the water out of his eyes; the other was still locked onto the spear’s handle with a death grip.
“Exceptional work, genius.” She stared daggers at him. “Now I’m wet and the sun is setting.”
His eyes hooded as he watched her get up. “I can think of better ways to make you wet,” he said under his breath.
A slight blush crept up her face, but otherwise, she made no sign that she had heard his comment.
“All the more reason to get a fire going,” he said more loudly.
“West, please just let me try. Fifteen minutes, and if we both suck, we’ll switch back.” Her eyes glowed golden, and for the briefest moment, West stood still, utterly entranced, before looking away.
It wasn’t the worst idea. He knew he wouldn’t get a fire started in fifteen minutes, especially now that he was wet, and there was no way she was going to catch a fish. He suspected it would be a waste of time, but if it would stop their fighting he’d give in to her.
He stood up out of the water, dropping the spear. “Fine, we have no clock, so whatever fifteen minutes means, I’ll be back.”
He walked back to the rocky beach to find some tinder and a dry stick. Looking out of the corner of his eye he saw Kat as she pranced around the waves, searching for a fish. A few were swimming around in the shallow waters, but the spear was a crude instrument, and it didn’t glide through the water like a true metal spear. He had struggled with brute strength; he had no idea how she would pull it off.
The stick was taller than her as she attempted to throw it like a javelin. It bobbled in her hands and fell into the water. He held back a laugh as she tripped, almost falling backward.
“Don’t”—she yelled at him, putting up one of her hands as if to stay his reaction—“even say anything.”
He held his hands up and clamped his mouth shut with effort. It wasn’t as easy to spear a fish as they made it look on those survival shows on TV. West knew all about the smoke and mirrors Hollywood used when filming so-called “reality” TV shows.
He remembered when MTV had shot an episode of Cribs in his dad’s house and they’d wanted them to look as natural as possible, without looking natural at all. They didn’t go into West’s room, and they felt his dad’s cars weren’t edgy enough for a rock star, so they had brought in a couple of classic cars to put in the garage.
His father hadn’t cared all that much. MTV had been a big part of making his career so he didn’t fight them. Now the channel was useless and did nothing for musicians, but back in the eighties and nineties it had been everything, and Tommy Monroe knew who not to piss off. It was a big part of why his career was a success. He had passed that on to West.
“The most talented musician can be singing in the subway tunnels,” he would say to him. “It’s about who can play the game.”
The whole thing made West sick to his stomach most days, and Dec had taken care of the business side. He had played the game, let the label control his music, and it had morphed into something he didn’t want to do anymore. Now, he saw that was a mistake. Taking the hands-off approach hurt not only his career, but Kat’s too.
Shit, he had no music career left, and he didn’t know what he was going to do next. He could do the whole acting thing, but deep down he couldn’t decide if he was doing it because it finally removed him from his dad’s shadow, or because he really wanted to try something new.
None of it mattered if they never got of this island.
Kat tried not to look as West’s long, powerful form walked across the beach, and wished she could ignore his presence. She couldn’t help it. He had a magnetism that drew her into his sphere. His hair was wet and curling at his nape, and all she wanted was to run her fingers through it.
She should pinch herself for thinking something like that. Weston Monroe was an international pop-rock superstar. He was not interested in someone like Kat. Her eyes followed him as he bent down to pick up some dried leaves, admiring the way his swim trunks pulled across his muscular backside. He had toned calves, strong thighs, and perfectly sculpted glutes. Kat watched the rivulets of water drip down his muscles as she felt desire pulse through her. A truly unwelcome reaction considering their situation.
As West sifted through a pile of wood, every muscle in his legs and arms flexed. Even though she’d never found fit guys that attractive before, her mouth went dry. Why was she even looking at West like a piece of meat?
Probably because you’re hungry.
The spear hung heavy in her hand, reminding her of what she was supposed to be doing. She was starving, and while the idea of eating West sounded appealing, she needed actual sustenance first. Later she could consider if she was willing to be his flavor of the week. West didn’t allow feelings. Could she live with that?
Kat watched the fish swim near her legs; they seemed to have no fear. The spear was too long for her to throw like West had been doing, and its length made it quite unwieldy for her. No wonder he thought she couldn’t do it, but if the fish would come up close to her like this, maybe she could get one from up top.
A small school of fish swam toward her and she eyed them carefully. They looked similar to the yellowfin tuna she’d eaten in Bali—since the snake incident her biggest worry was ingesting something poisonous—so if these were tuna they’d be okay. After this, Kat would never make fun of doomsday preppers or survivalists again.
All the reality TV and TikTok videos in the world could never have prepared her for this. To top it all off, she looked like shit. Her hair was a tangled mess, and no amount of braiding could make it look good. Her nails were torn to pieces, and dirt covered her from head to toe. All the while West took one swim in the ocean and looked perfect. Men sucked.
Focus.
Her movements were slow as she watched the fish. As soon as she thrust the spear into the water, she knew the fish would scatter and her opportunity would vanish. With the spear poised above the water, she waited for the perfect time to strike. Closing her eyes, she listened to the water lapping against the beach, the breeze in the trees, and felt her feet sink into the sand with each push of the waves. Taking a deep breath, she inhaled the ocean air, clearing her head of all other thoughts beyond the fish swimming around her.
Opening her eyes, she held the spear with both hands, tracking a fish that was slower than the rest; it had an injured fin—a pity for the fish, but this was a matter of survival. She stood perfectly still, holding her breath, waiting. Inch by inch, it swam closer to its doom as Kat braced her arms, the spear tip held steady on the surface of the water. When the fateful moment arrived, she thrust down with all her might, feeling contact as she pierced through the flesh of the poor, defenseless fish.
“Yes!” She lifted the spear out of the water, amazed that she had caught not one, but two fish.
She began jumping up and down, the fish wriggling on the spear. “Oh West . . .” She smiled lifting the spear in his direction ready to gloat for days.
He glanced up from the fire he had been trying to make, disbelief written on his face, that soon turned to relief. “How did you . . .? I don’t even care, we’ve got something to eat. Great work, Kat!”
Kat couldn’t believe it. He was so different to the man she was used to. There was no manly pride or bluster, just sincere praise for her success.
She walked over to where he was working on the fire and was surprised to see a flame coming out of the coconut fluff he had used as tinder.
“Did you just rub two sticks together?”
“Maybe.” He grinned, looking guilty, and blew on the small flame, adding more tinder, allowing it to grow before adding the larger logs.
Kat set the spear down, glaring at him. “So, how’d you do it?”
He held up something that made Kat do a double take.
“Is that a lighter? Did you have that the whole time?”
She wanted to hit him! She had been starving and could have cooked some seaweed or something to tide her over. But she’d gone through all his pockets when he’d been unconscious, so where had he hidden it?
“No, no, I promise,” he said, seeing the disbelief in her eyes. “I was searching for tinder and sticks and found it. I wasn’t sure if it would even work, but it did.”
She sat down next to him in the sand, the urge to collapse into his arms stronger than she wanted to admit. For days, she had been trying to survive. She pushed the emotions to the side. She was close to food, and, hopefully, a good night’s sleep. She hadn’t slept and had eaten only rotten fruit. For almost forty-eight hours, she had been keeping West alive. He was shaky on his feet, even if he wouldn’t admit it. And Kat had to push back the sting of tears behind her eyes.
“Does that mean there are people on the island, you think?” They had covered little of the island, too busy trying to survive to explore.
“It’s possible; maybe on the other side. But it could also just be trash that washed ashore.”
Kat frowned, the weariness in her body sinking in. She needed to believe there were people. “Sad but true, but this is a big island. There could be people we haven’t seen yet. We could be off this island soon!”
West stood. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up.” He walked over to the fish, looking at the spear, admiring her handiwork. “How’d you do it?”
“Patience.”
“Mmmm,” he said as the delicious sound of his deep voice reverberated through her body. “I think there’s more to the story, but I’m too hungry to care. Lucky for you, my grandpa would take me fishing as a kid. I think I can cook these things well enough.”
“Your grandpa meant a lot to you, didn’t he?”
West shrugged the comment off. “He was the opposite of my dad. He loved camping and the outdoors and would never be caught dead in skintight pants.”
Kat wasn’t buying his nonchalance. There was a deep relationship there. “That’s his knife, isn’t it?” She nodded toward his pocket. “That’s why you carry it with you everywhere.”
West nodded. “He didn’t have much, but he left me this knife. It’s the one thing I have to remember him by.”
West turned to prep the fish, and Kat knew the discussion of his family was over.
Two descaled, cooked, and eaten fish later, Kat couldn’t believe how much better she felt. “That was the best fish I have ever had in my life.” It had been crude and not pretty, but food was food at this point. All propriety had gone out the window for Kat.
“That’s high praise, considering we ate at that Michelin Star restaurant in Paris a couple of months ago.”
They were sitting by the fire, the sun now gone from the sky, the cool ocean breeze blowing across their skin. Kat pulled on her hoodie, grateful she had it with her. West was always emanating heat, but even he had goose bumps as the breeze kissed his skin. The fire was a welcome presence in the cool evening air.
“I’m sure I didn’t have fish there,” she said, amazed he had cooked two fish in the middle of nowhere.
“Are you going to miss it?” She’d been wanting to ask him since they’d been alone together.
He smiled, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes, a hidden pain there. “Miss what?”
“Don’t be difficult.”
“I’m not, you’re being unspecific. Miss making music professionally, miss touring, miss having every moment of my schedule micromanaged? Miss racking my brain for new lyrics and musical combinations that are fresh and that won’t piss off music critics and fans alike? Which part do you mean, Kat?” His eyes bored into hers. It was dark, but his clenched jaw was apparent in the firelight. Kat didn’t care if she made him angry. Too many people treated West with kid gloves, allowing him to get his way all the time.
“A little cynical, aren’t we?”
“No, I’ve been doing this for a long time. I know the game, and I’m done playing it.”
“Why . . . what are you going to do then?”
“Onslaught pictures offered me an acting gig for two CIA spy films.”
Kat gaped at him. “You’re going to act?”
“At least it will be different, and it will piss off my dad, so I get two for one.”
“Ah.”
He turned to face her. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
He raised an eyebrow, moving closer, his mouth inches from her ear. “What, Kat?” he whispered. “That was quite the loaded ah.”
She pushed him back, refusing to let him get to her.
“So, your quitting music has something to do with your daddy issues, or whatever you’ve got going on there.”
He straightened, backing away from her. “No, I just enjoy pissing him off.”
“West, you’re like thirty-seven years old. That’s the definition of daddy issues.”
He pushed himself up, dusting the sand from his hands, the muscles from his thighs and calves drawing her attention.
“I don’t want to talk about this, Katy.”
“Yes, call me Katy and walk away. That’s what you’re good at!” she called after him, jumping up to follow. “You are ridiculously talented, West. If I had even half the talent you do in my pinky finger, I . . . I . . .”
“What? What would you do?” He whirled around to glare at her.
She stopped in her tracks, and he took a step closer to her.
She lifted her chin in defiance. “I know I wouldn’t give it all up.”
He took another step closer until their chests were touching. He hovered over her, his proximity unnerving. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know what it’s like being the one everyone is there to see, the one everyone wants the new album from, the one they want on tour. Fans stalking your home, women throwing their bras on stage, men hating you because their girlfriends wish they were me. Knowing that all you want to do is make fucking music! You constantly face the pressure of never living up to everyone’s expectations, including record label execs who have never played a fucking instrument in their lives, criticizing your music as dated and providing suggestions for improvement. And now, throw in social media, and you tell yourself it’s just a bunch of noise, to tune it out, but it’s there, and unless you want to throw your phone into the goddamn ocean, you can’t unsee some of the shit that’s out there. So don’t tell me what you would do, because you don’t fucking know. You got to hang out in the back riding my coattails all these years, just like the rest of them.”
His words caused her to wince and retreat as if he had stabbed her in the chest, reminding her of her inadequacy as a musician, her inability to be like him and create true art. She was just the chick who hung out behind him. To prevent herself from crying in front of him, she pinched the bridge of her nose.
He reached out, trying to pull her back, registering what he had said. “Kat . . . wait, I’m sorry.”
She put her hand out to stop him. “No. You meant every word of that.”
“I didn’t, not the part about—”
“I don’t see how Hollywood is any different,” she said, cutting him off, trying to avoid how he had just shredded her self-worth. “Can you even act?”
“I don’t know. The movie studio thinks I can. But listen . . . I’m sorry.”
She ignored his apology. She couldn’t bear it, or she’d cry. “Is that even what you want to do?”
“This conversation is done.”
“But . . . how long did you know this? You didn’t just decide this.”
He ran his hands through his hair. “I thought maybe I could do both. But we’re not talking about this.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “So, what changed?”
“Kat!” He stalked toward her, clearly feeling better and grabbed her by her upper arms. He wasn’t rough, but he wasn’t gentle either, pushing her up against one of the tall rocks.
She felt the air crackle with awareness as his face came close to hers. Deep in the pit of her stomach, she thought he was going to rip off all her clothes and have his way with her, which she was completely fine with. Or squeeze her until she stopped asking him questions. His eyes had gone wild. She had never seen him lose control like that. He seemed like a feral animal that needed to be released from its cage.
Then his face changed just as quickly as his anger had come, and he stepped back, dropping her arms, uttering a soft apology. His voice shook with an emotion that unnerved her more than his earlier lack of control.
She rubbed her upper arms, not because they were in pain, but because she missed his touch. Noticing her actions, his face turned angry—whether at her or himself, she couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. Either way, she was done. He had made it clear he had no interest in confiding in her.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you to share. You don’t owe me anything. You’re my boss, who I, unfortunately, am marooned on an island with. We mean nothing to each other, and you’ve made that abundantly clear for a very long time.” A tear slipped down her cheek, betraying her feelings.
She walked past him back toward the campfire, not daring to turn around as the tears continued.
“Kat . . . Kat, wait,” he called after her.
Steeling her shoulders she kept walking, unwilling to let him know his words got to her.
“Sleep, I’ll keep watch.” His voice was gentle from somewhere behind her.
She paused for a moment before nodding and settling down close by the fire. Exhaustion tugged at her eyes as she drifted off into a not-so-peaceful sleep.