Like hell.
I don’t need more complications with this job. That’s what it is. A chore, even if it has its moments where the lies just roll off my tongue.
Same way it was with the Cornaro Outfit last time, the slippery fucks. Big Joel C himself might even be behind this.
I can’t stop thinking about it.
He probably demanded her brother slaughter her. Cornaro’s known for wanting full control, total obedience from his minions. He’s an angry, jealous little would-be god, demanding nothing comes before him, and getting it thanks to the consequences for people who don’t listen.
Maybe he wants the entire company, full control over all their cargo routes. A legitimate business to transport his shit under cover of fresh fish.
“Wait.” Val freezes suddenly.
A shiver pricks at my spine, wondering if she’s remembered something new. I look at her.
“I don’t have any shoes on.” She smiles, fluttering her eyelids sheepishly.
We’re in the kitchen, near the garage door. I open it. “Go ahead and get in the truck. I’ll go dig up your shoes.”
Thankful Cash kept the shopping bags he’d brought over for her organized, I jog back to the bedroom, collect the brown Pali sandals he’d included out of the closet, and return to the garage.
She’s in the passenger seat when I climb in behind the wheel, handing her the shoes before starting the truck and hitting the garage door opener.
“So, where’d I run my turtle tours out of?” she asks once we’re on the asphalt. “Or was the whole thing a joke?”
Shit.
“Various beaches, mostly up the road,” I say, rather than admit I was straight up lying. “You want to see for yourself?”
She studies me for a second, then nods.
Fine. Letting her think sea turtles were her reality might help her from thinking too hard about her two-faced family.
There’s a private beach I know up on the North Shore. Always see plenty of turtles there flopped down on the sands, sunning themselves, so I head north once we hit the highway.
The road takes us further inland for a stretch, through the hills and valleys covered with green, lots of monkey pod trees and rainbow eucalyptus.
“Wow. Who could get tired of this landscape?” she asks, after we’ve been driving for a while. “The island has it all. Mountains, seashore, trees, and pretty flowers.”
She’s not wrong.
Having lived on the mainland and been stationed near Seattle at one point, I don’t consider the hills around here mountains, but everyone else does. She’s right, though, about there being nearly every landscape imaginable packed into Hawaiian clay—from mountains to beaches to arid, rocky areas, and everything in between.
Sans the fucking snow. Which, I swear to God, I still haven’t missed and never will.
My old man’s years in the service had us traveling from state to state, base to base, which is part of the reason I didn’t re-up after I’d done my time. Spending the better part of a decade doing my patriotic duty was enough.
Plus, I didn’t want Bryce turning into a nomad. Didn’t want him living in danger or wondering if I’d come home alive, either, which is partly why Cash and I dissolved our old security business. Cornaro was the other reason.
“We’re going to the North Shore, aren’t we?” she asks, perking up.
I unclench my teeth, chasing back dark memories, and turn with a smile. “Glad you noticed. There’s a great shrimp truck in Haleiwa.”
She nods. “I feel like I couldn’t forget it.”
No surprise. Everybody and their dog on Oahu knows about the food trucks up here. I’ll never get how the folks running them produce the masterpieces they do in such hot, cramped spaces, but damn if I don’t appreciate it.
My mouth starts watering, just thinking about that scampi. I consider asking her which shrimp is her favorite, but that’s something a husband should know by heart.
Instead, I say, “Think I’ll go with the classic garlic butter today.”
“Yum! That sounds good, but so does the lemony kind. Oh, and the spicy shrimp! Love, love, love a little heat. Don’t forget the rice and mac salad, too.”
For once, I grin. It’s nice to see all the classic Hawaiian flavors are still there in her brain.
“Can’t go wrong with any of them,” I say, realizing it’s not just classic North Shore fare, but their menu, specifically.
No cause for alarm. She’s known other things, obviously, like her aloha spirit spiel this morning.
Fucking weird. No rhyme or reason behind what she knows and doesn’t. I can only imagine how frustrating it is for her.
“You know, I’m good with any kind of shrimp, Flint, but promise me one thing?” She runs her hand to her stomach. “We’ll save room for the frozen cheesecake on a stick dipped in chocolate.”
I actually laugh. The malasadas should’ve been a big hint she’s got a sweet tooth to rival Santa Claus.