Page 47 of True Abandon

“Yup.” I grab a flute and down it.

“Seems odd. That big room for just one guy.”

I grab another glass and start drinking it as well. A small burp escapes my mouth. “You have no idea.”

Isaiah hands the champagne bottle to the guy next to him. “Finish pouring.” He then turns to me, grabs the flute out of my hand. “You’re off your game.”

“Because I’m drinking champagne?”

He places the glass on the table. With his hands resting on his large belly, he appraises me. “I know when a lady looks distressed, and that man has caused you quite a bit of pain. You two have history.”

“He’s just a guest.”

“And I’m George Clooney. Listen, I don’t need specifics. I just need to know if he’s Maika`i or Maika’i’ole.”

I raise a brow. My Hawaiian is as good as my Spanish. In other words, no bueno.

Isaiah groans theatrically. “Is he good or bad.”

“Oh.” I stop and think about this. “Bad.” I accentuate the word with a curt head nod.

He places two hands on my shoulders and spins me around. “Okay. Now go. We’ve got it covered.”

I follow the push of his body, and he shoves me away from the table. “Wait. I need beer.” I dig my hand into the large, white cooler filled with crushed ice and grab two beers from a cooler. They’re not Sapporos, but they’re cold.

When I’m about ten feet away from the bar table, Isaiah releases me and walks back to his position.

I push a rogue hair that popped out of my braid back behind my ear.

The sun has set so I have to stop and look for Jax. He’s seated at his table, fidgeting with his napkin. He almost looks nervous—like I would imagine a guy being before a first date—and I think back to his Princeton interview. He was crazy nervous and practiced his talking points fifty times before I shut down his anxiety with kisses and an Xbox challenge.

My stroll down memory lane is interrupted by the vibrating in my pocket. I reach into my pocket and pull out his cell phone having forgotten I had it. The screen shows a text message.

Lauren: Hey baby. Looking to play tonight?

I throw his phone on the table in front of him. “You forgot to tell your booty call you left town.”

He lifts the phone and reads the message on the screen. “What makes you think it’s a hookup?”

“It’s two in the morning in New York.”

He grins, mostly to himself as he taps his phone on the table. “Lau’s in L.A., so it’s only eleven. She could honest to goodness just want to hit the clubs.”

“I doubt it.”

He leans on an elbow. “Why are you always so skeptical of me?”

“Do you really want to have this conversation?”

He doesn’t get a chance to retort because the stage ignites with a fiery bang. I hand Jax his beer and take a seat.

The heavy, quick beat of Polynesian drums rattle in the night air as performers take the stage. The women’s grass skirts sway vigorously from their hips as they dance while the men do a series of chanting as they move to the percussion.

I’m so entranced, I momentarily forget where I am until Jax’s elbow brushes against mine.

Next, a man appears on stage in only a grass skirt displaying his massive upper body and thick, corded muscles. The audience gasps at the site of the machete in his hand—the blade wide and dangerous, topped with a metal hook—and lights it on fire.

The ipu drums maintain the rhythm, and he lights the machete with a torch before twirling it like a baton, twisting it in intricate circles. Behind his back, under his legs and around his head, the fiery torch defies gravity as it swings through the air.