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Twenty-Six
Malakai
You’re a fucking arsehole. I don’t want to speak to you or see you. Got it?!
“Yeah, I’ve got it,”I mutter, chucking my mobile phone onto my bed. Lola’s latest message stings, but not as much as the fact that Connie is going on a date tonight with that little prick-arsehole-cunt-bastard Peter. My body is filled with anxiety at the thought and I’mnotan anxious man. Connie has gotten under my skin and it’s making me weak.
I’mnotgoddamn weak.
Only when it comes to Little Siren, a voice inside my head taunts me.
“Fuck!” I drop down on my bed and grasp my hair. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
After hours of failed attempts at finding out who the little creep really is, and about two dozen text messages from a very angry Lola, I’m losing the fucking will to live. I’m getting nowhere fast, and I’m going to have to admit defeat and call in some favours. Over the years I’ve met quite a few interesting characters, some of whom I’ve kept in contact with. I happen to know a very talented hacker and whilst I’ve never met him in person, he has always come through for me. It’s been a while since I’ve reached out to him for help but needs must.
My gut tells me that little prick Peter is trouble and he’s taking Connie out on a damn date.
Striding over to my laptop, I fire off a quick message to JMSBOND. Yeah, the irony isn’t lost on me. The guys clearly a James Bond geek given his hacker codename.
After a minute or two I get a short response.
Get me a photo and I’ll get you what you need.
Fantastic.
Sighing heavily, I switch off my laptop and stow it away in its hiding place then grab my mobile phone and shove on my shoes, heading out of the boat.
It doesn’t take me long to find Connie and Peter. He’s nothing if not predictable. The little arsehole is wooing her at their workplace. Stands to reason, given there really is fuck all else for a couple of young kids to do on this island. Actually, that’s not strictly true. There’s a great deal to do on this island, you just have to be a little less dense and a little more creative.
Now, if I were to take Connie on a date it certainly wouldn’t be to Lola’s Shack. As much as I’m impressed by my friend’s ability to capitalise on a gap in the market, it’s not exactly my idea of a great first date…
What the fuck am I thinking? I don’t do dates. I don’t do relationships full stop. I need to get my head out of my arse and back into the game. Connie’s safety is my priority, not my pathetic excuse of a heart. Still, I can’t help but feel a little smug knowing that Connie would rather take a picnic on the bluff where the lighthouse sits and watch the ocean change colour under the sunset than spend a few hours with a bunch of drunk arse fishermen who she serves daily. Not that it matters because I’ll never take Connie on that date.
Fortunately for me, Connie and Peter are both standing outside The Shack chatting with a couple of the younger fishermen. Of course my attention is immediately drawn to Connie. She seems carefree and a darn sight happier than she was earlier today. That rankles me a bit. Then again, what the fuck did I expect? I’d hurt her and now she’s pushing back. I might not like it, but I sure as fuck have got to suck it up. For now at least. When I know she’s out of danger I’ll leave her well alone. Ma Silva will get her wish.
Leaning against the harbour wall, shrouded in shadow, I snap a few shots of Peter being careful not to get Connie in the picture. Thank God for long summer nights and the light we still have at 9pm. Once I’m happy I’ve got enough clear shots, I switch to the dark web and message JMSBOND the images. He acknowledges receipt.
Give me a week. I’ve got other things going on.
A fucking week, is he for real? Knowing that I don’t have much of a choice but to wait, and not happy to leave Connie with Peter unchaperoned this evening, I fire off another message to the only person here on the island I can trust who won’t ask questions… Grant.
Connie is with the little prick at Lola’s Shack. Follow them. Make sure she’s safe. Text me if anything untoward happens.
I watch as the three floating bubbles appear whilst he’s typing his response.
Seriously?
“When am I not fucking serious?” I mumble, inwardly cursing him.Don’t piss me off.
I can almost see him rolling his eyes. If I were a better man, I would have at least said please. I’m not.
Fine. You owe me.
There’s no need for me to respond, I know Grant’s good for it.
Tucking my phone away, and keeping to the shadows, I take one last lingering look at Connie, admiring her shapely legs encased in a pair of dark blue skin-tight jeans, and head off to Ma Silva’s. With every step further away from her I wonder how I’m going to get through the next few hours knowing she’s withPeter-Who-Isn’t-Really-Peterand his wandering fucking hands.
* * *
