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And then he says a word I’ve heard him say a thousand times before. It still feels like knives in my chest every time he says it, though.
“Yes, sir,” I respond, the phrase automatic. “I understand.”
“You understand that everything you do reflects on our family.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” There’s a pause. “Come home tonight. Your mother wants you home for dinner more than once an eon.”
Then the call ends. But my nerves won’t untangle.
I hand the phone back to Donovan’s dad. “Thanks.”
“Feel better,” he says in a growl, which sounds more like get out of my office.
My throat thickens, and I feel myself wanting to get sick again, but I swallow it back. He walks me down the dock and back to the Healing Touch. Makes sure I have everything I need. I get inside and count to five until I can’t hear his footsteps on the planks anymore. Then I dive to the bathroom and puke until nothing else will come up.
I sleep it off for a couple of hours. I’m still feeling a little clammy that evening, but I leave the shelter of the boat and head up the docks.
There’s a family a couple of boats down. A kid, maybe six, is sitting with his dad, who’s teaching him how to fish. The kid looks fascinated as his dad globs a mess of bait on the end of the hook. It makes me grin. And feel sad for some reason I can’t place.
Kenzi and Donovan are still hard at work. They’re buffing and polishing one of the yachts at the far end of the marina. Kenzi is bent over. Not for the first time, I notice how nice her ass looks. The curving arch of her foot when she stands on her toes. That small dip where her shoulder meets her neck. I love that spot on women—I love kissing it. She’s got her hair pulled back today, and as though she feels me staring, she rubs the sweat from her neck, right there.
Which is when she turns, and I smile. Kenzi lights up.
“Man of the hour!” Kenzi calls out.
My heart swells, but I try to play it cool. “Sup?”
“Grab a sponge, Hotshot,” Donovan says.
There’s an extra sponge and bucket on the dock, so I grab both and climb over the railing to join them.
Kenzi hops over to me and glances around furtively before she pulls something out of the bikini bra of her swimsuit. “We made you something,” she whispers.
It’s a piece of paper. I unfold it. When I do, there’s no more playing it cool—I can’t help the dumb grin I feel spreading across my face.
It’s a drawing of me (and a pretty damn good drawing, too) with flames coming out of my mouth like a dragon. I’ve got a star attached to my chest like a sheriff, only it says “#1 Hotshot” with a hot pepper drawn on the badge.
“Aw. Thanks, guys. I look like a superhero.”
“We’re like the Three Musketeers!” Kenzi says.
“The Three Muskets,” I chime in.
“No,” Donovan says, “The Three Muskrats.”
We burst out laughing at that.
22
Kenzi
Hannsett Island isn’t big. You can get around it entirely by bike or—if you’re Jason King—by golf cart. Beyond the marina, there’s the main town which is comprised of one long street. On it—a grocer, a bookstore, an ice cream shop, and a handful of boutique clothing stores, not to mention the required shop for swimwear and pool toys.
Four lives on the north side of the island, where there are resort houses and summer rentals that are identical save the bright colors. Pelican pink, sunflower yellow, lime green.
With the summer winding to a close and no movement from the waitlist on Berklee College, Pearl has decided I need to come up with a “backup plan.” She also figured out that the only way to get me to accomplish said backup plan is to trap me in the house and inform me that I can’t go to the marina until I’ve figured something out.
