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Chapter 21
Hooked
Lochlan
“All I’m saying is we can still try things my way.” I raise my brows at Stella, who seems to be dealing with her frustration by sucking down her piña colada like it’s a race. I’m sure she’s glaring at me behind her sunglasses.
“Maybe it was an accident?” she offers, unconvinced, and digs her toes farther into the sand. We’re standing down the shore from the beach club, which reminds me of an elevated version of Margaritaville.
“I would love to know who accidentally cuts off someone’s dick so I can stay the fuck away from them.” I laugh.
“A sex game gone wrong?” She scrunches her nose, the agitation of not knowing clearly getting to her. After last night’s near-death fiasco with the Jakšics, we are officially out of suspects. Especially since the search of Jeffery’s office didn’t turn up any new leads.
“Damn, baby, that might be a little too kinky even for me.” That wins me a small laugh, and a light flares in my chest. I’m addicted to making her smile, even if it’s just when she rolls her eyes at me.
We both turn around at the sound of someone talking over the speakers by the beach bar. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but it’s followed by enthused applause. A few moments later, music begins playing again and someone starts singing.
Beaming, I look at Stella. “Hunting killers can wait until after karaoke.” I sweep up her free hand and my stomach somersaults when she interlaces her fingers with mine, running along with me back to the club area.
It’s a large open patio with a reed-roof stage at one end and a small building at the other for bathrooms. The side that doesn’t open up to the beach is lined with a fully stocked and manned bar. Unlike the skimpy outfits worn by the cigarette girls at Libidine, these employees are dressed in tropical print shirts. It’s hard to believe both places exist on the same island.
But the dichotomy is part of what makes it so fun. Both ends of extremes make everything feel more fantastical. In a bizarre way, it reminds me of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, like something created in a dream.
I order a beer then go to join Stella where she’s leaning against the back building, watching some poor sucker struggle their way through “Sweet Home Alabama.” Karaoke must be popular because the tables are full of boisterous guests.
I stop halfway just to admire her. She’s wearing the same pink crochet dress she wore to my family’s pool party. It does nothing to hide the long, lean lines of her body. I want to trace every inch of her with my hands, my tongue, memorize every slope and valley until I can sculpt her likeness into a block of clay.
She lifts her sunglasses on top of her head, and I’m struck dumb by how beautiful she is. It’s incredulous that those warm and soulful eyes have looked at me with need and desire. That her full lips have hungrily commanded mine. She’s flawless on the outside and fucking perfect on the inside too.
Her sharp wit and mind, her fierce love and staggering loyalty . . . It’s hard to believe someone as defined and self-assured as her might choose someone as royally fucked up as I am.
I don’t deserve her, but fucking hell, I’m going to keep her.
I walk the rest of the way to her and match her position standing against the wall. Our arms press alongside each other, and even the small contact makes my heart race.
She’s mine. She’s fucking mine.
Even if only for this moment.
The song wraps up, and I nudge Stella. “Are you gonna do it?”
She balks with an amused smile. “Hell no. I can’t sing for shit.”
“Hey, I’ve been to Easter service with your family—I know you can sing.” I tip my beer at her.
“Yeah, maybe when no one’s listening to me.” She shakes her head and clutches her drink.
“I was listening.” I give her an encouraging smile, and she shakes her head again. I get a rise out of pushing her, despite knowing she’ll never agree.
It’s not really a matter of bravery or confidence. Stella is fearless when she puts her mind to something. But she’s also a realist and a perfectionist. Why do something if you’re not going to be the best at it? There’s a vulnerability to not caring that she runs from.
“But even so, you don’t need to sing well to sing karaoke.”
She smirks tauntingly. “In that case, you should have no problem getting up there.”
I kick off the wall and move in front of her. Tilting her chin with my thumb, I brush a kiss on her lips, soft and quick. She barely has time to register it, her pretty brown eyes wide as I push my beer into her hands and scurry away.
“I’ll serenade you any day, réalta,” I shout, grinning as I jog backward so I can see her face light up with an entertained smile.
