Page 14 of The Malibu Destiny

I shake my head. How do I explain this without sounding like an even bigger asshole? Then I remember: this is Caspian, my best friend since I was five. If I can’t tell him, who can I tell?

“Remember that psychic I hired for the resort?”

“Yeah— the beautiful woman who’s got you enchanted.”

I nod. Not going to try to deny that she has me enchanted because why? It’s the truth.

“She did a tarot reading the other day and brought up something I’ve always denied: I’ve been blaming my brother Max for things he couldn’t control.”

I admit how I’ve harbored resentment toward Max, even though it makes no sense—if Mom hadn’t died and Dad hadn’t lost it, Max wouldn’t exist. I hate that I’ve ever wished he weren’t born.

Caspian nods thoughtfully. “Good that it came up. It’s like a splinter under your skin, festering until you pull it out. You’re digging it out now. As for overcoming anger toward your brother—and your father—that’s a bigger challenge.”

My chest tightens. Max is innocent; I love him. But Dad made a choice—he walked away when we were kids, left without explanation. I can’t forgive that.

Caspian meets my gaze. “You’ve got scar tissue years in the making. Use your rage, your sorrow, to become the fighter you’re meant to be. You can win this charity tournament. It’s about pride and it’ll be great PR for the resort. I believe in you. Now, let’s get back to sparring.”

We spend the next hour drilling—my knuckles splitting against the heavy bag, sweat dripping into my eyes as Caspian calls out combinations. My muscles burn through jiu-jitsu sequences, the satisfying thud of my body hitting the mat again and again. By the time we finish grappling, my rashguard is soaked through and my lungs feel scorched. I finally tap out, shower off the day's demons, and head back to the resort with my gym bag slung over my aching shoulder.

On the drive home, I feel calmer than I have in ages. The workout cleared my head, and a thread of reason about my father emerges. I don’t want to be alone anymore. Even though I’ve felt like an outsider in my own family, I know my brothers have my back—and I have theirs. I just hate feeling marooned.

And, damn it, I’m eager to get back—because Lilith will be there. I don’t want to admit I’m excited to see her, but I can’t stop it. Somehow, this hippie has gotten under my skin—and, surprisingly, I don’t mind.

Chapter Ten

LILITH

I catch sight of him across the room and my heart skips. "Blake Walsh!” His name escapes my lips before I can stop it. Those summers when we were kids feel both like yesterday and a lifetime ago. Now his face beams down from billboards, his voice fills stadiums worldwide, and I've got every album he's ever released.

I've watched his journey from those early days—just a kid shuttling between worlds, spending summers with his dad in L.A. while his mother raised him the rest of the year in Dublin—to the global phenomenon he's become today. The boy who once carried a backpack through LAX three months each year now has his name on billboards in every major city.

I used to beg him for stories about his Irish village—tales of emerald hills rolling into the wild Atlantic, morning mist hanging over ancient stone walls. Our Venice beaches have their own beauty, but they’re sun-scorched, drought-stricken. In my imagination, Ireland was everything Los Angeles wasn't—verdant, rain-kissed, a place where the earth itself seems more alive.

He bursts into my cabana and wraps me in a bear hug that smells of expensive cologne and jet fuel. "My lass! When I heard you were here, I couldn't stay away. Always told you you'd make it big someday, didn't I? Look at you now—reading fortunes for the elite!"

I snort. Blake's idea of "making it big" is relative. This from the man whose face is plastered across Times Square billboards, who’s sold 100 million records, whose last world tour grossed a billion dollars, whose trophy room needs its own zip code to house all his Grammys.

Meanwhile, my "empire" consists of a drafty shop on Venice Beach where I sell crystals to sunburned tourists, and now this—a part-time gig shuffling cards for bored socialites. The closest I've come to fame is standing three feet away from someone who's been on a Variety cover—him.

Blake plops into the chair across from me, his face flushed and sporting that trademark grin that never quite reaches his bloodshot eyes today. I've always adored his Irish charm, but something's definitely amiss.

"Come on then, deal those cards and read my future. And honestly, Lilith? You're missing a marketing opportunity with your name. Something flashy like 'Madame Moonbeam' would bring in the big spenders."

I snort while shuffling. "Please. Lilith was literally Adam's first wife who told the Almighty to shove it, then spent eternity seducing men and stealing babies. Not to mention being the lead succubus - you know, the demons who have sex with men in their sleep. I’d say that's sufficiently on-brand." I study him while cutting the deck. "You're looking rough around the edges. Your aura's practically the color of wet cement."

Blake winces. "Had a wee disagreement with a bottle of Jameson last night. Apparently I threatened the koi pond's dignity in ways I won't repeat. The video's making rounds, but my publicist is handling damage control.” He shrugs. “Ah, I’ve seen worse than this mess. You know it's been a proper night when your morning begins with a mental list of apologies. The resort staff received either premium flower arrangements or top-shelf whiskey, depending on gender and severity of my offenses."

I can only smile sympathetically. Show me someone who claims they've never made an absolute fool of themselves after too many drinks, and I'll show you a teetotaler or a liar. We've all been there—myself definitely included.

I shuffle the cards, their worn edges catching as I separate them into two stacks on the velvet cloth. My bangles clink against the table. Blake hesitates, then chooses the left deck. I lay out the Celtic cross, each card landing with a soft thump. The reversed Queen of Swords appears next to the Tower card. Someone broke his heart—badly.

I tap the card with my turquoise ring. "The cards don't lie, Blake. See this King of Wands here? That's you." I point to the next card. "And the Fool—that's your path. You’ll be embarking on a new journey soon. With the Queen of Cups right here." I slide my finger to the center where a darker card lies. "But the Devil crosses you." I look up, meeting his bloodshot eyes. "Your liver could use a break from all that Jameson."

Blake's laugh is warm but hollow, his bloodshot eyes crinkling at the corners. "Christ, wish I would’ve seen you yesterday - I wouldn’t have gotten into that bloody fight with Jameson, a fight I clearly lost, judging by this hangover. Now tell me. You mentioned the Queen of Cups. What does that mean?”

I smile. "Ah, the Queen of Cups." I tap the card where a robed woman holds a chalice. "She represents compassion, and she's facing your future position." I glance up at Blake across my small table. "Something's coming for you soon."

Blake's cards show his journey: the reversed Queen of Swords retreating into shadow while the Queen of Cups rises, bringing her intuition and compassion into his future. The symmetry of these twin journeys from criticism to care makes me smile.