Nothing else about today has gone as planned.
I’m leaning into the unexpected and salvaging what I can.
Considering I intend to ruin Chandler Sullivan’s life the minute I set foot in his hometown, it wouldn’t be bad for me to do a few good deeds myself.
No matter how much he deserves it.
“The last time I took someone with me for a string of good deeds, four chickens terrorized the grocery store for a full weekend and the town council asked me to refrain from participating in Random Acts of Kindness Day ever again,” Duchess says.
I don’t even know her real name, and I am all-in on spending the rest of my time in Hawaii with this woman. “I’ve officially been warned. And I’ve had a shitty day that should be balanced with good karma as well. Would it count as a good deed if you took me out on your string of good deeds so that I can have fun and improve the world too?”
She hesitates for another long breath.
But then she slips off the stool, going back to being even shorter, and she takes my hand.
Electricity jolts through my entire body.
I don’t know who she is. I don’t know why she’s having a bad day. I don’t know how much I’ll regret this tomorrow.
“Punishment comes in all forms,” she mutters to herself.
Oh, yes.
This will be a night to remember.
2
Grey
I’m embarking on a mission of evil for the first time in my life—I prefer justice, but I’m well aware it’ll be called evil, so I’ll own it—and the world is testing me. Making me face the fact that karma is real.
How, you ask?
By presenting me with the woman that I would, in this moment, abandon all of my plans for to move wherever she lives and to do good deeds with her day in and day out.
I know this is temporary. It’s infatuation with a gorgeous distraction. It’s a consolation prize for my day going sideways after finally having something right within reach. It’s fun.
But I don’t care.
This is the first time I’ve felt content to just be with anyone who isn’t Zen or Mimi in ages. I want to be near her, to listen to her talk about people I don’t know, and to watch her do what she’s doing right now.
Which is bending over, her curvy ass in the air, her skirt riding up almost enough for me to see the very bottom of that ass, while she refills a dog’s water bowl outside a closed-up shop down the beach from where we met a few hours ago.
The moon reflects off the ocean while the surf rolls to shore. It crashes over lava rocks among the sand just beyond a half wall on the other side of the walkway where we’ve paused. Everything smells like coconut and flowers and salt.
And I’m not bunching my shoulders or grinding my teeth or curling my hands into fists.
I’m simply here. And happy.
“There you go, you sweet thing,” she croons to the mutt, who wags his tail and attacks the water bowl. “Who’s a good puppers? Who’s such a good puppers?”
I want to be her good puppers.
I want the rest of the world to not exist, and for me to be her good puppers.
This is a sign that I need to head back to my hotel room and appreciate this for what it’s been and quit thinking it could be anything more.
Instead, I stick my hands in my pockets and rock back on my feet while I try to get my cock under control. Touching my phone helps.
I should chuck the thing in the ocean, but I don’t litter. Especially with electronics in the ocean. “Are you the resident dog lady who feeds all of the strays back home?”
“No, but I can tell you that Mr. Trix’s dogs should not be at the dog park the same time as Mrs. Pebbles’s dogs. They each think it’s the other’s fault, but I can guarantee you that Mr. Trix’s dog is the problem.”
Every time she uses cereal as code names for people she knows, I wonder if she knows who I am.
But the next minute, she’s calling people Ms. or Mr. Sports Team or Little Coffee Style and talking about property boundary wars and power struggles between shop owners in a business owners association and who plays drums while the baby next door is trying to sleep, and I’m back to being utterly charmed.
“Do you have a dog?” I ask.
“We’re not talking about me.”
“You’re much more interesting than Mr. Trix.”
She straightens, looks around, and for the first time since we left the kombucha bar four hours ago, instead of charging off to the next task so fast on her chunky boots that I have to hustle to keep up with her, she makes it maybe ten steps continuing in the direction we were headed—which is very close to my hotel—before she stops.