Hot-Blooded (9 page)

Excitement electrified his blood as the limo brought him that much closer to his destination on the neighboring property. He was right. He and Kea were heading to the same meeting, which meant his suspicions about her involvement in this new drug ring had been correct.

So, who was she? The big kahuna’s whore? Eye candy brought in to entice potential customers? Taste tester?

He’d find out soon enough. The limo pulled into the swankiest condominiums on the island. The driver leaned out the window and keyed in a code at the gate. Blake eased his car to the curb. The wrought iron swung open, and his quarry disappeared through the imposing bars.

He scoured the street for a convenient place to park and found a spot not far away. He fumbled around in the backseat for his tennis shoes and switched them with his flip-flops. The hunting knife went into the hidden pocket along the inseam of his board shorts. Stuffing buds into his ears, he got out and pretended to be a jogger on an early evening run. Ahead of him, the brake lights of another car lit up at the gates to the condos, and Blake seized the opportunity to sneak in behind it. Grateful the sun had just slipped over the horizon, he hid in the thickening shadows and headed for the building. The well-dressed driver escorted Kea to the door and held it open for her. She said something to him. He nodded and returned to the limo.

As she disappeared into the belly of the glass-fronted building, Blake’s heart matched his legs’ speed. A new car with darkened windows glided onto the property. His instincts fired off another round of nagging intuition, and he swallowed uncomfortably as Butch got out of the vehicle. Something big was going down tonight, and Kea was the least of his worries. He was there to back up Butch as a favor to Scott, and he’d do it without question. Which reminded him … He turned his phone back on. A message from Butch blared:
You here?

Blake texted back:
Yep.

He got a thumbs up as a reply. Dropping his ass to the ground beneath a cluster of palm trees, Blake settled in for a late evening. He removed the sheathed knife and laid it on the dirt. At least he and Butch would finally have some information about the new operation by the end of the night. And if he happened to learn anything more about the mysterious Kea in the process, well, that would be an added bonus.

Butch went up the elevator, and Blake waited.

Twenty minutes later, Blake had finally gotten comfortable in his uncomfortable new digs when a sharp pop echoed from somewhere up high. Gunshot. Adrenaline surging, he jumped to his feet. He unsheathed the knife and readied it to throw or stab, whichever the situation called for. Sweat poured as he searched for the source of the disturbance. The already dim lights on one of the top floor condos went out. Blood pounding, Blake started toward the entrance. His phone vibrated in his pocket.

The message from Butch read
911.

Fuck. Blake raced to the door, prepared to walk into a wall of gunfire if he had to, but shaking inside as Jonathan Williams’s terrified face haunted him.

Another vibration from his phone defused memories of the little boy and replaced them with a new set of problems. The final text from the guy he was supposed to back up contained only one word, which detonated Blake’s naïve notions about today’s afternoon delight with a very big bang.

Pele
.

Chapter Eight

Keahilani had never met with potential dealers by herself before. She’d always had either Manō or Kai with her, and more often than not, both of them. She knew the drill and how to be safe. After the invigorating sexcapades with Blake earlier, she felt empowered enough to take on the world single-handedly.

Now, as she stood in the shadows of the condo before a big
haole
named Butch, she wasn’t so sure.

“Word is you’re lookin’ to expand your business. Whatcha got? Two or three dealers?” Condescension filtered through Butch’s mocking tone. He folded his meaty arms across the barrel of his chest.

Keahilani launched darts at Butch through her sunglasses. “Forty,” she lied with a thick Hawaiian accent. “And change.”

He spread his hands and gestured to the air. “I don’t see nobody. Where are these guys hiding? In the volcanoes?” His grin revealed a gold front tooth. “You Hawaiians love your volcanoes and shit. I guess that’s why they call you Pele, huh?”

A smile eased across her lips. She flipped her lashes upward. Glad of her brown contact lenses, she gazed at him over the top of the glasses and shot a black kid-gloved hand to his shirt. Clenching the fabric in a ball, she said in a controlled tone, “No. They call me Pele because I have a nasty temper.” Despite her smaller size, she shoved him, unlatching his feet from the floor and causing him to stumble a couple of steps.

Butch righted himself and smoothed his designer shirt, which didn’t remotely go with the scar on his neck, the facial piercings, or the prison tattoos peeking from under his rolled-up sleeves. “Maybe I need to give you a lesson in anger management.” He slid his gaze to Keahilani’s breasts hidden under the folds of her coat.

She’d dealt with assholes like him before. They understood strength, power, and dollar signs, not the art of negotiation. She stood tall before him.

“I have a proposition for you, Butch.” She eased around the island in the middle of the spacious kitchen, careful to stay out of the light as much as possible, and straightened his tie. “I’m interested in moving my product into the rest of Maui County, and I understand you have connections on Lāna‘i and Moloka‘i.”

His neutral expression betrayed nothing. “You don’t wanna bother with small-time islands like those. There’s richer brains to fry northwest of here.”

Oahu didn’t appeal to her. Yet. She’d rather keep the business local for a year and slowly grow it into something bigger. She eased off her trench coat, subtly stroking the pocket to ensure the stolen .45 was still there. Good to go.

His brow lifted at the siren-red couture dress. She fiddled absently with one of the straps on her shoulder. The scent of warm leather caressed her nose. “Northwest is no good for my tan.”

A big, hairy hand grabbed her wrist and twisted. Hard. “Fuck your tan.”

And here was where things went south. The muscle inside her chest pounded in a frenzied rhythm. She hadn’t planned on actually using the gun. She was a drug dealer, not a murderer. Her thoughts raced through a million frightening scenarios at once. He leaned close enough for her to smell the fading liquor on his breath.

Keep calm, Keahilani. Show no fear. You’re Mahina’s daughter. She battled bigger bastards than this asswipe and always came out on top.

She sucked in a long, slow breath she hoped concealed her terror under the guise of casual control, and jerked out of his grip. “Don’t touch me again. You won’t like how it ends.” Flexing her sweating fingers inside the glove, she forced a low and threatening tone.

She straightened, ready to swing her coat and club him with the hidden gun if he tried anything else. He made no further moves. A long standoff full of unspoken threats ensued. Praying she’d made her point, she continued. “As I was saying, my Pāhoehoe strain is a new, very potent hybrid that recently hit the streets, and fans are already going wild for it. Demand is high. Supply is limited. Anyone with a vague understanding of economics knows what that means.

“You have a wide net of contacts in Maui County. There’s great potential for a mutually beneficial relationship. I’m willing to reward you for giving me access to your buyers. I can put you on my payroll and let you service them yourself, or I can pay you a fee in exchange for names and contact information and let my people handle it. Your choice.”

He swiped the underside of his nose and chuckled. “You think you can come in here and bully me into working with you? You got some balls of steel, lady.” He gestured to the empty apartment. “I don’t see no backup. Who’s gonna mop you up when I get finished with ya, huh?” He laughed in earnest.

She smiled coldly. “I always have backup. Do what you like. The offer will remain on the table for twenty-four hours. After that, I’ll discuss the proposition with the next distributor on my very long list.” She withdrew a business card from her built-in bra, with nothing on it but a burner phone number, and pressed it into his palm. “I do hope you’ll call.”

Stifling a relieved sigh that she’d soon be out of here, Keahilani turned toward the door.

And was yanked backward by her dress straps.

She lost her balance as Butch spun her and shoved the saddle of her back against the island. Her breath exploded in a hurried rush. She lifted her arms to fight him off, but he was too big. A swift knee to the groin only pissed him off more.

Okay, this was definitely an emergency situation. Kind of like drowning. What would she do if she were rag-dolled by a wave and ate it hard? First and foremost, she wouldn’t panic. Freak-outs ended lives. With a couple of blinks and visualizations of the ocean, she settled into an alert but calm internal peace and searched her surroundings for a way out that didn’t involve the gun.

Shit got real. Butch pressed a thigh to hers, pinning her in place as he unbuttoned his fly and lowered the zipper. This guy meant business, and she had no one to back up her bluff.

Damn pride. She knew better than to come here alone. If Butch didn’t kill her, Kai certainly would.

He leaned close to her mouth. “You may think you control Maui, bitch, but you got it all wrong. My boss will carve you up and stuff you into a tin of Spam when I finish with you.” He grinned. “And then he’ll take your product and make it his.”

“Fat chance. I’m not telling you shit.”

His grin widened. “I think you will.” Cunning, devious mayhem dressed in ugly, life-ending intentions danced behind his eyes.

He tore the strap off her shoulder, exposing her breast, and he bit it hard enough to bruise. She suppressed the urge to cry out and cuffed his ears instead. He didn’t budge. Just laughed the sick, perverted laugh of a man about to perpetrate some hard-core violence on an innocent.

Terror seized her, and for a split second, her entire body fell into a weird flux of black uncertainty. Shadows danced before her eyes, little demons inciting her to act. Trapped in a moment of suspended time, she had two choices: fight or submit. Submission had never been an option for her. With anything.

Keahilani conserved her energy and focused on maintaining a controlled outer demeanor while she plotted her one and only move. Because one shot was all she’d get in the few seconds between now and him raping her.

While he occupied himself with ripping the remainder of the dress off, her hand crept through the trench coat she’d dropped beside her on the granite countertop. It took every ounce of restraint she had not to scream bloody murder or give in to the instincts urging her to go berserk on him.

She played the shocked, tear-stricken damsel in distress, the naïve victim who’d fallen into unexpected trouble and gotten in way over her head—which, she had. But a dim presence rooted inside this victim demanded she blow Butch’s dick off and worry about the consequences later. Attempted rape justified an appropriate reaction. And the longer Butch’s stench fouled her nose, the louder her appetite for destruction growled.

Her round hips were the speed bump that held up the tight dress’s downward progress. Thank God for curves. As he struggled to get her naked amid her dramatic, sobbing protests, her fingers hit metal. Domination dressed in submissive garb replaced the ebbing fear. Familiar heat pooled, bubbled, and mingled with the growing darkness inside her. Control was such a beautiful thing. Especially when upended on those who thought they owned it.

She kissed the muzzle against his temple and smiled. He froze for a second, then lifted his hands as he backed up a step. Her beautiful red dress hung from her waist, breasts exposed, wig crooked. She straightened the hair, but didn’t bother with the rest.

The burden of indecision fell before her like a feather sweeping the air. It landed delicately on the scales of justice. The weight of morality fell into place as its counterbalance. A surge of uninhibited, dark power coursed through her as she channeled the goddess—or at least Keahilani’s version of her.

Butch nodded to the gun. “Now, take it easy with that. We don’t want nobody getting hurt.”

She burst into laughter. “Oh, I think we do.” Her gaze slithered to his open fly and the cock shriveling like a deflating balloon. She nudged the flaccid flesh with the gun’s barrel. It retreated into his pants. What a fun target that would make. She licked her lips.

Keahilani would like nothing more than to call the cops and have this prick hauled off to jail for attempted rape. But if she let him go, he’d rat her out to his “boss,” and he’d send someone else with stronger hands and a bigger dick to put her in the ground. Then, her ‘ohana would be compromised and targeted, which was not fucking acceptable.

If it came down to it, she could give up her small but profitable little drug empire, but
not
if her family would be impacted. She’d promised Mahina she would take care of her brothers no matter what.