Each gaze says something different.
I want you.
I’m imagining you naked.
You don’t belong here.
This is a man’s world.
I’ve learned not to let the inappropriate stares and whispers bother me. There was a time I would have pummeled each and every guy who dared to look at me or comment about my appearance. But I’ve learned it’s not worth my time. Sometimes, my body is even an asset.
I’ve considered dressing more conservatively, at least when I’m here. But that’s not who I am. And honestly, I like the stares. The stares expose each man’s true self. They tell me the men I should stay away from. They tell me the honest men from the pigs.
My clothes are a test. My jean shorts barely contain my ass; the front pockets hang lower than the hem. My cut-off shirt reveals my tanned stomach and dips down, showing my more than adequate cleavage. And my hair is loose in a long mane of thick waves. The island is windy, and my brunette locks are constantly in my face. But when I flip my hair, it’s the ultimate test. The men can’t resist a good hair flip. It’s like I’m calling out to them, alerting them to a hot female in their presence. And every man on the pier failed.
I smirk as I walk off the pier with my duffel bag over my shoulder. I find my white 1980 Toyota Land Cruiser parked right where I left it three months ago when I was last here. Three months—such a long time, but it also feels like no time has passed at all.
I prefer the sailboat to the island. The ocean is unpredictable; you never know if you will live or die. You have to constantly be on your guard. You have to be prepared for anything.
I unlock my car and toss the duffel bag in the back seat.
I guess life on the island is the same. Each day is a struggle to live. On the ocean, it’s just me and the water. Here—there is more than one danger I have to deal with. The men on the island are my biggest threat.
I climb into the driver’s seat and turn the key in the ignition, which, I’m happy to say, starts. I’ve come back from many trips when the car wouldn’t start. Or it was stolen. The fact that it starts is a win. I back out of the beachside parking lot. It’s one of only three free spots you can park in long term.
A shadow crosses in my rearview mirror. I slam on the breaks to avoid hitting the tall man standing behind my car.
“Shit.”
I grip the wheel like my life depends on me hanging onto the wheel. I pant heavily as beads of sweat form on my forehead. I run my hand through my hair, changing the direction of my part from left to right. And then I let my eyes flicker up to look into the rearview mirror and pray I didn’t hurt the man. Hopefully, he’s still standing.
But when I look into the rearview mirror, I don’t expect what I see.
The man is still there, but his face is only barely visible in the mirror. He towers over my SUV. He’s standing in ripped jeans and a snug white T-shirt that barely fits his bulging biceps. His body is tall, fit, and rugged. But that isn’t what draws me to him. His face does. It’s a face I’ve seen before. Dark scruff clings to his chin, not in the messy I-don’t-care-what-I-look-like kind of way that most men on the island wear. His looks like it is a part of him. It’s tidy and neat. His hair is pulled back into a messy man bun. Not something I would usually be attracted to, but on him, his hair brings out the beast below the surface. But his eyes are what have me captive. I recognize the brown ambers of his eyes.
The same eyes I pulled from the ocean a little over three months ago.
He’s alive.
I wasn’t sure if he would make it. When I pulled him from the water and saw the damage his body had been through, I was afraid I would arrive in town with a dead man in tow. Somehow he hung on, even though he was clearly hallucinating. He called me his angel. But I don’t think he meant that I was an angel because I saved his life. At one point, I think he actually thought he was dead, that he was in heaven, and that I was a real angel.
But this man lived long enough for me to get him to the island. I shoved him in the back of this very beater. I glance at the backseat that is still stained red with his blood. No matter how much scrubbing I did, I couldn’t get it out. I knew for sure he was going to die as I drove him to get medical help. But again, he proved me wrong. For a man so intent on dying when I first jumped into the water to save him, he sure as hell fought to live once I pulled him out.
Even though he survived the hours it took to get to the island, the car ride to get medical help didn’t mean he was out of the woods. Our small hospital doesn’t have the same level of equipment and care most hospitals have. It wouldn’t have been enough to save him. Which is why I didn’t drive him to the hospital. I drove him into danger, but it was the only way I could think of to save his life.
And it paid off. The man is alive. Despite me almost running him over with my car. How ironic would that be? It took every ounce of energy and determination I had to save him three months ago, only to run him over with my car and kill him in a split second now.
I never thought I’d see him again. I thought one of two things would have happened by now. He’d either be dead or gone. No one stays on this island long term if they know what’s good for them. They flee the first chance they get. Sure, tourists always say they’d love to live here. But they don’t really mean it. The island is paradise and hell. Its beauty draws men in, only to torture them with regret as soon as they make the island their home.
So what is the man still doing here?
What was his name again?
I pushed his name from my mind. I knew I couldn’t keep his name in my thoughts. His name would haunt me. When I saved him, I knew there would be unforeseen consequences of my actions. It hasn’t happened yet, but it will.
Enzo?
Kai?
No, neither was his name. Just names he muttered in his sleep.
The man’s eyes cut to mine, and I think he remembers me as his head tilts to the side to try and study me better. But he can’t see me, at least not enough of me to make a positive ID. My windows are tinted to help keep the burning sun out of my car and so I can’t be seen.
He can’t see me.
But maybe he senses the change in the air—the familiar unease growing in my belly with him near. I don’t know why everything changes with this man near. And not in a good way. I’ve never felt my pulse race so quickly, my stomach flips in unsettling ways, and I’m nibbling nervously on my bottom lip, like that is somehow going to help.
“Zeke,” one of the men from the pier shouts in our direction.
Zeke—that was his name. It fits him. It’s a powerful sounding name. And he must be a powerful man to have survived this long. The island wears people down, but he looks better, stronger. I study him closer, trying to decide if he has money. His clothes don’t give me any designer, rich person vibes. The man shouting for him is just a fisherman who doesn’t make a lot of money. All the signs say he is nothing. Probably doesn’t even have enough money to buy a plane ticket off the island. Or maybe he has amnesia and doesn’t know where to buy a plane ticket to? Or even how to access his bank account?
No.
This man doesn’t carry himself like he doesn’t know who he is. He stands tall and proud. The twinkle in his eye tells me he’s a man that likes to laugh and live well, yet he prefers to use his size to intimidate any person he perceives as a threat. The look now is meant to tell me to back off, that he could kill me with his fists alone. I don’t doubt that he could, but I also see the softness in his eyes. It’s a deadly combination. He can make any man fall to his knees in fear, while every woman would fall to their knees in front of him for a very different reason.