Good Vibrations (Welcome to Paradise)

Good Vibrations

eBook Edition

Copyright © S.L. Scott, 2013

All Rights Reserved.

Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1-940071-05-3

Cover design by Sarah Hansen at OkayCreations.com

Cover image by Yuri Arcurs

A Personal Note

It takes a team and my team is beyond amazing.

To my dearest Becca, Cejsmom, Elaine, Flavia,

Heather M., Irene, Jada D’Lee, Jenn, Lisa C., Lisa M.,

Marla, Mary, Susi, and Suzanne.

I say Mahalo Me Ke Aloha Pumehana.

To my family who is everything to me,

Aloha Au Ia 'O
e
.

Mahalo
.

Chapter 1

“Flight attendants, please prepare the cabin for landing. And to our passengers, the crew would like to take this opportunity to thank you for choosing our airline to start your Hawaiian adventure. Aloha!”

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes just as the tires touch the ground and we land with a hard bump and a strong pull back. Palm trees and floral bushes surround the Oahu airport. The plastic plane window has yellowed and is scratched, but the expanse of blue in the sky and green flora on the ground is a marked difference from the mountainous landscape of Colorado that I
’m used to. After months of planning, I’m finally here. The realization that I get to spend the next two and a half months, my summer break from university, in this tropical paradise makes me smile.

Walking through the crowded terminal toward baggage claim, I squeeze through the gathered sea of Hawaiian shirts, flip-flops, and leis. I pass through the secured area and encounter kissing families, couples hugging, and hear endless
‘alohas
.’ None of it holds my attention. What does is a young couple, around my age—early twenties—kissing with abandon. The tall, wild-locked boy with sun-lightened brown hair could easily be mistaken for an earthbound Hawaiian God. My stomach tightens with envy of the girl who is lucky enough to receive untamed passion from such a hot looking guy.

Jealousy can be the killer of confidence and often is for me. Unreasonable irritation settles in as I become frustrated with my lack of self-esteem, and huff.  '
Stupid, pretty, blonde girl
.' I allow my opinion of her to be voiced freely inside my head. It doesn’t bring relief to reality, but it does make me feel a bit better.

The perfect looking couple is entrancing and my eyes stay locked on them as my pace slows. While observing their amorous interaction, my gaze is drawn to his physical perfection. That’s when I see that she is clearly more into the kiss than he is. My eyes trail from long lashes down a few days of unshaven stubble to his lips which part as I stare. He speaks and the second I hear his voice, my world shifts on its axis. "I'll call you," he says, rubbing her shoulders with reassurance. 

"You promised to write too." She’s pouting as a tear slips down her cheek.

Do guys really find sulking girls sexy?

He wipes the tear away from her cheek and gives her a small, inauspicious smile. Just as she wraps her arms around his neck, his eyes lift up and meet mine. I continue to stare when he tells her, “I’ll write every day.” He embraces her, but at the same time, with an air of arrogance, he flirts with me—a smug smile aimed directly at me.

Over her shoulder, his eyes stay bound to mine as he feeds her another line and my axis shifts right back onto its normal rotation.
What a jerk!

When I pass them, he tells the pouty girl, "I'll miss you. Don't forget to text to let me know you landed safely." After a quick peck on her lips, he turns and leaves her standing there alone with her tears.

I look down at my feet and shake my head, disgusted that he just flirted with me while kissing his girlfriend goodbye.
Guess guys aren't any different in Hawaii than they are back home.
I may be in paradise, but I can’t escape the fact that guys are the same everywhere.  This realization causes my anxiety and disappointment to spike.

Removing my large suitcase from the carousel is a struggle for my five-four frame. An older man in a colorful floral design shirt grabs it, setting it upright on the wheels for me. “Thanks,” I say, but he’s already down the line chasing his Samsonite spinner that mine had trapped on the belt.

I can handle the hard case once it’s on the wheels and pull it to the curb to wait for my ride. After laying it down on its side, I sit on top of it and begin searching through my carry-on bag for a cigarette. I feel the need to alleviate the stress that has built up in the last ten minutes, defeating the calm I experienced on the long, uneventful flight. Smoking is a bad habit I picked up in the last six months. I don’t smoke all the time, but when I’m stressed, I crave the nicotine. It’s another thing to add to my growing list of things I want to change. That’s what this summer is all about. It’s the summer I break free from the protective barriers I’ve built and live my life without boundaries or judgments.

My hair has grown out. I probably should have gotten a haircut while I was on the mainland, but my flight here was a day after finals ended. I grab my long brown hair out of my face and spin it into a sloppy knot at the nape of my neck. It won’t hold long, but hopefully long enough for me to dig through the bag with an unobstructed view.

While waiting for that adventure to begin, I become frustrated because I still can’t find a damn cigarette.  Anxious, I glance at my watch, realizing I didn't change the time to make up for the four hour time zone difference. I quickly unhook my watch and turn the dial. From behind, a familiar male voice sweeps over me. "Do you need the local time?"

Looking up, I see Mr. I-might-have-a-girlfriend-but-I-can-still-flirt standing just a mere two feet from me. Now I really need a cigarette. Ignoring him, I turn back to my bag again, feeling desperate to find that sinful pleasure that will make me feel better.

"Are you here on vacation?" He's persistent. I’ll give him that, but he's still not worth my time after that gross and disrespectful display inside.

I finally find my much needed cancer stick and ease it into my mouth, savoring the feel of it while anticipating the relief it will bring.

A lighter appears in front of me. Without bothering to look up, I move forward into the fire. I try to ignore the ridiculously handsome guy as he tries to pick me up after sending his girlfriend away.

He's unsettling and… confusing, and apparently doesn't take a hint, so I make myself crystal clear. "Just so you know, your bullshit lines won’t work on me. Anyway, I'm sure there’s a fresh batch of girls about to land who are looking for that fling they will always remember and reflect upon fondly for the rest of their lives."

The Hawaiian God's heat emanates from beside me.

He’s too good looking.

He's too close.

"Speaking of bullshit, a thank you would be nice," he says, moving to stand in front of me.

“For what?” I ask.

“For the light.”

"Thank you," I mumble, rolling my eyes and wishing my ride was here to save me from this situation.

"That didn’t sound sincere."

"That's because it wasn’t." I tilt my head, take a long drag, and look up into his blue eyes. Yep, it’s official. He’s too good looking with bad intentions mixed in. That combination does all kinds of tingly things to me—good and bad.

"Bitter much?"

I stand, stubbing the remains of my cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. Without a word, I  lift my suitcase and drag it about twenty feet away from the pretty boy who seems to get what he wants too often in life. Not only do I not have time to waste on guys like him, but I’m also way too selfish to even want to compete with their egos. My ex was too much work. I’m not looking for a repeat of that relationship.

He remains standing where I left him on the curb, and I look down at my phone as it beeps with a text:
Sorry! At the ER with a broken hand. Catch a cab. I'll pay you back. x Sunny.

Worried about my best friend, but irritated about being stuck at the airport, I toss my phone into my bag and look for the cab line, which doesn't seem to exist in Hawaii. I sigh aloud, frustrated.

"Looks like you've been stood up, sweetie. How about I give you a
ride
?" He draws out the last word for me to catch his double meaning.

I look at this smug, narcissistic jack-off and reply in my own smartass way. "Giving me a
ride
will probably put you out."

"Only if it's good, and I've got all day to find out."

There’s something about him. Yes, he’s arrogant. Yes, he’s hot, but all that aside, his confidence is also sort of attractive.

Sunny convinced me to spend my summer on the islands, encouraging me to come here and live a little. Well, here I am. Might as well start living it up now, and really, he is just too delectable to refuse. He might be exactly what I need—a carefree good
time. Ridding myself of all logic and good reasoning, I say, "My day just opened up. I think I’ll take you up on that ride."

He swings his arm in front of him, directing me to the parking lot. “Right this way.” As we walk next to each other in silence, once again I feel like I'm moving into the fire. Somehow though, I know that the burn will be well worth the ride.

Flipping the seat forward after opening the car door, he loads my suitcase into the back. He adjusts the seat back into position and backs up to allow me to get in.

I restrain my smile, trying to play it cool while sliding down into the car as he holds the door open for me. The car is a brand new silver Maserati GranCabrio. I might be impressed, but I would never give him the satisfaction of knowing that little tidbit. It's ridiculous that I even know what type of car this is considering I never cared when my ex-boyfriend used to drag me from car show to car show when we dated. So here I am sitting in one of the most coveted cars in the world with a guy too pretty to be any good for my insecurities, going to God only knows where. I make a split second decision. After shutting the door, I text Sunny:
I'm
here and heading to the hospital to see you.

As he slithers like the snake I know he is into the driver's seat, he turns and smirks. "Didn't your mom ever tell you not to accept rides from strangers?"

Though I wish I could say panic squeezed my chest, it didn't. He may be working girls from all angles, but for some reason, I can tell he won't hurt me. But just in case he tries, I tuck my hand into my bag and prepare my keychain pepper spray…
just in case
. Looking at him, I study his strong jaw and straight nose until the side of his lips quirk up. I roll my eyes because he so caught me checking him out. Attempting to distract him from my embarrassment, I ask, "What's your name?"

With a chuckle, he starts the car then casually responds. "Evan."

"Well, Evan, I'm Mallory." My head drops back on the seat, and I close my eyes, feeling the exhaustion from travel settle into my bones. "I guess we're not strangers anymore."

He revs the engine then peels out. I'm definitely not surprised, but remain a little horrified that he would treat such a fine piece of machinery like a souped-up Honda Civic from
The Fast and the Furious
. "So, where to,
Mallory
?"

"The ER on the north side."

His turns quickly, worry covering his expression. "You need a hospital? Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you for your concern," I say, hinting of sarcasm, though I’m actually touched to see a true emotion from him. That may be the first one I've witnessed since we met all of twenty-five minutes ago. "My friend is at the ER with a hurt hand. Hence, no ride."

"Well, I was heading up north anyway, so this works out perfect."

I look at him surprised by his word choice that seems almost deliberate. "Perfect, huh?" I smile knowing that I don't really need him to confirm anything, but in a small way kind of want him to.

He looks at me, tilts his head and smiles. "You're quite the pot-stirrer, aren't you? Do you always like to put people on the spot?"

Now he's making me feel bad. "No, I mean yes, uh…I don't know. I'm sorry. I'm being rude. I'm a little cranky because I’m tired from the flight."

"Sarcasm is a defense mechanism. Do I make you feel defensive?"

He's watching the road and I'm unabashedly watching him. I lower my eyes to his arms, admiring the definition of his biceps and triceps working together with ease. My gaze travels further down past his elbow to his forearms where the muscles alternate in the tiniest of ways to manipulate his movements on the steering wheel. Then I notice his hands. They’re very masculine, strong hands with long fingers that seem like they could play every note to perfection—every one of
my
notes. I sigh aloud, feeling squirmy in the concept.

"Mallory?"

"Huh?"
I didn't just sigh out loud, did I?
"Yeah?"