Thresh: Alpha One Security: Book 2 (19 page)

Tai had noticed that I’d stopped and was staring at the structure. “Can’t figure it out?”

I shook my head. “Anthropology ain’t really my thing, Tai. I know there’s something, but…I can’t pin it down.”
 

“No shame there. It’d take familiarity with the traditional dwellings of two different cultures to spot it.” He thumped his chest with a huge fist. “I’m Samoan. I was born there and lived there most of my life, and my
tama
was a big believer in the old ways. He taught me how to build the
va’a
and the
paopao
.” He indicated the ink decorating his body: “I got the
pe’a
the old way, from a
tufuga ta tatau.
He also taught me to build the
fale
, in the old way. But then I came here, and discovered the mangrove forests, and learned of the Seminole culture. Some twenty years ago, I met an old,
old
Seminole man, who showed me some of their old ways. So, when I decided to make a place for myself out here, I fused the styles of my culture and that of the Seminole. So, what you’re seeing is a combination of Seminole and Samoan style dwelling structures.”
 

Now that he explained it, I could see it. I’d also spent a few weeks of leave time in the Polynesian islands, and had come across a few of the old-style houses, which, like this one, were rounded, with the roofs extending down to barely a few feet from the ground, and those were built flat on the ground. The Seminole, living in a wetland, built their rectangular dwellings a couple feet off the ground, and didn’t extend the roof quite as much. I shook my head in wonder; the fusion of the two styles was brilliant, blending both cultures to create a home for himself that suited the climate, used local materials, and was practically invisible until you were right on top of it. Plus, when he eventually died and years passed, it would all return to the earth without leaving any permanent mark of his presence.
 

If you’re gonna be a hermit, this was the way to do it.
 

There was a fire built on the ground near the dwelling, with a few chairs hand-made from lengths of wood and rope-knot webbing. In one of these chairs, barefoot, clad in only her bra and yoga pants, eating fruit from a can with a six-inch boning knife, was Lola.
 

There was nothing special about the moment. She didn’t even notice me. She was lounging in the chair, skewering pieces of fruit from the can with the knife, one leg hooked over the side of the chair, foot kicking. Her hair was loose, taken down out of the braid to flutter in the breeze, gorgeous, beautifully long, draping past her shoulder blades to nearly mid-spine. The yoga pants were shoved up to her knees, baring toned, muscular calves, and her upper body was bare but for the bra, and I just—

I couldn’t figure out what was happening to me.

It wasn’t the usual feeling I got when I saw a hot woman, which was the urge to rip her clothes off, fuck her sideways, and then have a stiff drink. I mean, yeah, that was there, because Lola was the sexiest damn woman I’d ever seen. Now that I was really looking, and wasn’t blinded by lust, I realized how fucking ripped she was. She had serious muscle development going on, from hard, rounded biceps and shoulders to flat, toned, defined abs…it was ridiculous. The girl had serious gym cred. She was fucking stacked,
and
ripped.
   

Which made her odd insecurity even more inexplicable. Sure, she wasn’t a runway model skinny girl. But she was
gorgeous
. Shit, you ask me, she was gorgeous
because
of that. She was muscular, strong, fit, healthy as all fuck. But she was still all woman. Fucking perfect.
 

So why the hell had she sworn off sex? Why was she so closed off? It couldn’t be physical insecurity. She’d stripped off her top easily enough and without qualm, and hadn’t tried to cover up. She was also clearly not a novice when it came to sex; the way she’d touched me, the way she’d put her mouth on me…fuck, the girl knew what she was doing. And again, that was a turn-on to me.
 

But then she’d just…sworn off all sex for three years, including masturbation? What the hell?
 

Furthermore…what the hell was this twist in my gut when I looked at her? Why did I feel so fucking protective of her? The thought of Cain’s goons getting their filthy fucking hands on her, doing something to her to get at me? That made my well-controlled temper flare.
 

And just looking at her sitting there, completely unselfconscious, hot as fuck, casual and comfortable in a camp in the middle of nowhere, in a place so rustic it was nearly Bronze Age. Everything inside me seemed to just…fuck, I couldn’t even find the word.
 

It was kind of like desire, kind of like need, kind of like protectiveness, and something more, something deeper, harder, stronger…plus all of that rolled up into a gnarled, tangled ball of seething intensity.
 

I tried to shake myself out of it, but the unsettling feeling didn’t go away. If anything, it intensified.

And that was when I realized Tai was watching me intently. He clapped his hand on my shoulder, and spoke in a tone pitched for my ears alone. “Son, I think you just got hooked.”
 

I flinched and glanced at him. “Wh—um, what?”
 

He smirked. “Lola. That look you were giving her. You’re caught, hook, line, and sinker.”
 

I shook my head. “No, I just—fuck, man, I don’t know.”
 

He laughed, then. “No point in fighting it. She’s like her mom, got that way of just pulling you in.” The humor vanished beneath a wave of old pain at the mention of his wife. “Don’t know it’s happening till it’s done.”

I stared at him. “What are you talking about, Tai?”

He clapped my shoulder again. “One word, four letters. Rhymes with dove. And you’re scared of it.”
 

Oh.

Ohhhhh
.
 

Well…shit.

10: MEAN SOMETHING

I have a love-hate relationship with Dad’s place. I’ve spent so many summers out here, fishing, living by campfire and starlight, eating canned fruit and roasted fish and venison and the various crops Dad cultivated here and there on various islands: sweet potatoes, maize, melons, and even a small patch of pumpkins and a few canes of grapes.
 

I spent my summers helping him plant and weed his crops, helping him hunt, repairing the home, cleaning fish, cooking, making dugouts. One entire summer was spent replacing the thatch roof, a job which took Dad, Filipo, and me three months working from sunup to sundown to complete, from importing the heavy sheaves of palm leaves to splitting and binding the wood. I was glad to return to Grandma and Grandpa’s that fall.
 

I love it out here. It’s peaceful. It’s beautiful. It’s a whole other world totally removed from the bustle and chaos of Miami. It’s a primeval world, and thanks to Dad, I’m still comfortable out here, even though I don’t come out very often anymore.

But I also hate it, because this place stole my father. When Mom got sick, he began spending more and more time out here between visits to the hospital. I was the one who sat by her bedside all day every day while she wasted away. Dad couldn’t watch it. Just couldn’t. So he’d vanish into the mangrove forests in his little
paopao
and fish and hunt until he felt strong enough to face her withered form again. But he wouldn’t stay long, and the visits became fewer and fewer, until the doctors told him she was going to die any day, and then he sat on the floor beside her bed, reached up to hold her hand, and told her it was time to go.
 

So she went.

And so did he.

And then the forest took him.
 

It was years before he was anything like his old self again. For the first two years, not even Filipo knew where Dad was. I think he just paddled the Ten Thousand Islands in his
paopao
and survived on fish and tubers, and focused on forgetting her. He hasn’t spoken her name since—which is why I took her last name, so at least one of us had to remember her—but I know he thinks of her. I catch him staring off at the sunset sometimes, which was always Mom’s favorite time of day, and that’s when Dad says a prayer for her spirit, as the sun sinks beneath the horizon.
 

I sat in my favorite chair by the campfire and let my thoughts roam.
 

I knew Mom would want me to trust Thresh. She’d want me to give him a chance. What that means, what it looks like, I don’t know. She’d see the sweet, tender person buried beneath the warrior’s tough exterior. She’d get him to talk about his past and the things that make up his personality. She’d ask about each and every scar on his body, and listen to the stories, no matter what they were. She’d understand.
 

But I’m not sure I’m as strong as Mom.
 

I’m more like Dad. When something doesn’t make sense, or hurts or scares me, it’s easier to push whatever it is far away, to run from it, to hide from it, to not face it.
 

But I can’t do that. Not anymore. Not with Thresh. It’s…inexplicable, in some ways. It’s not like insta-love, where I’m just immediately falling head over heels for him. It’s instant chemistry, yes. It’s something about him, his size, his strength, his rugged masculine beauty, his bravery, and now, fuck…the way he touched me, the way he kissed me. All that, yeah, it’s stronger than anything I’ve ever felt. But that doesn’t mean I’m in love with him.

And what does that mean, anyway? In love?
 

I thought I was in love, once, and look how that turned out.
 

Yeah, fuck that.
 

No way.

But there he was, standing on the edge of the clearing, staring at me with a stunned expression on his face.
 

And there was Dad, a string of cleaned fish in hand, his kukri sheathed at his side, carrying his favorite fishing rod and reel. He knelt by the fire and got to work getting the fish roasting, and I, out of habit, went over to help.

We worked in companionable silence for a few moments, and then Dad eyed me sidelong. “He’s got it bad.”
 

“Dad.”
 

“Just saying.”
 

“Don’t just say. I’ll handle it.”
 

He worked in silence for a few more moments, filleting the fish and laying them across the roasting stone. “I got a good feeling about him. Won’t hear any arguments from me. Maybe he can help you really put everything that you went through fully behind you.”

I sat back on my heels. “Dad, for real. Stop, please.”

“Why?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.

“Because…it’s—because I’m—”

He hid a grin, ducking to fillet another fish. “Ohhhh, I get it. You’ve got it just as bad, and you’re just as freaked.”
 

“Since when are you this nosy?”
 

He shrugged. “Since my baby girl finally finds a man who’s worth half a shit. And that one? Strikes me he’s worth a lot more than that, you give him a chance to show it.”

“You just met him, Dad.”

“So did you. But you’re telling me you don’t get the same feeling from him? You got my sense about people. Most of ’em aren’t worth shit. That’s why I stay away, can’t stand most of ’em. Filipo, your mom…that was it. Only people I trust. But I have a sense about people, and he’s a good one.”
 

“He’s a soldier. He’s killed people.”

“So’s Filipo. He fought in Vietnam.”

“Really?” I hadn’t known that; I knew Filipo was older than Dad, but if Filipo fought in Vietnam, he had to be nearly ten or fifteen years older than Dad. “He never talks about it.”

“You’ve never asked.” Typical Dad answer.
 

“I watched him, Thresh—I watched him—”

“Was it just because? For fun? Did he enjoy it?”

“He was good at it… but no, he was doing it because they were coming after him, or me, or both. I don’t know. But he is so fucking good at it, it’s scary. He did it so easily. He didn’t enjoy it, but he was good at it.”
 

“Doesn’t make him a bad person. He just knows what he’s good at, and it’s something a little scary.”

“Killing people?”

“Protecting.” He rose from his knees, took a chair near mine, and wiped his hands on his shorts. “And you know it, Lola. Don’t act like you don’t. You wouldn’t have dared bring him here if you didn’t know that about him, trust that about him. And you sure wouldn’t have left him alone with me, knowing I was gonna go in after him, get his measure.”

“Did you? Get his measure?”

Dad chuckled. “Why you think I’m here talking to you about it? I got his measure, and he’s not lacking.” He lapsed into silence. We were alone; I wasn’t sure where Thresh went, or Filipo for that matter. “After we eat, Filipo and I are gonna go check on the crops. I’ll stay over at my fishing
fale
, you know the one. You helped build it, remember?”

God, did I. That was another summer of brutally hard work. Dad’s “fishing
fale
” was an open-sided hut even more rudimentary than this one. Four pillars, a raised floor, a thatch roof, just big enough for two people to lie down in, over on an island near Dad’s favorite fishing spot a few miles from here.
 

Basically, Dad was saying he was giving Thresh and me privacy.
 

Wonderful.

*
 
*
 
*

Thresh ate a shitload of fish, and even more sweet potatoes, and made idle conversation with Dad and Filipo. It was odd, watching Thresh interact with the two most important men in my life—and, really, my only family since Grandma and Grandpa passed. He was at ease, seemed at home out here, comfortable with my little family, even in this unusual place. I don’t know many men whom you could bring to your hermit father’s primitive camp in the middle of the wilderness. Thresh just took it all in stride.