Scene 3

The shrill blast of the bedside telephone made me jump, losing my grip on the mug of green tea I'd brewed, shattering the cup and its contents across the kitchenette tile. I stood stunned, staring at the mess I'd managed to make, before the phone rang again, causing me to wince once more.

I'd been on edge all afternoon—ever since my encounter with that prick by the pool—and my nerves were running full tilt. No one I knew would call me on the hotel landline. Dani and Tom were on their island-hopping honeymoon, Dani's mother, Darlene, had blessedly left for California earlier in the morning, and anyone back home would reach me by my cell. I had extended my stay two nights in Hana, determined to use the extra days to unwind before climbing back onto the Hollywood hamster wheel.

The phone continued to ring as I considered my options:

1. Yank the spiral phone line from the wall.

2. Lock myself in the bathroom and take a second shower, hoping the caller would grow tired of trying to reach me by the time I reconditioned my hair.

3. Pick it up and deal with whatever was on the other end of the line.

I realized—at twenty-three years old—there was really only one option that made sense. And so, treading carefully across the debris of tea and glass, I seized the coiled cord and gave it a solid jerk. It didn't budge. The phone kept ringing.

Shit .

Considering the last thing my hair needed in the island humidity was another round of conditioning, I resigned myself to pulling on my big girl panties and swiped the receiver from its cradle.

"Hello?"

"Hi. Is this Kameryn?"

It wasn't like the voice was overly familiar. I'd only heard it once before, and mainly through a plethora of curses and insults flung my direction. But I recognized it immediately all the same. Given that her boyfriend had spent five solid minutes threatening me as I toweled off from my morning swim, it was fair to say the collision on the highway a couple days earlier hadn't been far from my mind.

My first instinct was to hang up. I wasn't up for another round of you're-a-fucking-loser-and-screwed-up-some-silly-race from her after I'd just gotten it from him. However, I also didn't want to make things worse than they already were—not when I was aware of all the publicity I was about to receive. It would be better if I could get this handled on the down low. Which meant keeping my auto insurance out of it.

"Look," I started, deciding I'd try Dani's approach at life, "I'm really sorry about the other night. I get it—it's an expensive bike. Like I said, I'll buy you a new one." The words hurt even as they left my mouth. I'd looked up racing bikes after the confrontation at the pool, and the nicer ones did indeed cost as much as my second-hand car. I didn't have that kind of money on hand. Until I got my first advance for Sand Seekers , I was living on a shoestring budget, so if I had to fork over cash, I'd literally have to sell my car. But fine. Whatever it took to put this in my rearview mirror.

"A new bike, yeah?"

She sounded more amused than anything else, which I quickly took an affront to. There was nothing about this I found funny. Especially if I was soon to be taking public transportation to the studio. Wouldn't that just be the way to start my Hollywood blockbuster career?

And arriving now, Kameryn Kingsbury, ten minutes late off the Red Line subway.

"Yeah. But if that isn't enough, and you're wanting to press charges, I really feel it's best if you spoke directly to my attorney." The attorney I didn't have. And the one I definitely could not afford.

She laughed, and I dug my toenails into the throw rug running alongside the bed.

"Is that an American thing, or just a Hollywood thing—threatening to call your solicitor?"

Fuck me . So she knew I came from Hollywood. She'd already been digging around.

"If you're just calling to—"

She cut me off. "I don't need you to buy me a new bike—my sponsor will handle that—and I've no interest in bringing charges, so calm your tits, will you?"

I was thrown by the implication she didn't want anything from me. "Then, uh…"

Apparently, she understood my confusion. "I was only calling to apologize about Kyle. He can get carried away sometimes."

"Oh." I uncurled my toes from the carpet. Despite what a douche bag her boyfriend had been, it didn't feel right that she was apologizing. I was the one who'd hit her, after all. "I—um, it's fine, really. I mean, he must have been really scared for you…"

"Nah," she saved me from my rambling, "he can just be a real arsehole. But listen—instead of blathering on, and talk of lawyers and all that tosh, why don't you meet me for a pint? We can shake hands on it, call it a day, and go our way. I owe you that much for Kyle's bullshit and you owe me as much for introducing me to the hood of your car."

"I…" I wasn't sure what to say. She didn't owe me anything, and I, well, getting a drink with the woman I'd run over seemed… odd. I half wondered if she was playing a joke on me. If she'd convince me to meet her somewhere, and then have a good laugh with her boyfriend while I stood around looking like an idiot waiting for her to arrive.

But it didn't seem like it. There was a directness to her—a candidness that didn't feel contrived. If she was pulling a fast one, she was a better actress than I'd ever be.

"Okay," I said tentatively. "Where?"

Two hours later, I found myself waiting by the trickling fountain in front of the hotel lobby, where a blanket of water irises covered the black pond. I was twenty minutes early, and felt antsy, shifting from foot to foot, fiddling with my keys. Why had I agreed to this? What if she brought that asshole with her? How would I politely excuse myself and tell her I'd changed my mind?

Five minutes before our allotted meeting time, I finally decided to bail. I was going to get back to my room and call her, apologizing that something had come up and I couldn't make it. But before I could make my getaway, she came strolling up the footpath from the seaside bungalow suites that fell way out of my price range.

"Alright," she greeted, one hand lifted in a half wave, the other still stuffed into the pocket of her baggy black joggers, her bright coral sneakers scuffing along the asphalt, "how are we?"

Without her cussing at me, I found I liked the lilt of her accent. It was subtle, different. English, maybe, but I wasn't sure. I offered a wave in return, trying not to stare at the purple bruising and scabbed gravel rash her white tank top left on display.

"Hi." I forced myself to look away from the mess I'd made of her arm and cringed when I saw she also had a pretty rank black eye.

Smiling at my alarm, she jerked her thumb toward her face. "Sorry, but you don't get credit for this one. Hazard of the job, I'm afraid."

I nodded. Whatever that meant.

She stuck out her hand. "Dillon Sinclair."

"Kam." I faltered. "Kameryn." As I shook her hand, I became overtly aware of my sweaty palms. I don't know why I was so nervous. Maybe it was a reaction to her easy confidence. The way she assessed me behind her placid gaze.

"Well, Kam-Kameryn," her smile lifted at only one corner of her mouth, dimples appearing, "mind if we take your ride?"

I hadn't really expected we'd be going anywhere. There was a bar at the resort—the kind with thirty-dollar cocktails for a bobbing slice of pineapple and a splash of bottom-shelf liquor. But she was alone, with no jerk-of-a-boyfriend in sight, so I decided I didn't mind. "Sure." It took me a beat too long to realize she was waiting for me to hand her my keys. "Oh," I said, placing them reluctantly in her palm. "It's a rental."

God, I was stupid. Of course she knew it was a rental. Ninety-percent of this island was driving a rental.

"I'll be certain not to hit anyone." She winked, closing her fingers around the fob, and then we were in my Jeep, cruising down Hana Highway, and unbeknownst to me I was just beginning to experience the tip of the iceberg that was the wild adventure of Dillon Sinclair.

We turned south, away from the small town of Hana and the few restaurants dotting the northern stretch of road heading toward Kahului. I figured we were heading for Mokae Cove—I'd seen a tiny restaurant on the way to Dani's ceremony—but we drove straight past the turn-off without so much as a glance at the hand-carved Huli Huli sign. I wasn't an expert on the local geography, but I'd been pretty certain the chicken shack was the last bit of civilization before the multi-hour backroad trek to Kula. The longer we wound around the bumpy road—away from the resort—the more I began to wonder if, with my impeccable luck, I'd somehow managed to run over the only serial killer cyclist on Maui. Leave it to me to make it simple for her to drive me to an isolated beach and extract her revenge.

But if she was a psychopath, she was one who appeared to have a great sense of dry humor, and an affability that managed to put everything about the evening at ease. I guess if I was going to die by homicide, this wasn't the worst way to go.

We didn't chat much. I learned quickly she wasn't one for small talk, and I somehow managed to keep myself from prattling on, a habit I had when nervous. Despite working in entertainment, I had a tendency to be shy, but for some reason, my timidity dwindled as the Jeep bounced along the coastal highway. Part of it was the complete carefreeness about her, the way she seemed so comfortable in her own skin. She wasn't looking to impress me—or even befriend me, as far as I could tell—which was so different than everyone I met in Hollywood. The nature of my career meant the circles I traveled in tended to always be looking for an opportunity. A leg up. A favor. An in . We all wanted something from each other—and in turn, were willing to kiss ass, to brown-nose, to lay it on thick, pretending to be whoever we thought the other person wanted to see.

That wasn't Dillon. She appeared to live at face value. And regardless of my earlier concerns that she might be luring me to my death, I found myself settling in for the drive, content with her explanation that she ‘knew a tidy place' but it was ‘off the beaten path.' So we drove on, the windows rolled down, her humming to the radio as we cruised along the vistas overlooking the endless stretch of Pacific Ocean.

"Now then," said Dillon, breaking our companionable silence as she suddenly turned off the highway onto a single-lane road heading toward the sea, "bloke in here can waffle on forever, but he's an alright guy. The nosh is fair, but the view makes the drive worthwhile, promise."

"How'd you ever come across this place?" I ventured to ask as she parked in front of a ramshackle hut that looked as if it may have already been past its golden era when King Pi'ilani conquered the island in the sixteenth century. There was no sign, no other cars in the narrow strip of dirt serving as a parking lot, and no indication anyone living had graced its threshold in the last four hundred years.

"I've run here a time or two."

She'd run here? I didn't know exactly how far we'd driven, but we'd been on the road well over half an hour. I wouldn't have made it a quarter of the hilly distance on a bike, let alone on foot. It explained a bit of how incredibly fit she was.

Before I could comment, the cockeyed door was thrown open, and the massive figure of a heavily tattooed man filled the entire threshold.

"Aloha, makamaka!" he greeted Dillon, his round face lighting with a Cheshire grin. "Back so soon?" His eyes flicked to me as we passed into the cramped dining room.

Dillon led the way toward a curtain of fake flowers, holding them aside to allow me to step onto a small lanai while keeping up an easy banter with the chatty man. I could feel her gaze on me, waiting for my reaction.

She'd said the view was worth the drive, and I imagined pretty much every inch of the landscape running alongside the highway would fit that bill—but this was something different. Beyond the pair of humidity-dampened tables, the expanse of a horseshoe bay extended below the cliffside. The black sand of the shore had turned almost iridescent in the last rays of the amber sun, and the turquoise water looked as if it had caught fire, haloed in the scattering hues of virescent foliage surrounding the tranquil cove.

The entirety of the picturesque scene was, for lack of a better word, breathtaking.

Catching my expression, the corners of her mouth twitched in the hint of a smile, before she returned her attention to the animated Hawaiian.

There was no menu. I was given the choice of vegetarian or non-vegetarian—I played it safe with vegetarian—and when, at last, the man was on his way to the kitchen, she turned to me and propped her elbows on the table.

"Worth it?" She tilted her chin in the direction of the setting sun.

"Worth it," I confirmed, picking up a frosty bottle of Koko Brown. I sipped the ale as she peeled the edge of her label.

Behind us, somewhere off in the kitchen, the cheerful sound of baritone humming floated over the sizzle of a frying pan.

"So," she settled back in the plastic chair, "Kyle overheard the woman at the front desk say you were an actress?"

Overheard . So she hadn't been researching me. Maybe her boyfriend really had been blowing smoke up my ass about her wanting to press charges.

I hiked a casual shoulder, waiting for what always followed: What have you been in? But for once, it didn't come. Which on any other occasion would have been a relief. I'd always hated the question because I didn't have an exciting answer. Tonight, however, I wanted her to ask. I wasn't sure why. It wasn't like I'd have anything different to tell her. I couldn't mention Sand Seekers , and I certainly wasn't going to query whether she'd ever noticed the brunette in the Pantene Pro V commercial, or the pair of legs selling Gillette Venus razors. Nor did I imagine she'd be wowed by my Disney voiceovers—my biggest claim to fame being a singing, dancing purple dragon. Still, I guess I hoped she'd be intrigued. I think her lack of interest made me want to impress her.

But instead of asking anything about my career, she worked on another corner of her untouched beer bottle label. "And what brings you to the sleepy town of Hana?"

At least this was an easy answer. I gave her the CliffsNotes on Dani's wedding, and my supporting role as Maid of Honor.

She arched an eyebrow, her lips toying with a smirk. "So the nosebleed heels and that little pink number aren't your usual Friday night island go-to, then?"

Heat flooded my cheeks, despite the evening breeze. Dani and her damned pale peach satin bridesmaid dresses. It hadn't dawned on me until then how stupid I must have looked, standing on the side of the road, tottering in stilettos, the drying flowers of my lei broadcasting my status as a hokey tourist.

But I wasn't about to let her get my goat. I could give as good as I got. So, using the blush to my advantage, I plastered on my best embarrassed expression. "Oh." I cast my eyes to the table. "I'd actually already changed at the reception."

I glanced up in just enough time to enjoy the satisfaction of her horror at the blunder, before I lost the battle with my own sly smile. It took her a beat to realize she'd been had, and when she did, she laughed, her face brightening.

"Well played." She flicked a sugar packet in my direction, missing me by a mile, and slung her lean body back into the chair, drawing one leg to her chest and resting her chin atop her knee. "You've got jokes, Kam-Kameryn."

She asked a few more questions—was it my first time in Hawaii? No . Did I like Hollywood? That answer changed daily—sometimes hourly. When was I heading home? Wednesday .

While this last answer should have triggered a flurry of excitement—thoughts of sealing the deal on Sand Seekers , attending the first reading, beginning on-set rehearsals, and all the ways my life was about to explode as I ventured into the world of a colossal major motion picture—those considerations didn't immediately come to mind. Instead, I found myself fixated on the leg she'd hugged to her chest, wondering why I'd never realized calves could be so alluring. The concept seemed bizarre. I mean, I'd done that entire Gillette razor commercial and certainly never found any of my fellow actors' legs sexy. I tried to picture Carter's calves. They were hairy. That was as far as that thought process got me.

She caught me staring, and I reddened again, this time without any witty comeback to save my bacon.

"So what do you do?" I rushed through the inquiry, trying to turn the attention anywhere other than my ridiculous gawking.

Her lips never lost their lingering smile. "Me?" She shrugged. "I swim a little. Bike a lot. Run more than I want to."

So she was a triathlete. It made sense, then, her insane physique. I lived in Hollywood—every person I knew had a personal trainer, a strength coach, a yoga instructor and nutrition specialist. But this woman's fitness was on a whole different level. It also explained the funky tan lines from her wetsuit and goggles.

"So not an MMA fighter, then?" I gestured at her eye.

"Nah. That's for the weak. Why limit yourself to getting knocked around in a ring when you can get mowed over while you cycle?"

My face must have fallen, because she rolled her eyes and waved a flippant hand through the air, disregarding my immediate contrition.

"Bad jest." Unfolding herself from the chair, she picked up her unsipped beer, but never raised it to her lips. "Do me a favor and forget the other night. An accident's an accident. That's why I rang you. I didn't want you hanging onto it. Honest."

I was a little taken aback by her sudden sincerity, all sense of her underlying teasing absent. It made me feel even worse about the angry scarlet abrasions etched across her skin. But for the sake of the lightness of the evening, I tried to turn the tone in a different direction.

"Well—it looks like somebody one-upped me, anyway." I forced what almost passed as a laugh, motioning toward her shiner.

"Yeah, well, a heel to the face will get you every time." Her smile returned. "Still out-swam her by a few hundred meters."

"Is that what your boyfriend does, too?" I don't know why I felt the need to bring him up. He was the last thing I wanted to talk about.

Her smile vanished, replaced by a look of total confusion.

"My boyfriend?" She set her beer down. "Wha—oh." Her laugh, low, easy, perfectly complimentary to her laid-back persona, sang across the lanai. "You mean Kyle?" She squinted, the fine lines of a life lived in the sun creasing the corners of her eyes. "Tell me," she held my gaze in something that felt like a challenge, "do I really look like the kind of girl that would be interested in a plonker like Kyle?"

"I…" My response faltered as I tried to catch her drift, and when I did, I spiraled into the abyss of complete idiocy. How oblivious could I really be? I mean, I lived less than two miles from West Hollywood, which was practically the gay capital of the world, and I'd grown up a stone's throw from San Francisco. But the thought just hadn't occurred to me.

"Oh," was the exceptionally insightful response I managed, before stumbling further into the hole I'd dug. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize—I mean, you didn't—"

"Strike you as gay?" The archness of her smile grew more prominent as she stared at me across the table.

I tried to look anywhere other than her inquisitive green eyes and finally settled with staring at her forearms, where a series of minimalist tattoos were scattered along the lean contour of her muscles.

I suppose I should have read the writing on the wall, but the one thing living in Hollywood had taught me was not to make assumptions. In my defense, half the dolled-up glamour girls I knew were gayer than Elton John's fanny pack. So despite her short crop of wild blonde hair and the striking angles of her androgynous features, I hadn't taken it as a sign one way or another.

At my non-reply, she continued. "Does that bother you?"

I practically choked on my spit in my rush to assure her it didn't. "No." I had to clear my throat. "Of course not."

"Good." And with that, she brushed the subject aside, and the conversation turned with the arrival of our dinner.

We talked for two more hours. Long after the sun had set and left the bay enveloped in a shimmering wash of shadows. I think we would have chatted all night if the cheerful Hawaiian hadn't threatened to charge Dillon rent if we stayed any longer. I learned her mother was English, her father was Welsh, and she had one sister. She'd been born in Wales and currently lived in London. But beyond the mention she hadn't turned on a TV or seen a movie in the last ten years—something that took the sting out of her lack of interest in my credits—I wasn't sure I could actually narrow down on any single subject we'd exhausted. I simply knew, on the drive home, that I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed as much or enjoyed someone's company so effortlessly. She was the most original person I'd ever met, unapologetically certain of herself, but without the distasteful addendum of undue arrogance. Genuine. Witty. Amusingly competitive.

When we pulled into the resort's parking lot, I found myself disappointed at the closure of the evening. Shake hands, call it a day, and go our way . That's what she'd said on the phone. But for whatever reason, the thought left me with a ridiculous sense of melancholy. What had I expected to come at the conclusion of our meeting? That we'd exchange numbers, become Facebook friends, maybe she'd shoot me a text one day to say she'd finally seen one of my movies?

I stood on the loose gravel driveway and caught the Jeep keys she tossed over the hood.

Maybe I could ask her if she was on Instagram? Tell her I wanted to follow her career. That wouldn't be too creepy, right?

"Thanks for inviting me," I said, trying to find some of her same nonchalance as she strolled around the car, "I had a really great time."

"Makoa's cooking didn't kill you and you survived my first attempt at driving on the wrong side of the road," she winked to show she was teasing. "I'd call that a win."

The automatic headlights clicked off, sending a scattering of geckos into darkness.

I decided asking her about Instagram would be pointless. There was no way someone who hadn't turned on the TV in over a decade had anything to do with social media.

"If there's anything I can do for you—to make up for the other night—please just let me know. Your flight change fees, an admission of guilt to your sponsors so they know you're not at fault for your bike, anything at all—"

She put me out of my misery.

"There is, actually." She tilted her head with that cocksure confidence, pausing just long enough to weight the words with a slow smile. "Have dinner with me again. Tomorrow night."