least a few times. He couldn’t decide if her refusal to share was something personal or fueled by the fear of getting caught. Either way, this chick had been around pot before. Which meant she was worth a follow. It wasn’t like he had anyone else to investigate.
As expected, Kea returned to the dive shop. He planted his ass on a bench far enough away to keep track of the comings and goings without appearing obvious. About thirty minutes later, his instructor exited the building wearing a pair of dark sunglasses, carrying an armful of bulging Mahina Surf and Dive paper shopping bags. She got into the Prius he’d noticed earlier and drove away.
Blake trotted to his rental car and tracked her to a swanky condominium resort a few miles down Kāʻanapali Beach. Possibilities whirred through his mind. Visiting someone? Surely she didn’t live there. Units at this place were easily a million a pop, and she didn’t strike him as a particularly rich person. Even if she owned the surfing store, she couldn’t have made that much bank.
Unsure of whether to follow her up the elevator or wait downstairs, he went with his gut and hung out in the lobby, occupying himself with his phone. An hour later, a text from Scott popped up: Butch has a meeting with a potential person of interest at 7. Be on standby. An address followed. It was the resort adjacent to this one.
The hairs on Blake’s arms rose as he glanced at his watch. That was thirty minutes from now. Coincidence that Kea happened to be at a place right next door to where his coworker was supposed to show? What were the chances she’d come down around 6:45?
Nah, no way she was involved in this.
Right?
His mind raced through the day’s events, barreling through logic-laden roadblocks along the way. Hot surfer chick with attitude. Controlled on the waves, but explosive in bed. She didn’t tell him much about herself, which certainly wasn’t evidence of any wrongdoing. But he had turned the charm burner on full blast, and she’d dodged all the relevant questions, answering only the irrelevant ones.
Exactly what someone on the inside would do.
You’re out of your mind, Blake. She’s insane in bed, but she’s not dealer material.
Yet, his aroused instincts bubbled with suspicion. They were never wrong. Indecision churned his gut.
She could’ve had a lot of reasons to refuse the pot he offered her, but it was the way she refused. That flare of recognition gnawed at him. Guilt. Exposure. Fear.
He couldn’t put a finger on anything that would hold up in court, but Kea wasn’t just a pretty face on the hard body of a surfer. She was something … else.
Time to find out what. Blake opened his phone’s browser and launched a little investigation on his not-so-sweet beach bunny.
According to public records, Kai and Keahilani Alana were joint owners of Mahina Surf and Dive. This Kai fellow must’ve been either a relative or her husband. Blake’s cheek rippled. They purchased the property in 2012. No arrest records for either of them, nor could Blake find personal phone numbers or residence information.
On the off chance Kea and Kai were siblings, he searched Bane Alana. Blake found pictures of the kid splattered all over the big Hawaiian surfing sites, and even some of the international ones. A pro surfer, Bane been competing (and winning) for many years. Some of the photos dated back to when he was only eight or nine. And the best part? The same surname meant Kea probably wasn’t married to Kai after all.
Not that Blake would ever let a little thing like morals get in the way of his fun, but pissed-off husbands were among his least favorite job hazards.
The battery on his phone had dwindled to twenty percent. He shut off the device and stood to stretch his legs. The elevator door opened across the lobby. A tall, lithe figure as dark and light as a fire goddess perched atop a volcano emerged. Decked out in red and oozing confidence, the woman purposefully
As expected, Kea returned to the dive shop. He planted his ass on a bench far enough away to keep track of the comings and goings without appearing obvious. About thirty minutes later, his instructor exited the building wearing a pair of dark sunglasses, carrying an armful of bulging Mahina Surf and Dive paper shopping bags. She got into the Prius he’d noticed earlier and drove away.
Blake trotted to his rental car and tracked her to a swanky condominium resort a few miles down Kāʻanapali Beach. Possibilities whirred through his mind. Visiting someone? Surely she didn’t live there. Units at this place were easily a million a pop, and she didn’t strike him as a particularly rich person. Even if she owned the surfing store, she couldn’t have made that much bank.
Unsure of whether to follow her up the elevator or wait downstairs, he went with his gut and hung out in the lobby, occupying himself with his phone. An hour later, a text from Scott popped up: Butch has a meeting with a potential person of interest at 7. Be on standby. An address followed. It was the resort adjacent to this one.
The hairs on Blake’s arms rose as he glanced at his watch. That was thirty minutes from now. Coincidence that Kea happened to be at a place right next door to where his coworker was supposed to show? What were the chances she’d come down around 6:45?
Nah, no way she was involved in this.
Right?
His mind raced through the day’s events, barreling through logic-laden roadblocks along the way. Hot surfer chick with attitude. Controlled on the waves, but explosive in bed. She didn’t tell him much about herself, which certainly wasn’t evidence of any wrongdoing. But he had turned the charm burner on full blast, and she’d dodged all the relevant questions, answering only the irrelevant ones.
Exactly what someone on the inside would do.
You’re out of your mind, Blake. She’s insane in bed, but she’s not dealer material.
Yet, his aroused instincts bubbled with suspicion. They were never wrong. Indecision churned his gut.
She could’ve had a lot of reasons to refuse the pot he offered her, but it was the way she refused. That flare of recognition gnawed at him. Guilt. Exposure. Fear.
He couldn’t put a finger on anything that would hold up in court, but Kea wasn’t just a pretty face on the hard body of a surfer. She was something … else.
Time to find out what. Blake opened his phone’s browser and launched a little investigation on his not-so-sweet beach bunny.
According to public records, Kai and Keahilani Alana were joint owners of Mahina Surf and Dive. This Kai fellow must’ve been either a relative or her husband. Blake’s cheek rippled. They purchased the property in 2012. No arrest records for either of them, nor could Blake find personal phone numbers or residence information.
On the off chance Kea and Kai were siblings, he searched Bane Alana. Blake found pictures of the kid splattered all over the big Hawaiian surfing sites, and even some of the international ones. A pro surfer, Bane been competing (and winning) for many years. Some of the photos dated back to when he was only eight or nine. And the best part? The same surname meant Kea probably wasn’t married to Kai after all.
Not that Blake would ever let a little thing like morals get in the way of his fun, but pissed-off husbands were among his least favorite job hazards.
The battery on his phone had dwindled to twenty percent. He shut off the device and stood to stretch his legs. The elevator door opened across the lobby. A tall, lithe figure as dark and light as a fire goddess perched atop a volcano emerged. Decked out in red and oozing confidence, the woman purposefully
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