Nightmares Rise (Dark Shores Trilogy Book 1) Page 2

  “Why not trust someone I’ve just met.” He smirked. “What’s the worst that can happen? Robbed, murdered. I don’t have my camera with me, by the way, it’s safely locked away. And my tablet is old and almost obsolete.”

  It looked like neither of those things, but he didn’t look about to run away from her either.

  “Flynn . . . if I was gonna rob a tourist, my four brothers would have been waiting to jump you after I got you drunk.” She directed him to a filthy little white jeep, complete with fuzzy dice and dancing hula girl on the dashboard. “Hop in! We’re taking the long way.”

  “I think I should have gotten more insurance.” He frowned at the jeep. “Is it even roadworthy?” After a moment, he climbed into the jeep anyway and shifted his behind on the hard, worn seat. “This is your tour van? Are you sure this thing even runs?”

  “Uhhh, yeah!” Makani jammed the keys into the ignition, but it didn’t start. She reached down under the steering wheel and touched two cut wires together, before it came to life. “See? Totally fine!”

  She put the jeep in reverse and pulled out, nearly running over an old lady. Flynn hastily jammed his seatbelt into the fastener and grabbed hold of the wobbly handle above the door. His knuckles were white already, and she’d barely moved the jeep.

  “Eh, no worry brah! Drive aloha!” She knew it would have been great if she followed her own advice.

  She took him north towards the mountains, and turned onto a narrow, winding road.

  “This is Tantalus Drive!” she called out over the roaring of the engine. “The most winding road on the rock!” And unfortunately, she had no intention of slowing down, despite a speed limit of fifteen miles an hour. The further up the mountain they went, trees gave way to bamboo groves and driveways became older, more worn. There was little foot traffic, which was a blessing, anyone walking might have been taken out by the side mirror of her jeep.

  “You’re insane!” he called out. The wind dragged his voice away, but she could make out the gist of it. “Are you trying to get us killed? I don’t think my insurance covers death by tour guide!”

  “Just wait! I’ll stop! Eventually!”

  Bamboo and monkey pod trees shrouded the way in shadows, blotting out most of the afternoon light. Houses were interspersed between groves, with brightly painted mailboxes giving away their locations. At a clearing, Makani slowed the rickety jeep, the tires skidding and rattling on the loose gravel. Makani vaguely wondered if she should ziptie the muffler to the bumper, again. She brought them to a stop at the lookout point. Beyond the concrete and rock barrier, a picturesque vista of the green valley below blended into the vast cityscape, leading into a spectacular view of the ocean beyond. The sky was catching fire from the setting sun, and the hard edges of the high rises were blurred by the bright light coming off the sparkling water.

  “There we go; best view of the sunset over the city! In about twenty minutes, it’s the best view of the city lights. As long as you don’t get murdered by crazy cab drivers . . . .”

  “Crazy cab—” Flynn muttered. “Who’s going to save me from crazy tour guides?”

  She looked over in time to see him shake his head, he climbed out of the jeep, his tablet pressed tight against his torso. He glanced over at her, a frown etched on his forehead. She gestured toward the view. She’d gotten them here alive, hadn’t she?

  He looked away, toward the ocean. “It is a spectacular view,” he conceded. He visibly relaxed as he moved away from the jeep. “I almost wish I had my camera with me.”

  “There can be other times. The view from my place isn’t bad, either. Just not as high.” Makani sat on the stone wall above the cliff, her feet dangling over the side. “This is something a lot of people don’t get to see. Those who know about it don’t enjoy the ride up.”

  “Enjoy?” He barked a laugh. “Maybe you should sell tickets for that. Makani’s Island Roller Coaster.”‘ Flynn looked over at her and grinned, the dimple on his cheek showing again. “At least it made me appreciate life a little bit more. Or it will when the adrenaline rush subsides.” He sat down beside her and was silent for a few minutes, the sound of cars and bugs the only noise in the deepening evening.

  “Sorry for the corny line,” he spoke suddenly, “but do you come here often?”

  “With tours? Yes. For myself? Nah. Only to get onto Pillbox Trail. That’s further up.” She pointed up and to their left to a spot higher on the ridge. “Great hike, even better view.”

  “Pillbox? That sounds bloody great,” he said sarcastically. “Don’t tell me, crazed, drugged up cabbies up there?”

  “Nah! The military put up bunkers and pillboxes along the cliffs after Pearl Harbor was bombed in ‘41. Not a lot of people see them, though. They’re usually kind of hard to reach through the underbrush.” Makani held her hair back as the breeze started to pick up. “Watch. The lights are gonna come on soon.”

  Like magic, the lights of the city started appearing, lighting the purple and deep blue dusk.

  Flynn put his tablet on his knees and exhaled audibly. “It’s a bit like Lover’s Lane. But with crazy cabbies,” he said. “And cute tour guides.”

  “This used to be the makeout spot for all the teenagers in my mom and dad’s days. Personally, I prefer the back of the jeep.” She shot a glance at the man and laughed low in her throat.

  “It looks old enough that you might have been conceived there too,” he said dryly. “Or your parents might.”

  “Ugh! Sick!” Makani pushed Flynn in mock consternation. “Just for that . . . I won’t use my brakes on the drive down!”

  “As if you were going to anyway,” he quipped.

  “Just don’t piss on my seat, if I scare you.” She stood and started back to the jeep, keys jingling from her back pocket.

  He snorted. “I won’t. But I can’t promise that I won’t puke.”

  “Just get in. My place isn’t far from here.” She slammed the door and started fumbling for the wires to jump the jeep back into life, like Frankenstein’s monster.

  “It’s alive,” Flynn muttered, drawing out the second word. He hastily did up the seatbelt. “Ok. I’m hanging on!” He gave her a sideways look and a cheeky smile.

  “Ahhh, chillax brah! Enjoy the view!” She punched the jeep into drive and nearly ran a mongoose over as she got back to the road.

  He looked at her. “Ok, at this speed, the view is a blur!”

  She shook her head. Just to see how strong his bladder was Makani decided it was a good time to check her drifting skills. They skidded around a particularly sharp hairpin turn that afforded them a great view of the two hundred foot drop onto an old house and the bamboo forest below.

  “Bloody hell, you’re gonna make me lose my lunch! And breakfast!”

  “What? Quit your whining. Gravity’s got you!” She laughed, but slowed down and drove like a sane human being. Almost.

  They drove down from the mountain and rounded west before turning north, going through the outskirts of the urban part of the city before hitting the highway that led to the Pali lookout and the windward side of the island. To their left, a cemetery dominated the immediate landscape. The urban sprawl gave way to quaint old homes.

  “A bunch of these houses are on the National Historic Registry. Grandma’s house should be, but no one bothered to put it on. She wanted us to tear it down and rebuild, but we’re broke.”

  “Don’t tell me, all your money goes into paying speeding fines?” he asked. He’d finally let go of the handle and just sat back to watch the sights fly past. “Or hospital bills for injured tourists? Or cleaning puke out of the jeep?”

  “Nah, gambling debt.” She pulled off the main drag and started down an old, less well-kept road that went up the mountainside. “Actually, I’m still paying off student loans from college. My family never really helped with school. They made sure I had a place to do laundry. Which sucked, because I went to Oregon State for three years.”

  “That’s
a long way to send your laundry. What’d you study?”

  “Asian history and anthropology. Totally useless.” At the end of the road was a long, steep driveway that led to a weathered carport. Makani steered the jeep up the incline, feral cats scrambling to get out of her way.

  “More useful than law,” he said. “Don’t ask, it wasn’t my idea.”

  “You? For reals?” Makani’s mouth quirked into a grimace. “That sucks,” she shook her head. Her jeep skid to a halt at the top of the driveway, the cats immediately closing in behind her and settling on the cement. “Don’t mind the squatters,” Makani pointed to the animals. “They’re never gonna leave!”

  Makani was the proud owner of the little house at the back of Nu’uanu Valley. It had three bedrooms, one bathroom, and a kitchen that still smelled like patis fish sauce. They had been plantation people, imported from Asia to plant and harvest the sugar cane and pineapple crops for The Big Five before the turn of the twentieth century.

  “This house looks like a bit of history itself,” Flynn commented. “Has it been in the family for a long time?”

  “My family came from Osaka, Japan and Chengdu Province in China. Another part was from Hilo on the Big Island, and another came from Dublin, Ohio,” Makani started. She was proud of her roots, and for anyone who asked, they’d get the whole story of the little house.

  “In 1898, my great-greatgrandfather Nobuko “Norman” Lau bought this plot from Shigeru Sasaki, a local laundry owner, for $250. Nobuko built the entire house with his bare hands and died here in his sleep on December 7, 1941. His bed still resides in the smallest bedroom in the back corner.” She pointed.

  “My grandmother, Beatrice Kiyoko Dixon Lau, was given the house as a wedding gift by her husband, Martin, and they raised their three children here. Beatrice died here in her sleep too, a decade after the start of the 21st century.”

  While she loved all 13 of her grandchildren, Beatrice had willed the old house to Makani, because she knew the girl wouldn’t bother to sell. For one, they were so alike, down to hiding her friend’s pakalolo, marijuana plants, in the orchid hothouse. Two, there was no way Makani could bring herself to get rid of the place where she had learned to make beef stew, or get rid of the claw-footed bathtub in the backyard. Even the cats were safe from potential eviction.

  “Everything is right where my grandmother had left it.” From the house slippers by the front door bought at Arakawa’s General Store before the Watergate scandal, to the handsewn patchwork quilts on all the beds. The back yard and its miniature jungle of ferns and ti leaf plants were left exactly the way things had been for well over half a century. Even the dirty green refrigerator sitting on the porch, filled with Heineken was a fixture added to the home long before Makani had been born. The entire house was a throwback to simpler days, and the girl treasured it like another family member.

  “This is very rustic,” Flynn said politely. “It reminds me of the beach cottages on the coast, south of Sydney. Except the cats. You might get a few feral rabbits or a stray ‘roo or two, though.”

  “We have wallabies in the next valley over. But they’re kinda hard t’find.” Makani stepped to her fridge and pulled out two beers. Using the bottle opener stuck to the side that had a pair of impressive breasts on the handle and the word ‘Aloha’ engraved across plastic buttocks, she popped both bottles and handed one to Flynn.

  She raised her bottle in salute and said, “It’s living how locals should still be living. None of that fancy central A/C, white carpet, bidet on your toilet bullcrap. This is the way my grandparents lived. Even down to the outdoor bathhouse.”

  That was probably her favorite part of the entire structure. “But at least Grandpa put up the money for indoor plumbing and lights after the Korean War.”

  “Carpet is overrated,” he commented. “It burns. You really bathe in that?” He peered at the bath. “What do the neighbors think?” He smirked. Then gradually he began to smile. “Never mind, I think I can guess.”

  “Nah . . . that’s where they used to make Okolehao. Booze. There’s a shed in the back with a furo . . . Japanese-style bath. It’s weird explaining all the words I use!” Makani ran a hand through her thick dark hair and smiled. “And what do you know about rug burns, Mr. Shark?”

  “Mr. Shark?” He frowned. “I don’t think I qualify for that, I never graduated. But I did spend enough time at uni to have been around the block a time or two.” He shrugged modestly.

  “Your dorms actually had carpets? My roomie and I had to scrounge a rug from a dumpster behind an Ikea! Until then, it was bruised knees.” She sat on the banister to the side of the porch, her feet kicking back and forth.

  “Carpets, yes and the only roomies I had were there just for the night. I guess I was lucky.” He sipped his beer and turned to face the view.

  “Uh, yeah!” Makani scoffed. “What made you quit? Decided being a jerkoff in a suit wasn’t your thing?”

  He smiled ruefully, glancing back at her briefly over his shoulder. “I chose fulfillment over money. And I’ve never looked back,” he added firmly and looked away. Obviously, he’d had trouble in the past with people who didn’t agree with his choices.

  “And look at you now. Have you found what you were looking for?” She leaned back, her eyes turned toward the twinkling lights of the highway on the opposite end of the valley.

  He shrugged with one shoulder. “Living each day as it comes, getting into cars with strange women, never having any money, what more could I want?” He sighed contentedly. “It’s bloody brilliant!”

  “Here’s to being broke and fulfilled, then!” She smiled and raised her beer one more time before draining the last of it. “Come inside. The mosquitoes are gonna eat us alive.” She got up and started for the door, kicking her hiking boots off before going into the house.

  “You call those mosquitoes?” He asked, following her inside. “They’re tiny compared to the Australian ones. I bet nothing here can suck blood like they can!”

  CHAPTER 2

  The bed creaked and groaned. Flynn’s feet hung over the edge, pressed hard against the cold metal of the bed frame. He pulled them under the blanket, curling them up so all of him fit. His feet and hips felt lumps in the mattress.

  The bed creaked.

  This wasn’t his place. He fit on the bed in his rental house, and it didn’t creak this badly.

  Makani.

  The crazy tour guide he’d met the night before. His slowly waking mind gradually brought back more details. Her eyes. Her laughing at him. Them talking late into the night. Or early morning.

  Beer. Then something stronger. Whatever that had been, he could still taste it in his mouth and on his fuzzy teeth and tongue.

  Hopefully, he hadn’t then been robbed by the woman’s four brothers.

  Tentatively, he opened his eyes to daylight and a slightly pounding headache. Not too surprising, given how many Heinekens he’d drunk the night before. It could have been worse. It probably should be. Thankfully it wasn’t.

  Thin curtains in a faded shade of pea green barely covered the windows. The ceiling above the bed sported peeling paint, which at least matched the peeling wallpaper on the walls.

  He pushed the blanket off himself and found his loud Aloha shirt hanging over the back of the chair where he’d tossed it the night before. He shrugged his arms into it but left it hanging open. Grabbing his jeans, he pulled them on over his board shorts and padded barefoot across the floorboards in search of Makani, and breakfast.

  He only had to follow his nose to find her.

  The Beatles were playing on an ancient tape deck. The kitchen matched the whole house; old and rickety, but comfortable and inviting. The walls were stained from smoke and cooking grease. Appliances were surrounded by rings of dust where they sat. The table and chairs matched but looked as if they had been purchased before man walked on the moon. A flowery plastic table cloth hung loosely over the sides, the top covered with scuff marks and stains.


  An aged hot plate, surprisingly still functional despite its apparent age, sizzled in the corner. Makani was making French toast and bacon on its greasy surface, letting the grease splatter on the linoleum floor. Her feet were bare, and she was dressed in a pair of boxers and a T-shirt that was old enough to have belonged to her grandfather. She had her nose buried in a map of the island that was covered in notes scrawled in pen, pencil, and purple crayon.

  For a few moments, he leaned against the doorframe and watched. Until the smell and curiosity got the better of him. Pushing himself off the splintery wood, he approached and peered over her shoulder. “Have you been to all of those places?”

  She smiled and looked over her shoulder at him. “Of course. I’ve kept this since I was twelve.” She flipped the last of the French toast out of the pan and onto a plate. “Lucky you, I got up and made breakfast.”

  “And to think, I was expecting cold pizza and coke.” Flynn studied the map to find their present location. He quickly gave up. He had no idea where they were.

  The knowledge was liberating.

  “Have you got any coffee?” he asked.

  “Yeah, somewhere.” Makani handed him the map and rummaged around in a cabinet. “Ah-ha.” She held up an economy-sized tin of Nescafé from which she scooped a spoonful of grinds and then put the pot on. “You sleep good?”

  With all that alcohol in his system, he’d probably have slept through the apocalypse. “Yes, I did. Thanks.” He ran a finger over the map, from where he was staying to the places he’d been before he’d met her. He hadn’t seen as much as he’d thought.

  “Do you often take in strays?” He glanced up at her questioningly.

  Makani looked him up and down, “Only when I can wash laundry on their abs.” A slow smile across her face.

  Suddenly self conscious, Flynn drew the sides of his shirt together with one hand and sat. He liked to keep fit, but the hours he spent running and working out were to help him feel good rather than to have a body to show off.