Page 31 of Café Diablo

Which is how I end up at the Gin n’ Lava, sitting at the bar under a harpoon spearing a stuffed fish.

In front of me is a neon-blue Mai-tai that I’m sure is the equivalent of sugar-infused Drain-O, which Mason—who happens to be the owner of the Gin n’ Lava—put in front of me ten minutes ago. It’s an ongoing joke between us, from the first time we ever came to Hawaii. We were on a vacation and I got so drunk on Mai-tai’s that he had to spend the night babysitting me as I spewed out blue vomit like I ate the entire Smurf population. Ever since that memorable night, he thinks it’s funny to remind me that he’s seen me at my absolute worst. It’s pretty much why I stick to whiskey on the rocks and don’t go near anything neon-blue and adventurous.

“Is your fuck-nut of a brother coming?” Mason asks, walking up to me from behind the bar and tossing some peanuts in my direction.

The Hawaiian shirt Mason wears is covered in tiny pink crustaceans along with the phrase “Got Crabs?” like he needs to advertise to the world that he has a venereal disease. Ironically, that’s one of his tamer wardrobe choices, and it—along with his colorful vocabulary—makes the Gin n’ Lava pretty much his only employment option. I suppose he embodies the whole “pick a job where you don’t have to work” cliché to a T. If your life goals are to sling cocktails, wear phallic Hawaiian shirts, and say raunchy things to the customers, then the Gin n’ Lava is your Holy Grail.

Yes, Mason may not strike you as the kind of guy I’d be friends with, and trust me, sometimes it surprises even me, but when you grow up with a kid and he’s known you your whole life—from pimple-faced to puberty to Mai-tai tsunamis of vomit—you just can’t imagine your life without him. Call me loyal.

“This was fuck-nut’s idea of brotherly bonding,” I gripe. “Call him yourself if you want an ETA on his arrival schedule.” I push the Hawaiian blue eyesore away from me. “Can I have a real drink please?”

“He’s probably playing naked twister with that red-headed demon that stole him away from being the best bartender this kitschy dump ever had,” Mason grumbles, pulling the whiskey off the shelf without asking me which brand. He knows. I only like the good stuff, and I can pay for it.

“Are you pissed off that Arie poached your best bottle slinger out from under your nose or that he’s drowning in so much—how do I put this politely?”

“Pussy?” Mason says crassly. “You know, not to beat around the bush.” He laughs at his own pun like he’s a word maven.

“Right.” I nod. “Or are you pissed he’s getting more late-night female companionship than you are?”

Mason rolls his eyes at my attempt at politeness and pushes a whiskey on the rocks next to my untouched Mai-tai. “Both!” Mason says, disgruntled. “How is that even a question? The fucker won the sexy-girl lottery and went on to make ten-times what he did in this fish box of wonders.”

“Is that what you write on all your advertisements?” I jab, and Mason rolls his eyes again.

“I am what I am. I run the kind of bar I want. I don’t apologize for it,” he defends.

“And yet, you’re still complaining.”

“You better believe it,” he gripes. “If the jackpot of pussy walked in your door and picked your brother over you, I’m sure you’d still have a little wounded pride to nurse, fucker.”

I pick up my drink and think of Olivia. My knuckles ache just toying with the idea of her being interested in Connor or Mason. I mean, what if she’d delivered that tart to one of them this afternoon instead of coming to my office? My hand clenches around my whiskey glass and I throw the contents back angrily, pushing the empty cup toward Mason for a refill.

“You know Arie has a twin sister,” I toss to Mason, as he re-ups my glass.

“Yes,” Mason replies sharply. “A sister who just moved to the mainland and is banging some Hollywood shmuck, thank you!”

“Clearly you need to get laid.”

“Uh, hello? Isn’t that what I was complaining about in the first place, asshole?”

I sip my whiskey in an attempt to mask the fact that I’m way too thrown off by the idea of Olivia being around other men—near them, touching them,withthem. Fuck, what is my problem? I barely know this woman and I already hate the idea of her doing what she did to me to anyone else.

“Well, Arie poached Connor out from under me too,” I offer. “If that makes you feel any better.”

“Not really,” Mason grumbles, pouring himself his own glass of seltzer. “You knew Connor was never going to go back to being a lawyer. She did you a favor.”

“Touché,” I say, raising my glass and throwing back the rest of the drink. I spent far too many years grooming my brother to be my business partner, and with it, attempted to heal the complicated relationship between him and our father. Not to mention,meand our father. But that blew up in my face.

Mason’s right, it took Arie stealing Connor out from under me to even realize how controlling I was being. I was certain that Connor had taken a wrong turn and he just needed a few months of space before he’d realize I was there waiting to take him back under my wing. But it turns out, you just can’t change people’s nature, no matter how much you love them. And definitely, no matter how much youthinksomething is good for them. So, as much as my brother can be a dick, I’m learning totrynot to strangle him and tell him to get back in line like I always have. He’s got his own life to live.

Which of course makes me think of Olivia and the fact thatmy natureis to stay far, far away from things that are wild and dangerous. And she’s definitely both. If Bellamy and his people hadn’t shown up this afternoon—damn!—I don’t even know how far things would’ve gone between us. I was mere inches from—no, I was no more than a hair above her frosted skin—and I could practically taste her. God, Iwantedto taste her—all of her. And my traitorous cock is getting excited just thinking about it.

What happened in my office today—is NOT company policy! Hell, it’s not even descent human being policy. But fuck, she put that tart between her legs and frosted her own skin and God dammit, I’m a nice guy, but evenIhave my limits.

Today was completely out of my comfort zone. Hell, it wasn’t even in my version of reality. Things like that happen in Connor’s life. Case in point, ask him to tell you how he met Arie. But me? No way. I’m the one who’s always judging Connor three ways to Ipanema for just thinking about doing something as unseasonable as what happened on my desk today—much less actually living it.

I don’t think with my cock.

I don’t get emotional.

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