Thick Love (Thin Love, #2)(53)
That time I fell back into the seat, worried now about how well he knew my business, utterly at a loss for anything sensible to say. I felt like an idiot for underestimating Ironside and his reach.
“Yeah. Thought so.” He got up and left the booth, taking one last sip of his coffee before he replaced the old toothpick with a fresh one from the counter, leaving me speechless and stunned. “Be at Summerland’s before seven. I’ve got my girls coming in early to doll you up and make you look presentable.” When he leaned on the table, his cheap jacket rubbing against my knuckles, I finally looked back at him and didn’t put up much of a fight when Ironside grabbed my chin. “You better make damn sure Ransom gets what he pays for, bèl madanm.”
12
Ransom sent me two text messages the night Ironside visited me at the diner; I didn’t answer either of them. It was all becoming too much—being around his family, practicing with him, not really understanding what that kiss meant or why it happened in the first place. With Ironside’s offer, I got that Ransom was drifting. Either that or he was just really horny. That made little sense to me considering the attention I knew he got. He was first string on the football team at CPU as a freshman. The sports stations that Kona always had playing on the TV as I cleaned the house or made lunch mentioned Kona or Ransom at least once a week. And I’d been with Keira and Kona at the grocery store or the mall shopping—he still got double takes and whistles from strangers. Ransom was a younger, more virile version of his father. There was no way he’d stay lonely for long.
So why did he have to pay to get attention? Why was it a stranger he’d rather be with?
“This,” Koa said, slamming into my lap with another book he’d stolen from Kona’s office.
“I don’t think this one is a story for kids.” I flipped open the book with Koa laying against my chest, realizing that the little man had swiped a photo album from his father’s desk. “See? Pictures of your family. It’s not a storybook.”
“Mama?” he said, pointing to a picture of Keira in a simple, but beautiful white dress, caught in mid-laugh, looking stunning.
“Yep. That’s your mama.” I turned the page, thumbed through the next set and realized it was of Keira and Kona’s Hawaiian wedding. The beach was behind them, the water stretching out for miles and the sandy beach looked like linen it was so white. “Who is that big guy?” I asked Koa, pointing to a picture of Kona, his arm around Keira’s waist.
“Maku,” he said, still not able to pronounce the entire Hawaiian word for Daddy. “Maku,” he said again, when he looked at the next page. “Brah.” Those chubby fingers landed right on a picture of Ransom, arm around his father’s shoulders as they smiled at the camera.
“That’s right. That’s your brother.”
“Br-ah,” he argued, saying the nickname in slow syllables before he landed another thump of his finger at Ransom’s face.
I didn’t correct him. Koa flipped through the pages but I didn’t respond when he called out each name. There were more pictures of Ransom and his parents, a few of their friend Bobby in Nashville who Keira often spoke of, and Mark and Johnny, the two friends who’d lived with Keira and helped raise Ransom.
Koa skipped past the single picture of Kona’s mother, Lalei, taken just weeks before she passed away from cancer. Even I had heard the media coverage about her death; the older woman had been blamed for leaking the video of Ransom as a kid throwing another kid through a window at his school. The unwanted publicity had really messed Ransom up, and there was no love lost between Lalei and the Hale-Riley family. Keira wasn’t in that picture at all, and Ransom was the only one smiling. I didn’t know the story behind the woman or why Kona’s face was expressionless in the picture, and Koa certainly didn’t seem interested. He quickly flipped to another page and stopped, squinting down at the album.
“Maku?” he said, nodding at Kona in his CPU uniform standing next to someone else who was just as sweaty and filthy as he was. There was dirt and grass stains smudging those blue uniforms; obviously it was a post-game shot. The men had their arms draped over each other’s shoulders, and Kona had a brilliant, happy smile. The other guy was shorter, not as bulky as Kona and had a wide nose and round, dark eyes. I found myself looking at those eyes, wondering who he was and why he reminded me so much of Ransom. “Maku?” Koa asked again and I pulled the picture from the clear sleeve and read the inscription on the back.
Kona and Luka, CPU win over Florida State, Sophomore Year, 1997
“It says that’s your daddy and someone called Luka.” The baby held the picture, looking harder for a second before he tossed the picture back in my hand.
“Hello?” I heard and twisted around with Koa still in my lap as Kona walked into the living room.
“Hey,” I said, standing with Koa, that picture still in my free hand. “Keira’s napping and Koa wanted to look at family pictures.”
“He did?” Kona said, voice rising as it did whenever he wanted his son’s attention. “Who you looking at, buddy?” Koa went to his father, giving him a kiss before he pointed to me and the picture in my hand.
“Sorry,” I said, handing it over. “We didn’t know who this was so I took it out to see if there was an inscription.”