The Devil Series Books 1-4 (Devil #1-4), page 27
“He’s in jail,” Josh provides, without a trace of emotion.
I give a startled laugh. Because arriving halfway around the world to vacation with Six’s family but not Six is too ridiculously terrible to be real. “What?”
“It’s all a big mix-up,” Beth assures me, while Joshua rolls his eyes. “The band was searched at the Tokyo airport. One of them had a bit of marijuana in his bag, and they were all arrested. But his lawyer says he’ll be out on bail by tomorrow and this whole thing will be settled in three days.”
I stare at her. She cannot be telling me I’m stuck on vacation with a retirement-aged couple I’ve met once, plus two people I loathe—one of whom suggested to his mother, when he thought I was out of earshot, that she’d better lock up the family silver until I was gone.
But no one is laughing, and Beth is wincing. If this was all a joke, I don’t think she’d appear quite this worried.
I look behind me, as if there might be a way to scramble back on the plane before the Baileys have seen me, but that would require time travel, something I haven’t yet mastered.
A camera flashes, and Josh’s gaze jerks in that direction. Heads are turning, a crowd is gathering. It’s the fucking hair. I have one of those vaguely ethnic, Eastern European faces you see everywhere in New York—high cheekbones, pouty lips—but the long platinum blonde hair is what gives it away every time. I put my hood back on but it’s too late…once they know you’re in the airport, it’s game over.
“We should go,” Josh says, glaring across the room. “Someone better hold Drew’s hand so she doesn’t get trampled by all the normal size humans.”
“Extreme height is correlated with early mortality,” I reply, craning my neck back to maintain eye contact.
He raises a brow. “That’s Marfan’s syndrome. And you sound hopeful.”
“Only if it could take place without ruining the trip.”
I see the smallest twitch of his mouth, but it doesn’t leave me feeling victorious. I think he just gets excited when people bring up death.
We get through the crowd to baggage claim where Jim Bailey, Six’s father, waits. Unlike his wife, he’s a man of few words and—thank God—not a hugger. He places a hand on my shoulder, nods, and asks what my bag looks like just before the crowd surges.
I told myself I wouldn’t need security here, but I’m not five minutes into this vacation and I’m having second thoughts. Phones are held in the air, filming me, and things are waved in my face to be signed—a boarding pass, the inside of a book, a Sbarro receipt, an arm. I feel the first signs of encroaching panic: sweat dripping down my back, heart thudding in my chest, the sense that I’m about to suffocate.
“How drunk were you in Amsterdam?” someone shouts and someone else is asking if I’m here to go to rehab. Pretty much everyone alive has seen the video of me falling off a stage by now. Drew Takes the Plunge! was The Daily Mail’s headline. So very clever. Within hours, there were gifs, memes, stitches on TikTok. You haven’t truly made it until the whole world unites to ridicule your personal crises.
I take a step back as the crowd swells, but people shove forward. The air grows too thick to breathe and just as I’m about to succumb to the panic, a hand wraps around my bicep. Josh pulls me from the crowd as if he’s plucking me from heavy surf.
I’ll go back to hating him later, certainly, but in this moment, as he shepherds me all the way to the waiting van, I’ve never loved anyone more.
The van door is flung open, and I dive inside. People already surround us, and are now filming the van itself. Like…who will ever want to watch that video? Did I show you the taxi Drew Wilson was in? they’ll ask their friends later. And those friends, if even vaguely rational, will say Why the fuck would we want to watch that? Why would you film the outside of a cab?
I wind up shoved to the very back, which is less than ideal given I get carsick, but there’s not really time to reorganize everyone.
With a lurch, the van accelerates away from the curb. Joshua’s broad, khaki-covered thigh presses against mine and he smells annoyingly good. Like soap and deliciously male skin. It’s clear I’ve gone too long without sex if the smell of Josh’s skin is doing it for me at a time like this. And he flew here all the way from Somalia. Shouldn’t he reek of airplane and sweat like I do?
Beth starts reading to us from her guide book about Oahu. Can a human voice actually make you ill? Because I feel like hers is. And there is no air coming from the vent near me. I press my face to the window like a dog.
“The medical care is apparently excellent,” she announces. “Some of the best in the country.” I can’t imagine why this is what she wants to read about. Sure, there are three doctors in here—Jim, Sloane and Josh—but I’d put that fact neck-and-neck with here’s the cab Drew Wilson was in on the interest scale.
“Are you about to get sick?” Josh asks me, sounding pretty horrified for someone who is ostensibly a doctor. I have my doubts: he seems more like the guy you hire to wipe out a group of civilians by drone.
I take shallow breaths through my nostrils. “I hope not.” My eyes fall to his laptop bag. “Open that up a bit more, just in case.”
He manages to look even more disdainful, a feat I didn’t imagine possible.
“You get carsick,” he says flatly. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I don’t know,” I reply. “Maybe it had to do with the swarm of teenage girls who were chasing me.”
“She’s just like you, Josh,” Beth says, turning to beam at her son as if either of us will take that as a compliment. “She does what needs to be done.”
His eyes sweep over me with disdain. “Practically twins,” he says, lip curling. Then he adds, under his breath, “Except I don’t twerk for a living.”
“And I’m not a jerk to people I just met,” I hiss.
“Apparently,” he mutters, “you don’t remember the day we met all that clearly.”
My jaw tightens. I didn’t ask him if he’d finished high school. I didn’t suggest to my mother that he might steal the silver.
“Put your head between your legs,” he says. “And don’t throw up on my pants.”
I bend my body over and put my head down, just as Dr. Bedside Manner suggested.
So far, Hawaii is proving more exhausting than my real life.
2
JOSH
It’s a lesson I should have learned from children’s television programming: every lie, even lies of omission, even lies meant to spare someone, will come back to bite you in the ass eventually. I just never thought they’d all bite me in the ass at the same time.
Mere hours ago, I was at the end of a very long flight, looking forward to some time with my family in Hawaii. Well, looking forward to time with my mother, anyway. I expected to find her with her health restored—that last round of chemo behind her—and my father by her side, pretending to be a decent human being, while my brother drank too much and acted like the selfish prick he is.
But only my father is living up to expectations so far, because my mother is clearly not well and my brother couldn’t even bother to show up. I’m starting to wish I’d never stepped off the plane.
The van arrives at the hotel at last. By some small miracle, my brother’s diva girlfriend has managed not to vomit, but I climb out as fast as possible anyway and head to the Halekulani’s open-air lobby.
The place radiates serenity, all bleached stone and quiet elegance, the kind of hotel where no one speaks loudly and it’s as if you’re the only guest. There are no lines at check-in, no nonsense. In under a minute, we are being led (quietly) through a maze of well-kept gardens and gently gurgling fountains to the elevator in our wing of the hotel. My mother has reserved us three rooms, side by side, on the fifth floor. She wants maximum togetherness at all times.
“Let’s meet down by the bar at six,” she says when we reach our respective rooms. “They do a sunset show.”
I open the door to our suite, which consists of a bedroom with a plush king-sized bed, a living room spacious enough for a table, a desk and a couch, and a long balcony overlooking Diamond Head. In Dooha, I sleep in a tent barely tall enough to stand in. Simply having a bathroom nearby would be a luxury…and here there are two, complete with Japanese toilets that do everything but pull your pants down for you.
I can’t begrudge my mother a single thing. She wanted this trip to be perfect and I suspect I know why. I just wish it wasn’t…so much. There are kids at the refugee camp using wheelchairs constructed of bike tires and hospital chairs. How much equipment could we have purchased with the money this is costing? How much food?
“You really had no idea,” Sloane says. She isn’t talking about the room. She’s not even noticing the room. She’s only thinking of this—us, when “us” wasn’t even a thing until two hours ago.
I run a hand through my hair. Jesus, what a fucking mess. “No,” I say, forcing my mouth to move into a smile. “But it’s great to see you.”
It’s not all that great, really.
My mother’s decision to surprise me by inviting her was…definitely a surprise. Sloane and I were a fling, nothing more, and then she left Somalia, which fortuitously brought things to an end. Now I’ve got to pretend I wasn’t relieved, on top of everything else I’m pretending.
She folds her arms across her chest. Somewhere between the airport and here, she’s put together what’s happened. “Why did you let your mother think we weren’t over,” she asks coolly, “if you thought we were?”
I shove my hands in my pockets. It’s hard to explain how hung up my mother is on the idea of Joel or me settling down. I think she blames her screwed-up marriage for our aversion to relationships, and she isn’t entirely wrong. “I didn’t want to upset her right before she went through chemo,” I reply. I thought I’d gracefully exited the thing with Sloane, gracefully sidestepped the conversation with my mother. And now I’m back in the middle of both.
The bellman enters and we fall silent while he sets each suitcase on the bench at the foot of the bed. When he leaves, she crosses the room and unzips it, saying nothing. The inside of her bag looks like it’s been styled for a photo shoot. Everything is pressed, perfectly folded. That’s Sloane to a T. Neat, precise, methodical.
By contrast, Drew’s bag is probably bursting at the seams. I picture frilly panties and bras and negligees exploding like confetti from a cannon when she opens it. I have no clue why I’m picturing Drew’s panties, or why I picture them all being sheer and extremely non-functional, but it’s a troubling development.
Sloane opens a drawer and then closes it. “Is this going to be okay? That I’m here?”
No, I think. There is so much that is not okay at this moment that I feel like I can barely take a deep breath. “Of course,” I tell her, because the only option is to say Hey, not really, would you mind flying back to Atlanta instead?
Her lips press tight. “Then do me a favor: please don’t spend the entire trip fawning over your brother’s girlfriend.”
I give a startled laugh. “Fawning?”
“You talked to her more than you did me at the airport,” she replies. “And then you rushed into doctor mode in the van.”
“I asked her not to throw up on my pants. It was hardly the height of medical care.”
Her lips press again, as if she doesn’t agree but knows further argument is pointless, and I step onto the balcony. There is no longer enough air in this oversized room. I suspect it’s going to feel that way until we leave.
My hands grip the railing and I glare at the perfect view. What the hell am I going to do? The issues with my mother would be enough to make me feel like I was drowning without an unhappy ex sharing my room for the next two weeks.
The balcony door beside mine slips open and Drew walks out, pulling her endless blonde hair free of its ponytail. She’s removed the hoody she wore earlier, stripped down to the tank beneath. I see ice-blue bra straps, a hint of lace under the shirt’s thin fabric. Collarbone, bee-stung lips, so much exposed skin. She always looks like her clothes can’t quite contain her.
And in response I feel that same fizzle inside me, that bizarre, unwelcome spark I’ve had before. My gaze darts to the hint of lace beneath her shirt and darts away.
I’m better than this. And for the next two weeks, I’m going to have to be a lot better than this.
“Pretend I’m not here,” she says, with knowing brown eyes that seem to see right through me.
“I plan to,” I reply dryly.
3
DREW
Joshua. So far, he’s exceeding any and all expectations.
Because I expected him to be a dick, and my God he’s killing it.
I leave him standing outside, staring at Diamond Head as if it’s done something to him. I picture him mentally crafting a list of things he hates:
1. Drew
2. Threats to Mother’s silver
3. Dormant volcanoes
4. Drew, again
The bed—white, fluffy, oversized—calls to me but I don’t dare lie down. I’m way too tired—there’s not a chance I’d get back up before I have to meet the Baileys down at the oceanfront bar. Instead, I shower and wander the grounds, trying to stay awake.
My phone buzzes in my pocket while I’m perusing one of the shops in the center of the hotel. I know it’s Tali before I even answer the call, because she’s the sort of person who writes down what flight you’re on and checks to make sure you landed safely. She’s going to be an amazing mom.
“Did you make it in one piece?” she asks.
I go outside and sit on a bench, groaning a little. How am I so stiff from sitting all day? “Barely. And I’ll give you one guess what Joshua said. First thing out of his mouth.”
“Don’t steal the silver?” She’s heard, obviously, about the first time I met him. Her soft giggle lightens my mood just a little.
I kick off one flip-flop and dig my toes into the grass. Even the Halekulani’s grass is quieter and more elegant than anyone else’s. “He would have, I’m certain, if they’d traveled here with it. And seriously, why is silver still a thing? It’s something people put in their mouths. If I don’t want a diamond you’ve put in your mouth, I sure as shit don’t want metal you’ve put in your mouth. But anyway…no, he did not bring up the silver. He said You’re sweating, the way someone else might say You’re bleeding. Like…it was a thing decent people don’t do.”
She laughs. Tali is one of the most bubbly people I know, and now that she’s carrying what’s politely referred to as a honeymoon baby, though the baby was in there before any honeymoon occurred, she’s positively giddy. “And I’m sure you responded with your customary restraint,” she says.
I lean backward, staring absentmindedly at the pretty white dress in the window. It’s delicate and girlish, nothing I would ever wear. “I was lovely to him,” I reply. “Sort of. It’s all vague because I’m tired but I’m almost certain I behaved like an adult. Anyway, how’s my future godson?”
“You’re as bad as Hayes. We don’t know it’s a boy. But to answer your question, she is a monster who, according to the lady at Whole Foods, is stealing my beauty. She literally said that to me. I can tell you’re having a girl because she’s stealing your beauty. Have you told Davis you’re not going to rehab?”
Oh, right. My manager pulled a lot of strings to get me into some swanky rehab center in Utah, which would make him sound like a prince among men, except he did it without asking me, and I don’t need rehab. We’re still on our six-week break from the tour, so for once he can’t threaten me with phrases like breach of contract.
I pull my hair off my face. “He’ll probably figure it out when I don’t get off the plane.”
“I wish you’d fire him. Why is your life so full of men I want to punch?” she asks. I brace for her to ask about Six, brace for the moment when I have to admit he no-showed on this trip—which only sounds forgivable if I explain that he’s in jail—but she’s still focused on my awful manager. “Please call Ben. He’s a brilliant lawyer. I know he can get you out of your contract with Davis. And my husband trusts him—you know Hayes doesn’t trust anyone.”
“He trusts you,” I remind her.
I can hear the smile in her voice. “I guess that’s a good thing, since I’m his wife.”
Tali and Hayes? They’re that road trip sort of couple. The ones who don’t know what’s coming but are in it for the long haul. Marriage thrills them both, and watching them terrifies me.
Because anything that thrills you will hurt that much more when it’s lost.
The Baileys are all gathered by the time I get to the oceanfront bar for the hotel’s nightly sunset show. Sloane is still dressed like she’s here to learn about tax loopholes for rich douchebags, but Josh has changed into a t-shirt and khaki shorts and I can’t entirely explain the small jump in my gut at the sight of him there, sprawled in a chair he’s too big for, with his very well-defined biceps on display. It’s sort of like when you hear about someone’s fetish and feel simultaneously disgusted and titillated by it.
I take the empty chair next to Beth, who smiles at me as if I’m her favorite person. “Has anyone heard from Six?” I ask.
She shakes her head, a flicker of worry in her gaze. “He won’t be able to contact us until he’s out on bail tomorrow,” she says. “His lawyer is keeping in touch, though. I just hope he doesn’t miss all of Oahu, but we’ll figure it out.”
I blink at her. She said three days at the airport, but we are in Oahu for six. I’m beginning to worry Beth is one of those relentlessly optimistic people who hope for things fruitlessly, continually readjusting what they wish for, only to conclude it was all for the best in the end when nothing works out.
