if you took up fire dancing.”
“Party pooper,” Stan muttered.
The dancers spun their fiery swords under and around their writhing bodies. At the finale, they threw the flaming batons high enough to reach the satellite servicing my smart phone. I started breathing again once they were all successfully caught.
The men bowed and smiled broadly as the audience roared its approval. The Hawaiian Jay Leno indicated there would be one more participatory dance that included members from the audience. As the performers fanned out into the crowd searching for victims, I lowered my head. The worst thing you can do in one of these situations is make eye contact with a performer.
Stan waved at a handsome young man who must have registered on his gaydar. “Yoo hoo, over here.”
As the dark-haired dancer approached, Stan shoved me out of my chair and into the man’s muscular arms. What the heck!
Everyone at our table hooted, including Regan, who smiled for the first time that evening.
“I’m Kimo.” The young dancer introduced himself as he guided me onto the stage. I stared at the crowd in complete paralysis, wishing that Pele, the Hawaiian goddess of fire, would pluck me off the stage and use me as a virgin sacrifice. I’d rather be thrown into an erupting volcano than dance before an audience.
Not to mention, I’d been a practicing virgin since my divorce, so I almost qualified for a sacrificial role!
Kimo moved his muscular tush in a mesmerizing circular motion to demonstrate how to shake my booty. While I had more than enough booty to shake, I couldn’t figure out how to do it without looking like a total dweeb. I glanced at the audience awash in a sea of video cameras and phones.
OMG. My inept hips were going viral. I would never get laid again, and I wasn’t talking about the floral version.
Two capable hands grabbed my waist and spun me around.
The gods finally smiled down on me as Steve traded places with Kimo. The ship captain’s broad shoulders and back blocked the audience’s view of my clumsy gyrations. He gently placed his hands on each side of my waist and before you could say “Liliuokalani,” my hips swayed as if they were born to hula.
The last note of the song ended before I was ready to quit our Hawaiian foreplay. The amateurs were ushered off the stage to another round of applause and catcalls. Instead of returning to our seats, I asked Steve to wait with me so I could speak with Walea after the show ended.
Keiki’s stepsister, the last woman to exit the stage, stopped to talk to a musician. He placed his ukulele inside a soft-sided case and together they strolled away from the stage, headed in our direction. Our shadowed enclave made Steve and me practically invisible and the couple passed by without a glance at us. I tapped Walea on her shoulder. She spun around, her black eyes fearful.
“Sorry to frighten you,” I said. “I wanted to offer you and your family my condolences for your loss. It must be such a trying time for everyone.”
A flash of anger replaced the fear in her eyes as she recognized me. “It was your brother who caused my sister to die. I curse the day I introduced him to Keiki.”
“I’m certain Dave had nothing to do with her death,” I said. “But why do you think she was in the restaurant so late? Was Keiki meeting someone?”
The man standing beside Walea shoved his face so close to mine I could count the pockmarks on his cheeks. “Tell your brother we know what he did. Our Hawaiian gods will not let his actions go unpunished.”
Steve inserted himself between the man and me. “Now, listen here––”
An angry rumbling from above interrupted his sentence.
The gods had spoken.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Those Hawaiian gods are one heck of a responsive bunch. Seconds after Walea’s enraged friend threatened us, thunder rumbled across the sky, followed by a huge downpour. Steve grabbed my hand and we ran. Our group was already gathering
“Party pooper,” Stan muttered.
The dancers spun their fiery swords under and around their writhing bodies. At the finale, they threw the flaming batons high enough to reach the satellite servicing my smart phone. I started breathing again once they were all successfully caught.
The men bowed and smiled broadly as the audience roared its approval. The Hawaiian Jay Leno indicated there would be one more participatory dance that included members from the audience. As the performers fanned out into the crowd searching for victims, I lowered my head. The worst thing you can do in one of these situations is make eye contact with a performer.
Stan waved at a handsome young man who must have registered on his gaydar. “Yoo hoo, over here.”
As the dark-haired dancer approached, Stan shoved me out of my chair and into the man’s muscular arms. What the heck!
Everyone at our table hooted, including Regan, who smiled for the first time that evening.
“I’m Kimo.” The young dancer introduced himself as he guided me onto the stage. I stared at the crowd in complete paralysis, wishing that Pele, the Hawaiian goddess of fire, would pluck me off the stage and use me as a virgin sacrifice. I’d rather be thrown into an erupting volcano than dance before an audience.
Not to mention, I’d been a practicing virgin since my divorce, so I almost qualified for a sacrificial role!
Kimo moved his muscular tush in a mesmerizing circular motion to demonstrate how to shake my booty. While I had more than enough booty to shake, I couldn’t figure out how to do it without looking like a total dweeb. I glanced at the audience awash in a sea of video cameras and phones.
OMG. My inept hips were going viral. I would never get laid again, and I wasn’t talking about the floral version.
Two capable hands grabbed my waist and spun me around.
The gods finally smiled down on me as Steve traded places with Kimo. The ship captain’s broad shoulders and back blocked the audience’s view of my clumsy gyrations. He gently placed his hands on each side of my waist and before you could say “Liliuokalani,” my hips swayed as if they were born to hula.
The last note of the song ended before I was ready to quit our Hawaiian foreplay. The amateurs were ushered off the stage to another round of applause and catcalls. Instead of returning to our seats, I asked Steve to wait with me so I could speak with Walea after the show ended.
Keiki’s stepsister, the last woman to exit the stage, stopped to talk to a musician. He placed his ukulele inside a soft-sided case and together they strolled away from the stage, headed in our direction. Our shadowed enclave made Steve and me practically invisible and the couple passed by without a glance at us. I tapped Walea on her shoulder. She spun around, her black eyes fearful.
“Sorry to frighten you,” I said. “I wanted to offer you and your family my condolences for your loss. It must be such a trying time for everyone.”
A flash of anger replaced the fear in her eyes as she recognized me. “It was your brother who caused my sister to die. I curse the day I introduced him to Keiki.”
“I’m certain Dave had nothing to do with her death,” I said. “But why do you think she was in the restaurant so late? Was Keiki meeting someone?”
The man standing beside Walea shoved his face so close to mine I could count the pockmarks on his cheeks. “Tell your brother we know what he did. Our Hawaiian gods will not let his actions go unpunished.”
Steve inserted himself between the man and me. “Now, listen here––”
An angry rumbling from above interrupted his sentence.
The gods had spoken.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Those Hawaiian gods are one heck of a responsive bunch. Seconds after Walea’s enraged friend threatened us, thunder rumbled across the sky, followed by a huge downpour. Steve grabbed my hand and we ran. Our group was already gathering
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