LITMIR.BIZ

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      The bus stop shelter near the Hau’ula Beach Park smelled of urine and sorrow. Rasa crinkled her nose at the used needles and ragged condoms that littered the area. She turned away to face the ocean. She thought about when they’d lived in a tent a few yards away. She pressed her palms together in prayer and lifted her head to the drab sky. “Thank you,” she whispered, grateful for their shack. Also that her sisters had never been homeless.

      The heavy clouds burst. Rain pummeled the ground. Rasa hopped over the garbage into the shelter. She stepped onto the bench under the narrow roof and hugged herself. The rain fell in thick drapes.

      A cold gust of wind blew rain onto Rasa. She shivered and rubbed her bare arms. Her skin ached with chill. She tried to distract herself by counting the raindrops that landed on her slippered feet. She was at forty when a red Ferrari pulled up in front of the bus stop.

      The passenger side window came down. An older man, maybe in his late thirties, called out, “Hello?”

      Rasa looked up.

      The man strained his neck to catch her eye. “Need a lift?”

      Rasa looked left and right. No bus in sight. She sized up the man and his fancy car.

      There was a stethoscope and white coat in the back seat. It reminded her of her siblings’ doctors’ appointments next week. She still needed three hundred dollars to cover the costs.

       The library can wait.

      Maybe this rich guy who might be a doctor could be useful. He couldn’t be that bad if he was a doctor. He was supposed to help people, right? Do no harm…

      She licked her lips and got to work. She made her teeth chatter. Then she leaned over so that the front of her short sundress fell away from her chest. She watched his eyes drift to her cleavage. “My savior,” she said flashing her sexiest half-smile.

      A flustered pink rash spread across the man’s pale cheeks. His eyes widened. He gave her a closed-mouth smile. “Jump in.”

      He pressed a button to unlock the door.

      She climbed in, breathing a sigh of relief.

      “You’re shaking.” He reached behind her seat for a plush towel. “This will warm you up.” Then he turned a dial on the center console and said, “So will this.” Immediately her black leather seat began to heat up.

      She cloaked herself in the towel. “Thanks.” She brushed his arm with her fingers and followed his eyes following her fingers.

      He shook his head quickly and adjusted the volume on the stereo. “The Police,” he said, smiling to himself.

      “Oh, I love them,” she replied. She let her finger graze his leg.

      Don’t Stand So Close to Me came on. He revved the engine. “Ready?”

      Rasa nodded.

      Kamehameha Highway was empty but wet. Despite the slickness of the road, he floored it.

      Rasa spread her fingers out and gently gripped his leg. The faster he went, the higher her hand moved up his thigh. And the bigger his smile grew.

      Rasa got lost in the sounds. The swishing of the windshield wipers. Sting’s pleading voice. The Ferrari’s racecar engine. The exhale he tried to hide.

      In no time they were on the North Shore. He pulled the car makai through a gate onto a short driveway. Rasa stepped out. The gray sky turned black. Thunder crashed. She ran ahead of…

      That’s when she realized she didn’t know his name.

      And he didn’t know hers.

      Oh well. Like it really matters. Like I’ll ever see this guy again.

      She stood trembling near the front door and peeked through the glass panels on either side. The living room resembled one of those hipster repurposed warehouses in Chinatown complete with sparse furnishing and a few massive works of modern art on the walls.

      He caught up, then unlocked the door. Pushing it open, he moved to the side to let her in first. She slid her feet out of her slippers before she entered. He closed the door behind them. The sounds of the wild weather were muted. The quiet was a relief. Rasa walked to the glass double doors that overlooked the Pacific. The wild tossing waves hypnotized her. She pressed her forehead and fingertips onto the glass and pretended they were on a cruise ship. Below deck in their large suite she watched the storm, safe from it.

      Safe.

      Drowsiness overcame her. She forgot she was a black widow. She forgot about the money-making scheme she’d planned with this guy whose name she didn’t know.

      Instead she wanted to curl up on the dark brown suede couch and cover herself in the fuzzy white throw that lay neatly folded on one end. She wanted him to tuck the edges of the blanket under her. She wanted him to stroke her forehead and say, “Go to sleep.” Then let her drift off into secure slumber.

      Safe from the weather.

      Safe from people.

      Safe from him.

      She turned around, determined to lie down on the couch for a solo nap.

      But he was standing in front of it. Naked.

       WORLDS APART

      No one at school had ever rocked liberty spikes. Jaya thought he was the perfect person to introduce his classmates to this classic punk hairstyle. He was a misunderstood outsider anyway, why not be true to himself? He walked a brisk pace through the Manoa Prep campus with his head held high and his hair even higher.

      He’d made it through the busy morning parking lot without any negative attention. Maybe his classmates would leave him alone today. Maybe they’d respect him for making a bold fashion statement.

      Yeah, maybe.

      His luck ran out as he approached the track.

      “What’s with the Mohawk? You’re not that kind of Indian, you dumbass.”

      It was one of the three haole boys from Hawaii Kai, juniors just like Jaya, who bullied him at least once a week. He and his co-tormentors sprung up from the sidewalk and surrounded Jaya.

      Jaya touched his scalp and looked away.

      “We know you’re gay, Jaya. Good thing, because no guy would ever hit that,” the freckled one said with a slight one-handed shove.

      Jaya took a step forward, hoping to escape their insults. But they tightened their circle. Jaya was trapped. And they turned their derision on, full blast.

      “Curry-eating carpet-muncher.”

      “Go with me. Betcha I can turn you straight.”

      A minute later, someone pushed through the circle and stood next to Jaya. It was Alika Keahi. “What’s going on?” he wanted to know, crossing his arms. He looked the shorter haole boys up and down, right and left. Jaya couldn’t help but think of that Herb Kane painting in the school library—Warrior Chief. Alika was the chief thrusting his leiomano and saying, “Really? You’ve got no chance. Run along now, little white invaders.”

      Jaya stifled a laugh when the Hawaii Kai boys did just that. They left.

      “Thanks, Alika,” Jaya said. He extended his hand.

      “No problem.” Alika gave him a double-handed handshake.

      Alika Keahi was more than fifty-percent Native Hawaiian with some Chinese and Portuguese. He was from Waianae. Unlike many of his classmates and their families, he and his family weren’t well-off. They certainly couldn’t afford Manoa Prep’s tuition.

      But Alika was the top wideout in the state, a talent that awarded

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