“I take it you’re surprised to see me?” he asks, hopping out of the water. He grabs a towel and rubs it over his mop of messy black hair, which has paid for at least three separate multimillion-dollar shampoo campaigns by last count.
“You put out my cigarette,” I grumble, settling back against the lounger and lighting a fresh one.
“Ornery as ever, Woods.” He throws his body on the chair beside mine, the eight-pack that paid for his Bugatti on full display. “God, I forgot how humid it is in Hawaii. Makes LA’s heat waves seem almost reasonable.”
“Dunn, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Last I checked, I owned this treehouse you’re so happily crashing in.” He gestures around vaguely.
True enough.
Hanging on the side of a remote cliff on Oahu’s western shore, the modern villa isn’t massive, but it’s totally secluded on a private acre of land… which makes it the perfect place for hiding out from the world. The incredible views, infinity pool, and perpetually-stocked refrigerator aren’t bad perks either.
“Am I not allowed to visit my own property?”
“I just didn’t know you were coming.” I shrug. “You never spend any time here.”
“But Icould,” he says, green eyes gleaming. “That’s the beauty of collecting houses all over the world.”
“Not all of us are obscenely wealthy, Dunn. How much was your last contract? Seven figures?”
“Eight.” He chuckles. “You know, if you got off your ass and made a new album, you could buy a place — or five — of your own.”
“You want me out of here, say the word.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” He glances at me. “Stay as long as you want. Like you said, I’m never here.”
We’re silent for a while, staring at the nearby waterfall thundering down in a cloud of mist. The green cliffs all around us are lush with life — full of tropical birds calling to each other in a medley of contradictory harmonies. The sun hovers high in the sky overhead, deepening my tan to an even darker bronze.
“Why’d you buy this place, anyway?” I ask, brow furrowing. Compared to his other places — the modern mansion in Malibu, the upscale ski chalet in the Alps, the penthouse in Tokyo — it’s pretty rustic.
“You know I filmed that plane-crash movie out here last year. With Kat.” Grayson’s eyes flash with memories at the mention of his former co-star. “I don’t know, I thought… maybe, if I bought a place here, I could hold onto the feeling I had when we were…” He breaks off. His cheeks look uncharacteristically flushed. I chalk it up to sun exposure — Grayson Dunn doesn’tdoembarrassed. It’s not in his DNA.
He clears his throat hard. “You know what? Never mind. I really don’t know why I bought this place. Call it an impulse purchase.”
I don’t push him. I’m in no position to call him out for being in denial over a woman, for holding onto something he should’ve let go a long time ago.
“Can I bum one of those?” he asks, eyes flickering to my cigarettes.
I toss the box at his chest, watching as he lights up and inhales deeply. “Thank god you didn’t give up all your vices, Woods.”
A ghost of a smile twists my mouth. “I’ve got far too many to ever be a true choir boy.”
“Amen, motherfucker.”
“So, you plan on telling me why you’re really here, Grayson?”
“Eventually.” He blows out a stream of smoke. “Can I ask you something first?”
I shrug.
“This life.” He gestures around. “This solitary mountain man shit you’ve been doing for the past six months…”
“Still waiting for a question.”
“Are you happy?” he asks bluntly.
“What kind of shit question is that?”