The Heart is a Hunter

I am caught in the lioness’s den.

My fight or flight is overpowered by paralysis. Blood thrums in my ears. Yet, a part of me remains unsurprised. Conner seems the kind of man to possess a dangerous, exotic animal.

When we met on the flight from L.A., his hubris had humored me. Obviously, a man used to getting everything he desired. Now, I see it might be deadly.

I had been upgraded to first class. Seated next to me, he had not taken long to introduce himself. Perhaps he was lubricated by the free-flowing whiskey, but his intentions were pretty clear.

With a decade between us, I took notice immediately of his deep tan and expensive gold watch. A two karat diamond earring flashed as he swept long blond hair out of his face. He told me, without prompting, he had just left a meeting with investors and was already unbuttoning the top buttons of his white collared shirt as I buckled in for the five hour flight to Hawaii.

I admit to having a tough exterior to crack. His icy blue eyes pierced right through it.

He had been surprised I was a senior at Chaminade University in Honolulu and not an actress in Hollywood. I forgave him his terrible come-on lines. He aroused something in me my male peers did not. Excitement, perhaps. His cologne and graveled voice drew me toward him like a bee to a pitcher plant. I was willing to overlook that he talked only of himself and name-dropped celebrities like peanut shells in a Texas Road House.

Prior to getting our bags, he asked if he could see me again.

“Maybe,” I said. I agreed to meet him at Kona Brewing Company inside the terminal. On second thought, however, I had retrieved my bags and slipped into a taxi home to sleep off the bourbon.

My father brought me to Oahu when I was eight. He was traveling the surfing circuit then, but we quickly found out paradise can be deceiving. There are very few ways off this rock and all involve money. I only have to wander through Keehi Lagoon in Waianae, searching the tent city for my father, to remind myself of this lest I become entranced by a dream, as he did.

I had thought about Conner almost every day since our flight. Thought about what it would be like to have someone like him, who could give me anything I wanted. I knew his type usually wanted to conquer or possess, or both. Sacrifices I am unwilling to make.

Still, I am not immune to romantic fantasies.

Look, I know it sounds terrible, but, like you, I grew up believing a servant girl could catch a prince if she wore the right dress.

In four months I will graduate in Journalism. I have no intention of catching any princes or being anyone’s servant, but isn’t it funny how decades of social conditioning rise to the surface when presented with a muscled forearm and a Rolex? Isn’t it funny how we can know exactly which trap to avoid and get caught in it anyway?

But, back to the lioness.

I had not noticed her at first.

Conner, adding the last touches to dinner, had shooed me out of the kitchen and into the back yard with a bottle of merlot. There, I found a checkered stone and grass patio and a fully set dining table beneath a string of paper lanterns. There was also a sandstone fountain with a naked life-sized Pan statue amongst various Hibiscus and banana trees.

His home overlooked Diamond Head, the inactive volcano I liked to hike on the weekends. I’d visit the winery at the close of the day. That’s where I had seen him again, a few weeks after our flight, and he had pointed out his house in the cliffs and invited me over for dinner.

I sat at the table, feeling good. About my day, about my date. I opened the wine and poured, the garnet fluid flowing smoothly into crystal stemware. I sat back, anchoring in the feeling, taking that first heady sip, enjoying the moment. I imagined life here. A future where dreams came true, a possible destiny coming tangent to my past.

In that moment, I wondered, Can dreams really come true?

It was then, as reality descended, a pale golden beast languidly arose from the steps encircling the fountain. My spine straightened as the lioness drew up to her full height and padded away from the goat-god, leaving him to blow some eternal melody into his flute.

I can deal with most eccentricities, but the man-eating cat is too much.

Stay or run?

The seconds stretch into eternity.

She had blended in so well with the sandstone, I had foolishly been oblivious.

I am acutely aware of her, now, as she must have been of me for some time.

My muscles tighter than guitar strings, I watch her walk across the patio and recline near a bed of flowers. Her gaze flicks to mine. She yawns, revealing sharp teeth in a cavernous maw. Her pink tongue flicks up and then disappears. She settles in with a visible sigh.

She doesn’t fool me.

I am in mortal danger.

Conner joins me outside and pours himself a glass of wine.

“I see you met Fyrah.”

I do not appreciate the amusement in his tone. I drink the rest of my wine, hand shaking, and my bracelet clinks against the glass. Fyrah’s head turns at the sound.

“What the hell, Conner.” I don’t know what else to say.

“Tara, Tara.” My name sounds like a tsk tsk out of his mouth. “You said you liked cats.”

“Is she dangerous?” Despite my bravado, my voice shakes. I motion for a refill. He complies.

“Fyrah is mostly harmless,” he says.

“Mostly?” I am not reassured.

“I’ve had her since she was a cub. She’s a zoo rescue. She did bite me once, but I was feeding her a steak and it is not her fault my hand was in the way.” Conner holds out his hand and reveals a long white scar from knuckle to wrist. I had noticed it on the plane. “She doesn’t know the difference."

“I thought you couldn’t make pets of wild animals.” I check to ensure Fyrah remains uninterested in me.

“Oh, make no mistake, she is a wild animal. It’s about mutual respect and understanding our places. I keep her fed. She doesn’t eat me.” His eyes twinkle.

“You could have warned me.”

“Would you be more comfortable if I put her in her enclosure?”

“Yes. Yes, actually, I would. Thank you.”

Conner chuckles as he rises and retrieves a remote off the ledge of a stone container wall. Fyrah also rises, as if by some unspoken command, and I lurch in my skin. I notice she wears a collar. When Conner presses a button on the remote blue lights on the collar light up like sapphires. The lioness walks toward Conner slowly, in no apparent hurry. She pauses halfway, glances back at me. Swishes her tail.

“She’s putting on a show,” Conner laughs. He runs his hand along Fyrah’s spine as she steps into her den. An electric hum sounds from within the container wall and a gate closes smoothly. Fyrah steps up onto an oversized couch and resumes reclining. Her tongue flicks across her cheek.

“I think you’re putting on a show,” I accuse him when he returns.

He has the decency to look embarrassed.

“I am sorry. I should have secured her, but I would never put you in danger. I promise. She ate this morning.”

I narrow my eyes, assessing his sincerity. Or his sanity.

“I promise!” His hands come up, palms out. “Let eat. Food will wipe that pinched expression off your face if the wine doesn’t.”

While he is gone, jazz pipes from unseen speakers. I decide to slow down on the wine. I might need my wits to get out of here, after all.

I’m not a witless girl, I promise. I emancipated myself from Dad at sixteen so I wouldn’t have to go into the system. I have a full scholarship and I am doing good, but I know someday I want to leave Hawaii. My trip to California was an interview for a writing fellowship at UCLA.

I’ve spent a lifetime of doing things the hard way. My father brought me to bars at first, because the tents weren’t safe for me alone, but I was never safe. I’d sometimes sleep outside some stranger’s apartment or, once, a VW van, while I waited for him. If I was lucky, some neighbor would call herself “Auntie” and invite me in. School became my haven.

These days, I find my dad sleeping outside my apartment. I always invite him in, even when he doesn’t know where he is or who I am. Especially then.

I try to conjure his image now, but I haven’t seen him in months. I feel conflicted about leaving, about UCLA.

Conner doesn’t seem to notice my reticence when he returns with two plates. With a fork, I push around a rectangular slab of grilled potted meat in a bed of risotto and spinach.

“Spam?” I ask, my humor returning.

“It’s a delicacy here, right? When in Rome …?”

“I wouldn’t call it a delicacy, exactly.”

“Potted meat is an absolute delicacy in France. Pâté is adored by the masses.”

“You’ve been to France.”

“Of course.”

“Of course.” My trip down memory lane has left me bitter, but the shadow passing across his face causes me to regret my tone. I’m a guest here, even if he did try to feed me to his lion.

“So, Tara,” he begins, his tone suggesting we are finally done with small talk, “why are you single?”

“Because I want to be.”

“What do you want out of life?”

“Everything.”

“An unlimited vision.” He smiles his approval. “What do you value more than anything?”

My gaze flits to Fyrah.

“My freedom,” I say.

His expression doesn’t betray if he caught my meaning. He asks, “Evening or morning sex?”

“Wow, you went right there.” I resist the urge to lower my eyes as I sip the wine. For a moment, I forget about the lioness. “Both.”

He seems pleased and rubs his jaw. “Aren’t you going to ask me anything?”

“I’m pretty sure I have you pegged.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

“You never take no for an answer, delight in possessing the finest in life, and have a fairly prominent sadist streak.”

His eyebrows rise, but he laughs. “That’s unfair, Tara.” His tone turns cautionary when he says, “People are often more complex that what they appear once you dip below the surface.”

“You are assuming I’m interested in dipping below the surface.”

Our gazes hold. I am exhilarated, yet uncertain why. I’m playing a game and guessing at the rules. It’s risky and I’m not certain I know what is at stake.

“Okay,” he concedes and continues his line of questions. ”You can only save one. Father or Mother?”

His topics give me whiplash. “My mother died when I was four.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.” His eyes soften. To his credit, he genuinely appears to be sorry.

“Don’t be,” I say. “I’ve little memory of her. Hard to know what you’re missing if you never had it.”

He prompts, “And, your father?”

My heartbeat drums in my ears. A nightbird warbles in the trees, looking for his mate, perhaps. My cheeks are flush with wine. I hear the lioness shift in her cage.

“I don’t have a father, either,” I say, finally.

Conner, perhaps sensing he touched a nerve, empties the last of the merlot into our glasses.

“Here’s to saving ourselves, then.”

“I’ll toast to that,” I say.

The crystal chimes as our glasses tip together.