She had the kind of body that distracted you mid-sentence—tattoos sleeved all the way down, Elizabeth Taylor eyes with a punk-rock grin, and a rack that could’ve broken treaties. Confident. Dangerous. Wild as hell. The kind of woman who didn’t belong in quiet towns or respectable homes. And yet, there she was—married, no less.
After a couple of drinks, that door had been opened, wide and unashamed. Later that night, she dragged me out to this private little beach—quiet, off-grid, the kind of place people only go when they want to be left alone, or when they don’t want to be seen. No infrastructure. No lights. Just the ocean, some wind, and bad intentions. It’s the kind of spot you bring someone when you plan on poke under the stars and pretending it’s spiritual.
And I’m pretty damn sure that’s exactly what she had in mind.
We lay there, backs on the sand, eyes on the sky. The kind of silence that’s never empty, just full of unsaid things. That’s when I noticed her wedding ring. Moonlight hit it just right, a little betrayal twinkling on her hand. I had to ask.
She told me not to worry. Said they were “poly.” Said her husband knew. Or would. That he’d been on board with swinging before—little parties, little adventures. But this, she said, would be different. This would be a poly relationship. Not a one-off. Not a game. Something real. Something she’d have to sell him on, because she liked me.
Said they were open-minded. Free spirits. Hippie shit.
I looked at her.
I told her, “No problem.”
But we both knew—
this wasn’t about polyamory.
This was about escape.
And I was just the next exit.
I was still living out in Kapolei, sweating out the last of my ambition and feeding off chaos like it was breakfast. She showed up often. Too often. Said she just liked the energy. But her husband? He wasn’t an idiot. Retired Air Force. Tall, quiet, built like a heavy door. A man who didn’t say much but he was monitoring the tracking of her car.
Every day, the same pattern.
She was at my place for hours.
No gas station, no shopping centers. Just me.
Eventually, he wanted to meet.
So we did.
And oddly enough, the three of us ended up hanging out a few times.
Strange, I know. But in Hawaii, weirdness is currency.
They were Harley people—matching bikes, matching helmets.
And me? I was just the storm that rolled in and camped on their marriage.
She helped me move out of Kapolei. Hauled boxes and beer into the chicken coop I’d rented up in Haleiwa. Cozy. Crude. Nothing like their Costco-perfect palace. She liked it. Said it felt more real. I let her play house there—without the title, without the guilt. She never stayed for food or drinks. We didn’t go out. No dates. No romantic walks. Just poking. Long, silent, almost desperate.
I invited her on a hike. It was early morning when I arrived at her place which was everything mine wasn’t. Spotless. Pristine. Flat-screens and stainless steel. The kind of kitchen where meals are made with love and anxiety.
That morning, she made pancakes—or maybe it was waffles. Doesn’t matter. She was cooking for her husband, but she was brushing up against me. Quiet little grazes. Hands on my back. Neck kisses behind the microwave. Her husband had his back turned, eyes locked on Fox News, eating sausage links while his wife touched another man four feet behind him. He didn’t flinch. I didn’t stop her.
Then the sirens hit.
Those old-ass tsunami sirens—rusted, sun-bleached, bolted to every pole in town—lit up like the end of the world. Not a test. Not a fluke. A full-throated, relentless scream. Piercing. Pulsing. The kind of sound that hits you in the chest before your ears even catch up. It would wail, stop for a beat, then wail again—long enough to make you think maybe it was over, just long enough to drag you outside to check if the sky was still intact.
Then came the voice.
Mechanical. Crackling.
“This is not a drill. A ballistic missile threat is inbound to Hawaii. Seek immediate shelter.”
North Korea.
Nuclear strike.
War.
Missiles in the goddamn air.
People stumbled into the streets half-dressed, blinking at the sun, trying to figure out if this was real life or some kind of apocalyptic dream. Phones lit up. Voices cracked. The fear was instant and primal—are we about to be vaporized?
It was chaos, wrapped in the sterile voice of a warning system that never meant to be used.
And just like that, paradise felt like a bullseye.
Me?
I kept eating my sausage.
Because what the hell else do you do?
They started calling their families—panicked voices trying to reach sons, daughters, exes they hadn’t talked to in years. Her hands shook. His face was stone. My plate was nearly empty.
I looked out and saw the neighborhood spilling into the middle of the street—barefoot, half-dressed, eyes wide, clutching phones like they held the secrets to survival. Everyone was searching for answers that didn’t exist, pulling their loved ones in close, trying to make sense of it. Word spread fast—if the missile was targeting Oahu, it was likely aimed at the satellite facility up near the North Shore. Right near us.
Suddenly, we weren’t just in danger—we were in the kill zone.
But hell, with a nuke on an island, everywhere’s the kill zone.
No escape. Just degrees of incineration.
Fox News flipped into full DEFCON drama.
Honolulu imploded—people diving into storm drains, running for the hills, slamming their cars into curbs trying to outrun a mushroom cloud. It was panic with no direction.
And there I was…
Fork in hand, finishing breakfast in a swinger’s kitchen.
About to be vaporized between a man who wouldn’t speak the truth and a woman who already had.
They hadn’t accepted the bomb between them long before the one in the sky.
And I was just the detour they didn’t plan for.
Just as I was about to crack open the bottle of tequila and make my final pilgrimage to the beach—because if I was going to evaporate, I wanted to do it drunk, barefoot, and facing the ocean— the TV glitched.
Screen went black.
Then came the override.
Emergency broadcast.
“False alarm.”
“There is no missile threat.”
“We screwed up. Sorry.”
That was it. No apology big enough. No undo button. Just the end of the world, reversed with a shrug.
Just like that.
Phones went quiet.
Tears dried.
And the world slowly rebooted like a glitchy machine, pretending nothing had just happened.
She looked at me—eyes wide, somewhere between impressed and turned on, like I was some kind of zen lunatic calmly chewing sausage at the edge of oblivion.
I looked at her like she was already late for the hike.
Let’s go.
Her husband stood up, rinsed his plate without a word.
No questions. No breakdown. Just silence.
Then they kissed goodbye—like it was routine, like the last ten minutes hadn’t unraveled everything. And just like that, I walked out with his wife, headed straight up the ridge.
Neither of us realized until halfway up that we were hiking toward the satellite dishes.
The ones that were supposed to be the target of today’s nuke.
The bullseye.
But hey—if you’re gonna keep playing with fire,
you might as well walk right back into the blast zone.
