He was slightly disappointed when he had to leave Hawaii, lot's of colors and a beautiful atmosphere, he didn't understand why his wife wouldn't consider taking to court there, having your toes in the warm sand, waves splashing on your bare ankles lessen the blow of having a man tell you that you failed as a husband, and that your wife no longer wanted you. His muses enjoyed it to, but alas, a heavenly divorce under a warm sunset was too much to ask for, as he landed himself on a boat back to the city.<br/><br/>Five years, and two books publishing later, he was lying in bed, looking up at his sky blue ceiling, thinking over the fact that he officially sign himself into the “divorce club” and even contacted a woman on there. No, he still couldn't think about that now, that was a serious site, and he couldn't see himself giving his full attention to something like that now. His attention was now own by a museum, that has called him about his studies in Hawaii, it was a bitter taste to know that when he wrote adult books, people paid attention more. No matter, he felt at home with the Hawaiians, he wouldn't mind supporting their art and spreading their culture whenever he could.<br/><br/>Finally rising from the bed, he then began to prepare himself, he started with simple hygiene, he shaved the stubble that began to ruin his neatly trimmed goatee, it was a small goatee, with just a hint of a mustache on the top of his lip, and a fuzz of hair on his chin, the red really popped against his pale skin. After using the minted after shave, he tended to his shoulder length red hair, combing it straight back seemed to be the only thing he did with it now days, plus his hair was no where near receding as it laid thick against his scalp.<br/>He ran his fingers through his hair to give it a more wavy feel than a stiff one his gel was giving off. He frowned slightly at the silver streak down the middle, he's always dyed white streaks in his hair since the tender age of thirteen, and even though juvenile, he wasn't going to change it now that he was older, but it seemed he didn't need it now that the graying sign of stressful days was doing the job for him. Enough pampering, as he applied a modest musky scent to his towel clad form, it was a gentle man scent that one would mock him for not smelling like a musk ox, but strong scents, that Old Spice and Axe gave, burned his sense and left him light headed, in a bad way.<br/><br/>He riffled though his clothes and picked out an appropriate silk button up blue shirt—not tucked—black formal slacks, and his vibrant purple latex gloves. He put on his best shoes and began to search his house for his book on the Hawaiian culture, and collected his black briefcase with the silver trimming. One more look over himself, this was as formal as he was able to get, he walked out the bedroom door and left his house, cursing his poor mind, he unlocked the door and rushed back into his bed room.<br/><br/>“I can't forget you, now can I,<em>Ahonui</em>?”<br/><br/>He sat in the driver seat of his black BMW M6 with the silver trimmings as he drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. His manager sat in the passenger seat next to him, huffing and rolling her eyes at his tense shoulders as he sat up straight in the car, both hands was on the wheel. She was a coal black haired, green eyed woman who was always seen in a black business suit; her shiny pin straight page boy hairstyle stiff on her head as her legs were crossed she began to bounce the one on top, agitatedly, and her red heels continued to kick at the glove compartment repeatedly, huffing and surveying her french tipped nails.<br/><br/>“W-would ya stop!” He shouted, Irish accent popping out as he stopped drumming his fingers and clenched onto the wheel tightly, if he wasn't wearing the purple gloves, one would see his knuckles going white, “You'll make me crash.” He said, turning his attention back to the road.<br/><br/>“Oh, am I bothering you?” She started, her strictly proper American voice having a false concern to it, “Because I was just mimicking the prick who was pouting next to me a minute ago.” She said curtly.<br/><br/>He huffed and rolled his eyes, causing a victorious smirk to form on her lips, “You need to lighten up, baby, have a smoke, hell get that head of yours checked out<em>again</em>—there is a museum, calling for your cooky ass to open it for them! This is a good thing!” She said, “Plus just think of how many people would want your book after this.”<br/><br/>The woman reached in the back and pulled out the multicolored book and began to flip through the pages, but he knew she wasn't reading it, or even skimming it for that matter.<br/><br/>“This is not a good thing, this is not what I want.” He said, releasing his firm hold on the steering wheel, but kept both hands posted.<br/><br/>“Oh, so you'd rather be in a children's library, having little girls coming up to you and squealing about how they 'found' their 'Hallucination Rock' or some shit.” His eye twitched at her words.<br/><br/>“Yes, I do.” He sound sarcastic, but he wasn't, he truly did enjoy that the little girls could imagine themselves as princesses, he's happy he made them feel like one, “And it's '<em>Samhlaíochta</em>Island'.” He said.<br/><br/>She rolled her eyes but brighten as they made it to the museum, it was huge, and very nice. He finally released the wheel but she placed a hand on his arm before he could take off his seat belt. She stuffed a cigarette in her mouth and lit it, she took a few drags before she plucked it from her lips and stuffed it in his mouth; he tasted the clay flavored crimson lipstick, but kept the cigarette in his mouth as he finished it. He opened the retractable ashtray and place the butt in with the soot and the three other butts that's been there for a good year—it was the woman beside him that he was smoking again.<br/><br/>“When we go in there, you say whatever batshit 'speech' you've wrote, and then at the end, I want you to mention your book—you better sell it—you hear me, list all the lives it's 'changed', what's it's called, and where they can buy it.” She said sternly, using her fingers to quote her words. “Now come on you freak.” She said watching him adjust his purple gloves.<br/><br/>He grabbed his things and they exit out of the car and walked up the steps into the museum. He went straight to the front doors of the exhibition, looking at the art work, and the many reminders of his short stay in the tropics. His manager was talking to the owner of the museum, trying to see where they stand in this situation. He didn't care as he rubbed the bulge in his pants pocket that his shirt covered, he felt his car keys, his wallet, and a hard form off to the side.<br/><br/>“Jay-Jay were in!” He jumped as the strong voice of his manager boomed in—calling him that horrible name—she was standing next to him but wasn't phased at his nervous behavior. “Well...? Go recite your shit and get ready—go, go, go.” She said, pushing him more than letting him move, they had a lot of preparing to do before night fell.