Sideswiped, page 2
“G’day to you too.” I sit down and fire up my machine.
“Bloody hell, what’s the time?” Karma emerges, hikes up a pair of saggy corduroy shorts, and resets his ever-present fedora.
“Late one?”
“Weasel and I cruised a benefit show at the New Republic.” A popular bar in North Hobart.
“Good?”
“Ace, mate. We raged until two. I’d have invited your punk ass but you were flat out getting shit ready for the American woman.” Karma fists an imaginary microphone and belts the last two words like it’s that song with the same title.
“Wanker.”
He leans over my shoulder, inspecting the photograph of Talia on my desk, taken during our hike at Cradle Mountain. The trip where I asked her to be my girl, and she said yes. She’s looking back over one shoulder, laughing at an inside joke, blonde hair glossy in the late-afternoon sun. She glows, and I put that light in there. My throat grows thick—this shot helps me survive each mundane day.
I’m the luckiest bastard on the planet getting this girl’s love.
Karma rubs the air like he’s whacking off. “Your chick’s got fantastic tits. No surprise why you’re pussy-whipped.”
I stand so fast my chair tips over. “There’s this thing called a line? You fucking crossed it two sentences ago.”
Karma throws his hands up. He’s got a few inches on me but I’m not jerking around and he knows it.
“Duly noted, dude. No talk of girlfriend. Makes Hulk angry.” He aims his thumb toward the open door. “Gonna go grab a juice. I’m dry as a nun’s nasty this morning. Want one?”
“Nah. I’m good.” I right my seat. “Got loads to do.” Honors is a specialized year of study—in my case, modeling Antarctic ice-sheet response to climate change. At the end a thesis is created, written in heart’s blood. I arrive on campus by eight most mornings, not biking home until after ten at night.
I tried to get ahead in my work before Talia’s arrival tonight, but I’m barely above water. My fantasy Tasmanian outdoor lifestyle, with after-work surfs and cruisy weekend bushwalks, yeah that’s not happening. I’m twenty-three and a desk jockey.
It blows.
“Mate?”
I glance up. Karma’s got one hand on the doorknob while the other scratches down his pants. “I almost forgot—”
“Dude, don’t spread your dick juice around here.”
He grins. “Asshole.”
“Fucker.”
Karma and I have an odd friendship but it works, mostly. As long as his filthy mouth doesn’t form a syllable of Talia’s name.
I shove on my headphones, a signal not to bother me unless a zombie apocalypse threatens the Geography and Environmental Studies building.
“Guess you don’t want to hear how my mate got accepted as crew with the Sea Alliance. They ship out in December.”
Okay, he’s got my attention. “No shit? That’s sick.” The Sea Alliance is a marine conservation organization that uses direct-action tactics to expose and confront illegal activities on the high seas. The International Whaling Commission enacted a moratorium on all commercial whaling without any enforcement capacity. Since then, over 25,000 whales have been slaughtered under the guise of scientific research. The Sea Alliance might take the law into their own hands, but they draw attention to the crisis and make a real difference.
Which is more than I can say about most of us.
“He says there’s a few spots open. What do you say? Still keen to freeze your nuts off down south?”
Antarctica has haunted my dreams since I was a kid. The place at the end of the horizon—a true last frontier. Down there, shit’s the real deal. A chance to discover what you’re made of.
“Serious?”
“I’ll ask him to put in a good word.”
But I have Talia. Honors. I slump my shoulders and grind my eyes. There’s no time for chasing pipe dreams. Too much happening. Good things. Bloody important stuff. Life’s about negotiation, knowing when to compromise.
I sound like Dad.
“Timing sucks, dude.”
“What? Your chick’s got your nuts on lockdown?”
My stomach hardens. “Don’t go there.”
“Hey, I named no names.” Karma shrugs. “I’m adhering to the agreement—our office code, if you will.”
“The honors gets dibs on my soul until March. And fuck yeah, I want to be with my girl.”
“Postpone honors—your supervisor’s cool. What about She-Who-Can’t-Be-Named?”
Talia would no doubt support me pursuing my dream but I reject the idea of long-distance relationships. My first love dissolved into an intercontinental affair and annihilated my heart. No second chances. Talia and I are staying together. I’m not going to blow this shot.
“Thanks for the offer. But I’m good.”
“Yeah.” Karma scans my desk, which is buried in academic journals, scrawled notes, and shriveled apple cores. “Living the dream.”
* * *
I complete another tour around the baggage carousel and recheck the time. Hobart International Airport needs to review its name. The last overseas flights were canceled years ago.
The wall clock taunts me. Surely more than three minutes have elapsed since the last time I checked. The distant engine drone cuts through the terminal chatter, growing steadily louder. My scalp prickles. God, I despise air travel. Only a few more minutes and she’ll be safe on the ground, here in Tasmania, crossing the tarmac. Breath bottles in my chest. I rub my palms on my jeans and pull down my hat.
Talia.
A thousand images strike my brain like sudden lightning. Her sexy lips quirking when she’s privately amused or ragging on me. Those bright eyes and wild hand gesticulations. The way my whole body simultaneously revs and calms from her touch.
Muscles fire down my body’s length, concentrating a heated flare in one particular region.
Down, boy.
Fucking hell, I’m nervous.
A typical bogan, red-faced and outfitted in a faded rugby shirt, jostles against me beside the arrival door. He fails to subdue the supersize rose bouquet exploding out of his beefy arms. “How ya goin’, mate?” he asks with a proud shrug, proceeding to mistake my aggravation for polite interest. “Got to treat the missus right, ’ey?”
I avoid humoring this blokey conversation by giving a curt nod.
Shit.
Talia isn’t expecting flowers, is she?
The thought never occurred to me. I yank a retractable pen from my back pocket and click the button.
Tick, tick, tick.
The bogan peers through the lifeless blooms; his thick lips frown in my direction.
Tick, tick, tick.
Never understood the big attraction in giving a girl dead blossoms as a symbol of affection.
Tick, tick, tick.
The bogan grumbles under his breath and moves away.
I can’t help irritating dudes like him. It’s a gift.
Outside the terminal, a thunderous engine roar signals touchdown. The din dials to a high whining hum as the plane taxis. It’s been two months since I flew halfway around the world and begged Talia for a second chance. Despite everything, a miracle happened. She took my dumb ass back. I wondered if she’d wise up, reconsider. Moving to Australia is a big deal. Takes effort, commitment. Would have been easy to back out.
Will she ever know—truly grasp—that I died a little every day waiting for her?
The first passengers trickle in, becoming a flood. I dismiss the unknown faces.
You don’t matter.
Don’t care about you either.
Or you, love. Shuffle along.
The crowd shifts.
There.
Familiar copper eyes lock with mine and doubt evaporates. In three steps—four if you count me sidestepping the human rosebush—Talia is in my arms.
“Hey, you,” she whispers.
I spin her around and the whole world blurs like a piece of abstract art, our lips the only concrete entities. She tastes exactly the same—warm, salty, with a hint of mint. This is a kiss of victory. Talia and I, we pulled off an impossible stunt.
My hands slide up her back. There’s a keyhole opening in the fabric between her shoulder blades. Her skin is satin smooth and she smells subtly delicious, like toffee. Our tongues entwine and my mind flatlines. Her body is holy ground. Our kiss a prayer. This girl is my own personal religion.
“Mmmm. Looks like someone’s happy to see me.” She does this little hip shimmy grind against my quick-fire erection.
I clear my throat, ears heating. “Maybe a little. How was the flight?”
“Long. They had those movie screen thingies on the seat backs. I tried falling asleep rewatching Armageddon but ended in a cry-a-thon somewhere over Polynesia.” She stretches and muffles a yawn. Her shirt slips to reveal a perfectly curving hip.
“Get back here.” I can’t stop touching her, not for a second.
“That’s pathetic, right?” She nestles into my arms. “I fell apart over Bruce Willis blowing himself up on an asteroid. We’re talking the big, ugly tears. So not attractive.”
“Whatever you say, Captain. You’re beyond beautiful.” That’s no exaggeration. I drink her in, from that sleepy-eyed grin to the little skirt sporting a fantastic skin-to-fabric ratio. Kilimanjaro? Machu Picchu? Grand Canyon? Screw them all. I could happily watch her, and only her, forever.
“Wow.” She draws a finger over my chest in the shape of a heart. “Nice kittens, hipster.” Two cavort on my T-shirt.
“Since when is it a crime to fancy pussies?”
Her eye roll is perfectly executed even as she clutches my hand for dear life.
“Steady, don’t test my gangsta, sweetheart.” I swirl my tongue around her earlobe in the way she loves. “I’m no one to be trifled with.”
I’m addicted to her startled gasps. Their memory has been my constant companion these dreary months. I’m about to cry like a total wanker. I screw my eyes shut and try to ride through the overload. I planned to play this reunion a little cooler.
Something bashes the back of my head and knocks off my hat. The big bogan’s wife wacked me with that ridiculous greenhouse as she hustled by, beaming like she’d taken hold of an Olympic torch.
“Whoa.” Talia freezes.
“I know, why buy one rose when twelve hundred will do?” I tap my heels against the floor and fight to regain equilibrium.
“I’m talking about your hair.” She stares at the top of my head, lips parted. “Where’d it go?”
“Oh, that.” I pass my hand over my cropped scalp. “Got too long.”
“Makes you look different.” Twin creases appear between her brows.
“That bad?” Crap. Have I put off my girl before we’ve even left the terminal?
“Riiiight.”
My heart needs sunglasses to withstand her megawatt smile.
“Like you don’t know how hot you look.” She tilts her head in careful study. “Seriously, H.O.T.”
“Well, all good, then.” I fist my fallen hat.
“What’s this? Mr. Self-Assured blushes? Quick, call the papers.”
Self-assured? Hardly. This girl has an all-access pass to my soft underbelly.
“So can I stroke the new do or what?”
“Stroke me anywhere.” I want to bite her amused pout. “Anytime.”
She crowns my head with her hands and rubs lazy circles. “Oh yes. Me likey.”
This isn’t helping the situation in my pants. “Um, Talia?”
“Hmmm?” Her pupils are huge. Each pass of her fingers chisels my restraint and drives me toward the best insanity. I haven’t had this girl in two months. The fact that she’s not naked on the baggage carousel is a testament to my self-control.
“If you don’t stop, I’m bending you over the closest luggage trolley.”
She threads her hands around my neck and rises on her tiptoes until her forehead presses mine. “Is that a threat or an invitation?” Her teasing voice drops to an über-sexy level. I tried to cajole her into phone sex a few times during our separation but she always ended up convulsing into giggles. Not that I cared all that much; her laugh is cute as hell.
“Naughty.”
“But nice.” She winks in a way that wakes my soul.
I bury my face in her hair and breathe deep. The sweetness sends me floating, obliterates all bullshit stress. “God, I missed you.” Her hands tighten on me, lets me know I’m not alone in this wanting.
“Missed you more.” A tremble passes through her.
I link her hand in mine. “Doubtful.”
She swings herself under my arm, executing a twirl. “Come on, let’s blow this Popsicle stand. We can debate the recipient of the Most Pathetic Pining Award from the road.”
“Sorry, there’s no contest.” I lean into her with a playful shove. “You’ve caught yourself a winner.”
I barely notice slinging her bags over my shoulders. Talia skips a few steps ahead. Brightness pours from her. She’s so fucking joyful that people stop to watch her pass. And she’s mine. I shake my head.
What did I get right to deserve this shot?
We walk to the parking lot. I unlock and open the passenger door to my Kingswood. “Your carriage, m’lady.”
“Why thank you, good sir.” She ducks in and her skirt slides to her upper thighs. She catches my hungry stare. “How long to your place?”
“Not far.” I drum out a staccato beat on the car roof. “But I have a surprise first.”
“Really?” She squeaks on the endnote.
“Key word—surprise.” My girl isn’t big on ambiguity.
“C’mon. A teeny-tiny hint. I need one.”
I press a finger to my lips and slam her door.
Chapter Three
Talia
I study Bran’s face. The short hair transforms his whole look and the change takes adjustment. I told no tales—he’s as smoking as he was two months ago. More so even—less boyish with a new undercurrent of sexy manliness. The cut gives prominence to his striking face, those eyes, the strong jaw shadowed by a five o’clock shadow.
“Touch me.” He keeps his gaze trained on the road. “Prove I’m not dreaming.”
The space between our seats is the distance between lost and found. I settle my hand on his thigh and muscles flex beneath the worn denim.
“I’m glad I’m here,” I murmur, nervous to unmask exactly how much, appear too desperate. Truth be told, vulnerability is one freaking scary ride.
“That’s the year’s understatement.” His contagious smile burns away my doubt.
“I went a little crazy without you.”
He grabs my hand and kisses the inside of my wrist. “Me too.”
“Really?”
“Every single second. But now you’re here and life’s all good.”
One side-eye glance and I squirm in my seat.
Je-sus.
When Bran flashes me that look, everything about our crazy plan, my move to Tasmania, an island best known for a slobbering cartoon with behavioral issues, seems sensible. I sport the same goofy grin that plasters my face while watching Ryan Gosling’s rain scene during The Notebook.
Somehow, despite my talent in rampant fuckuppery, I won at life.
Bran and I are two loose ends who found a way to tie ourselves together. Here’s the one person on the planet who fills my scaredy-cat heart with the same joy normally reserved for musical theater numbers. One where characters burst into spontaneous heel clicks or dance, arms flung out, through mountain meadows. He glimpsed my darkest, ugliest places and still thinks I’m the coolest.
I faced down his scars, his bitter rage. But those times are over.
Together, we stumble toward the light.
Bran releases my hand to downshift like a boss, fingers wrapped around the gear stick. Soon he’ll touch me all over, like a landscape he intends to commit to memory. The idea melts me into a randy puddle. I fell asleep every night of our separation imagining those clever hands.
Well, sleep is a generous term for what amounted to me tossing, turning, and doing everything but slumbering. My salvation came from a plucky little sex toy purchased in Melbourne last semester. If I didn’t own a vibrator, I’d have worn my fingers to nubs slaking my frustrated lust for this boy. I shift in my seat, a hot bundle of nerves. My layover in Auckland Airport afforded me enough time to grab a soy latte, splash water on my face, and change underwear.
What I need is a hot shower, preferably for two.
No doubt I want to do dirty, dirty deeds with Bran in the near future. But there’s this whole other thing—the thing my friends don’t understand—the thing I can’t quite explain. When Bran is close, my brain quiets. The compulsive urges and distracting thoughts don’t seem to have enough room to take root. True, we share a chemistry more explosive than a mad lab experiment, but there’s more going on, a feeling deeper than the body. If you burn away my bones, my love for him would remain, tattooed in the air.
He veers the car off the asphalt and we bump along a gravel road. “What are you thinking, thinker?”
“You’re the ketchup to my fries.”
“Here we say tomato sauce and chips.”
“Doesn’t have quite the same ring.”
“Heh.”
Gypsy jazz croons from his iPod while the Kingswood’s headlights penetrate the darkness, affording glimpses of grazing long-tailed marsupials. Kangaroos, wallabies, potoroos—I have no actual idea. My knowledge of Australian wildlife is sourced from Crocodile Hunter reruns and the old nursery song that goes, “Kookaburra sits in an old gum tree, merry, merry king of the bush is he…”
“This the way home?” Home. The word tastes sweet on my tongue.
“Nope.”
“Come on, dish. Where we going?” The front wheel drops into a serious pothole and I brace myself on the dash.
“Right here.” He swings the Kingswood into a tight space before a tea tree thicket. The wheels crunch over dried leaves. There’s a glimpse of ghostly white sand before he blacks the lights.
