Chapter 5 Bahrain
BAHRAIN
ALEXANDER
I never should’ve made that joke during the video call about people who ride in coach. Not only did Emerald book me in coach but you’d think they’d also planted “ringers” in the adjacent seats.
On my left was a gentleman (if we may call him that) who immediately removed his shoes to fragrant effect. His carry-on was a vat of crisp cheese spheres he consumed during the flight, open-mouthed like a cow chewing his cud, when he wasn’t slurping soda.
Occupying the right-hand seat was a woman holding a squalling infant who looked like a goblin and smelled like a dung heap.
Midway between London and Bahrain, she changed the nappy of her homunculus on her lap.
I protested and was ignored. When I summoned a flight attendant to complain, I was at least gratified that the woman was reprimanded for her actions, but regrettably she was wrist-deep in poo and couldn’t change course.
When I finally shamble off the airplane, I duck straightaway into a men’s room to assess the damage.
I put my hair mostly to right, but there’s nothing to be done for my rumpled suit, which looks like I’ve slept in it.
It’s charcoal plaid paired with a melon-orange necktie—one of my favorite ensembles, as the colors complement my gray eyes and auburn hair.
I lift one arm and give the sleeve a sniff, hoping I don’t smell like neon cheese, damp feet, and baby filth.
Shouldering my carry-on, I head back out into the throng of people and make my way toward the exits to claim a cab.
A few yards after I’ve cleared the secure passenger area, I hear a gruff female American voice—dropped low in a parody of menace—say, “Excuse me, sir… I have a warrant for your arrest.”
A pair of hands locks on to my forearm and I pivot toward the speaker.
A short woman is grimacing fiercely at me, her perfect white teeth bared.
Her eyes are concealed behind mirrored aviator glasses.
A baseball cap with FUN POLICE emblazoned across the front hides her hair.
She’s wearing an oversize black field jacket with the collar popped, formfitting black leggings, and Doc Martens boots.
“I beg your pardon,” I reply, pulling my arm free.
Sage Sikora whips off the sunglasses. “I thought I’d have to do something way worse to get you to beg.” With a breezy sigh, she pockets the glasses, loops her arm through mine, and hauls me into motion toward the exits. “You’re too easy, Sandy-boy.”
“Miss Sage—Salvia officinalis, genus and species. Well met.”
“Miz, thanks.”
I angle a smirk her way. “Ooh, she diminutizes me to ‘Sandy’ but gets stroppy over ‘miss’?”
“Watch it, pal. Don’t make me put these on you.” She withdraws a pair of pink plastic toy handcuffs from her pocket and dangles them from one finger.
A deliciously unwholesome image flickers through my head. “It won’t be that easy to tame me, pet.”
“I’m going to break you, not tame you.”
“We’ll see who gets broken.” My words are aloof, but my heart is pounding. God, she smells lovely, like warm gingerbread. I want to pull her absurd hat off and bury my face in her aquamarine hair.
“Wellllll,” she drawls, “place your bets on who wins, babycakes. I plan to make you suffer, and”—she wiggles her dark, perfectly arched eyebrows—“I can be very innovative.”
We pass a family group apparently uniting after a long absence. A small boy and girl run into the arms of a father who kneels to catch them, raining kisses on their faces, then standing—children attached like starfish—to pull his wife into an embrace.
Sage watches with open admiration, continuing to gawk whilst walking backward, holding my arm.
Her face is unguarded, sharing a small moment of joy with no fear of looking ridiculous.
I wonder if I’ve ever felt such freedom to make an arse of myself, even as a child. I suppose it’s an American thing.
She turns back around with a little hop and resumes towing me along, now singing some song in which she’s threatening to use jiujitsu to kick people out of our way.
Suddenly loosing my arm without explanation, she dashes through the crowd, leaving me to stare after.
Her impulsiveness is startling, but magnetic.
She goes to a drinking fountain and turns her hat backward before bending to partake.
I examine her lean legs, wishing the field coat were a bit shorter so I could see more.
As she rotates my way again, I rearrange my infatuated expression into one of cool impatience.
“Man, look at you…” She does a froglike scowl that’s meant to mimic my face. “You’re uptight as fuck.” She snags my arm again. “It’s gonna be fun tormenting you.”
We join the queue exiting into the burst of heat outside.
As we reach a roadway to cross, going toward the car park, her hand slides down my arm to manacle my wrist and drag me past the line of cars waiting at a stop sign.
She’s almost holding my hand, and a prickle of warmth floods my torso.
As we complete our crossing, I twist out of her clutches, unsettled, and swipe the sleeve of my jacket as if to remove wrinkles.
She pauses on the sidewalk, her gaze dropping to my gesture.
I can’t tell if she’s amused or offended.
She says no more for the remainder of the walk to her car, a silver Mercedes GT Coupe.
Squeezing the key fob, she pops the boot and sweeps an arm at it, indicating for me to place my bag inside.
When I close it, she’s leaning against the roof, her heart-shaped face propped on one palm, watching me.
“Hey, question,” she says.
“Yes?”
“Did you know the Latin for ‘sage’ off the top of your head, or did you look it up”—she grins before concluding—“because you kinda dig me?”
I place both hands on the car’s roof. “You have a fantastically high opinion of yourself, pet. I knew the term because I’m very smart.”
Ah, fuck… she’s already got me dead to rights. I did look it up.
The hotel in which I’ve been installed is three miles from the Ritz-Carlton, where Sage and the rest of the Emerald team are staying. I am, however, expected to arrive at Ms. Sikora’s suite by six o’clock in the morning on the first day.
When I asked for a car fare per diem, I was told to rent a bicycle. Left with either the option to walk or pay my own car fare, I chose the latter. It galls me to cover the expense myself, but I’m at least still rich and can scarcely be expected to wear out the leather on my Berlutis.
Sage’s suite door is opened by a tall woman with skin the color of warm sandstone, clad in a saffron-bright silk robe.
Unfortunately, there’s not much more that’s sunny about her—she responds to my winning smile with an eye roll and a flip of the door, leaving me to walk in and shut it behind myself.
A long, dark braid trails down her back.
“Not a morning person?” I say with amusement.
She heads for the U-shaped sofa area and sits, then plucks up a tiny ceramic cup and takes a sip before donning a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses and leaning toward an open laptop.
“I’m not a you person,” she replies. Flicking a hand toward the bar, she adds, “Espresso maker’s over there if you need. ”
“I had tea already, thank you.”
She shrugs, typing on the laptop without looking up. I go to the sitting area and settle on the love seat perpendicular to the woman. She’s lovely, and by reputation, Sage is fluid in her dating preferences. I wonder if they’re an item.
Throwing a glance at the closed bedroom door, I ask, “Are you… Ms. Sikora’s girlfriend?”
She looks at me over the tops of her glasses. “No, doofus. I’m her best friend and PA, Priya.”
“I assumed I’d be playing assistant.”
“More like a gofer. You’re whatever we feel like making you, intern. First assignment: Don’t talk to me. I have real work to do.” She nods toward the bedroom door. “Sage’ll be out in a sec.”
The bedroom door flies open as if on cue.
Sage bounds into the room like an actor taking center stage in a musical—she’s even singing, off-key and loud, wireless earbuds in her ears framed by a profusion of piercings.
She’s wearing neon tracksuit bottoms that swish as she walks.
Her upper body is in a formfitting tank top, and the tracksuit jacket is draped over one forearm.
My eyes follow the peacock feather tattoo that starts below her ear and trails down to disappear under the shirt’s neckline.
She catches me staring (though “catches” isn’t quite the word, considering how she courts attention) and does a dramatic twirl, throwing a mock-seductive look over one shoulder before putting on the jacket—sliding it side-to-side like a burlesque dancer with a feather boa—then zipping it.
I lift an eyebrow, undeterred, my gaze dropping to her arse, obscured though it is by loose nylon fabric.
“Mornin’, Sandy,” she says, popping her earbuds out and zipping them into a pocket. “Ready to do my bidding like a good widdle boy?”
I pick a bit of imaginary lint off my cuff. “Tread carefully, Salvia officinalis.”
She clucks her tongue, crossing to where I’m sitting and trailing a fingertip along my shoulders as she passes. “You take yourself way too seriously. It must be exhausting.”
The scent of her hits me, clean and warm. She ducks into the fridge behind the bar, bobbing up with a bottle of mint-essence water.
Priya clears her throat. “So… little development with Sports and Tortes?” She darts a look from Sage to me, as if unsure whether she can speak freely.
Sage grips the water bottle hard, making it crunch. “What’s that harpy posted about me?”
“It’s not a new post; it’s that she’s about to nab a bazillion new followers. Y’know that hothead chef with the TV shows, Gavin Yates? He gave CJ Ardley a shout-out in a video and linked her blog to an Insta post of his because he loves her cakes.”