Chapter 10
10
Thirty minutes later, we zipped through the rain in the clown car. Once again, Mike was wedged in like a sardine in a can. We couldn't fit anyone else in with us—Banks, Trish, nor the twins—so we took two cars.
I wasn't in the mood for company, but we'd committed to joining the group for drinks. If we didn't, they'd all think we were canoodling. As if that was ever going to happen. I was hurt and unbelievably mad at Mike. Emotions I'd shoved down years and years ago bubbled back to the surface. I hadn't held out for him all these years. But I had held out hope that I'd at least meant something to him back then.
I'd imagined many scenarios that had kept him away: dengue fever at summer camp with months of quarantine, top secret military service, the Peace Corps.
No way could I walk away from something as important as that. His reason hadn't been elaborate or complicated. It had been simple.
I hadn't been important enough to him. I'd come in second to his career.
My eyes felt like sandpaper. I was exhausted from the late flight, time change, the mental gymnastics, and trying hard not to cry. I needed to have my anger take a big old swing at my hurt. Knock it down, stomp on it and kick the crap out of it.
“We need to talk,” Mike said, his hands a death grip on the wheel. His face was hard set, like granite.
I flipped down the visor for the mirror and put on more lip gloss. Stalling.
The pine scent was overpowering. Cloying. I pointed to the dangling air-freshener. “Can we get rid of that stupid thing?”
Mike yanked it from the rear-view mirror, unrolled his window—by hand—and chucked it out. “There, can we talk now?”
“Litterer.”
“Cardboard, babe. It's compost. Let's talk.”
“I need a drink first. Maybe two.” I shifted my hips, pulling one knee up onto the seat so I faced him. “My role on this little trip from hell is to be a force field around you to deflect Susan. That requires my presence alone. I don't actually have to like you. Nor do I have to be sober.”
We were going to some bar, I didn't know which one, nor did I care. I wasn't sure Banks or the others knew either since none of us was a local. None knew where anything was. Some of us didn't even speak English. But Uncle Bob gave directions to his favorite watering hole and we were on our way. I wasn't a lush, but sometimes a girl needed a drink.
Two hours later, I'd learned several things. Banks didn't usually dress like a bum. Malibu Barbie had some brains behind the blonde. Mike got a tick in his jaw when he was mad. Jean- Luc and Marc could line dance like two boys from Dixie, and I really liked a drink called an Alaskan Suntan. In fact, the third one went down even smoother than the first two.
We sat at a high-top table near the dance floor with Banks and Trish. The room was dimly lit and smoky, the country-western music loud. A large moose head graced the wall behind the bar with some Mardi Gras beads dangling from the antlers. Jean-Luc and Marc were on the dance floor with two women they’d met while getting drinks. I wasn't sure how they lured them to dance since they couldn't communicate, but with moves—and looks—like theirs, they obviously didn't need words. They must have sensed my mood and been avoiding me. It was pretty obvious I was cranky. Or maybe it was the caveman glare Mike sent their way that had them seeking other female prey.
“I'm Vice President at the local bank. I have to wear suits every day,” Banks stated, taking a pull from his beer. “Including Saturdays.”
“I'm a lawyer so I have to wear a suit, too.” Trish tilted her head toward her husband. “But he doesn't have to wear heels.”
Amen, sister. My teacher's wardrobe was fairly casual, with a hideous seasonal sweater thrown in to make the kids laugh. But I'd trade a tie for heels any day.
“Since I can relate, he gets to be a complete bum on vacations,” Trish added as she patted the top of his hand. “I vowed not to interfere with his wardrobe holidays.”
That explained a lot. At the moment, Banks wore a pair of jeans with a hole ripped open at the knee and a different sweatshirt since dinner with some kind of orange stain down the front. Cheese puff dust?
“I'm over two thousand miles from home. No one knows me. If they do, they won't blame me because wearing a suit sucks ass.”
“Definitely,” Mike added. They clinked beer bottles in male commiseration.
The table was small enough where we had to sit close together. My right thigh pressed against Mike's left and it was definitely a distraction. Everything about him was a distraction. I tried to remember if I'd ever seen Mike in a suit. There was little doubt I'd forget that devastating look if I had. And there I was, mad at him but still lusting after his body. Crap.
“I can't go out looking like a slob. Genetics, I think.” Trish took a sip of her beer. “I'm what you call high maintenance.”
“No,” I said sarcastically. She had good genes, all right. Not everyone was born looking like her, and I had a feeling she didn't have to put too much maintenance time in.
Between myself and my sister, I was definitely the high maintenance of the two. I liked makeup—I wouldn't be caught dead out in public without at least mascara—used a hair dryer and made sure my clothes matched. Veronica was a little more...carefree. Her job as a plumber afforded her the opportunity since she spent her days wedged beneath a kitchen sink or installing a toilet. But no matter how much time and energy I spent primping, I couldn't compete with Trish.
“I get to wear scrubs all day,” Mike shared.
“Lucky bastard,” Banks grumbled. “But you get to deal with other people's athlete's foot and bunions, so it evens out.”
“I'm only interested in what's beneath the grimy clothes.” Trish waggled her eyebrows at Banks and got yanked into his lap for a kiss.
That went on. And on.
I took a big draw on my straw until it slurped against the bottom of the glass.
“Need another?” Mike asked as he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly as uncomfortable as I felt by the PDA right in front of us.
“Absolutely.”
We walked to the bar leaving the lovebirds to make out without us. With every step, I quickly realized I was more than buzzed, easily on my way to drunk the way the room blurred around the edges and all my problems didn't seem quite so bad. The floor vibrated with the beat of the music, or at least that was my explanation.
I watched Jean-Luc and Marc dance while we waited for our drinks, one woman being passed from move to country move between them. It seemed I wasn't the only one they were considering. Mike leaned against the bar. After placing a bill on the counter and handing me my drink, he turned, moved closer to me. He was definitely in my space because I could feel the heat from his body. I had to tilt my head back, way back, to look at him. Up close, he so was incredibly hot it made my mouth dry, even after three drinks. Dark red stubble roughened his jaw. His eyes were strikingly blue in the dimness and his mouth?—
“Vi, what I said earlier?—”
I put a finger over his lips, which were warm and soft and, crap...kissable. “Don't. I understand. It was just one night. What's there to remember?”
Mike clenched his jaw so tight if the music wasn't so loud, I was sure I'd hear teeth crack. I dropped my hand and took a small step back, but he reached out and took a gentle hold of my upper arm. Amazing, he could be so strong, so intense and possessive, yet so careful.
“It wasn't like that and you know it. That night meant more to me than any night like that since.”
I winced. His words offered no redeeming value to me. “TMI. I really am not interested in all of your other conquests.” I took a long pull on my straw, the pink drink disappearing quickly.
“There were no conquests.” Mike took swig from his beer, placed it on the bar.
“Mary Jane Cooper. Amelia Lane. Stephanie Clink. Renee Kolckowski.”
Mike closed his eyes and shook his head. “Jesus. Where did you hear about them?”
I quirked an eyebrow. “You really want to know?”
Mike gave my arm a little squeeze, and then released me. “Don't believe everything you hear.”
“I also heard you like a little kink.”
Mike just stared at me, his blue eyes giving nothing away. “The Bozeman grapevine at its finest. Tell you what, babe, if you want to know what I like in the bedroom, why don't you find out for yourself? My game has definitely improved since graduation.”
I lifted my chin. “So has mine.”
Mike clenched his jaw once again. Something flared in his eyes. Heat? Anger?
From the dance floor, Jean-Luc or Marc gave me a little wave and a smile.
“I'm going to dance with the twins.”
As I turned to walk away, Mike grabbed my arm again, glared. “If you want a man's hands on you, just say so.”
“Okay. I want to dance. Do you?”
“Hell, no. My foot's killing me from that gnome landing on it.”
“Whatever.”
Mike stood at the bar and looked grim all the while I danced with the twins. One of the men touched me at all times; my waist, shoulder, hand. They weren't being aggressive or overtly sexual, but the constant touch was...arousing. They made me feel feminine and alluring. Like they couldn't keep their hands off me. Or maybe it was the alcohol that made me think that. When I darted glances at Mike, however, it seemed he picked up on the same vibe. He didn't look remotely happy. In fact, I had no doubt he might be considering multiple ways to break fingers.
After a quick trip to the ladies’ room, I met Mike in the hallway beside the bar. “Those guys are a little too into you.”
I looked around Mike's broad shoulder to see the twins dancing with a blonde in a very short jean skirt, lots of leg and cowboy boots. They might have been into me ten minutes ago, but they were clearly fickle.
“They seem to move on fast, too. Must be a family thing.” I held up my hand. “Oh wait, maybe it's just me.” The last I said with bitterness. Maybe it was me. I hadn't dated in eons; my sex life was non-existent. I was fake engaged. I couldn't seem to get it right. Maybe the reason Mike walked away graduation night wasn't because of some excuse of his. Maybe it was me.
“Let's dance,” Mike said, his voice dark and deep. Mike pulled me possessively toward the dance floor, not giving me a choice in the matter. I didn't want to dance with him because I didn't like his bossy attitude.
“I thought your foot hurt.”
He spun me around and I grabbed his shoulders to keep my balance. He placed his large hands low, very low, on my back. My belly pressed firmly into a very specific hard place. Was it hot in here?
“I'm a podiatrist. I cured myself.”
We started moving to the music and a whole lot more of him touched me besides his hands. His muscled thigh wedged between mine and since I came only up to his shoulder, I practically rode it Dirty Dancing style. My girl parts brushed and bumped against him in ways that sent zings through me. Holy hell. No wonder everyone had been in love with Patrick Swayze. If Mike could melt my butter—as Goldie would say—on the dance floor, I wondered what moves he had in the bedroom. No! I couldn't go there. I couldn't have thoughts like that. I was mad at him and wanted to strangle him, not run my hands all over his body.
For a guy so big, he was an incredibly good dancer. My brain was fighting a losing battle. He moved us both to the deep throbbing of the music, his palms holding me against him, his fingers resting on the upper swell of my ass. I wasn't going anywhere. Knowing that, I gave over and my brain let go. For the moment, I was his and he was making it very well known to anyone watching.
One song in, I didn't think I was going to make it. My morals were being sorely tried by the liquor and Mike's dominating grip on me. Sweat pricked my skin, I knew my cheeks were flushed and heated. There was no doubt he could feel the hard tips of my nipples pressed against him. I'd become scorchingly aroused and when I felt vibrations right...there?—
“Holy shit,” I panted, my forehead thudding against Mike's hard chest. Was that a vibrator in his pocket? If I could practically have an orgasm on the dance floor, I didn't think I'd survive if he ever got in my pants again.
I moved against him and it happened again. I felt the sensation zip through me from head to toe. My heart pounded and a soft moan escaped my lips. Mike leaned down, his breath hot on my ear, his lips lingering there. Did he know such a little spot could drive me crazy?
“Like that?” His voice was low so only I could hear. Dark.
I nodded my head shamelessly. He shifted me back a few inches, reached into his jeans pocket.
He pulled out his cell and smirked.
Oh, God. I was officially a hussy.
He read a text, his grin dissolved. “Shit, we have to go get someone at the airport.”
“Now?”
“Have other plans, babe?”
He winked.
I rolled my eyes. Damn him and his sex toy phone. The plan was to be angry and avoid him at all costs. Now, all I wanted to do was climb him like the nympho I appeared to be and use him for my pleasure. Maybe I could use him and lose him. It would serve him right. I had a feeling though, that once wasn't going to be enough. “Now?” I repeated.
Mike looked at the watch on his wrist. One of the only men I knew who used a watch and had a phone. “Soon.”
“Who?”
“My mom doesn't say.”
“How do we know who we're waiting for?” I asked.
We were back to the familiar baggage claim area of the Anchorage airport. My ardor had cooled substantially once I was separated from Mike's thigh and cell phone. The same canned voice from the night before prompted me to hold on to my luggage, the same stuffed bear gave me the beady eye. I was just as tired as the night before, but this time, I was well on my way to drunk on top of it. It was still light out after midnight and my body was completely confused.
“Do we even know where the person is coming from?”
Mike looked up at the Arrivals monitor hanging from the ceiling nearby. “Either Dutch Harbor, Nome, Denver or LA.”
“I have no idea where Dutch Harbor is and I doubt either of us—or your mom—knows anyone in Nome. I guess we can narrow it down to the lower forty-eight.” I glanced at the digital time display on the Arrival monitor, inpatient to pick up the mystery person so I could fall asleep, or pass out, whichever happened first. Through my sloshy brain, I had a moment of clarity. “Oh, my God. I just figured it out.”
A family pushing two luggage carts and two screaming kids rolled by. Mike eyed me, his hands tucked into his jeans pockets. Waiting. “What?”
“Why Zach put his gnome in my suitcase.”
“And?”
“Nome, Alaska. I bet he thought George was from there and wanted him to go home to see his family or something.”
Mike's mouth tipped up at the corner. “The boy can't spell, but he's certainly imaginative.”
I wasn't the best speller in the world so I wasn't going to hold it against a little kid. I thought it was great. “He's seven.”
“Are we watching, then, for gnomes coming in from Nome? Think they're claiming baggage?”
“They'd fit in the clown car better than we do.” The whole thing was funny. In a seven-year-old sort of way. No grown up would have been creative thinking enough to even consider a gnome from Nome. I needed to text Jane about George, but glancing again at the clock, decided it was too late for tonight. Especially since Montana was two hours ahead.
We stood idly by for five minutes watching arriving passengers before I gave up and slumped down in the nearest seat. Weary travelers, either from the late hour or from the screaming children who disembarked with them, made their way to the luggage carousels. There seemed to be something about late nights at the airport and screaming children.
No familiar faces.
“I'm going to find the restroom,” I told Mike as I peeled myself out of my seat.
“Yoo hoo!”
Oh. My. God.
I didn't have to turn around to know who we'd come to pick up. I'd recognize that high-pitched sound anywhere. From the slight cringe on Mike's face, he knew as well. Slowly, I pasted on a smile and faced the latest Ostranski family reunion guest.
“Well, as I live and breathe. Violet, I met the nicest person next to me on the plane and I was telling her all about your book! I read her part of it from my little e-reader thingie and she said she'd need new panties before she got off the plane. Michael, I think you've actually grown taller since I've seen you last. Congratulations on your engagement!”
How did Goldie seem so bright and perky when everyone around us looked wilted and worn out? If I didn't know the woman well, I'd almost think she took uppers all the time.
I had slowly made my way to Mike's side during Goldie's outburst, not sure if I was trying to hide behind his massive size or use him as a deflector shield. He leaned down close and whispered. “Book? New panties?”
I had no idea Hell was located in the Arctic Circle.