9. Stig
Nine
Stig
I n normal circumstances, I wouldn’t appreciate a complete stranger putting me under the microscope. I’ve always had a chip on my shoulder about that, ever since I was young; even as a teenager, I rankled when town busybodies told me to cut my hair different or tuck in my shirt or stop slouching on my walk to school. I always figured: what business is it of theirs?
Now I’m a grown man, but it still pushes my buttons sometimes when virtual strangers want to weigh in on my life. The comment sections beneath the adventure videos I put online—those are no-go areas for me, for the sake of my sanity.
What’s that saying about opinions? They’re like assholes—every fucker’s got one. And I don’t write articles and make films and take photographs of my adventures to please other people’s taste. If they want everything they watch to suit them exactly, they better make it themselves.
Tonight, though, when Jana’s friend Tess starts grilling me about our little arrangement, trying to figure out my intentions, I’m on my best behavior. Answering every question; smiling wide and turning on the charm.
It’s not fake. Don’t have it in me to be fake, our ‘engagement’ aside.
But I can sense the nervous energy rolling off Jana in waves, and that tells me this conversation is important. That Tess is important.
So I’d better make a good first impression.
“What exactly do you expect from your ‘wife’, Stig?” Tess makes air-quotes around the word, her forehead pinched in a frown. Beside her, Jana flushes and starts wiping down a random spot on the bar.
It’s hot and loud in here, with signed guitars and other rock memorabilia on the walls. Seems like a cool place, not that I have much chance to inspect it while this Tess person is pinning me with her glare.
I shrug and smile. “Nothing that Jana doesn’t truly want to give me.”
It’s a somewhat evasive answer, but it’s the truest one I can offer: on the one hand, I’d never demand anything that made Jana uncomfortable. On the other hand, if my prickly little fiance ever jumped my bones, I’d die a happy man.
Tess’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t like me talking in circles.
“And why do you need a wife?” She drums her short fingernails on the bar top.
Secret, manly reasons. That’s what I told Jana before, and damn it, that was good enough for her. But something tells me that won’t fly with her less trusting friend, and honestly, I can’t blame her.
“A bet,” I settle on saying. It’s not even a lie, not really.
I’m betting myself that I can make this work. That I can land the ultimate prize.
Jana glances over at me, surprised, her dark eyebrows shooting up her forehead. Christ, she looks cute when she’s all sweaty and messed up at the end of a long day.
Her short, black hair is rucked up at the back, and the brown skin on her chest gleams with sweat where it peeks through the open collar of her polo shirt. Want to ruffle that hair and lick the salty sweat off her skin; want to peel those clothes off and toss Jana in the nearest lake, then jump in after her.
“A bet?” Jana repeats, nonplussed.
Tess sighs, loud and long-suffering, and turns to my fiance. “You didn’t even ask?”
They start bickering quietly, and I hook a bar stool with my foot and drag it closer to sit down. The room’s emptied out a little since I arrived, and there’s a frosty breeze blowing in through the open back doorway. Out there, wooden tables stand abandoned in the moonlight, while stars glitter above the shadowed treetops.
It’s late. Long gone midnight now, and Jana was gonna hike all the way back to the cabin on her own in the dark. How long has she been doing that? How long has she lived in my cabin all alone, unprotected? Has she ever run into any trouble?
My chest throbs, and I rub at it with a wince.
Ever since meeting Jana Kumara a few days ago, I’ve been kicking myself for things I cannot change. Namely, the fact that I spent so many years away from Starlight Ridge when she was here all along; the fact that I set off around the world chasing adventure when my perfect person was here in this bar, pouring drinks and walking home alone at night.
I didn’t know back then. Didn’t realize what I was accidentally turning my back on.
But damn if I’m not punishing myself for those choices now.
And I keep thinking: how can I make it up to her? What can I offer this woman to atone? But all my ideas involve things like burying my head between her soft thighs and licking her until she screams every day for the rest of our lives, and obviously, that gesture only works if it’s wanted.
So I’m starting small, with walking Jana home from her late shift at Flint’s. That, and smiling pleasantly through her friend’s interrogation, doing my best to be patient and polite even as my back teeth grind.
It helps that Tess is grilling me because she cares about Jana. Of all reasons for someone to prod at my personal business, I’ve got a lot of time for that one.
“I just think it’s weird,” Tess announces at last, throwing up her hands. “It’s your life and your decision, Jana, but I want it on the record: this is weird.”
My fiance looks hurt at that pronouncement, her shoulders curving in, and my gut aches at the sight—but we don’t have time to discuss this any further, because Flint’s office door slams open, bouncing off the wall, and the girls’ boss nods at them as he crosses the room, heavy boots thudding against the floorboards.
The clock on the wall says 1am. Guess it’s time to start wiping down surfaces and collecting empty glasses; time to chase out the last few drinkers and wish them well on their way home. Trying to stay out of the way, I make myself useful and bus a few trays of empty glasses to the bar while Jana finishes up her shift.
The boss squints at me at one point from his spot behind the cash register, counting up the takings for the night. Like he’s trying to place me. I smile broadly and drop off another tray.
Pretty sure that fucker changed the locks on my cabin.
Does he do a lot of favors for Jana? Is he sweet on her? I mean, who wouldn’t be sweet on my girl? No one with any taste, that’s for sure.
And even though Flint looks to be about a decade older than me—probably two decades older than Jana—he’s wearing it well. Silvering at the temples, with a few lines around his eyes, but still strong and tall and tanned.
Shit. Does Jana have a thing for her boss?
By the time the bar is closed up and we’re all bundled up in jackets, muttering our goodbyes under the stars, my insides are twisted into a jealous pretzel. I reach automatically for Jana’s hand in the darkness, knotting her fingers through mine, and thank god she lets me, clinging to my hand like she’s holding on for dear life.
Mine.
Flint goes one way, stomping off toward the treeline. Tess and the enormous man who came to walk her home go toward town, with Tess throwing suspicious looks over her shoulder until they’re out of sight. Meanwhile, Jana and I set off toward the mountain trail that leads to our cabin, dewy grass swishing around our boots as we walk.
“You didn’t have to meet me this late.” Jana’s voice is quiet after the rock music and yelled conversations in the bar. I squeeze her fingers and she squeezes back.
“I wanted to.”
There’s a long pause, but I can tell she’s pleased. After a lifetime of struggling to connect with other people on a deep level, I’ve finally found someone whose silence I can read like a book.
Swish, swish, swish.
In the silent darkness, the grass is loud against our boots. Did Jana always wear walking boots to work? Or only since moving into the cabin?
“Flint is… good looking.” God, I sound sour, and I wince at the approaching treeline. There’s no hiding the jealous tinge to my voice.
Jana hears it too, her head whipping around and her eyes wide in the moonlight. “ Flint ?” She sputters out a laugh. “You think I like my boss?”
Embarrassed warmth climbs the back of my neck, but you know what? I don’t regret giving the game away like that. Not after hearing the disbelief in Jana’s voice, and getting my sure answer: she’s not into him.
Thank god.
“Some women like a silver fox,” I say, happy to tease now I know there’s no risk of Jana really wanting Flint. My chest feels looser, my breaths come easier, and I swing our hands between us without thinking.
She snorts, barging my upper arm with her shoulder. “Not this woman.”
“No, that’s right.” I barge her back, gently. “You’ve got taste, haven’t you, sweetheart? You like ‘em blond and weather-beaten.”
I’m just messing around really, trying to flirt my words into reality, but Jana presses her lips together and says nothing. Her stubborn silence shouts louder than those drinkers back at the bar, and as we step into the trees, my heart is drumming.
Hell yeah.
She’s into me.
Maybe not head-over-heels yet, maybe not ready to declare eternal love, but she’s attracted. Tempted. The sparks I feel when Jana Kumara is near aren’t completely one-sided, and I could crash to my knees with gratitude.
An owl hoots somewhere above us, hidden among the branches. Now that we’re beneath the canopy, there’s no silvery moonlight to see by, and I can’t make out Jana’s expressions anymore. There’s only her small hand in mine, her fingers so slender and delicate, and the quiet puffs of her breaths as we work our way steadily uphill. Distant wolf howls echo from another valley.
Dried pine needles crunch beneath our boots. The air here smells like damp moss and tree sap.
Her hand is in mine.
That’s all I can think about. We’re touching each other—not just a casual touch on my arm as she reaches past me into the refrigerator; not just the meeting of fingertips as I pass Jana her morning mug of coffee.
This is a sustained touch. Palm against palm; fingers woven together. When I position my fingertip, I can feel the tap, tap, tap of Jana’s pulse in her wrist.
It’s quick. Fevered. Like she’s bowled over by this too, driven to distraction by the smallest, most innocent bodily contact. And now all I can think of is all the other places I want to touch her—the crease of her elbow and the soft, tickly patches behind her knees; her throat and stomach and the delicate bow of her upper lip.
“Jana,” I say, and my voice is hoarse. I don’t know what I’m asking for exactly, don’t know what I need to hear, but her breath hitches and her strides lengthen beside me. Now she’s tugging me along, towing me up the mountain trail.
“We should get back,” she says quickly. “It’s really late.”
She doesn’t want to talk about it. Doesn’t want to confront the thick tension building between us—not yet.
Swallowing my disappointment, I walk the rest of the way home in silence.