Hasty

by Julia Kent

  “You didn't save any?”

  “There's a small wheel in the cooler. Dad asked me to set it aside for him and Mom. Other than that, no. Except for the batches that are still aging.”

  “Good grand opening,” he says, tonguing my nipple. “Congratulations. The only grander opening is the one between your legs.”

  “It's not that big.”

  “It's not? I don't remember. Let me check it out and see if it jogs my memory. I'll use this handy measuring stick.”

  “The one attached to you?” I squeeze it gently.

  “It's very convenient, isn't it?”

  “It gets lots of use.”

  “Made in the USA. Genuine craftsmanship. Built to last.”

  My laugh turns into a moan as Ian moves over me, my thighs parting, ready for another round.

  And then.

  And then–a scream. A man's yelp.

  “Oh, sweet merciful mighty Jones!” my mother shouts.

  “My eyes! My eyes!” I hear Dad bellow.

  I look up to see the main door of the store cracked open, the back of Dad's head visible, with shoulders up to his ears.

  Ian discreetly moves me to the edge of the sleeping bag, then covers our naked bodies like a burrito.

  “We, uh, came back for the cheese you set aside for us,” Dad explains.

  “We were planning on a wine and cheese dinner after your wonderful debut, honey!” Mom chirps from in front of him, her shoulders shaking. Is she crying?

  No. Worse.

  Laughing.

  “Never thought we'd get dinner and a show,” Dad mutters as he walks backwards into the store, my horror mounting.

  “Dad? What are you doing?”

  “Getting the cheese.” He reaches into the cooler, back to us, fishes around in the back, and gets the small wheel. As he leaves, his left arm snakes out and nabs a bottle of red.

  “Not that one, Roy,” Ian says calmly. “You want a good Médoc instead.”

  “What are you doing?” I hiss at him. “We want them to leave. Now! You're prolonging this.”

  “I can't let the man make a poor wine choice with cheese that good.”

  Dad plunks the bottle down, searches through the bottles on the table, and grabs another, one that's half full. “This one okay, Ian?”

  “Yes, sir. Good choice.”

  “Thank you. I respect your ability to put together the finest pairings.”

  And then he turns around and winks.

  Winks!

  “DAD! LEAVE!”

  “ROY!”

  “What? They're covered up now. I saw the reflection in the window. Besides, Sharon, the man's right. This will be a better choice with the pecorino...”

  Their voices fade out as they leave.

  Ian stands, nude and confident, and locks the door after them.

  “I love your parents,” Ian says with a chuckle.

  “I love you,” I say softly, my fingers on his cheek, memorizing the line of his jaw.

  “So I've been told.”

  “Have you? Do I say it enough?”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes.”

  He pulls me to him, the sleeping bag askew, afterglow destroyed by parentus interruptus.

  “Where were we?” he asks.

  “You were attending my grand opening.”

  “There's quite the party in there. Someone even brought noisemakers and confetti.”

  “You have very high expectations for my vagina, Ian.”

  “You're an overachiever, Hastings. You set the bar high.”

  “Takes one to know one.” I grab his personal measuring stick. He grins at me, a stray lock of dark hair floating over his brow, his body loose and free with mine. His hand strokes my hip, moving back to caress my bare ass. Our hands connect our separate, naked bodies with a languid sensation.

  My store is open.

  My business has been launched.

  I am in love with my former arch rival.

  Bzzzzz

  We both turn toward the sound, my purse behind the store counter, Ian's phone in the back pocket of his pants. Both buzzed at almost the same time, the slight delay making the near-simultaneous notification seem urgent.

  “Ignore it,” he says.

  And then both our ringtones follow.

  “Shit,” he mutters, reaching for his phone while I go to get my purse, rooting around in it, finding my phone. It's weird to walk around naked in my store, but dusk has settled in, and it's private enough here.

  I drop to the ground and pull the sleeping bag over me.

  It's Perky.

  “Hey, Parker,” Ian says from his pile of clothes, a mystified tone in his voice. He joins me, crossing his legs, cocking his head as if to ask me if I know what's going on.

  I shake my head.

  “Perky?” I ask, dispensing with formalities. “Why is Parker calling Ian?”

  “Are you two together? Good. Because you're going to need some support.”

  “Support? What's wrong? Is someone hurt? Mom and Dad just left here. Were they in a car accident? Oh–”

  “It's Burke.”

  “Is he dead?” Ian raises one eyebrow at my question.

  Maybe there's a wee bit too much eagerness in my tone.

  “No!” she shouts with glee. “That's the best part. He's captured, but alive!”

  “What?”

  “That call, the one where you kept him on the phone? It let the investigators figure out where he was. They were zeroing in on him, but the dumbass beat them to it.”

  “Beat them to what?”

  “Hastings!” Ian says, Parker's voice a steady baritone through his speaker. “There's news about Burke.”

  “I know! Perky's telling me.”

  “Parker's telling me.”

  “Hold on. Perky, are you with Parker?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then let's do speakerphone,” Ian says, pointing to mine. “Turn that off. We'll use the call with Parker.”

  “Got it!” Perky says, then my phone drops the call. Ian puts his phone on the wood floor, cranking up the volume, as Parker's voice comes through clearly.

  “I shouldn't be doing this, but I'm on a burner phone and can give you some basic details. Burke Oonaj was taken into custody a few hours ago.”

  “Oh, my God,” I gasp. “He's really caught.”

  “THAT'S NOT THE BEST PART!” Perky screams, giggling.

  “Why are you so happy?”

  “Because he's rotting in a South American jail, Hasty. He's not in U.S. custody. The idiot screwed over a high-ranking Colombian government official and really pissed the guy off. He’s charged with a bunch of crimes in that country!”

  My head turns into a buzzing chainsaw.

  “Parker, can you explain?” Ian asks, his hand going to my waist, his warm, slow, even breaths helping ground me enough to listen.

  “It's what Persephone is saying, but here's a rough outline: Burke has been in hiding on a small island off the coast of Colombia. He began to run out of money, so he started a scheme there. Schmoozed his way into some high circles, plus he has dirt on enough wealthy, high-powered people that he pulled in some favors and got access. Convinced a few to invest in some oil scheme. One of those guys is a–wait. Hold on. I can't reveal the government official's position, but let's just say the guy has enough power to arrest Burke on the equivalent of multiple felony charges. And it's a grudge arrest, because apparently, Burke slept with his daughter.”

  Ian's face is a tight mask of disbelief. I let out a long puff of air, taking it all in.

  “So,” Ian finally says, “he's not being extradited.”

  “No. The Colombian government was clear on that. He's in their jail system, being held without bond or bail until trial, and... well, it's not looking good for Burke Oonaj.”

  “He screwed over the wrong person,” Ian said. “Someone with enough power to make him suffer the consequences of his own actions.”

&nbs
p; “Tell her the rest, Parker!” Perky whispers.

  “Oh. Right. He was found with a particular piece of jewelry on him, according to some agents who have access to police info. It was the heirloom engagement ring you've asked about.”

  A piece of my heart lodges itself in my throat. “That rat bastard. He did have it! Great-grandma's ring. All along.”

  “He offered it to the arresting team of police officers sent by the minister of–ah, sent by the government official he swindled.”

  “I can't get it back, can I?” I ask, knowing the answer. At least now I know he did steal it.

  “It's long gone, Hastings. Impossible to get our hands on. I'm sorry. Someone just noted it in the report. An informant mentioned it because of where it was found on Burke.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Silence. All we hear is Perky snickering.

  Parker clears his throat. “It was discovered during a cavity search at the jail. That's when he offered it as a bribe.”

  “Now I really don't want it back!” I sputter.

  Ian calmly reaches for my abandoned wine glass and the half-full bottle we started before making love, pours himself a glass, then hands me what's left of the bottle.

  Which I proceed to chug.

  “Oonaj is contained, then,” Ian says to Parker and Perky. “Done. He can't wreak havoc anymore.”

  “Any other guy, I'd worry he could use connections to weasel his way out. And he will threaten to turn informant on people. That would work here in the U.S. It's anyone's guess if it'll work in Colombia, but given the amount of money he took the government official for, and what he did with the guy's daughter, I'd say you're right. He's contained and done.”

  Done.

  “Thank you,” I choke out, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand after following Ian's suggestion and yes, drinking straight from the bottle, which is now empty, thank you very much.

  “You're welcome, but I didn't do anything. Burke did it to himself.”

  “No, Parker, you did plenty. You and Ian. You worked together with authorities to figure this all out. Information is as important as action. Knowing Burke's facing justice takes some of the bitterness out of the collapse of my life.”

  “Congratulations, Hasty!” Perky says, glee in her voice. “You had your successful grand opening, and your douchebag ex is festering in hell. I'd say that makes for some perfect karma!”

  Ian strokes my thigh, his smile evaluating me, checking for emotion, figuring out how to help me integrate all this.

  “Thanks. Burke got what he deserved.”

  “And so did you,” Ian says sincerely, bending over to kiss me.

  “Sounds like you two have lots to celebrate now,” Parker says, clearing his throat. “Persephone and I will leave you two to whatever you were up to.”

  “Bet they're screwing on the floor of her cheese shop, Parker,” Perky says.

  “That's none of our business if they are, Persephone, and it's a bit rude to–”

  End.

  Ian hits End Call.

  “Well,” he says, pushing the phone aside, reaching for me. “That was unexpected.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Are you okay? What does that mean? Am I? Burke's capture means closure. An end to wondering. A cap on my anger, as justice is served to him, in whatever form it takes.

  But am I okay? What do I really feel?

  “I'm happy,” I whisper in his ear as I kiss his cheek, moving my hand around his waist, pressing his chest to mine, inhaling deeply of him.

  “You are?”

  “Yes. Truly, deeply happy.”

  “That is your greatest achievement, Hastings.”

  “Being happy?”

  “Mmm hmmm.”

  “Then I need a new goal.”

  “Let's be happy together.”

  “We are!” I pause my touch. “I... I assume you are? Happy with me?”

  “Couldn't be happier.”

  “Well, damn.”

  “You're upset I'm happy with you?”

  “No, no, I'm thrilled. It's just… what do we do now? We need a goal.”

  “You're right. We do. What comes after happiness?” he asks, kissing me slowly, softly, hands everywhere, chest broadening, breath going deep and rasping.

  “I don't know, Ian.”

  “How about we find out?”

  “How do we do that?”

  “We start here.” His hand goes to a very specific place.

  “Ohhhh, I like here.”

  “And here.”

  “I like that second here even better.”

  “I'll go here, there, and everywhere with you, Hastings.”

  “Everywhere?”

  “Let me start with your body as a map.” He touches a particular spot that makes me gasp. “We'll begin at You Are Most Definitely Here.”

  Epilogue

  One year later

  * * *

  “What do you think?” Ian asks as I stand in front of a rolling hill covered in green, the contours shaped by iceberg and water millions of years ago, but landscaped now by teeth.

  Sheep’s teeth.

  “I think it’s beautiful. And pungent. Which means the land is fertile.” A border collie, a blur of white and black, barks once at us. She’s an old girl, gone thick in the waist, and when I give her face a better look I see plenty of gray.

  Gone are her days of herding sheep. Instead, she herds us.

  “Plenty of milk here,” he says in a voice that isn’t quite as smooth as usual, his back to me, one hand in his front right pocket, the other on his hip. We’re staying at a gorgeous bed and breakfast nearby, right on the New Hampshire border with Maine, the kind of place you don’t know exists unless you know someone who knows someone, the establishment kept intentionally out of the public’s eye. Ian, like plenty of other obscenely wealthy people, likes to travel quietly sometimes.

  A network of obliging small business owners are happy to make that happen for a pretty penny.

  For this trip, Ian brought his Range Rover, one of the three cars now garaged at the house he bought in Gloucester, right on the ocean, built atop of craggy cliff. We’ve been together for a year now, and my cheese business is profitable.

  And I don’t sleep with Lisa Frank looking over my shoulder these days.

  “The Cordais family doesn’t sell their sheep’s milk to small businesses like mine,” I tell him, surprised he doesn’t remember. “They’re locked up in contracts with bigger entities.”

  “Not anymore.”

  His words don’t make sense, and as I approach him, I can’t help but take a good, long look at his body, the old jeans molded just right to his ass, the tall rubber boots barely able to fit around thick, muscular calves, the rugged feel of flannel across broad shoulders willing and able to do the hard, physical work of farming, but not needing to.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, my fingers tentative for some reason I can’t explain as my heart begins to gallop, his shoulder steady as a rock as I touch him.

  “The milk is yours.”

  “You negotiated a deal? The Cordais family produces ten times more than my current supply, Ian! I’ll be able to scale up like crazy! How did you get them to crack? I’ve tried and tried. They’re about to sell out to agri-business. I can’t remember the conglomerate, but they’ll be swallowed soon, and — ”

  “I know,” he says, turning around, one hand going to my chin, tipping it up. Those deep brown eyes, wild with excitement that makes my heart join in, telescoping, pulling me inward, inviting me to be a part of him.

  “You got the contract when I couldn’t? This is a gloat, isn’t it? You beat me to it. Are you going to turn this into a competition?” I joke. My hand goes to his chest, right over his heart, his eyes intense and loving, never moved from my gaze. Under his skin, his heart beats like crazy, the feel of it jarring.

  What is going on?

  “How about a merger?
” he says, voice thick with emotion, as he pulls his hand out of his right front pocket and shows me a velvet box.

  A velvet box.

  “A merger?” I squeak as — oh, oh! — he drops, slowly, to one knee, eyes never leaving mine, only the angle of his look changing. Suddenly, I’m the one bent down, he’s turned up, and his hand out, the box flipped open by his thumb.

  And what I see makes the world stop and spin out of control, all at once.

  “The ring!” I gasp. “How did you get my great-grandma’s ring back! Oh, Ian!” I pause. “Please tell me you had it really, really, really cleaned.”

  “It’s not the original, Hastings. I wish I could get that one back. But I took pictures Roy gave me and had a jeweler re-create it. It’s not your family heirloom, but it’s a damn fine version.”

  “Like me,” I whisper, eyes crawling all over his face, the border collie barking twice as if to assert its power, a herd of sheep in the distance all following a hay truck like they’re imprinted on it.

  “Every version of you is damn fine, Hastings. And I want to marry every damn fine version of you. Will you do me the honor of being my wife? My one and only wife? And will you make me your only and only husband?”

  Yes, I want to say, but the moment is too perfect to rush, a breeze blowing the hair off his brow, making him blink just once, the magic of the moment so delightful, so precious, so perfect I need to embed it in my bones with a long, slow breath that stops time.

  Until finally, I say what needs to be said, all of the versions of me, indeed, damn fine.

  “Yes, Ian. Of course, yes. Always, yes.”

  “You’ll marry me?”

  “Yes. Was there ever any doubt?”

  “No.” He laughs, a resonant sound that I feel in my marrow. “I just wanted to hear you say it again.”

  Now, he shakes.

  Now.

  His boyish nervousness is what finally makes me cry, his fingers struggling to slide the ring on my left hand, the fit perfect. He’s paid attention, hasn’t he, sizing my finger before this moment, choosing a verdant, green sheep’s farm as the sight for our proposal, to forge our new life together.

  The guy knows me so well. He even buttered me up with a new milk contract.