by Tina Maurine
Maybe day one in Iceland isn’t too early to see what this base has to offer.
A mischievous grin claimed my lips as I pulled back the curtain and stepped out of the shower.
6
“Will you quit looking at yourself in the mirror? It’s time to GO,” Sammie snapped at me, her jaw tensed in frustration.
Not that I can tell her this, but just admitting to myself that I’m ready for a new man makes me want to take extra care. Ignoring her instructions, I gave myself another top-down assessment. Hair clean and in place. Makeup hot, but not overdone. Outfit coordinated and flattering. My eyes glowed with excitement and a naughty smile lingered in the corners of my mouth. That’ll do just fine.
“What in God’s name are you wearing those saucers for?” Sammie groused, referring to the hoops I had just put in.
“Whuddaya’ mean? I’m just trying to look nice,” I said with a bit of a sulk resonating in my voice. She’s being a real mood killer, this lady.
“It’s like -30 or -40 something outside, who’s gonna see you?”
I looked up at her and back at the mirror. Maybe she has a point. I want to look available, not desperate. I pulled them off and went for a smaller silver drop-style earring. “Better?”
“Sure, whatever. I’m heading down the hall to see who’s doing what, and I’ll meet you in the guy’s room.” Sammie grabbed her foul-weather jacket and her Velcro tri-fold wallet.
“Hey,” I called after her. “What guys? Where…”
She never waited to hear the rest of my question; hell, she didn’t even stop to give herself a final once-over before I heard our door click shut.
What the fuck crawled up her butt and died? I thought as I grabbed my own FWJ.
Damn, this bitch weighs a ton! It must be because of the heavy lining and fur lined hood…
I surveyed myself a final time and, satisfied I at least looked cute enough to attract the attention of my next conquest, I grabbed my small zippered wallet, turned off the light and went out the door. After the intense quiet of the room, the noisy hallway threatened to shatter my eardrums. The last four or five doors all stood open, playing the same music, "No Diggity” by Dr. Dre and the Backstreet Boys. Everyone carried a cup. I cannot say they were all drinking, since a lot of these shipmates were underage, but… seriously… we all know they were.
I went into the first room, and immediately, the smell of that Nag Champa, a strong, musky incense, assaulted my nose. Probably close to a dozen people I had never seen before crowded into the small space. Most were older than me. I received a couple of courtesy smiles and nods. I returned them as I gave a brief look around for Sam. No sign of her, so I moved on to the next room.
Red lights bathed room number two, where a number of couples dirty danced, or should I say stumbled around trying to dance? After a brief scan, I skipped it and went on to the last room on that side. I noticed a couple of familiar faces, so I stepped in a bit farther.
“Hey, Christy, what’s your poison?” I turned and across the room saw Tim Dunnmoth, my future shop supervisor and seat-mate on the fateful C-130 flight.
“Jack,” I said with a smile.
“What? Did you say in a bottle or can?” He shouted to me over “Return of the Mac,” which was now screeching over the speakers. The chorus hit, and everyone started bumping hips and singing along.
Someone thrust a beer into my hand.
Crap. What am I going to do with this? Damn, he didn’t hear me right.
I thanked a guy I didn’t recognize and glanced around the room. A set of intense, blue eyes pointedly watched me from the other side. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, until someone thought it was funny to tap the mouth of my bottle with the bottom of theirs, which caused my beer to gush like a geyser.
Jeezus! Fucking Idiot!
I ripped my gaze from those baby blues to step out of the puddle and look around for a towel, a rag, napkins… something to clean up the beer on the floor and on my hand.
“Hey, sweets, I’ve got it.” Thankfully, some guy I’d never seen before appeared out of nowhere with a towel for my hand, and then he set about mopping up the mess. I thanked him, but when I looked up to find those eyes again, they weren’t there. I searched around for Sammie and found her dancing with a few admirers. Looks like fun.
I moved to the make-shift dance floor in the center of the room. We all shouted the last line of the chorus, me as loud and jovial as everyone else.
Strong hands grabbed mine and effortlessly spun me around until I found myself staring up into the eyes of...
Shit, what was his name? Ensign…. shoot… Daniels! “Daniels, right?” I said with a smile.
“Yeah, Ian Daniels. We were in the same indoc. group.”
Those eyes. Those translucent, violet eyes mesmerized me. Looking into them made me forget that he was an ensign—a Navy officer. Hell, those eyes nearly made me forget about the clear rules regarding officers partying with enlisted.
What is it with beautiful eyes tonight?
“Tessa Christy, right?” He reached out and took my unwanted beer from me.
Wow. Ok… so I was a little impressed that he remembered my name, since our base and squadron indoctrination had taken place over a week ago.
“Just call me Tess, Officer.” I said with a hint of sarcasm and invitation in my voice.
Whoa, boy! Kill me now.
The amused look he gave me did little to mask the obvious, underlying masculine—and excitingly dangerous—side of him; it hinted at all kinds of ways he could get me to say ‘Officer’...
“Did you maybe want to get out of…”
“No, she doesn’t,” Sammie said as she threw herself between us. “Slow your roll, hoss. It’s only what… day two of deployment and 1900?” With that, she thrust a Jack and Coke into my one hand, grabbed the other, and led me towards the door. As she pulled me, I turned back to look at Officer Ian, who stood there with an arrogant smirk on his face. I lifted my glass to him in a silent toast as I left the room.
“How do you know I didn’t want to leave with Ian?” I demanded.
“You mean Officer Daniels?” She gave me a warning look. “You don’t want to go there so early in the deployment… you should know that.”
“Rules, I know. Well, society’s rules were meant to be broken. I‘ve never been one to play by the book, really.” I laughed as we reached the first floor, where some of the mechs from her shop were staying.
“Well, maybe this is a good time to start. I’m betting that I just saved your ass in more ways than one.”
“Shit, Sam. Maybe I want to put my butt in a sling. You know it has been awhile since I…”
Gettin’ it. Gettin’ it… gettin’ it good…blah, blah, blah,” she retorted as though quoting some rapper’s lyrics.
“Oh. Shut. Up.” I elbowed her as we reached her supervisor’s room. According to Sammie, she and Aviation Mechanic Duncan been good at ‘dickin’ the dog,’—slacking off at work—while assigned to the Geedunk, a division of First Lieutenant, the past six months or so. Instead, she spent lots of her time in the mech shop; which it turns out, benefited not only her, but me as well. If I hadn’t met Sammie and her mech friends, this deployment would surely be a long, lonely one for me.
Sammie knocked on the door three or four times before someone cracked it open. She leaned her shoulder onto it and pushed her way in.
“Whassup beeatches?” she drawled in her best gangster lingo.
She got a couple of “Woot woots” in response, a few “Hell yeahs”, and even a “Hidy-ho” from the redneck of the group. The scene nicely blended casual and comfortable; not a party, but more like Saturday night at a frat house after the game.
I had not expected a bunch of guys to listen to this kind of music—Backstreet Boys—not that I minded a bit, but it DID bring back a flood of emotions and memories from Puerto Rico. As soon as we walked in, someone placed a refresher Jack and Coke in our hands.
“Ch
risty? So, where are you from?”
I turned to see whose attention I had. “AME2 Reeser, right?”
I'd noticed the aviation structural mechanic right off, since he was also aircrew and not off limits like flight crew officers. From my past experiences, aircrewmen were always cooler, better partiers, and in pretty good shape. I’d yet to complain either, after kissing one. So yeah, Reeser got my attention the first day I’d arrived.
I dropped my FWJ by the door on top of Sammie’s and took a seat next to him on the futon.
“Go ahead, and call me Tessa,” I said with a smile. “You’re Reeser… with no first name. Nice to meet you,” I joked playfully.
“Sage Reeser, but you can also call me Buttercup, my call sign.”
I gave him a flirty giggle, because… REALLY? Buttercup? Come on… there’s no way I’m calling you that!
“I know, right? Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups got shortened to Buttercup, and unfortunately, it stuck.” He smiled, explaining without me even having to ask.
I guess he’s been asked it plenty of times before.
We fell into a comfortable, albeit very dull conversation during which I learned he was twenty-four, from Arlington Iowa, farmed and played football in high school… you know the type. Sage was All-American. I have to admit after learning his first name, I thought I’d find out he was from a hippie family or something, but he was raised by his grandparents in a community of fewer than 800. That surprised me and very few things people say do. Maybe that’s why I just sat there nicely smiling, nodding and sharing pleasantries.
“Enough about me. Tell me about you.”
I looked up at Sage’s eyes, an average hazel that complimented his tan complexion and sandy blond hair. They were by no means striking, but the earnestness I saw in them, his honest interest in what I was about to say, pulled me. I cleared my throat as a sudden nervousness hit.
Whoa! Where in the world are these nerves coming from? It’s not like I even like this guy.
“Well, I was born in Salem, Oregon. So, like you I was around a lot of agriculture and farming. My family is still in Oregon, but after I moved to Pullman to attend Wazzu, I pretty much planned on staying there, until I somehow ended up on this Navy ride.” I stopped my disjointed and hurried account of my personal history and glanced over at Sage.
He smiled and opened his mouth like he was going to say something, when Sammie shot out of nowhere and plopped her ass between us, toasting both of our cups with hers.
“Mine’s empty,” she goaded. “You know what that means?”
“Let me guess,” I said as I pushed on her back to get her up off the tiny futon. “You’re ready for another drink?”
“NOPE!” Sammie laughed, stood up, and headed to the door to grab her jacket. “Who’s ready to fly this coop?”
I turned my attention back to Sage. “I’m sure we’ll have another opportunity to pick this up some time. You coming to the Privateer too?” I questioned more out of politeness than true interest. If truth be known, I actually didn’t really want him to come and then sit beside me all night. Not that there was anything wrong with him—he’d do in a pinch—but I was curious what other prospects the frigid Icelandic winds would blow in.
The commotion of partiers refilling their drinks, joking, grabbing their heavy coats and pushing into the hall drowned Sage’s answer.
7
Whatever logic told the half-dozen of us that walking from our BEQ a good half-mile to the Privateer Pub after 2030 in -30 degrees with winds gusting up to 50 miles-per-hour, could only go by the names: ‘I’m Invincible’ and ‘Excessive Alcohol.’ I tried talking to Sammie, but my voice was whipped harshly off my lips as soon as it reached them. We trudged on, faces down, fur-lined hoods covering our heads and zipped up over our chins. We drilled our hands into our pockets, fingers tucked into our palms, making tight, tension-taut fists.
After what felt like an hour, we reached the brightly lit porch of the Privateer Pub. A rush of warm air welcomed us inside as we pushed through the heavy metal door. We stomped off our feet and unzipped our jackets.
“Whoo!” I exclaimed, relieved we were finally done with the bitter cold outside. I heard Sammie behind me rubbing her hands together. My nose, cheeks, ears, fingers were all a tingling mess, taking my focus away from the bar scene we’d just stomped loudly into.
“Hey, hun, give me your coat.”
I turned and handed it off to Sammie, glad to bestow the awkward, heavy parka.
There were rows of hooks on the wall, and about half were filled with U.S. Marine and Navy Arctic jackets. Royal Army and Icelandic gear too from the looks of the flags stitched onto them. The pub was pretty full, and good beats played on the jukebox. The guys had already moved to claim the one empty pool table of the four. The others hosted lively groups of military personnel. I recognized a couple of squad-mates shooting with guys who appeared to be some U.S. Marine Security stationed at Keflavik. They looked up, and we got a few toasts as they waved to us, their beers in the air, acknowledging our arrival.
I took a seat at the end of the bar under the television. The Armed Forces Radio and Television Service, also known as AFRTS (pronounced A—Farts), provided all service men and women, their families, and DoD civilians “American” television programming, and Gladiator was on. It was nice to sit down, hear American music, watch American TV, and trick myself into thinking I was back home… even if it were just for a couple of hours.
“Rolling Rock please,” I said with a smile to the cute, dark-haired Icelandic guy behind the bar.
“Make that two,” Sammie added as she plopped down beside me. We turned toward each other and ‘scoped’ out the bar scene. A couple of cute guys, very few girls, as was very common, so the attention we were already receiving didn’t surprise us at all.
“Ey’ two shots ‘er two lovely ladies.”
We looked back at the bartender, and I really began to appreciate his beauty. The accent got my attention first; he sounded like a Viking. His heavy brogue had a richness woven in with a deep baritone. He was fair-skinned, more than I’d normally like, but I couldn’t ding the guy for the whiteness of his skin when it was -30 outside and the sun had been hiding for most of the last four months. Besides, I’m sure he was considered tanned for an Icelander. He really was striking, with his pitch-black hair—it had a dark, almost blue shimmer to it under those halogen lights. His clear blue eyes radiated a magnetic energy and seemed to twinkle. He gave us a smirk, a cocky-ass bit of a smile that, for some reason, brought a rush of heat between my legs. I don’t know what it is but give me a guy who radiates arrogance and confidence and I am a goner.
“Frá krakkar spila á borðið þremur, …from da guys playing on pool table three,” he finished with a wink, nodding to the guys. They turned to be sure we were looking, and then each took a shot as though auditioning for our attention.
The bartender turned back to wash a couple of glasses.
“I was hopin’ these were from you,” I flirted, hoping it might get some attention from the barkeep.
Still drying the glass, he turned around and chuckled, “Now, ‘ye know that ‘ey cannot buy drinks for da patrons, no matter how cute ‘ey might find ‘em.”
Kill me now. Could he be any sexier with that accent?
I kicked Sammie’s leg on her stool beside me and winked. She laughed at me as she slid off her stool and went over to thank table three for us.
“’Ye should probably go join ‘ye friend over there.” He smiled flirtatiously. “With a few more libations from ‘em, they’d be payin’ all night ‘er ‘ye.”
“Now, what makes you think I want them buying my drinks? Maybe I’d rather sit here at the bar and buy my own and talk to you.” I raised an eyebrow and he chuckled as he turned back around.
REALLY?! What does it take? Maybe he’s gay…
“Svo, þú vilt frekar sitja hér hjá mér ha?” I heard his Icelandic remark under his breath.
“So, w
hat I want to know is, are you going to wash glasses all night?”
At this, he turned around. “I’d planned to, ’ey. They call me Ha’lfdane. Dane ‘er short. ‘Ye?”
“Tessa Patrice Christy. Tess for short.”
We’d barely began our conversation when Sammie came over with one of the guys, interrupting us.
“Shots for Tessa here, and table three!” She hip bumped me, then pulled me off my stool onto the floor, so she could spin me around to Timbaland & Magoo’s “Up Jumps da Boogie.” She had me laughing so hard that we garnered a lot of looks. Evidently, Sammie’s silliness was contagious, because our friends—yes—even the guys we came with, wandered over and got in on the fun. We laughed like loons, hip bumping, gyrating and spinning. The song ended far too soon.
Sammie sat down to catch her breath, and I leaned on her to catch mine. Dane had lined up a total of eight shots—six for Sammie and the guys she was flirting with at the pool table, and one for me. I slid my firm derriere onto the stool beside her.
“Hey, Dane.”
I waited until he finished pouring somebody else’s drinks, and then watched him saunter over to us.
Yeah, he definitely has game …
“Who’s the eighth shot for?”
“Ey’ my lady, it would be ‘er me.”
“But I thought…”
“Ahh já, en ég mun ekki segja neinum ef þú ert ekki.” I looked at the local civilian on the stool beside me and raised my shoulders in a silent ‘What? Please help me.
He smiled and said, “He won’t tell if you don’t.”
“‘Ey, that is what ‘ey said.” With that, Dane raised his glass and slammed back a first, then second shot. He held up a third and said, “Toast with me?”
I caught myself giving him a flirtatious giggle and loving how he spoke first in Icelandic as though I understood, and then how he translated for me; It was sexy as all hell. I raised my shot of tequila to toast him.
