Fly In Fly Out

by Evie Snow

  “Ames, stop that . . . and that . . . and help me with his legs.”

  Amy was now belly laughing and crouching down to poke Mike’s exposed washboard stomach.

  “Ow! Unkind woman,” Mike groaned, flailing randomly. Jo rolled her eyes, unsteadily kicked off her heels, and grabbed his legs. It took some effort, but she managed to maneuver all of him into the entryway.

  “Mike? Mike!” She raised her voice to get his attention. “I can’t lift you up the stairs. You’re going to have to get to bed yourself.”

  “It’s okay. Okay, yeah. You girls go. I’ll sleep here,” Mike mumbled, still clumsily trying to swat away Amy’s poking finger.

  Jo grabbed her sister’s arm. “Amy, taxi’s waiting. C’mon, we gotta go home.”

  “Really?” Amy asked, looking distinctly put out. Jo had a feeling that her sister would happily curl up with Mike on the floor.

  “Yes,” Jo said emphatically, the force of the word causing her to sway. “Mike, mate, get yourself to bed. See you later, eh?”

  “Sure. Leave me,” he slurred, rolling into a pitiful ball and looking for all intents and purposes like the floor was going to be his bed for the night.

  Jo dragged Amy out the door and was just about to close it when Mike’s voice spun her around.

  “Jo?”

  “Yeah?” she asked, trying to keep her balance.

  “Don’t tell about . . . don’t tell what I said t’night, okay? I won’t tell about you, and you can’t tell ’bout me, right?” His clear blue eyes looked momentarily lucid.

  “Yeah, sure,” Jo soothed. “I won’t tell, mate. Get yourself up to bed.”

  “Serious?” he asked, tucking a hand under the side of his cheek for a pillow.

  “Serious,” Jo reassured him. “We’ll talk about this later . . . if we remember.”

  “I’ll remember!” Amy piped up, holding a finger up in the air and wobbling as she tottered down the path towards the cab.

  “Amy’ll remember,” Mike mumbled.

  “She better not. Goodnight, Mike. Bye,” she said, shutting the door as he called out.

  “G’night, Jo’n’Amy.”

  * * *

  It was the thump that woke Stephen. The thump was soon followed by a cat’s loud meow, a very loud shhh, and then another thump.

  Disoriented, it took him a few minutes to realize he hadn’t dreamt the noise at all. It was coming from the hall. Hauling himself out of bed, he quickly pulled on a pair of jeans before opening his door and stubbing his toe on something soft.

  “Ohhh, not good!” a husky female voice groaned.

  “What?” Stephen looked down in confusion. All the lights in the apartment were on, and they afforded him a very clear view of Jo Blaine stretched out on her stomach like a starfish just a few feet shy of her bedroom door.

  “Uh. Jo?”

  “Hmph.”

  “Jo? You okay?”

  “Wha . . . ? Nooo.” She groaned. “Room spinning. Need. Water.”

  “Ah.” She’d obviously achieved her objective and gotten hammered. Stephen stifled a grin, wondering what shape Mike was in and if they’d managed to get up to anything before she got so drunk she couldn’t walk.

  How the hell had she gotten up the stairs to her apartment in this shape?

  “Want a hand there?”

  “Mph . . . uh . . . water’d be nice. An’ a pillow,” she muttered, lifting her head an inch or so off the floor before letting it drop with a thud. “Ow.”

  “Right.” Stephen made his way to the kitchen and filled up a glass to the sound of another series of thumps. He almost tripped over Boomba twice on the way back. “I thought you and I had a peace treaty,” he growled in exasperation and got a decidedly belligerent meow in answer.

  His retort was prevented by the most pitiful sight he’d seen in years. Jo was kneeling next to her bed, upper torso and head resting on the mattress.

  Water glass in hand, Stephen debated what to do. Unbelievably, he’d managed to make it to thirty years old without ever dealing with a drunk woman. Lauren hadn’t liked drinking alcohol or caffeine—or anything that would give her a buzz, for that matter—and all of his earlier girlfriends had managed to find someone else to take care of them when they’d overindulged. Was there a protocol? Usually, he’d just leave his mates sleeping on the floor next to the toilet bowl, maybe with a glass of water and a few aspirin, but the current situation looked like it called for something else.

  “You alright there?” he asked tentatively.

  “Nooo. Need some sleep. So tiiired,” Jo mumbled into the mattress and made an effort to haul the rest of her body onto the bed. Her feet scrambled on the floor before she gave up. The sight was so comical that Stephen had to repress a laugh.

  Deciding on a course of action, he walked into her room and put her water down on the bedside table.

  “Jo? It’s Stephen here. Remember from earlier today? Stephen Hardy. I’m going to help you up onto the bed now, so don’t go spare when I touch you, okay?” Moving behind her, he let his hands hover at her sides as he tried to work out how best to tackle the problem of getting her into bed without being maimed in the process.

  “Stephen? Nooo, you can’t be Steph’n Hardy. No, no. But yeah, water’s good, thanksss.” She lifted her head off the bed and squinted at him.

  “Your water’s next to you. You can’t sleep like this though. I’m going to lift you now.” Stephen gripped Jo under her arms, braced himself, and went for a straight lift, stumbling backwards when she turned out to be a lot lighter than he’d expected.

  “Whoooaahh,” Jo said, opening her eyes, moving her bare feet to find purchase on the floor.

  “Just . . . wait. I’ll put . . . you down . . . There you go.” Stephen manhandled Jo onto the bed until she was flat on her stomach. Well, that should do it, right? Oh yeah, breathing. He gently moved her head so her face was clear of pillow and threw a crocheted throw he found on a nearby chair over her.

  “That’ll do it,” he murmured to himself, trying not to smile at how helpless she looked. Never in his wildest or most disturbing dreams would he have imagined being in a situation where he would be putting a drunken Jo Blaine to bed. Or that he’d end up kind of enjoying it.

  Go figure.

  He left her room and walked back through the apartment, flicking off lights and deliberately leaving the bedroom doors open just in case Jo needed anything.

  He was almost back to sleep when he heard a quiet “Thank you, Steph’n Hardy” in a husky, little girl voice. Smiling unaccountably, he fell back asleep.

  * * *

  Jo woke up feeling like she’d been hit over the head with a sledgehammer. This was not good. Normally she would have forced down a liter or so of water before going to bed, but it had taken so long to get Mike and Amy settled. By the time she’d gotten home, she’d been not only drunk, but also so exhausted she couldn’t even remember if she’d paid the taxi driver before stumbling up the stairs to her apartment. She vaguely recalled being lifted into bed at some stage, but nah, that couldn’t be right.

  The last time she’d been picked up was when she’d been stretchered off a rig in the South China Sea when she’d broken her leg. That hadn’t been fun. Although the way her head felt now, she wished she still had some of the marvelously strong drugs they’d given her.

  Stumbling to the bathroom, she spent the next hour hunched in the shower, sipping water from a glass she’d found on her bedside table. The boiling hot spray washed over her until she felt a little more like a Homo sapiens and less like a puddle of primordial goo.

  She wondered vaguely how her partners in crime from the night before had fared, then she scowled. Amy, the little cow, had never had a hangover in her life; given her sister’s size, Jo didn’t know how she managed it. Mike hadn’t looked too good when they’d left him, but he’d be lucky enough to be the recipient of Scott’s hangover cure, which had been proven to work time and time again. It consisted of a McD
onald’s bacon and egg McMuffin followed by a shot of Jagermeister. If Jo wasn’t feeling so disoriented, she’d head out to acquire ingredients. She was sure she’d left a bottle of Jagermeister under the sink from the last time she’d been in town. Or at least she hoped she had.

  She suddenly remembered hearing Stephen’s voice the night before, but hoped it had been her imagination. She wasn’t lying about getting drunk at least once every rotation back to Australia, but not that drunk. Usually, she had about one and a half pints of beer, which was enough to send her head spinning after two months of being completely dry at work.

  Groaning, she let the spray run over her head for the last time before deciding to get on with her day, which looked like it would involve a couch, the soccer channel, and maybe, just maybe, some intensive recreational snoozing.

  Boomba chose that moment to howl, no doubt deciding he’d been ignored long enough.

  “Bugger off, you fiend!” Jo yelled and then regretted it when her head started pounding again. The scratching at the door didn’t help. Neither did the sight that greeted her in the kitchen. Boomba had decided not to wait for breakfast. An empty mutilated packet that formerly held bacon lay on the floor and beside it were the remains of three splattered eggs. On the bench was a note written in the same messy scrawl that had accompanied her roses.

  * * *

  Hope you’re feeling alright this morning. Thought you might appreciate breakfast.

  Stephen

  * * *

  So she must have run into Stephen the night before. Damn. She got a little teary at his considerate gesture then swiftly wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, telling herself it was just sadness over having missed her chance at bacon and eggs. Then she got teary all over again at the realization he’d been the one to give her the flowers but hadn’t taken the credit.

  She covered up the moment of sentimentality by glaring at her cat. “Hope you enjoyed depriving me of all that wonderful grease and cholesterol.”

  Ignoring her, Boomba waddled over to a puddle of egg yolk, giant fluffy silver tail up in the air, and started licking it up. Remembering what eggs had done to Boomba and the litter box the last time he’d indulged, Jo thought about chasing him off and cleaning up the mess. By the looks of it, he’d already eaten two of them. Bugger. It was only something she’d be able to face after a bacon and egg McMuffin and maybe a small hair of the dog . . . or cat that bit her. Making up her mind, she grabbed her wallet, keys, and helmet and walked out the door.

  * * *

  “You know, my professional advice is that we force the issue. I like Lauren, but the situation she’s put you in is untenable. She’s treating you so shabbily I feel like driving over there and taking care of things myself. That apartment was valued at over one point three million dollars, Stephen. Half of that money is yours and you’re letting her sit on it. Why can’t you see that you’re the one in the right here?”

  Stephen helped himself to one of the Krispy Kreme donuts in Scott’s fridge and did his best to tune out his Aunt Corinne. He loved her to pieces, would throw himself in front of a speeding bus for her, but right now . . . he’d throw himself under a speeding bus just to avoid the broken-record lecture he’d been getting for the past six months.

  He closed the fridge door and picked up one of the identical black coffees he’d made while waiting for Scott to finish up with whatever he was doing upstairs.

  “Are you gonna drink this coffee or are you just going to lecture me?” he asked, handing Corinne the coffee and kissing her on the forehead to soften his words. She was a short woman, uncharacteristically short given the next shortest person in the Hardy clan was Rachael at five foot ten. Corinne made up for her lack of height with a bullish stubbornness that had made her one of the most sought-after lawyers in Western Australia’s divorce courts. She’d been a housewife for the years she’d been married to Scott’s dad, living in Tokyo. Stephen always got a picture of the other mothers dropping kids off at Scott’s kindergarten quailing in fear at the sound of her footsteps.

  Corinne pursed her lips and smoothed a non-existent loose strand of gold-blond hair behind her ear. “You didn’t put sugar in this, did you?”

  “I’d kill myself first before poisoning you like that,” Stephen said with false sincerity, his mouth twitching.

  “Cretin.” She took a sip of her coffee, looking at him over the black frames of her glasses.

  “You love me.” Stephen waggled his brows and picked up his own cup, gulping down half the contents in one go.

  “I’d love you more if you let me help you take care of this issue with Lauren. I don’t know where you got this pacifist streak. No one else in our family has it. It has to come from your mum. If she were alive today—”

  “She’d be telling me I’m doing the right thing.” Stephen fought to maintain an easy-going smile. He’d only dropped by Scott’s Subiaco townhouse to suggest going surfing since the swell was good, and he’d wanted to celebrate getting Bridgett to officially sign on the dotted line regarding their wine deal. Now he was kind of wishing he’d gone for a dive in a piranha tank instead. “I’m doing fine for now, and like I said before, we’re still working it out. I don’t see how getting all litigious is gonna help the situation. Anyway, aren’t you supposed to be making grown men cry or something?” He raised his brows. “Or better yet, saying, ‘Thank you, Stephen, my favorite nephew, for hooking me up with that case of cabernet I needed to impress my swanky lawyer friends?’”

  Corrine huffed. “It wasn’t that impressive. And I still think—”

  “For Christ’s sake, Mum! You still going on about this? Give him a rest, okay? Or we’ll have to take you outside and bury you in the backyard where we put all the other lawyers.” Scott strode into the room dressed in a pair of board shorts and holding a couple of beach towels. He set them down on the bench and pulled his mother into a hug, pressing a kiss on the center part of her immaculate blond ponytail.

  Corinne tried to say something more, but her words were muffled against her son’s chest as Scott winked at Stephen.

  Stephen grinned back, forcing himself to relax. There was no way he was going to explain to his aunt that the reason he wasn’t getting all legal on Lauren’s ass was that . . . well, the last time he’d gotten worked up over a woman—really worked up—he’d messed up her life in a big way.

  His mind raced back to the night he’d seen Scott mucking around in secret with a tall, leggy girl at a dam on Evangeline’s Rest. Watching them swim and play-fight in the midnight-dark water, Stephen had felt so jealous it was a wonder he hadn’t glowed green in the dark. All his sixteen-year-old mind could process was that Scott was two years younger than him and had a girlfriend. A hot girlfriend that had to be around Stephen’s age.

  The next day, he’d heard the same girl and Scott in the bathroom at the Christmas party and had assumed they’d been going for it. When they’d come out was when it had all gone wrong. Stephen had immediately recognized the girl as a grown-up Jo Blaine and it had been like something in his head had just clicked off. He’d known her for years. How had Scott gotten to her first? How had Stephen not noticed that she’d gotten hot?

  Watching Scott and Jo hang out at the party together, he’d gotten so pissed off, so jealous that Scott had gotten with her first that he’d done something totally stupid. Knowing exactly what would happen, he’d gone and told Jeff Rousse, his brother Clayton’s best friend and Jo’s archnemesis, about what he’d heard in the bathroom.

  Jeff had gotten completely hammered and declared, to the entirety of George Creek in attendance, that the Blaine girl had been screwing Scott. Jo had left the party in tears, Scott chasing after her.

  Stephen had immediately realized just how much he’d screwed up.

  He’d driven over to Jo’s place the next day to apologize, only to be told by a devastated Ken Blaine that the girls were gone; they’d run to live with their aunt in the city to get away from the shame.

 
; It was a wonder Ken had ever forgiven him. It was amazing Scott had ever forgiven him.

  When Stephen had found out Amy Blaine ran a barbershop in Fremantle, he’d immediately gone to apologize. Miraculously, they’d struck up the casual don’t-ask-don’t-tell friendship they shared today. And Jo . . . well, maybe he was getting there with making it up to her. He’d like to think he was.

  “Stephen? Stephen?”

  He snapped back to the present to find his cousin and his aunt looking at him with identical exasperated expressions. “What?”

  “We’ve been trying to get your attention for the past five minutes, that’s what,” Corrine said, loading her coffee cup in the dishwasher.

  Scott flicked him on the forehead. “Where the hell did you go? You look like a stoned Muppet.”

  “Scott,” Corinne said with a frown.

  Scott raised his brows. “Let me rephrase that. He is a stoned Muppet. You ready to go or not?”

  Stephen ran a hand over his head, feeling a little disoriented. “Yeah. You loaded your board on the roof?”

  “Just did it.”

  “Where’s Mike?”

  Scott rolled his eyes. “Coming. Eventually.”

  Corinne sighed. “It’s a hard life, isn’t it? Surfing in the middle of the day.”

  Both Stephen and Scott guffawed. Corinne was the first person to head down the beach to work on her tan whenever she could get out of the office. Today was a case in point. The minute Stephen had mentioned surfing, his aunt had decided she’d take an extended lunch and tag along. Her excuse was that she was spending time with her son after Scott had been overseas, but they all knew she’d be fast asleep on a beach towel before they caught their first wave.

  Stephen looked up at the ceiling and bellowed for his brother. “Mike!”

  “Yeah!”

  “You coming?”

  “Yeah! Just hold your horses.”