Fly In Fly Out

by Evie Snow

  She paused, trying to calm down, distantly hearing Stephen ordering the pizza. The sound of his voice was strangely comforting.

  Raising the earpiece to her ear, she desperately hoped the old man wouldn’t answer while praying he would so she could get this over and done with.

  “Hello. Ken Blaine here.”

  “Dad. This is Jo,” she said, surprised at how level her voice sounded.

  Ken paused perceptibly before speaking. “Jo? Right. What can I do for you, mate?”

  Jo felt bile rise in her throat at his cheerful, booming tone. Such a fucking sham. He had to be in public, probably down at the pub, given the time of night. Her dad would never lose his composure around someone outside the family; Jo and Amy had spent years hiding bruises for fear of what he’d do if the Hardys or anyone else in George Creek ever found out about his drinking problem. As a result, he was probably still considered a good bloke by the people in the community. A good bloke done wrong by his wayward daughters.

  Jo took a deep breath and started speaking in a low, measured tone. “Cut the crap. I saw Mum today. The game is up. I’m going to say this once. If you lay a hand on her or do anything to mess with her ever, ever again—anything—I’m coming back down there with Scott and those photos we took years ago, and we’ll be having another talk with Sergeant Russell. You hear me?”

  Her words were met with dead silence.

  “Ah, mate. I don’t think you’ve got any call to be talking like that. It’s been years, so why get so worked up? Why don’t you come down here and speak to me about it one-on-one?” Ken responded finally. His tone was still calm and easy-going, a man talking a friend out of a mild upset. The people around him wouldn’t notice, but Jo could hear the edge that for so many years had signaled how truly pissed off he was.

  “I’ve said all I’m going to say. I’m not bullshitting you either. You leave her alone, or every one of your buddies in George Creek is going to know what a complete bastard you are, and you’ll be kissing your job goodbye. I’ll be checking on you.”

  Ken must have realized Jo had her hand on the end call button because he talked quick. “Ah, mate. So you saw Shirley, did you? I’ll have to discuss this with her later.”

  His threat was clear, and she felt the old fear come back mixed with a rage so cold it crystalized around her lungs, restricting her breath.

  “Touch her again, and we’ll have you up for assault so quick your head will spin,” Jo snarled. She hung up, dropped the receiver onto the bathmat, and held her head in her hands until the shaking went away. Then she got up, stripped off her clothes, and stood under the shower, scrubbing herself until she felt clean again.

  “Hey,” Stephen called as she emerged from the bathroom in an oversized blue bath towel, hair dripping. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” Jo plastered on a smile.

  “The pizza just arrived. You want me to wait for you to start?”

  He sounded so normal, so friendly, that Jo’s eyes began to prickle with tears, and she kept her back to him until she was sure her voice would come out alright.

  “Yeah. That’d be great. I’ll be a few minutes.”

  It took seconds to put on some pink boxer shorts—yet another gift from Amy—and one of Scott’s old Nirvana T-shirts. They clashed horribly, but right now she needed a reminder of the people she cared for. She didn’t bother with a bra. Given her history with Stephen, there wasn’t really going to be any chance of her impressing the guy anyway. She was pretty sure he’d always see her as Jo “Rabies” Blaine, the social pariah.

  When she wandered out to the living room, Stephen was a picture of a contented man, slouched comfortably on the couch watching TV, his hair stiff with salt, face slightly red with sunburn, a beer in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other. The open box on the coffee table wafted the unmistakable smell of pepperoni and anchovies through the house, reminding her she hadn’t eaten all day. Her stomach did a Cookie Monster impersonation.

  “Hungry, are you?” Stephen looked up from his CSI: Miami rerun. Jo had seen this episode already, more than once. One of her coworkers on the rig, a mountainous Tongan nicknamed Grommet, had a thing for CSI, or anything with David Caruso in it, really. Jo suspected it was a heavy-duty man crush.

  “Sure am.” In the face of so much normalcy, the sick, pumped-up feeling from her call began to seep away.

  “Great.” Stephen put a slice of pizza on a plate and held it out to her. “I forgot to ask if you like anchovies. You want me to pick them off for you?” He actually looked like he would if she said she didn’t like them.

  “You try and take my salty fish away and I won’t be responsible for my actions.” She took the plate and sat down next to him, curling her legs up underneath her carefully, making sure she was close enough to get to the pizza but far enough away that they weren’t touching.

  Stephen chuckled and resumed watching his show while Jo glanced at him surreptitiously. He still hadn’t put a shirt on. It was making her strangely nervous, or maybe that was leftover adrenaline, so she covered it up by eating much more than intended. Good thing she was wearing elastic-waisted shorts. It had definitely been a week for overindulgence. The way things were running, she’d be welcoming the bad food back at work just to lose weight.

  “Want a beer?” he asked after they’d finished.

  “Yeah, sounds great.” Jo said, cringing at the way her voice sounded all weird. Anyone would think she’d never spent time around men, ever.

  Stephen didn’t say anything, just retrieved two beers, tossed one over, then slouched back on his side of the couch, knees splayed, looking thoroughly entertained by the amazing way a serious crime could be solved in under sixty minutes.

  Jo tried to do the same. It worked for a while until he cleared his throat and shot her a sideways glance.

  “Nirvana, hey?”

  “It’s Scott’s. He gave it to me a couple of years back.”

  “Ah, that’s why it looked familiar. Actually it was mine. Scott stole it one summer when he was back home. I was pretty pissed off.” He gave her a wry smile, eyes dropping for a fraction of a second to Jo’s chest and then back up again so quickly she might have imagined it.

  “Well, it’s mine now. If you want it back, you’re going to have to fight me for it,” Jo said with a small laugh.

  “Nah. I think I’ll relinquish all rights.” Stephen laughed too. He had a low sort of chuckle. Nice. Different from the boyish one Jo remembered.

  “Thanks for the lasagna the other day, and the bacon and eggs, for that matter. I haven’t had a chance to say thanks. And I’m wondering if I owe you thanks for the other night too. Was I disgraceful?” She hoped to hell he wouldn’t say yes.

  He gave her a slow smile. “Yeah.”

  Damn. “Really? I’m so sorry.”

  “Ah, don’t be.” He waved a hand. “You were kind of cute. I hear Mike had a tougher time. Scott found him sleeping in the hallway.”

  “We couldn’t lift him up the stairs.”

  “I’m amazed you got him as far as the house.”

  Jo chuckled. “It was a team effort. I dragged, Amy prodded.”

  Not wanting to focus too much on what she’d done while drunk, Jo gestured to his clothes, or lack thereof. “Going to the beach and having a pizza on a work day, eh? Anything up?” She had to admit she was curious.

  “Yeah.” Stephen’s face split into a toothy grin. “Bridgett and I agreed on a huge deal for the winery a few days back, and we finalized all the details this morning. Evangeline’s Rest cabernet sauvignon and sauvignon blanc will officially be on the wine list of her restaurant next month.”

  “Really? Congratulations!” Jo exclaimed, catching his enthusiasm. “So Bridgett’s your girlfriend?” she asked, going for a casual tone to cover up the sharp spark of jealously she shouldn’t be feeling.

  His smile dimmed for a moment, then he shrugged, his expression turning rueful. “Well, not really. We’re sort of just fri
ends with benefits. I don’t know if Scott told you, but I’m going through a bit of a messy breakup with my girlfriend, Lauren . . .” He ran a hand over his jaw, wiping away the fleeting frown she would have missed if her senses hadn’t been on such high alert. “You know how it goes, right?”

  “Fair enough.” Jo forced a casual shrug that felt anything but. Having never been in a proper relationship, she couldn’t judge. She could be crazy curious about his ex-girlfriend and passionately envy this Bridgett woman given Stephen’s smoking hot body, but not judge.

  “What about you?” Stephen asked.

  “No one. Well, other than Boomba,” Jo said, wrinkling her nose. “He’s enough, and he’s not even my man full-time. Amy and I usually share custody . . . well, we did before now.”

  “Really? Not about the full-time cat, but about there not being a guy?” Stephen sounded genuinely surprised as he twisted around on the couch to fully face her, TV show completely forgotten, his expression more intense than before. If Jo didn’t know better, she’d believe she was being complimented.

  “Yeah. Really,” she replied dryly. “Try working on an oil rig eight out of every ten weeks and see how that works for you. Add the fact that I’m half a foot taller than most potential candidates and my salary is over double what the average guy can make here . . .” She shrugged.

  “That’s tough.” Stephen winced, either in real or feigned sympathy. “So what do you do exactly?” he asked. “Scott just said you work in Africa.”

  “I’m an engineer. I work on oil rigs off the Mauritanian coast.” Jo waited for his expression to glaze over. Surprisingly, it didn’t.

  “My cousin John works as a driller on the North West Shelf. You ever worked there? Is what you do similar?”

  “Ah, well, no, I don’t do the actual drilling, but I help make drilling possible. I’m in charge of the fluid that lubricates the drilling process and transports cuttings to the surface. It’s a bit more complex than it sounds though.”

  Jo wasn’t sure how much information to give—she didn’t want to bore the guy. On top of that, she was also painfully aware of how dodgy her job sounded with all the references to pipes and drilling.

  She tucked her feet tighter under her backside, resisting the urge to cross her arms over her chest. “And yeah, I worked on the Shelf when I was starting out. It didn’t pay as well, so I went international.”

  It was her usual spiel and had, until now, been enough, but Stephen began asking more questions. Initially, she answered them self-consciously, thinking he was just trying to make up for his faux pas her first day home, but when he looked genuinely interested, she began answering with enthusiasm, describing what an oil rig looked like, the places she’d worked, and some of the more idiotic things her colleagues had done. As she talked, she was reminded of how much she enjoyed big chunks of what she did—the travel, meeting new people, the challenges. It felt good.

  When the phone rang almost an hour later, she was surprised to find herself disappointed at the interruption. If she wasn’t mistaken, Stephen was too.

  “Want me to get that?” Stephen asked, standing up.

  “No, I left the handset in the bathroom. I’ll go get it.” Jo waved him back in his seat with a warm smile then reluctantly got up and headed to the bathroom.

  Jo didn’t even get a chance to turn on the light or say hello properly before her father’s scream roared down the line.

  “You fucking bitch, if you ever threaten me again, I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”

  It was like someone had punched her in the stomach with an ice brick. Old childhood fear slammed into new adult rage. “I meant what I said. Never touch her again, and if you call this number again, I’ll be down there quicker than you can blink, you bastard.”

  Ken’s incoherent shriek echoed around the bathroom as she hung up and let the phone drop again.

  She stood hugging herself, shaking from head to foot with enough adrenaline pumping through her to bring a corpse to life. All the contentment she’d been feeling in Stephen’s company had evaporated, replaced by a tension so great she felt close to shattering.

  “You okay?” Stephen’s question took a while to work its way through the ringing in her ears.

  Jo wildly looked around, trying to center herself. She wasn’t a kid anymore, she was grown up, in her own place. An adult. Standing in her own bathroom. She looked up at Stephen’s large frame blocking the light from the hall, feeling like she was standing there naked.

  “Not really,” she said in a tight voice.

  “Anything I can do?” His voice had a concerned edge, like Scott when he worried about her, and she felt herself tearing up again.

  “No . . . I’ve got it. Thanks.”

  “Sure? Because that guy sounded pretty insane. Who was he?”

  Stephen didn’t know how right he was.

  “No one important. Just some . . . pissed-off guy from work,” she fabricated on the spot.

  “That pissed-off guy live in the area?”

  “N-no. It’s just one of the dramas that comes with doing what I do. It’s not a big deal. Really. Just . . . one of those things.”

  Stephen made a low growling noise, conveying his opinion on the matter.

  Jo felt pressure building up behind her nose. If she didn’t change the topic, or at least get out of the bathroom and stop listening to Stephen’s sympathetic rumble in the dark, she was worried she’d do something stupid.

  “Uh, how do you feel about a cup of coffee?” she asked unsteadily. Anything to get him moving out of the doorway so she could pull herself together.

  “Coffee?” She felt him studying her. “Ah, yeah, why not? I’ll just put on a T-shirt and help you make it.”

  After taking a few deep, shaky breaths, Jo made her way out to the kitchen and turned on her espresso machine, going through the motions of filling it up with water and coffee beans to keep busy.

  “Want a hand?”

  Stephen’s voice close to her ear caught her off guard, and she flinched, bumping into him. His hands steadied her shoulders, and she had to fight the urge to lean back against him.

  “Hey, I know it’s none of my business,” he said, “but if you need to talk about this some more, I’m a good listener.”

  “It was nothing.” Jo shook her head, guiltily reveling in his support. “Like I said . . . just an idiot from work. Nothing major. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  His hands flexed on her shoulders for a few seconds. “Alright. How about you leave the coffee for a minute and come with me? Rachael—you know my twin sister, right? Well, Rachael says I give a pretty good shoulder massage.”

  Jo started to refuse but gave in when she caught his concerned expression out of the corner of her eye. It was just so nice to have someone being this kind, and so unexpected that it would be Stephen.

  “That would be great,” she heard herself saying.

  A few minutes later, she was sitting cross-legged in front of the couch. Stephen’s feet were planted on the floorboards either side of her, his hairy, tanned legs brushing up against the sides of her arms.

  His strong hands gently kneading her shoulders were heavenly, but Jo was still too worked up to let the tension go easily. She knew she should be saying something complimentary, but no words came out. Thankfully, it didn’t seem any were expected. They just sat there in silence, Jo’s head flopped forward, Stephen patiently running his hands over her shoulders and neck while the TV played in the background and a large cat purred next to them.

  Chapter 5

  Jo stared at her breakfast, sipping a truly awful lukewarm coffee, and tried desperately to block out Curly, who was bald, and Bud, who didn’t drink, having a quiet conversation behind her.

  “But since I got back from Phuket in Thailand, I’ve had this weird rash. It’s beginnin’ to worry me.”

  “Boy, get that looked at. Remember Skeet?”

  “Sheeit. Yeah. You think that’s what this is?”

&nbs
p; “Never know.”

  “Didn’t his dick fall off?”

  “Hell no. He just pissed blood for months.”

  “Damn.”

  That did it. No breakfast for her. Maybe she still had a chocolate bar in her room, although even if she did have one, she wouldn’t have time to make it back to the accommodation module before she was needed on the job.

  Dammit, just when the crap cook had been run off the rig too. Rob, the company man in charge, had finally lost his cool after a particularly diabolical chicken fried steak and had threatened to quit if a decent cook wasn’t sent posthaste. Much to everyone’s delight, the company had sent a pastry chef who, while not better than the old chef in the meal department, made up for it with croissants and pastries that melted in the mouth.

  Come to think of it, maybe Jo’s fantasy of throwing Curly and Bud off the helideck into the jaws of a shark were a little harsh. They were doing her a service in stopping her from eating the generous helping of apple pie in front of her. Lord bless a kitchen accommodating shift workers eating dinner when others were eating breakfast.

  All the same, she made a point of swiveling around and giving the two of them the evil eye. Not that they noticed. They were too busy talking about Jamal, the suicidal ROV operator, and his marriage problems. God, the men Jo worked with were old women. Always gossiping, always having a bloody melodrama.

  She liked Jamal. Yesterday, she’d spent a pleasant hour or two keeping him company in the ROV shack, watching fish float by the cameras of his tiny submersible submarine. They’d also had a bit of fun checking on Thermidor, the rig’s cranky and territorial adopted lobster who’d claimed the subsea wellhead.

  She debated checking in on Jamal and Thermidor again before work but changed her mind—it sounded like he had enough on his plate right now and she was far from good company.