Fly In Fly Out

by Evie Snow

  Due to a perennial room shortage, she was stuck sharing with Grumpy, a nightmarishly obese Texan driller, and even the most industrial of earplugs couldn’t block out his snore. The man had obviously been practicing his ear-plug-puncturing technique for years. He could take a flying leap off the helideck too. Now that was a pleasant thought. So pleasant that Jo ended up walking out of the mess hall to the mandatory morning safety meeting with a small, very malicious smile on her face.

  As usual, the meeting involved some pencil neck telling her to hold handrails when she walked up and down stairs. Which was all good and fine, but she heard it every morning. She stood at the back of the meeting room, trying to stay awake, and then filed out to the sack room, her daily domain, to meet up with Sanjeev, otherwise known as Hedgehog, for the morning handover meeting.

  Familiar slivers of dread wriggled up her spine at the sight of his gangly frame in bright-red overalls. The man was going to be a great engineer.

  One day.

  If she didn’t kill him first. Or if he didn’t do something stupid and get himself killed. Right now, he was one of the greenest guys on the rig, and he had the uniform to prove it. He’d gained his nickname from the Styrofoam coffee cups dipped in grease the roughnecks delighted in sticking to his hard hat when he wasn’t looking. This morning, after a twelve-hour shift, he’d accumulated three of them, all sticking out at odd angles. Jo shook her head, feeling her mouth twitch at the corners. Some of her suppressed smile came from relief that being the butt of stuff like that was far behind her, but if she were brutally honest, there was a bit of vindictive pleasure thrown in there as well.

  Hedgehog had been the reason she’d missed out on her last trip home. Rick, her boss, had taken great delight in refusing her numerous requests to get the kid transferred, no doubt seeing him as fitting revenge for her lack of appreciation for his glorified premature ejaculation years before. And revenge he had dealt her.

  After only seven months on the job, Hedgehog had managed to create more bad luck than a sack full of black cats applied directly to the back of the head, under a ladder, standing on a pile of spilled salt. There was an ongoing scrabble between the service company she worked for and the operating company that owned the oil field over who was going to pay for the three exorbitantly expensive batches of bad drilling mud he’d made during his last shift on the rig.

  Drilling mud was the rather mundane name given to the specialized drilling lubricant used when drilling an oil well. Jo, being the senior engineer on the job, was responsible for Hedgehog’s mistakes when mixing new batches. She frequently needed an umbrella because of all the shit the kid regularly managed to get rained down on her head. Hedgehog was a big reason she’d gone back home the last time wanting to quit her job. That and her lack of a social life, love life and, last but not least, sex life. Oh, and her growing intolerance for airports and flying long distances. And missing her sister, Scott, and her cat.

  Sometimes, Jo wondered if the real reason she hadn’t quit yet was sheer stubborn pride. She’d made it in this world. Over the years, she’d taken all the crap her idiotic Stone Age colleagues had thrown at her and had forced them to accept her. She’d even made friends with a bunch of them, but lately, any feelings of triumph had diminished more and more, to the point where the smallest things were driving her insane.

  Right now, one of those things was the green kid standing in front of her wearing a sheepish grimace and too-new overalls.

  “So what’s been happening?” she asked, leaning back against a wall that held a huge whiteboard listing the supply quantities and already mixed mud on hand. Next to it was a smaller corkboard with random photos of Jo’s redneck colleagues showcasing the various guns they owned and animals they’d killed this hunting season. She couldn’t help but notice her roommate, Grumpy, was in the lead for this year’s hunting competition, having shot a bear. With a crossbow.

  Hedgehog still hadn’t answered her question. Instead he was inspecting his boots for the secrets of the universe.

  “What’s up?” she prompted again.

  He wobbled his head. “Nothing.”

  That meant lots.

  “What went on last night?” she asked. There was a trick to this. Ask the same question a few different ways, and eventually, the answer would be forthcoming.

  “Oh. Well, they started drilling through clay and needed another batch of mud.”

  Hedgehog was prevaricating. Something was definitely wrong.

  “Okay, we knew that. So did you mix it up?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Was it the right sort?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “For what they needed?”

  “Ah . . .”

  Jo groaned. “Tell me you didn’t muck up another batch? Please?”

  There was silence. And then the kid started gushing out the whole story, excuses and all.

  Jo resisted the urge to scream, calmly listening to the sorry tale and preparing herself for a whole bunch of sarcasm from the drill floor for the next twelve hours. Just great.

  By the time her shift was over, she was ready to take a dive off the rig herself. Surely that would be better than another four weeks like the day she’d just had.

  Lugging herself to the mess hall for another welcome slice of pie, she realized she had a choice: She could either kill one of her colleagues or gain back her sanity through nonviolent, albeit less satisfactory, means.

  In the end, she decided to call home. Due to limited internet on this rig and no cellphone service, this involved standing near the small phone box in the mess hall, waiting for her turn, and glaring at any man who approached. She heard one of the roughnecks snigger, “Krakatoa looks like she’s going to blow,” and felt like saying, Too bloody right.

  Her slow-burning but eventually explosive temper had earned her the nickname “The Volcano” in her early days, but after she’d injured her leg and foot on the South China Sea, some sarcastic bastard had changed the nickname to “Krakatoa,” and it had stuck. She made a point of losing her temper every now and then to keep it up. It didn’t hurt to have the boys a bit scared of her. Gave her a much-needed advantage.

  Not that it had worked today. Hedgehog had scarpered off to bed, leaving her to take the rap. The memory caused her frown to deepen, and two men walking past made a wide detour just so they wouldn’t put themselves within firing range.

  Matt the Kiwi was finishing up a call to his boss onshore. Rumor said he’d had a disagreement with the company man over the quality of his breakfast this morning. Apparently, he’d punctuated his point by tipping his breakfast plate over the big boss’s head before storming off to his shift. He’d be run off the rig but that wasn’t a big deal. He’d easily find work elsewhere.

  Last Jo had heard, the boys were already re-naming him “Mean Beans.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief when he finished up his call.

  “It’s all yours.” He gave her a nod as he walked out of the booth.

  “Everything sorted?” Jo asked.

  “Yeah. I’m on tonight’s chopper.” He clapped his hands together. “No more shit food for me! My missus is cooking me a lamb roast when I get home.”

  “Lucky bastard.” Jo clapped him on the shoulder and watched him saunter away while shaking her head.

  Thankfully, no one else was waiting for the phone, so she’d have it to herself for a while. She glanced at a clock on the wall and did a bit of time zone calculating. It would be midnight back in Australia. Scott would still be up. He’d always been a night owl as opposed to Amy, who tended to pass out around ten and needed an alarm clock that could double as a fire alarm.

  Scott answered on the second ring.

  “H’lo,” he murmured huskily.

  “Were you asleep?” Jo asked, worried.

  “No, no.” His voice was muffled, and there was the sound of movement. “I was, ah, busy,” he whispered.

  She chuckled softly. “Busy as in solo or busy as in
company?”

  “Company,” he replied just as a female voice called out something in the background.

  “Oh. Sorry. Want me to call back later?”

  She could practically see him running a hand over his face the way he did when he felt awkward. “Ahh, yeah. Miss you though. Everything alright?”

  “Yeah.” It was a lie, but Jo didn’t think now was the time to offload.

  “Cool . . . Cool . . . Well, I gotta go. Oh, Stephen’s been trying to get a hold of you. Can you call him?”

  Jo straightened from her slouch against the wall. “Oh yeah? Anything urgent?”

  “Not sure. Just said he wanted to talk to you. It’s probably something minor about the house. Don’t worry.”

  “Okay,” Jo said, feeling more awake than she had for days.

  “Well . . . ahh.”

  “Piss off.” She chuckled at the discomfort in Scott’s voice.

  His relief was palpable. “Thanks.”

  She hung up, a smile still on her face and a whole lot of questions buzzing through her mind. Stephen wanted to talk to her. She cursed the fact she’d have to wait until a respectable hour to call him and find out why.

  The question was still playing on her mind later while she stared at the top bunk, trying to block out the sound of Grumpy returning to the room from his shift. She hoped it wasn’t anything serious. Especially nothing to do with Boomba. She shook her head. No, if it had been a problem with her cat, he would have told Amy or Scott. Same went for anything else serious. She’d paid all of her bills online . . .

  With a quiet groan, she sat up and peered at the small alarm clock sitting by her pillow. It would be nine in the morning in Australia. Maybe she’d be able to catch Stephen at home, although there was a good chance he’d be either working already or with his girlfriend—or his friend with benefits, whatever that meant.

  In Jo’s experience, there was no such thing as a friend you slept with, because sex confused things. Not that she’d had any in quite some time. Well, other than a couple of steamy dreams about her housemate that had left her so edgy the men she worked with were joking that she should be put on the agenda for the morning safety meeting.

  The phone was blessedly free when she arrived. The call had almost rung out when a curt female voice answered. “Hello, Stephen Hardy’s residence.”

  Jo held the receiver away from her ear to stare at it blearily before bringing it back. “Uh, hello. Is Stephen there?”

  “He’s indisposed at the moment. May I ask who is calling?” the woman answered.

  “Tell him it’s Jo. He wanted me to call,” Jo replied, frowning.

  There was a brief muffled conversation at the other end before the phone changed hands.

  “Hi, Jo?” Stephen’s voice was deep and infuriatingly sexy. “It’s great to hear from you.”

  “Hi. Who’s your secretary?”

  “Ah, that’s Bridgett. We were just about to head out. You in town?”

  “No. I’m in the middle of nowhere on the Atlantic Ocean on a rusty, floating bomb,” Jo replied, impatient. “You told Scott you needed to talk to me, so I’m calling you. Can you spare a couple of minutes or not?”

  There was silence for a couple of seconds and a muffled curse. “Honestly? I can’t. I’m really sorry about this. Can I call you back?”

  Incredulous, Jo held the receiver away from her face and looked at it again.

  “Stephen, I’m on a rig offshore of Mauritania. I got up three hours early to call you on the one available phone. I’ve not slept, and I’m about to start a twelve-hour shift. What’s going on?” she demanded, allowing her lack of sleep and growing irritation to edge into her voice.

  “You know, it’s better I send you an email and explain everything. What’s your email address?”

  Stephen’s calm tone just ratcheted Jo’s frustration levels higher.

  “I’d rather talk about it now,” Jo snapped.

  “Well, that’s not going to work. Sorry ’bout this. Just give me your address, and I’ll explain everything.”

  Jo sighed loudly. “Alright.” Then she rattled off her email address and hung up.

  Returning to bed wasn’t an option anymore, so she ventured forth to the sack room to get an idea of whether the Hedgehog had set her up for another twelve hours of hell.

  * * *

  Stephen stood looking down at the phone, calling himself three kinds of idiot. He should have known better than to say anything to Scott. He believed in keeping things private and the conversation he wanted to have with Jo definitely came under that category. There was no way he was going to talk about stuff with Bridgett listening in.

  “Are you ready?” Bridgett asked, briskly buttoning a black fitted jacket over her crisp white shirt. She’d stopped by early this morning with breakfast from a local delicatessen and they’d spent the past hour discussing the future of cabernet sauvignon in domestic markets before Stephen was to accompany her to one of her restaurants to give his opinion on their wine cellar.

  He knew the whole trip was probably just a means for Bridgett to show off her business acumen, so he didn’t feel that bad in delaying things just a couple of minutes.

  “I’ll be right with you. I just have to write an email,” Stephen replied, striding over to his laptop and starting it up. He had a lot to say and it’d take far too long to tap it out on his phone.

  “You can do that later,” Bridgett said impatiently. “Where are my heels?”

  “By the couch and later’s not an option,” he said, sitting down and already beginning to type.

  The original plan he’d hammered out with Jo and Scott had been for him to stay and house-sit for only a couple of months, but he’d decided he wanted to stay longer, even if that meant paying Jo full rent. He didn’t want to leave yet, not while he still had this chance to pay Jo back the debt he owed her. And yeah, he wanted to get to know her better . . . if he were honest, he wanted her, but he wasn’t going to presume that was going to happen. Especially with his life being as complicated as it was.

  “I don’t see why you can’t do this on your phone when we get there. We’re running late.” Bridgett walked up behind him while liberally covering herself with perfume. He wrinkled his nose. When they’d first hooked up, he’d enjoyed smelling it on all the places she spritzed it in the mornings, but all he wanted right now was a breath of fresh air.

  “Yeah, but we’re not actually meeting anyone. It’s just the two of us, so five minutes won’t make a difference. Plus, I want to be able to concentrate on whatever you want to show me without worrying about this.” He ignored the look she gave him, which was reminiscent of an old school librarian viewing a returned book with a bent cover. He gave her his best professional smile. “I don’t mean to be rude, but this is important, alright? We’re taking separate cars anyway, so why don’t you head off and I’ll follow?”

  A long moment of unspoken communication passed between them before she nodded. “I’ll meet you there. I have to call Damian anyway.”

  Stephen knew it would take ages once Bridgett got on the phone with her ex-husband and business partner. “Not a problem.”

  It took him another ten minutes to get the email to Jo right, but it was worth it.

  * * *

  “So, man, I’ve often wondered . . . what exactly does a pussy whip look like? I thought you’d know, since you’re an expert at taking the pain and all,” Mike mused, gazing idly at his feet propped up on Jo’s coffee table. He had a cold beer in his hand and was resting it comfortably on his stomach.

  Stephen, who was on to his second beer of the evening and lay sprawled out on the other couch, turned away from the TV to level a glare at his smart-ass brother, who’d been spoiling for a fight ever since he’d fielded a call from someone in the UK. Stephen hadn’t heard much of it, but Mike’s mood had taken a dive to subzero temperatures.

  He knew better than to rise to the bait, but he couldn’t let this one slide. “Come again?�
�

  “We-e-ell.” Mike ran a hand over his jaw. “You know, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but . . .” He looked around theatrically, eyes open wide. “You’re a bit of a fuck-up.”

  “Says the fuck-up who hasn’t had a proper job in how long?” Stephen scoffed.

  “I make enough money.” Mike scowled at the TV.

  “Doing what?”

  “This and that. Worked in a bar for a while last year. That wasn’t too bad. It’s enough to live happily in London.”

  “And when are you going back to England again?” Stephen asked, knowing full well when his brother’s flight was. In fact, he knew a hell of a lot more about his brother than Mike thought he did. He’d been waiting years for Mike to spill the beans, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen today.

  “Soon. Anyway, this isn’t about me. It’s about you and all of your screwed-up female relationships.” Mike began counting on his fingers. “Lauren, Geriatric Barbie, and it’s not like Jo was that happy with you a couple of weeks back.”

  Stephen sat up, feeling his placid mood deteriorating. “You good now? Or would you like me to turn over so you can take a chunk out of my back as well as my front? While you’re at it, you can lay off Bridgett. You go out with older women all the time, and need I remind you that you were the one who screwed things up with Jo for me.”

  Mike obviously knew well enough to back off at the change in Stephen’s tone, so he reached for the remote and began to flick through the channels. “So have you sorted your living situation, or are you planning on sponging off Jo indefinitely?” Mike asked as he settled on a cricket game. India was playing Australia. Australia was winning, so it was worth watching.

  Stephen leaned forward, his nostrils probably breathing fire. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  Unfazed, Mike shrugged. “I like Jo. She’s a good chick. She’s been pretty nice about you staying here, but I wonder how she’d feel if she knew you were just staying here until Lauren lets you crawl back to her? Let’s face it, if Lauren gave you a call right now, you’d be out of here in a minute. This fuzzball sitting next to me, Jo, and Geriatric Barbie would mean nothing.”