Fly In Fly Out

by Evie Snow

  She looked at him with huge, tearful brown eyes. “I just answered your house phone, and this guy started screaming that he was going to kill me. He was psycho, Stephen. His voice was terrifying. He was saying he was going to find me and rip me apart and do a whole lot of other stuff. I hung up, but he tried to call back twice.”

  “What the hell? Did he say who he was? What it was about?” Stephen demanded, shocked and furious that someone had scared his sister this badly. “You alright now?”

  “Yeah.” Rachael drew a shaky breath and reached out to pat Boomba. “It was just . . . well, scary, and I know the call wasn’t meant for me. It was meant for Jo, which makes it even scarier.” She bit her lip and looked Stephen straight in the eye. “You sure that shooting was an accident? Because this guy sounded nuts enough to kill someone.”

  Stephen stared at her, processing her words. “Give me the phone, Rach.”

  “Here. What are you doing?”

  “Trying to look up the call history,” Stephen replied. “What time did he first call?”

  “Around six I think.”

  Same time as the prank caller, but he’d never spoken until a female voice answered. Fuck. The call was logged, but the number was blank, like the guy had called from a payphone or an unlisted number, maybe even Skype. If it was the latter, there’d probably be no luck tracing it even if the cops had time to bother. The local police force was notoriously overworked.

  “Think we should call the cops?”

  “Yes. Not that they’ll do a bloody thing,” Stephen growled, frustrated. “We’ll call them in a minute. Are you up to repeating what this bastard said?”

  “Yeah. I think so.” Rachael rubbed her arms with her hands. “Jo had problems like this before?”

  Stephen remembered her weird questions about the prank phone calls in the car down to George Creek and the phone call that had shaken her up so much before that. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I know who will, though.”

  Rage crystallized into an iceberg in his chest. These past few weeks, waiting for Jo to voluntarily talk about her past had been hard, but this was another thing entirely. He dialed Scott’s phone. Sorry I can’t come to the phone right now . . .

  “Fuck,” Stephen snarled.

  “How about Jo’s sister?” Rachael suggested.

  Stephen tried Amy’s number but it went to her answering service. He left a message for Amy to call him back and threw the phone onto the couch, then spent a few minutes calming himself down before following his sister into the kitchen, where she’d resumed making dinner.

  “Sorry, Rach. I know you’re pretty shaken up still. Didn’t mean to get so angry.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and rubbed the tense muscles on her back.

  His sister turned to him, her face lined with worry. “Talk to Jo, Stephen. Get her to tell you what’s going on. This is some really scary stuff.”

  “Yeah,” Stephen said. He walked back out to the living room and looked around for his laptop. He wanted answers, and Jo was going to bloody well provide them.

  Chapter 12

  Her leg aching and her head pounding, Jo crawled out of the bottom bunk and glared up at Grumpy, who’d just made it to bed after the night shift. She glanced down at her watch. Early. The sneaky bastard had obviously made himself scarce before his shift ended. As usual, he was snoring louder than a jackhammer. Even her tried-and-true method of shoving earplugs in her ears and then piling her pillow on top of her head hadn’t helped the last few days. Right now, no paycheck was worth this kind of crap, dammit. Grumpy didn’t know it, but the only thing standing in the way of her smothering him with his own pillow was that he’d woken her up early enough to call Stephen.

  Five minutes later, surveying the remains of the one common-use telephone on the rig, Jo decided she should have smothered Grumpy. At least then she’d be feeling slightly better now.

  “What happened?” she asked no one in particular while staring at the broken receiver next to her boot and then at the mangled keypad hanging half off the wall.

  “Starky’s wife’s divorcing him,” Reg, the tool pusher, drawled from behind her.

  “And?” Jo demanded, spinning around to glare at him.

  “And he didn’t like it.” He shrugged. “Got pissed and took it out on the phone.”

  “Where is he?” Jo growled.

  “No use. You’ll have to get in line if you want a piece of him.” When she rounded on him, Reg held up his hands and backed up. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “Can’t. I don’t have a fucking gun,” Jo snarled.

  “Oh shit, bro. Krakatoa’s workin' up a head of steam,” a burly Maori roughneck stage-whispered to his buddy, and she leveled them with a glare that said she’d happily rip off their heads if they said any more. The two of them backed off in a hurry.

  Fifteen minutes later, all she had was a sore throat from holding back a scream and the information that the phone would be fixed within the next few days. Maybe.

  “Why don’t you just send an email?” Hedgehog asked when she stormed into the sack room ready for work or murder, whichever came first.

  For once, she decided he wasn’t such a pain after all.

  That was until she read Stephen’s email. Skimming through the details, it wasn’t hard to see he was both worried and supremely pissed off over the abusive call Rachael had picked up.

  Jo swore a blue streak. Just when she thought her day couldn’t get any worse, it did.

  What to do?

  She held her head in her hands, debating for a while, then made a decision. She’d have to go with the same story she’d told him after Ken had verbally abused her during the first call. Feeling lower than a slug, she wrote Stephen back, lying through her teeth about the caller, telling him there was no way it could have any relation to the shooting on his farm because her fictitious colleague lived overseas. She then shared the news about the broken phone. If luck was on her side, Stephen would still be talking to her by the time the phone was fixed, if it got fixed.

  * * *

  Stephen read through Jo’s email a second time as relief warred with disappointment. The relief came from hearing that the abusive asshole crank caller was an old work colleague of Jo’s living in England who couldn’t hurt her because he was already under investigation for other similar offenses and likely to do time. The disappointment came from the news that followed it.

  Unreliable Internet so I still can’t Skype. Rig phone broken. Could be weeks until things get fixed. Will try to call as soon as I can . . .

  No phone for weeks? Was there only one phone on the entire rig? And poor Internet? How did they get anything done? Where the hell was she? That thought stopped him cold.

  Where was she?

  West Africa, yeah, but where the hell was Mauritania? Oil was found in some pretty dangerous parts of the world, wasn’t it? This was embarrassing—worse than that, it was pretty unforgivable. He had no idea where his new girlfriend worked for months at a time, and she always brushed him off when he asked about how dangerous things were.

  Jo had always seemed both strangely surprised and pleased to share funny stories from her life in the oil industry whenever he’d brought it up, but he realized now that he hadn’t asked the right questions. Not the important stuff like, “Just how safe are you?” and “What are your chances of being attacked by terrorists?” Jesus. He ran the palms of his hands over his eyes. Why hadn’t he pushed the issue?

  Was Jo in danger? Is that why they paid her so much? A quick search of Mauritania on Google showed that it was prone to military coups. What if Jo got caught up in one of those? The thought left him feeling ill.

  He started to type an email back to her but didn’t send it. He was too worked up right now. Instead, he picked up his phone. He needed more information and knew where to get it.

  * * *

  A few hours later, Stephen was reclining in a plush brown leather chair and letting his eyes wander around the interior o
f Babyface, Amy’s barbershop. He’d always liked it here. The shop had only two chairs set on black-and-white checkered tiles, complemented by dark wood furniture and olive-green walls that sported both a naked Marilyn Monroe pinup shot and a large black-and-white poster of Rock Hudson circa the 1950s. All in all, the effect was comfortable, masculine, and accepting for any kind of man who walked through the door, straight or gay.

  Stephen was the only guy in this time of the morning, which was a relief. When he’d arrived, he’d been breathing fire and brimstone, ready to demand answers, but it was impossible to stay that way around Jo’s sister. It would be like getting angry at a cupcake.

  “You heard from Jo?” Amy chirped, reading his mind when she returned from the beauty salon next door with a steaming jug of water and the various accoutrements for a cut-throat shave and a haircut.

  “Yeah. Yesterday on the phone, and she emailed this morning.” Stephen frowned again at the memory of the email.

  “And?” Amy raised a brow at him in the mirror. “Out with it, mister. You’re on a mission. Don’t deny it. Why else would you want to come in for an emergency appointment when you were here only two weeks ago?”

  He scowled at himself in the mirror. “Yeah, I am. The phone on the rig’s broken, and Jo doesn’t know when she can call again.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yeah. It sucks. Does it happen a lot?”

  “All the time. I’ll have to ask her who broke it this time and why. There’s always a good story.” Amy thoughtfully inspected the back of his head before starting to snip away with the scissors.

  “This happens a lot?” Stephen twisted around.

  “Stay still, precious, or we’ll be calling an ambulance.” Amy put a palm on either side of his jaw and pointed his face forward. She sighed. “As I said, it happens all the time. There’s always email.”

  Stephen scowled. “Yeah, but it—”

  “It’s just how it is. Take it or leave it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She sighed again and resumed combing and trimming his hair. “It means that this is Jo’s life, m’love. It’s hard on her, and it’ll probably be tough on you too if you want to put in the effort to make it work.” She paused and looked at him with pursed cherry-red lips in the mirror. “Well, that’s if you do?”

  “Yeah,” Stephen said, mildly offended. “It’s not that. Although I’m pretty disappointed I can’t talk to her, it’s more the country she’s working in that’s worrying me. Is she even safe there?”

  Amy bit her lip thoughtfully. “Yeah. I think so. I won’t say I don’t worry, but it’s Jo’s life. She knows what she’s doing. Why don’t you ask her about this?”

  “I would, but—”

  “Email, toots.” Amy leveled him with a stern expression that completely belied her blonde-bombshell appearance. “Stuff like this is going to happen all the time. It sucks, and I think Jo’s looking for a new job closer to home or even quitting, but for now, you’ve gotta deal with it.”

  Stephen’s eyes widened—this was the first time he’d heard of this. “Really? She is?”

  “Yeah. Well. She’s been talking about it, but don’t say anything, okay? The last guy she was serious about started to push her to quit, and things did not go too well.”

  “Yeah, alright.” Stephen grudgingly acquiesced.

  “That’s not all that’s bugging you, is it?” Amy asked, tilting his head to one side and beginning to trim around his ear.

  “No.” His entire body tensed at the memory of coming home to find Rachael upset after being verbally abused by some fucking psycho who had it in for Jo. “I wanted to talk to you about a phone call Rachael picked up the other night at Jo’s place and one Jo got months ago.”

  “What phone calls?” Amy asked sharply, eyes meeting his in the mirror.

  Stephen went on to explain, the whole time closely monitoring Amy’s facial expression. For a normally bubbly, expressive woman, she’d be a bloody good poker player.

  “So do you know what might be going on?” he finished.

  Only the sound of her scissors at work and the women babbling in the beauty salon next door filled the air.

  “Amy?”

  “What did Jo say?” she asked eventually in a slow and careful voice.

  Stephen shared Jo’s emailed explanation, and Amy nodded, her expression carefully blank. “Well, that’s good to hear, right?” she said. “I’m sorry about Rachael, but at least this person isn’t going to be able to hurt anyone.”

  “Yeah.” Stephen grunted. “But I don’t know. Rachael was worried the shooting and the calls are related, and even with the news the guy’s in another country, I’m still not happy about this.” He swore. “It really sucks. I don’t even know if I should be worried, or if I shouldn’t, or what the hell is going on. And I’ve got to say I’m getting pretty pissed off with being the last person in the know.”

  Amy met his eyes in the mirror, her expression sympathetic as she put her scissors down and began to massage his shoulders. “Stephen, a lot of stuff has happened these last few weeks, and it was all a bit weird, but you’re going to have to just look at it all as coincidence. Jo’s probably going psycho she can’t call you to explain everything, and she’d kill me if I let you get worked up about this while she’s away.” She half smiled at Stephen’s doubtful expression. “She’s been happier in the last few weeks than I’ve seen her in years.”

  “Serious?” he asked eventually.

  “Totally. I tell you what. Instead of brooding and being Mister Grumpy, which will only stress you both out more, why don’t you relax? Take a chill pill.” She dug her thumbs into a few key pressure points on his back, sending waves of relaxation washing down his spine to punctuate her words.

  “I’ll try.”

  “That’s more like it,” Amy said with a satisfied smile. “Now, let me turn you around and I’ll just finish up the front.”

  Stephen tried take Amy’s advice, but other questions he had about Jo and Amy’s past kept bobbing to the surface. He waited until she was distracted and then threw them out there all at once, keeping his tone deliberately casual.

  “So. What happened when you two left George Creek when you were kids? You guys stayed with your aunt to finish school, right? Is what happened back then the reason Jo and your dad don’t get on? She didn’t even want to see him after we brought her home from the hospital after the shooting. Want to tell me what the deal is?”

  Stepping back from his chair, Amy put a hand on her hip and scowled at him.

  “That”—Amy wagged a finger at him and gave him a stern look—“is something else you’re going to have to ask Jo about. Now sit back, relax, and close your mouth, or you’ll be eating shaving foam.”

  Stephen raised an eyebrow at that but conceded, quashing his frustration. It was never wise to argue with a woman who held a razor at your throat. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t get answers. He’d just have to get them directly from Jo.

  * * *

  “Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the cabin and crew, we apologize for any discomfort experienced on takeoff . . .” The pilot’s voice crackled through the dingy cabin of the old plane, and Jo grimaced as she inspected the tray of food in front of her. Obviously the salmonella special. She tried nibbling on a soggy chicken sandwich and threw it down in disgust. Enough was enough. The minute she got home, she was calling her boss and giving notice.

  She’d actually made the decision when she’d learned that the public-use phone wasn’t going to get fixed anytime during her shift and then encountered a dinner so vile it made her feel ill, complete with a rubbery raspberry pudding so inedible it had bounced off her plate. The good new chef had quit, and they were back to the old awful one again. She shuddered. This rig was the final straw. The living conditions, the isolation, and above all, the stress were too much. Enough was enough.

  She’d barely slept for two months, worrying over what to do about her dad, her
mum and more importantly, Stephen. Hell, she didn’t even know if she and Stephen were still an item. Neither of them was good at emailing each other, so they’d been reduced to a few lines sent back and forth every few days. The last week she’d been so on edge with dread that he had given up on the whole idea of being with her she’d been getting stomach pains. She hoped to hell it wasn’t an ulcer. That’s all she needed.

  Thirty hours later, tired and barely awake after a quick cleanup in an airport bathroom, she finally made it through Perth immigration sometime around midnight.

  He was actually there.

  Waiting for her. Looking happy to see her. Walking toward her.

  Jo felt her knees go weak.

  She sniffed loudly, trying to stop her eyes from tearing as they voraciously ate him up. His mouth was curved into a wide smile that crinkled the corners of his clear blue eyes, and his hair was tousled like he’d been running his fingers through it. God, he was sexy.

  She met him halfway.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself,” Jo replied with a relieved smile, putting her hands on either side of his face and pulling him towards her for a deep and thoroughly lusty kiss. “I missed you,” she whispered, choked up.

  “I like your way of showing it.” He chuckled before looking down at the bag she’d dropped at her feet. “Want a hand with that?”

  “That’d be good.” Jo ran her fingers down his arm, enjoying the feel of warm skin over toned muscle.

  Stephen grabbed her hand. “We should get going.”

  She followed as he pulled her past the usual scenes of friends and families reuniting. The airport doors opened, and a familiar dry heat enveloped them. Jo pulled Stephen to a halt just outside the terminal. She breathed deeply and took it all in: the smell of warm asphalt, gum trees, and stale cigarette smoke from taxi drivers having a quick puff before they had to get back on the job.

  “Smells like home?”

  Jo turned on Stephen in wide-eyed surprise.