by Dee Palmer
“Yes, yes, you want to make love. I get it. I’m just saying, if you hold out on me too many times like you did last night, it might just be me needing to slip you the roofie.”
He draws his bottom lip through his teeth, and I swear I can feel the ghost of his stubble on my skin. “I want to make myself perfectly clear: This month isn’t about sex.”
“Everything is about sex.” It’s not so much an opinion as a fact.
“Not anymore.” He sits back and takes my hand in his, threading fingers and sweeping his thumb over my wrist. A tender touch that is both sweet and intimate and takes me completely out of my comfort zone. What the hell am I doing?
SHE’S CALMED ENOUGH TO SPEAK, at least. I’m taking that as a good thing. I knew she didn’t like flying. The information Thomas gleaned from her social media accounts said as much; however, I had no idea she was actually terrified. I’m astonished she ever leaves the UK.
“What’s the internet like at your place?” She has chattered nonstop for about an hour, and I’ve enjoyed her enlightened ramblings, from her views on how she likes her eggs in the morning—she likes them in a cake—or that the person who wrote “Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend” had never experienced the vibrating cock ring. I’ve committed that particular tip to memory. She’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known, and although I believe a good many of her conversational topics are, by design, an attempt to shock, this is the first question she’s poised that I am clearly expected to answer.
“It’s good.” She tips her head back and looks surprised.
“Oh, great. You know, for a moment there, I thought you were going to say there wasn’t any.” She sniffs, amused at her own ridiculousness.
“There isn’t.” She pulls her hand from mine, and I reach and take it back. I’ve liked that we’ve sat hand-in-hand the entire way. Initially intended to comfort, her grip was filled with the fierceness of her terror as we took off. However, when she kept it there, I knew it was more than to ease the panic from each jolt and bump of the plane with a reassuring squeeze.
“Um, you’ve just said it’s good.”
“Good, as in there is none, no interruptions.”
“What about work?” She counters, heat crawling up her neck with a fresh wave of anxiety.
“It’s our holiday, Hope. There isn’t going to be any work.” My lightly mocking tone and simple explanation are like a red rag, and I can just see her sharpening her horns. Her eyes widen, and she sucks in a deep, steady breath before she charges.
“What if there’s an emergency?”
“What emergency?” I’m not rising to her agitated baiting, and I’m amused that that seems to be making this situation more volatile. At least it’s taking her mind off of flying or falling in love.
“Oh, I don’t know. I might be allergic to sun, sand, and coconuts. I might go into anaphylactic shock or something.” She fires off her short list, nostrils flaring with panic.
As tirades go, it’s already lost its steam when I flatly respond, “Are you allergic to anything?”
“Yes, living in the Dark Ages. I’m allergic to living in the Dark Ages or any time where there is no internet.” She pitches forward, her cute nose right in my face. It takes all my strength not to crush her moaning mouth silent, but as adorable as I find her, she is still likely to rip my head off if she thinks I’m not taking her seriously. I always take her seriously.
“We have power and water, a roof and a bed. It’s hardly the Dark Ages.” Our faces are so close, I can feel the soft waft of her breath on my lips. I lick mine and have to close my eyes when she does the same. Not on her lips, she leans closer and chases my tongue with her own, dancing lightly along the seam, testing to see if I will open for her. I’m just about to cave when she pulls back and purrs.
“A bed?”
“Yes.” I clear my throat and fail to hide the need to adjust myself. She grins when I shift in my seat, and her emerald eyes dance with mischief. She’s playing a familiar game, only I’ve changed the rules, and she has no idea she’s not only met her match, she’s met her fucking soul mate.
“So we’ll be sleeping together?” Her fingers trace a wiggly pattern on my thigh from my knee to my groin. I capture her hand in its wayward path before it zones in on my erection.
“We will.”
“Gonna have to make our own porn then? What with no internet.” She muses in all seriousness.
“And there was me thinking you wanted the wifi for work.”
“Oh, I’m getting used to the idea of a whole month of ‘playtime’.” The sinful suggestiveness is as blatant as the outline of my cock straining in my jeans.
“That was a quick U-turn.”
“What can I say? You mentioned a bed. I’m easily distracted, especially when I get to share it with you.” What began as a sassy comeback seemed to soften in her mind, and it affected the tail end of her delivery and her, judging by the startled look on her face.
“That sounded almost sweet.” My observation has her rallying her defences.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself there, buddy. I was going to finish the sentence with ‘then I can ride you like a Kentucky winner all night.’”
“I think you’ll find that sentence ended exactly where you intended. It’s okay to express your feelings, Hope. That’s how this works. That’s how we get to know each other.”
“Well, then, tell me something you’ve never told anyone else?” She bites, and it’s my turn to reel.
“What?”
“You started this. Full disclosure works both ways, Jørgen, and you know a shit tonne more about me than I do about you. So how about you start spilling, because I’m not shallow enough to fall for a man of no substance. Even if he does look like Chris Hemsworth on a very, very good day.”
“My sister tried to kill herself, and I found her. I nursed her better, and we never told our parents,” I say as matter-of-factly as I can. I didn’t mean it to sound so cold and shocking, but I didn’t know how it was going to come out, since I’ve never spoken about it.
“Oh, god, Jørgen. I’m…I’m so sorry. Fuck, now I feel a complete shit.” She grasps my hands in hers. She’s trembling, or is that me? I’m not sure, but I’m drawing comfort from the contact enough to carry on. She looks a little like I felt back then, shocked, sick, and out of my depth. Shaking my head, I try to reassure her she’s done nothing wrong.
“Don’t. You’re right. You need to know everything about me, about my life, because I want to share it with you, but that doesn’t mean you’ll want to, not without knowing all there is. I mean, I know you will want that, but I have to let you figure that out for yourself.”
“That’s big of you.” Her sassiness is sweet, yet her smile doesn’t reach the concern in her eyes. Nevertheless, the light retort is appreciated. “What happened?”
“She fell in love.”
“See, and for some reason you still think—”
“He lied to her, Hope.” I interrupt, because this is not the comparison to help her case against love. This wasn’t love; this was deliberate cruelty. “He wasn’t who he said he was, and he betrayed her. She was only fifteen.”
“I’m sorry.” I signal for the attendant to bring us some more drinks. I hand Hope some champagne, and I take three fingers of malt whiskey before I continue.
“They never actually met. It all happened online. He was very clever with his words, manipulating her young mind and convincing her they were soul mates. She trusted him. She loved him completely, and for her, it was very real. It was her first love. It’s taken years to try and rebuild what that bastard destroyed.”
“But if they never met?”
“Words are very powerful when you are young, foolish, isolated, and lonely. She was the perfect target for a fishing-cat.”
“A what?” She looks confused, and my mind takes a moment to work out what I’ve said. I know my English is perfect but colloquiums and slang words sometime evade me.
&nbs
p; “He wasn’t who he said was; that’s the phrase, yes?”
“Near enough, catfish. She was cat-fished. And, trust me, it’s not just the young or foolish who get caught. I am sorry, Jørgen. Why was she lonely, though? She had you, didn’t she?”
“She’s ten years younger than me. The gap makes her almost an only child in development terms. I moved to London when I was twenty and she was only ten. I saw her at Christmas and other family occasions when I went home. Storm spent most of her holidays at our family home on the lake with my mother and father, and in term time, she attended a very small, prestigious boarding school in Denmark. She had a small circle of friends, but she never told anyone. She knows how important privacy is to our family, and she knew my father wouldn’t approve. Besides the ‘boy’ wanted to keep it their secret.”
“Standard predator move.”
“Exactly. Anyway, she asked if she could stay with me for the summer holidays when she was fifteen. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with a fifteen-year-old when I worked all the time. The timing wasn’t great. Madeline and I were planning our wedding, the social event of the year in the Danish calendar. The media spotlight of the world’s press was on our family, however, Storm was insistent. Only after did I find out it was because she had planned to meet this boy, spend the summer with him. I was her cover, but he never showed up. He blocked her and posted private pictures she had sent him everywhere he could. I managed to get them removed, but screen shots live forever and, sometimes, even now they do appear.”
“Bastard, fucking piece of shit.”
“I agree.” I drain the rest of the whiskey, enjoying the raw burn the liquid affords, as it travels down my throat and into my belly. A vast spectrum of feelings plays out in her facial expressions, from rage-filled to tortured sadness, which she vividly captures, and every emotion in between.
“You don’t have to go on. I do understand.” Her voice catches.
“I know you do, and that’s why I do have to go on.” I decline the offer of a refill. I need to have a clear head when we land, and the numbing qualities of the strongest liquor in the world couldn’t blur the edges of this wretched tale. “I was supposed to work late, but for some reason, I felt bad that I hadn’t spent much time with Storm over the few weeks she had been staying with me. The first day she arrived, she was excited to be there, laughing and making jokes with me, about me, being the typical annoying little sister, but the next day, she stayed in her room. As far as I knew, she stayed in there all day, and I know she stayed in there all night, on her phone or on my home computer. I put it down to being a teenager and carried on with my life. I didn’t exactly invite her to stay, so I didn’t feel it was my responsibility to entertain her. Besides, even when I did try, she just said no to any suggestion I would make. Anyway, I came home early with a pizza, and the instant I opened the door to my apartment, I felt the icy blast of a Nordic winter chill me to my bones.”
Closing my eyes I feel the recollection cool my skin like it did back then. I can’t bring myself to speak and am only vaguely aware that soft fingers are stroking over my clenched fists. I’m back in the nightmare, not knowing if my sister was going to live or die. Looking over to Hope, her cheeks glisten with fresh tears, and I know I have to finish this story. She’s lived through the same with her mother, and I can see from the sorrow in her glassy eyes that she’s right there with me. She needs to know my ending. “She was in her room, unconscious. The empty packets of tablets all over the floor and a note crumpled up in her open palm. I’ll never forget the panic and devastation that ripped my world apart that night. I didn’t think I could feel such utter despair. I happen to know now, I can, and so much worse, but one sorry tale at a time, eh?” I’m not trying to make light of this. I’m just trying to get through it as best I can. Her lips curl with sweet understanding.
“Yeah, maybe leave that one for the flight back.” I let out a light laugh that chips at the tension of the sombre atmosphere. The slight reprieve is welcome, if only for a second. She takes a gulp of her champagne and looks back into my eyes, encouraging me to continue.
“I lifted her limp body and drove to the hospital. It was only round the corner at the time, and within twenty minutes, she was admitted and having her stomach pumped. I stayed with her the whole time, held her hair when she threw up, and held her shaking body all night as she cried herself to sleep. If I ever met that man—and I use the term in it’s loosest form—I’d kill him. He changed her, and to go unpunished is unforgivable.”
“Did you find out who he was?”
“No, everything was lies. I did track the IP address of a computer he used one time but it was the main city library in Pittsburgh. He could be anyone, and it makes me fucking sick he could be doing this all over again.”
“Probably. There are a lot of arseholes out there, but I’m a big believer in Karma. He’ll get his, I’m sure of it.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“What happened after the hospital? From what I understand they don’t just let you leave after taking an overdose.”
“They don’t, but I was able to get her into a private facility where she was treated before being discharged into my care. I managed to convince my parents to extend her stay, and we hid the whole incident from them and the world. I’m fiercely protective of her now. Even if I know she’s fine, she’s still my little sister. I almost lost her to some fucking coward who preys on people who are just looking to find some sort of connection in this world.”
“‘The internet is dark and full of terrors’.” The paraphrased quote falls flat, humourless and true.
“It is. I know you said that as a joke, but a true connection with another soul is to be treasured, and because it is so rare, people will search for it wherever they can. Unfortunately, these days, that connection is mistaken for validation, attention from strangers, anything to feel ‘loved’, and it’s not always a positive experience.”
“Not a fan of online dating? I get it, but not everyone is lucky enough to marry their childhood sweetheart. There are a lot of lonely people out there. To dismiss an entire form of communication because it’s not face-to-face is a little archaic.”
“I’m not saying online relationships aren’t real, not at all, but they are fraught with ambiguities and misunderstanding. For any relationship to flourish, those involved have to be honest with each other and with themselves. Relationships in real life are fragile at the best of times, but if you add miscommunication via texts, reality distorting filters, or unrealistic expectations into the mix, instead of bringing people closer together it can be an isolator, nurturing uncertainty, doubt, and self-worth issues.”
She takes another sip, tipping it until the flute is empty this time before she speaks again. “The volunteer work I do, I’ve noticed a big increase in social anxiety and depression. I’m not saying it’s all social media related, but there is definitely a connection. I find the swipe-right mentality a little scary, if I’m honest.”
“Swipe-right?”
“The power or ability to swipe your screen right if you don’t get exactly what you want, rejecting and deleting what you see, and moving on to the next rejection candidate, leaving a battlefield of casualties in their wake. And even that doesn’t mean much unless the gratification is instant.”
“Exactly. People no longer have to earn their rewards in relationships. I believe people behave better when they are face-to-face. They are more human and perhaps less likely to be quite so savage when they aren’t hiding behind a screen and a keyboard.”
“Oh, come on, who doesn’t love a keyboard warrior?”
“I prefer to see my prey.”
Her throat bobs, and she swallows slowly, watching my mouth closely.
“I like to see when I am affecting you, so I can act accordingly.”
“And how are you going to act accordingly?”
“I’m going to lean over and kiss you.” Her pupils dilate, and my cock twitches.
>
“I may not have a swipe-right option, but I can still kick you out of bed if I want to, right?”
“You can try.” I reach my hand around her neck and pull her toward me. There’s little resistance and an incendiary spark when our lips collide. Sweet softness moving together, kissing, sucking, and teasing with the promise of so much more. She sighs, and her lips part. Flying at thirty-six thousand feet I get my first taste of heaven.
“OKAY, WHY IS THERE A toy plane in the water, and more importantly, why are we walking toward it?” Jørgen grips my hand since my feet have planted firmly on the wooden walkway and are refusing to take another step. He tugs me forward, barely breaking his long stride. He seems excited. It’s sweet to see. It makes him look younger, more handsome, if that’s possible, and carefree. However, I’m not nearly so enamoured with the whole ‘racing toward imminent death’ thing.
“My island is too far by speedboat. It would take all day, so we need to fly. It’s also too small for a landing strip. This is a sea plane, Hope, and it’s perfectly safe.”
“For Barbie and Ken maybe. Jørgen you can’t be serious?”
“Hope, trust me. I know the pilot very well, and I trust him with my life.”
“Do you trust him with mine?”
“Absolutely,” he states, deadly serious, and I should feel all kind of reassured with the sentiment. My stomach drops.
“Oh, my god! You’re the pilot, aren’t you?”
“I am, come on, Hope. Where’s that ballsy businesswoman that has men quaking in their brogues?”
“She’s back in the boardroom, rolling her eyes at the idiot shitting herself on the dock. I can’t believe I’m doing this.” I stumble forward and hold on to the wooden pole sticking up at the end of the dock while Jørgen helps the porter to unload our luggage from the trolley. He stacks the cases in the back of the plane.
“First time in a sea plane?” His grin couldn’t be any wider. It’s sickening he’s so calm. We’re going to die!
“What gave that away?”
