by Lia Riley
“Sander was an intense kid.”
“Coming from you, that’s saying something. Beth is fifty percent terrified of him and fifty percent in love with him. She says he sounds like sex. Is that true?”
“Not any sex I’d be looking for.”
“What’s he like?”
“I don’t know, like himself except grown up.”
I narrow my gaze with exaggerated menace. “Your descriptions are killing me, you know that, right?”
He rolls his eyes in response. “Don’t tell me you have a Russian recluse fantasy too?”
“No, but come on, you have to admit, the whole thing is fascinating.”
He shrugs. “He’s dark. Tall. A lot bigger than he used to be.”
“Big? Too many donuts and hours behind a computer?”
“More like he hires a SWAT team and kicks their ass in his spare time.”
I tilt my head to the side. “So he’s built, then?”
“I refuse to feed this obsession.” He tickles my ribs to let me know he’s joking, mostly.
“It’s like you met the Easter Bunny or something.”
“Easter Bilby.”
“Come again?” My eyebrows squish together.
“In Australia, rabbits are feral pests, remember? Screw the Easter Bunny. We celebrate the Easter Bilby, a desert marsupial with long ears.”
“That’s pretty cute. So your old buddy, Z, is sort of like the Easter Bilby, except instead of chocolate eggs, he brings offers of gainful employment?”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
I lean forward. “Tell me more about the position.”
“It’s heading development of citizen science applications.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
He settles back and fiddles with the door lock. “So these days a lot of people have smartphones, right?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“They can be tools for automatic data collection, a way to involve the public in science in an entirely new way.”
“Sorry, I’m guessing that’s supercool, but I just snored off.”
He rolls his eyes. “Think about it, smartphones can capture images, audio, and text—‘stamp’ the date, time, and geographic coordinates associated with an observation. It’s low cost, with huge potential impact. There’s scope for the general public measuring light pollution or local air quality. I mean, people could even track the energy usage in their homes. They already do with friends, books they’ve read, where they visit in a day, exercise—why not something with global implications? I don’t think I’m ready to work for Dad’s Lockhart Foundation yet. I’m open to doing some advising on the side, but want to do my own thing for a bit.”
“But can you work in the United States?”
“Zavtra human resources can sort me a specialized visa no worries.”
“This sounds kind of scarily perfect.”
“Maybe.” Uncertainty lingers in the back of the word.
“What’s the hitch?”
He stares out the window a trifle too long. That’s when I get it. He doesn’t want to say yes to a job until I figure my own shit out.
“Wait, it’s me, isn’t it? I’m the holdup.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know what you want, where you want to go. You came to Australia for me, least I can do is return the favor.”
“But I want you to be happy.”
He reaches over and takes my hand. “And I want you to be happy.”
“So we’re in a happiness stalemate?” My laugh is more bitter than I prefer. “Well, speaking of the city. There is a job I’ve toyed with applying for there.”
“Go on.”
I shake my head. “It’s stupid.”
“You want to apply for a stupid job?”
“No, it’s stupid to even apply. It’s as a production assistant for a program on public radio. A This Is Your Life kind of show, where they do research on people’s genealogies and unearth fascinating stuff. Kind of right up my alley.”
“Sounds great.”
“Except for the part where I’m so underqualified that it’s not even funny.”
“Are you joking? Don’t sell yourself short; it sounds like you meet most of the requirements, and Friendly will give you a great recommendation. The dude loves you.”
“Friendly? Professor Connors? I hate that nickname.” My adviser from the University of Tasmania who oversaw my senior thesis. He liked me a lot, which is why Bran calls him friendly. Apparently it’s weird in Bran World to be nice just for niceness’s sake.
“That dude will sing your praises.”
I unbuckle my seat belt, move to the middle seat, lock back in, and snuggle closer, unable to hide my unease about the public radio application. I don’t want to get my hopes up. I need to try to live in the now, be present without stressing about what’s to come. Except I want to build a life with the guy beside me. And that means making plans. What should I do?
I rest my head on his shoulder. Sometimes we have better conversations when we elect not to use words. Katya steers us expertly through traffic on I-80 and as we pass downtown Sacramento, the Sierras come into view, snowcapped, on the horizon.
“We could just screw the world and run away together,” I say. “Hide out in the mountains.”
He twirls his fingers into my hair, forming a loose knot. “You’d like that?”
“Doesn’t it sound kind of perfect? Move to a little cabin. You can raise chickens and chop wood. I’ll bake bread and finger knit. We can hide from the world.”
“All I want is right here.” His fingertips graze my scalp, and my heart gives a sideways thud, grasps his sweet offering, and hugs it close. We sit in silence. It’s nice, having someone to be still with.
I lean into his head massage like a kitten being petted. “Do you ever think that our relationship is like a teeter-totter?”
He frowns, lost.
“You know what a teeter-totter is, right? Do they have those in Australia?”
“Yeah, of course.” His tongue pokes against the inside of his cheek. “But I’m not following, Captain.”
“This relationship, it’s like we’re constantly rocking, you know? Sometimes I’m doing well, so I’m the one who’s up. And other times you’re kicking ass and you’re up.”
“That’s the worst metaphor ever. We’re in this together.” His tone is gruffer by the second.
“What are the chances of you and me making it work in a way where we both get what we want? Scoring two amazing jobs in the Bay Area? I’m not sure I want to get my hopes up.” My pessimistic expression reflects in his shades. I don’t like what I see. I stare out the window instead.
“No worries. I go where you go. You came to Australia and took a chance. This is me, taking a chance on you.”
“No pressure. Anyway, this job, with your weirdo billionaire friend, is an amazing opportunity.”
“Do you want to live in the city?”
“Yeah, sure. Yes. It would be great. But what if I can’t make it?”
“What if you can?” He yanks off his sunglasses, his brows knit.
“Bran—”
“Goddammit, Talia. Just accept you are amazing already.” He yanks me close and shuts me up with a fierce kiss.
“I’ll do the application,” I whisper, breathless.
He picks a lock of my hair from my shoulder, rubs his fingers over the strands. “When is the deadline?”
I check my watch. “Um, three hours?”
“Today?”
“Yeah.” I eye the traffic, grinding to a halt ahead. “We should be home pretty soon.”
“Bloody hell, Captain.”
We drive the rest of the way in silence while I dig my laptop out of the bag, and peck on the keyboard, taking window-watching breaks whenever carsickness twinges. When we get home the house is empty. Dad and Jessie must be out. I set up my laptop and dive into resume-writing panic mode while Bran hovers, bossing me over what bit
s to change until I kick him out of the room. “Go run a five K in sub-seven minutes. Don’t come back until you burn off that nervous energy. It’s making me hivey.”
“Fine,” he grumbles, tossing off his pants and picking up a pair of running shorts. I zone out for a moment admiring the indents in his muscular quads.
“See something you like, Captain?” He pauses, flexing his arms.
That bicep—I want to lick it.
“Verra noooice,” I say in my awful imitation Australian accent. They always sneak an o into nice, just so the vowels don’t get lonely. “Now shoo, let me be serious for a second.”
“I’m serious as a bloody heart attack.” He gives a curt gesture to his thickening dick bulge.
“Stop tempting me! This job is important to us.”
“Okay,” he says in a careful, noncommittal voice. He knows it’s a big deal. Me putting myself out there again.
“If this doesn’t work, I could be a barista or something.”
“That what you want?”
“I suck at service jobs, would screw up everyone’s order. Here’s my point, I want this public radio gig, but if it doesn’t work out, maybe I won’t like explode from shame.”
“Exactly.” He plants a kiss on my forehead. “I’m proud of you for trying.” He can’t resist a naughty, handsy boob grab.
“Go you scoundrel, Mama needs to make the magic happen.”
I hit send on the application at 4:57 p.m. Three minutes before the close of business deadline.
“You really like to live on the edge.” Bran saunters in, hair wet from his after-run shower.
Hope hits me like a drug. I did it. I tried. I rallied. “Today has been totally crazy. My brain is zonked. Time for less thinking, more doing.” I flash my best something-something smile.
He arches his brow as if he’ll buy what I’m selling.
I swing my hips and stroll to the ancient dust-covered stereo propped against the far wall. It was mine and Pippa’s from junior high. Apparently Dad thinks he is going to tinker around and get the CD player working to play lullabies. Lots of luck there but I’m pretty sure the radio works. Hopefully something is on that will accompany the striptease I have in mind.
Bran snickers at my awkward antics and that’s fine, he’s supposed to. Bonus points because his laugh is hot. I crank the volume. “I like my music the way I like my woman—fast and wild.” The DJ’s voice drips with smarmy douchiness.
Bran rolls his eyes.
“Hold up, is this what I think it is?” The first chords from “Sweet Child o’ Mine” kick in. I pump my fist. “Hells to the yeah.”
“Turn it off—”
“Silence Axl? Not in this lifetime. Rock with me.”
He folds his arms. “Never.”
I imitate waving a magic wand. “The power of Guns N’ Roses compels you.”
He snorts despite himself. “You’re a bona fide horror show, you know that, right?”
“Be my Slash, baby.”
“No way in hell.”
I do my best skeezy hip thrust. “Get up on this bed, show me what you’re working with.”
“Talia.”
“Dude.”
“Dude?”
I point at the bed. “This is our stage. Don’t even pretend that you don’t have a badass air-guitar solo inside you begging to be unleashed.”
“Prepare for disappointment.”
“Says the guy who danced to Justin Bieber with his nieces.”
He smacks his forehead. “You swore never to speak of that.”
“Come on, get over yourself.”
“Bloody hell.” He steps on the bed and begins to strum.
“Who are you, Art Garfunkel? Put your back into it.”
“I’m not a performing monkey.”
“Correct. You are Slash, and we are going to rage.”
The chorus hits and I headbang, belting lyrics in a nasally high-pitched accent. Bran loosens up, rocks harder.
I jump up and down and flash him devil horns.
“This is crazy,” he yells.
“Crazy awesome!”
I mosh thrust against his ribs and he play shoves back, and for a second all the bullshit stress about what we are doing with our lives is eclipsed by the world’s best butt rock. We lean in together and belt the final stanza. The song finishes and my scissor kick finale gains serious air. When I land, the old frame gives way and we spill to the floor in a dull thud.
“Ow!” I grab my elbow.
“We broke the bed.” Bran rubs his forehead.
Once I start laughing, I can’t stop. Bran joins in and we cackle in that good soul-clearing way that doesn’t happen nearly enough.
“Oh, God.” I wipe my eyes.
“Right.” He pulls me on his lap, stares at me with intent. “I’ve got an idea.”
I loop my arms around him. He smells so hot and soapy. “I’m listening.”
“You applied for the job. They aren’t going to call you tomorrow—”
“Remember, they may not call me at all.”
“They will, trust me. But we have this grace period. No point sitting around stressing, checking your e-mail twenty times in an hour.”
The guy knows me so well.
“I don’t need to tell Sander anything yet. I put him off, said I wanted to talk things over with you. In the car you mentioned wanting to visit the mountains. Let’s do it, take a road trip.”
“Really?” Excitement bubbles in my belly. “A getaway sounds très romantic.”
“That’s me, Mr. Romance. But for real, I want to take you to Yosemite.”
I ponder the suggestion. “Beautiful, but the Valley will be a zoo, it’s almost Memorial Day.”
“Yeah, no. I don’t want to car camp with a thousand strangers.”
“’Course you don’t.” This is Bran we’re talking about. He’ll probably suggest rappelling the nose of El Capitan.
“Tenaya Canyon.” He pauses for dramatic effect.
I shake my head and shrug.
He looks a little crestfallen. “You haven’t heard of it?”
“We were a beach family. I mean, I’ve been to Yosemite but not in ages.”
“Tenaya Canyon is the Bermuda Triangle of the Sierras.”
“Excuse me?”
“There is a legend the area was cursed by a Native American chief. Obviously that’s a made-up story. Still, hiking the canyon is a mission, a real adventure. I think we can get by with a rope, and from what I read we may not even need it if we are careful.”
I cock my head to the side because really, did homeboy sneak onto the medical marijuana app I’ve yet to delete from my phone? He’s smoking something if he thinks my height-phobic ass is scaling a cursed canyon in the High Sierras.
He hugs me closer. “Now, Captain, I know what you’re going to say—”
“Zero chance in hell?”
“I want you to consider—”
“No—”
He shuts me up with a kiss. “The idea that—”
“Nope—” I talk into his mouth.
“I’m a proficient climber and—”
I jam my fingers in my ears and chant, “Lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala.”
Eventually, I stop and there’s silence. I open one eye and he stares at me, bemused.
“You’ve lost the plot.”
“I happen to be overly attached to my intact spine.”
“Me too.” He walks his fingers down my vertebrae to the gap between my jeans and shirt. He takes his sweet time. I cannot guess how many seconds stretch until he brushes my bare skin in a tormenting caress. “I promise, nothing bad will happen. I’ll keep you safe. You’ll love it. I’ve seen photos of the place and it’s staggering.”
“Staggering is what I’ll be if you drag my ass anywhere near a sheer cliff. Remember our hike in Tasmania? I panic attacked on a day hike populated by small children and the elderly.”
“You made it through.”
&nb
sp; “Barely.”
“You are braver than you know.” His clever fingers circle to my stomach and tease my waistband.
I don’t know what will happen or where things will end up with our future. He speaks like I’m capable of courage, and his kiss tastes like home. I want to fold his confidence against me like a secret poem. We’re tangled in the rubble of a broken bed and crumpled blankets. The radio blasts Journey. Bran’s three to four inches away from driving me into insanity. He’s unleashed his hypnotizing voodoo. Makes me half believe I’m capable of this insane adventure—of anything.
“Let me take you there.” His rumbling accent is an invisible rope encircling my girly parts. The pull is half pleasure shiver, half painful intensity. “Let’s get you moving.” He pops my top button and grinds my zipper down.
“Here or in the mountains?”
“Both.” He brushes his lips over my ear with a featherlight touch. Here we go, what always happens when his tongue slides over me, the disorienting sensation of being out of my body while fully inhabiting my skin. My nipples are button-hard, responding to the pressure of his chest as he settles against me.
“You talk like you want to take me on some sort of a spirit quest.” My words are a gasp because his touch is lower. His fingers tremble a little. Incredibly, he wants me as badly as I want him.
“That’s exactly right.” He sets the perfect rhythm, exquisite, maddening circles. He doesn’t have much room to maneuver, as my jeans are still tight to my hips, but sometimes micro-movements are all you need. Most of the world’s beauty occurs, not in moments of avalanche, but in the tiny bump and grind of plate tectonics. People collide together, and the push is so slow, so gradual, you almost don’t know anything’s happening until, holy shit, holy shit, he’s got me right there. Suddenly, everywhere mountains and I’m on one and oh yes, oh God, yes.
“So yes.” His smile is wicked when I return, dazed, realizing I’ve half climbed him like a lust-crazed monkey. “You’ll go?”
I let my body sink back to the floorboards. “This isn’t fair.” I slur my words a little. “I’m pleasure drunk.”
“Come with me.”
“I just did, didn’t I?”
He wiggles my jeans to my ankles. “I don’t want us ever to stop.”
“Me neither,” I say. Even though heights terrify me, I’m addicted to our edge-dancing. I’d rather be lost and with him, than ever play it safe.