by Anthology
Chapter Four
Prime Minister
“Vikings literally thought that when they died, all they’d do all day long was party with the gods. You don’t think that sticks? It’s in their blood to drink nonstop.”
Why am I getting all these Kara comments in my head at the least opportune moments? I’m waiting for my turn with the prime minister who’s one room away!
“That was a thousand years ago. They were Vikings, not modern-day Norwegians.”
“They’re the same.”
“No, they’re not. Please, we’re going in circles, here.”
Kara is a pro at derisive huffs. “Ha. Don’t even for a minute—Listen, I just have this feeling about you.”
I emitted my own amateur-derisive huff at that. “How can you be worried about me when you’ve spent half your life calling me a goody-two-shoes?”
“That was before you were going to party central with all the hot dudes.”
“Kristen Johansen?” The chief-of-staff smiles at me from the door.
“Yes?” I shoot to my feet and force a fake relaxed stance.
“Good to see you again. Come in.” Rita Olsen shows the way with an open hand, and there I am, in a small conference room with two women and two men. One of which is a flipping hot-as-hell hero: Rikard Guttormsen, the prime minister of Norway.
He’s already standing with the others. In a stylish pair of pants and suit jacket, he delivers a small smile that’s moderate but warm as he clasps my hand. Dirty blond hair like I’ve seen on TV. A calm gaze and a straight nose. No five-o-clock shadow on this man, but you can tell he needs to shave often.
“It’s nice to meet you. I hear you’re from Minneapolis?”
“Yes, sir. Born and raised.” My smile feels genuine. I want it to be, because whoa, the initiator of the latest bout of peace negotiations in Israel is clutching my hand. Please, I want this internship so hard.
I sip from the coffee they pass me, a Norwegian tradition; you enter nowhere without the offer of a steaming cup.
I don’t even stutter through my answers. Pretty sure that has something to do with Rita Olsen’s encouraging nods whenever I’m about to choke on my nerves.
Kara would be proud of me; in terms of international politics, I’m good. I might not be affluent in gossip-Norway or history per se, but this stuff I know, and I am flaunting it today.
Like in the first interview, my time runs out record-fast.
“It’s been a pleasure to meet you.” The prime minister’s smile is less tempered this time. “In the words of my late grandfather: ‘you’ve got a good head on your shoulders,’ and I’d like to see what you could accomplish. Of course we have three great candidates to choose among, but you’ve given us a few things to mull over.”
He swings to his chief-of-staff. Nods discreetly to the two others present, who respond with affirmative handshakes and head-bobs of their own.
“I believe so.” The other man—Something Sivertsen?—folds his hands over his stomach.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” I begin now that the interview is over and I have a mounting feeling that it went well. “Anything in particular you’re looking for in your ultimate candidate?”
The prime minister chuckles, and heat creeps up my cheeks.
“Well, there’s the obvious: education and experience. Then it’s verbal communication. And lastly, we like to see consistency and discipline.”
“Consistency and discipline?” I repeat like I’m hard of hearing. Those light hazel irises remain on me, and the arcs of his eyelids stall me. High at the top, they do deep drops on both sides, making his eyes larger and crazy gorgeous.
“Yes, it’s hard to tell, of course.” He drags his teeth over his lower lip. “But the ideal candidate is not only sharp as a tack and a great communicator, but also hardworking, disciplined, and consistent.”
“Of course.”
“In your case, from your grades and constant work in political organizations on the side, it’s clear that you didn’t exactly drink your way through college.”
“You got that right. Thank you, sir.” I exhale my relief, and it’s loud in the small room. Rita Olsen sends me a good-natured wink.
I’m in a mild daze when my feet carry me to the elevator. Rita accompanies me. She even presses the first-floor button for me. Maybe she noticed that I left a large chunk of my marbles in that conference room. Hey, I need my marbles back. Now I’ve got two reasons to want that internship…and I’m really glad she can’t hear my thoughts.
Oh my god. The prime minister liked me!
Rita Olsen squeezes my arm in farewell. It feels freaking decisive, and my body seems to believe that I’ve got an actual shot at this.
“I’ll be in touch as soon as we’ve reached a conclusion, all right? I know Prime Minister Guttormsen doesn’t want the decision to drag out. We’ll give you all a call on Monday, most probably in the afternoon.”
“Sounds good to me,” I squeak out. “Have a good weekend.”
Andreas’ car waits on the curb again, smack between his favorite stop signs. With the back of his head pressed into the headrest, he looks bored out of his skull. His uninterested glower follows me around the hood and culminates in an eye-roll when I lower into the passenger seat. “Sloths or snails?”
“What?”
“…”
“Are we doing favorite animals or something?”
“Nah. Wondering who works in there.”
Chapter Five
Like You Mean It
“Just don’t be a Viking is all. And also, don’t find one. I want you back home.”
I wipe Kara’s words off as I watch Jill happy-dance for me in our kitchen. “That’s so cool, Kristen!”
“Gah, I don’t want to get my hopes up. The prime minister and his staff seem like very positive people, so maybe they act like everyone’s a winner until the final decision is made.”
“You really think they would lead you on like that?”
“Ah I’m just saying that a lot can happen over a weekend.”
“Don’t be silly.” Jill’s wiggle-dance slows so she can come over and pat my shoulder. “There’s no way you could screw this up in one weekend.”
Jack quirks me a reassuring smile. “I agree with Jill. Knowing you, you’ll just have studied more and become an even better candidate.”
I let out a laugh. “No, of course, but I can picture them getting together and simply realizing that another candidate is a better choice.”
Nervous, I exhale. “Look, I’m just trying to remain rational, here. They gave nothing away. All they did was—”
“Admit that you fit the bill to a ‘T,’ then slapped your shoulder, smiled, and told you to wait for a call on Monday?” Jack tips his head for emphasis.
Damn, what if?
“Oh hell, we’re gonna celebra-a-a-te!” Andreas has had a few beers and is on a steady roll toward chatty. “Let’s go bonkers!” Upbeat chatty as opposed to the bleak chatty of this morning. See, because it was cruel the way I cut his Thursday-night drinking short by needing an early morning ride. In my defense, I offered to take the tram to the interview, but he just huffed unintelligibly at that.
“Yeah, let’s make pizza,” I suggest.
“Actually, I think we should go out. What do you think, hon?” Jill beams up at her darling, stroking a hand over his Fana-patterned wool sweater.
“Fuck yeah, the clu-u-u-b!” Andreas performs an enthusiastic guy-version of jazz hands. I’ve never seen that before. Not sure I ever want to see it again either, because eerie.
Jill grimaces. “You’re always at the club, Andreas. How about we go downtown? Let’s do Schroeder’s. Tonight’s on us, Kristen.”
A quick exchange of glances, and her boyfriend modifies, “The first drink is on us.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not drinking anyway.” For a second, my mind runs to hypnotic kisses and golden-green eyes. My heart does a tiny little leap of fate—no,
not fate, just a small skip—and then I’m back on track.
It’s a big city. There are hundreds of student hot spots. And what are the odds Haakon would be in any one place we chose? “’Kay, let’s do it. I’m up for a celebration. I love me a good Shirley Temple.”
As it turns out, Andreas is also acquainted with the derisive huff, and when I look at him, he’s even rolling his eyes. “One drink. One lame-ass fucking drink and she can’t take it.”
He flops to the floor in front of the fridge, opens it from the bottom, and pulls out his sandwich drawer. He lifts out a beer. Mind blown. The drawer has been upgraded to include alcoholic beverages? “If I’m going all the way downtown again, Kristen is having a drink. A real one too.”
“Skål, bitch!”
Goodness, we’re “bitching” each other now? I blink at Jill. She shakes her head slowly, amused. It was Anna who called for the cheers, and judging by Jack, we’re going with the flow of the natives on this one. He lifts his beer way above his head. Jolly Norwegians from neighboring tables raise theirs too, hollering something I don’t understand. Festive, for sure, and I’m buzzing with the energy in here.
Andreas is in his element. Oh god, he’s wiggling his hips in some Flamenco-type ballroom dance within his one-square-foot of allotted space. Disheveled hair wisps over an ear, and his stubbles are more unkempt than ever. Why am I still surprised that he smells clean? All Vikings are clean. I smirk at the reminder of Kara.
“Bottoms up, winner you!” Andreas bellows.
“I’m a winner?”
“Oh yeah! My girl, here”—he pulls me into the crook of his arm and noogies me hardcore—“she’s about to get herself an internship with the head…what do you guys call it? Poncho. She’ll be working for the head poncho of Norway, woooh!”
Jill buys me the first beer. Mari insists on a mini-bottle of Spanish champagne. Any kind of alcohol is expensive, but when Andreas is blitzed, he shovels out student aid like he’s going out of business. Anything to slosh up his surroundings too—the more, the merrier—and tonight I’m at the eye of his tornado.
It’s weird how this place spellbinds. Schroeder’s is as small as I remember from my first visit, and it’s senses all the way. Heat, touch, smell, the vision of shifting bodies. It’s music and words against your ear. Wetness on your tongue as you become less careful about what you down.
Schroeder’s is also packed, perfumes mixing with aftershave. People bump into each other, sharing a glance instead of an apology, a small smile, maybe a word or a clink of drinks.
The girls don’t assess the guys or analyze if they’re dating material. It’s quick back-and-forths, a testing of chemistry, and when it changes, it ends with nothing or an unapologetic makeout by a table or in a walkway. Some couples pull their business to a back wall and don’t come apart until it’s time to hail a cab. Yeah, it’s different to what I’m used to, enthralling, as intoxicating as some of the aftershaves.
“Hey, Cinderella, grab your fucking absinthe and get on the dance floor. It’s time to river-dance,” Andreas shouts.
“It’s what?” My tongue has grown in my mouth.
“We will now river-dance.”
“Are you crazy?” The amoeba shape of my articulatory organ could be courtesy of the two absinthes he had me toss back in a, quote-unquote, “beautiful” way. I wonder why I listen to him.
Careful, Jill mouths, and even in this state I think it makes sense. Until Andreas bounces me onto the dance floor and I realize exactly how tiny it is. We’re sardines, and I’m not leaning. The girl behind me takes care of that. Yep, people are definitely leaning.
Drunk is just a word here though, and we all love each other. I twist and exchange an understanding gaze with Miss Leans-a-Lot behind me. She even puckers an air kiss my way, which is when I hear a chuckle—How do I catch hyper-sexy chuckles when the music rumbles?
“Har du fått nok å drikke?” the same voice asks. It’s low, full, and goes straight to my hips. He’s asking if she’s had enough to drink. The question is probably rhetorical, but if “sweetly sarcastic” is a thing it’s that too.
“Mumble, mumble.” I can’t hear her reply, but I swing from my crazy roommate—and Haakon is ten inches away!
I stop. Cock my head slowly to one side. See how brave I am on absinthe? Oh yes, I have no qualms angling my head back enough to stare straight into his eyes. He stares back with this transition from uninterested to interested to whoa-it’s-her.
Giddy!
“So you’re the dance-floor-talker,” I half-shout.
“I am the dance-floor-talker.” His eyes do that thing where they trail over my face, down my throat to my so-so neckline and back up again. “And you are…”
Great. He doesn’t remember my name.
Haakon is forever ingrained into my mind, and I’ve been mentally flipping myself off over never learning his last name.
“Kristen Johansen. Do you know how—” He puckers super-delectable lips into a could-be kiss and inhales. It’s a quick inhale, and I feel my body straighten to get up there to him. I wouldn’t mind being dragged into his vacuum, like, all of me. Straight into his mouth.
“Anyway. Are you dancing?”
“I am.” I bite my lip, which I only do in the mirror with a cool song playing while I’m on my second beer before an outing. Did I mention that my outings are fictional? Except tonight is an outing, and Haakon is here.
Cra-a-a-p. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. I was not going to get buzzed. Definitely wasn’t going to bite my lip sexily at Haakon.
“Can I?”
I think people are supposed to ask your dance partner if they can butt in. Well, Haakon asks me, and I immediately say, “Hell yeah.”
Andreas turns later, much later, and asks, “Did you stop dancing with me?” He does a Flamenco-wiggle with one hip, and I’d blush for him if it weren’t for nobody caring.
“She did.” Haakon’s eyes sparkle with sex and mischief. Half of my third absinthe spills over my hand. I’m expecting the crowd to jump apart, but no one reacts, and Haakon pulls my hand to his mouth and licks it off. Whoa, so damn—
“Oh hey, Haakon! Haakon’s my man,” Andreas yell-informs, smacking Haakon in the back, then me on an arm.
“Hey, dude!” Haakon yells back.
“Andreas is my roommate.”
“I know Andreas. Right, man?”
“Right-ee-oh so hard!”
I start to laugh at Andreas, but then I drop my glass. Haakon catches it mid-air, just not without incident. I’ve got it all over my super-flimsy top—what was Jill thinking? I should’ve chosen my own, sturdier outfit.
“Crap, I’m transparent now.”
“You were transparent the whole time.” Haakon’s smile looks too clever, like he’s got everything figured out. Me for instance.
“Oh yeah? How so?” I’d never ask that sober.
“Because you’re happy to see me.”
How do you know? Was it my hard-on? I’m glad I’m not drunk enough to blurt shit out loud.
“I think you’re full of yourself,” I say. I could so walk away right now and never think about him again. Or at least I could walk away. He wouldn’t need to know whether or not I thought about him again. I snicker to myself.
“Maybe. Why’re you laughing?”
“Oh nothing. Just glad I’m not drunk.”
He rocks his body slowly to the beat, not wasting energy while he studies me. “What have you been up to? I haven’t seen you here in six weeks.”
“Has it been that long? You come here all the time, huh?”
“I’ve been coming back, but I don’t always come here, no.”
Wow, this sounds promising.
“But you like it here?” I try not to slur. I manage too, for the most part. Someone with a blunt limb or whatever nudges me in the back. I topple a little, not all the way, and bump into him. Is it just me, or is his body warmer than everyone else’s?
“Sch
roeder’s kicks ass.” He collects me when I almost-fall. It’s nice to have his arms around me, so I wiggle backward until I’m in deep. “It does.”
“So how come you haven’t been here in so long?”
“Pretty obvious, isn’t it?” I press my lips in between my teeth and twist around. He grabs my glass and deposits it on someone’s table. Everyone seems to think this makes sense.
“Tell me why it’s obvious.”
“You…I mean, I…”
“We?” He waits, silently urging me on. Crap, he’s so handsome. Those eyes. Hooded, rainbow-shaped eyes. I mean, who has those? Except for here, in this country. They’re drool-worthy.
Drool-worthy eyes.
“No, just–You know, I sort of made a fool out of myself.” When I don’t continue right away, he follows up with a narrowed stare. I have nothing. I can’t tell him I felt like an exposed (saber-toothed) cat in heat.
“You made a fool out of yourself here? Or with me?”
“Same thing. Yeah, both.”
“No.” He shakes his head slowly. “Not with me, at least. You were…I still remember you. I’ve remembered you for a month and a half.”
I slant up on my toes, half-dancing to the slow beat. “Really?”
“Dude, yeah. You’re pretty special.”
I have no idea why he thinks I’m special. Unless the cat-in-heat part did it for him. Wait, he’s a guy.
“You want another drink?” He juts his chin toward the table holding my empty glass.
“Sure!” Because I’d wear my red hat in the darkest forest of Norway if he asked. Also I don’t need another drink.
“It’s not that late,” I say.
“Kristen, believe me. You’ll regret it tomorrow if you don’t catch the last tram with us.” Jill’s eyes have never been more serious, and I burst into laughter.