by Lesley Jones
Today’s colour is grey, charcoal really, and he’s wearing it untucked. He’s tall, I’d guess around six feet one or two and it only just comes past his waist. If he was to stretch up for something—which I hope he does, and I hope I’m around to witness it—I’ll be able to see his happy trail, and as I stare at his retreating back, thick legs, and fine arse while thinking this, I feel my toes curl inside my UGG boots.
He returns in a matter of seconds with a pile of pink, silk-covered padded coat hangers, which he dumps unceremoniously on the bed.
One of the cases is already undone, he flips it open, and my heart literally stops in my chest. Before I even see it, I know exactly what is sitting right on top of everything that’s in that suitcase.
I could react. Slam the case shut. Blush. Stammer as I make excuses. Instead, I choose to own the situation.
“Whoa there, Cowboy. You might not wanna spend too much time looking at Vance. You could end up with an inferiority complex if you do.”
He steps back from my case.
“What in the ever-loving fuck—what is that thing?”
I lean forward and pick up the item that appears to have my host so offended.
“Cowboy, meet Vance.”
His eyebrows draw down tight and low over his eyes as he turns his head towards me, “Vance? What the fuck is a Vance?”
“Vance is my limited edition, black leopard print, Swarovski crystal Womanizer. He’s my life partner.”
“Limited edition, Ovski what?”
“It’s a Womanizer, voted best sex toy in 2015.”
His hands go to his hips, and his mouth opens, closes, and then opens again.
“It’s a vibrator?”
“Yep. Well, kinda.”
“And you named it Vance?”
“Yep.”
“Any particular reason why?”
“Because he brings me joy.”
He stares at me blankly, something he seems to do a lot when I’m talking.
“Vance Joy,” I offer.
“Give me a minute here, Duchess. I’m trying to work out what that might rhyme with.”
“It don’t rhyme with anything, Cowboy. Vance Joy is a singer.”
“Vance Joy’s a singer?”
“Yeah, Aussie I think. ‘Riptide’ ‘Georgia’?” Again, I get a somewhat blank look, or maybe it’s a dazed and confused stare.
I reach for my phone and search for Vance Joy in Spotify, find him, and press play. Riptide starts playing through my UE Boom portable speaker that I also never travel without.
When I look back towards him for a reaction to the song, I find him studying Vance.
“What does it do exactly?”
“It’s a stimulator, so not actually a vibrator.”
His head tilts back, his eyes on the ceiling for a few seconds.
“Feelin’ I’m gonna regret this, but what the fuck’s a stimulator, Duchess?”
He turns his gaze back to me and chews on the corner of that plump bottom lip of his.
“Well, you don’t—” I clear my throat while trying to think about how to describe my sex toy to him. “It’s not like a dildo; you don’t put it inside. It’s more to stimulate your clit. It sorta feels like suction, or lots and lots of little fingers all tapping on it at once.”
“And you like that shit?”
I give him a big cheesy smile.
“Love it, Cowboy.”
“It works?”
“Zero to an explosion in about thirty seconds when I’m in the mood.”
He’s now got a faraway look in his eyes, and he even has a sorta smile on his lips as his gaze roams my face.
“Well fuck, Duchess.”
We stare at each other in silence for a few long moments. It’s not uncomfortable, but I can’t say that I’m exactly chilling, either. There’s a crackle of something that passes between us, and for the first time in his company, it doesn’t feel like tension.
“Material Girl” by Madonna starts to play.
“I’m from Essex, Cowboy. And about as far from a duchess as you’re ever likely to meet,” I tell him.
“Essex? You have an Essex in England?”
“We do, and I think you’ll find ours was around way before yours.”
“At least they talk a language that resembles English in our Essex.”
“That’s debatable.”
He tosses my Womanizer onto the bed.
“Pass me what you want hanging, and I’ll hang it for you.”
Without another word, we set to work.
IT TAKES ABOUT A HALF hour to unpack all my stuff. Aside from asking about how many pairs of shoes I bought and for clarification on why I needed silver, pink, and gold Doc Martins, he didn’t say much. Though, he had also made a crack about a tutu he found in the second suitcase he opened. Apparently, he couldn’t figure out exactly why I would think I would need it. Men. They have no imagination.
He hung my dresses, jeans, and blouses before folding all of my hoodies, jumpers, and T-shirts for me.
I left my knickers and bras in my suitcase, not wanting to shock him anymore after his reaction to Vance, and one-handedly carried my shoes into the dressing room and lined them up.
I’m putting my toiletries in the bathroom cupboard when he appears in the mirror behind me.
“Connie Francis?” he questions.
I nod. “‘Lipstick on Your Collar’ is the first song I put on my first ever iPod.” I’ve never told anyone that.
“Grandad’s influence?”
I nod again.
He moves to sit on the closed toilet lid and watches me unpack. “He had great taste in music.”
“He was my hero.”
“Your dad not around?”
I look down at the drawer I’m putting my face wipes and moisturisers in and concentrate on what I’m doing for a few seconds.
“No, he took off not long after I was born.”
“He stay in touch at all?”
I shake my head. “Nah, my mum says he came back a few times, but I don’t remember him.”
We have another one of those moments of silence while our eyes remain locked in the mirror.
I pass him a pack of wipes. “Put them over there next to the toilet somewhere.” He turns the packet from side to side.
“What are they?”
“Wipes. Don’t worry, they’re flushable.”
“Wipes?”
“Yeah, ya know. When bog roll’s not enough, and you wanna feel fresh and clean. And bog roll’s toilet roll before you ask.”
“I wasn’t going to, but thanks for clarifying.”
“You’re welcome.”
He examines the packet for a few seconds longer before placing it in the basket that the spare toilet rolls are in.
“If you’re done, I’d like to get that arm in a sling.”
He gestures towards my swollen right wrist, which I’m holding protectively against my ribs. It still aches badly, even the painkillers I took earlier barely took the edge off.
As painful as it is, I keep forgetting I’m injured and have continuously been picking things up with it. My middle two fingers are so swollen that they feel tingly and almost numb.
“Sit here,” he orders. Standing and gesturing towards where he was just sitting.
“Fuck, this is swollen.” He’s looking at my hand. “It giving you much pain?”
I nod.
“I’m gonna put it in a sling. If it the swelling doesn’t go down, I’ll call Doc Morrison’s office and see if I can get him or one of the other doctors to come out and take a look at it.”
A ball of warmth forms in my belly at his concern, growing as he gently takes my hand and turns it from side to side, inspecting first the front and then the back as he kneels in front of me.
He has a roll of bandage with him, which he wraps tightly around my hand and wrist, he then starts to tear up an old sheet in what seems like a random, haphazard way. Although the tears apparently
make sense to him. Once he’s done, he slides one end of the fabric under my arm and then ties the two ends together behind my neck. My wrist is raised as high as my left shoulder, the sling keeping my arm and elbow securely tucked close to my body.
I study his face as he does all of this, not just his face but his hair and his beard also. They’re both dark. His beard is a proper beard, probably grown to about an inch and a half from his bottom lip. It’s neat, tidy, and well-groomed, just like his hair. Both of which have a little grey running through them. His hair is shaved around the sides and speckled with grey, the top long, in comparison to the sides. It has no definite style to it. Despite him pushing it back and smoothing it repeatedly, it remains looking like he’s just woke up, but on him, it works.
Reggie grew a beard for a while. It looked good, but then he grew his hair and started wearing bow ties and braces. When he attempted to put his too short hair in a bun, I had to stage an intervention. For one, he was about two years too late for that trend, and two, no, just…......no. Plus, he’s a city financier and looks much better in sharp suits and with short hair.
My mind gets to comparing the two, Reggie works out at the gym almost daily, and his build is bulky because of it. He’s not naturally slim, and I’m pretty sure that if he stopped hitting the treadmill as often as he does, he’d quickly gain weight. He likes his food, doesn’t eat particularly well, and drinks probably more than he should. That’s something that he does seem to have in common with Carmichael. This is the first time since I arrived that I’ve seen him without a beer or bourbon to hand.
“That feel okay?”
“Hmm?” Carmichael’s golden-brown eyes are on me from where he’s crouched directly in front, his elbows resting on his knees.
“The sling, does it feel okay? Is the knot digging into the back of your neck, is it too tight?”
“It’s good.”
He gives me a quick nod and stands.
“There’s some ibuprofen downstairs. Next time you eat, you need to take a couple.”
I remain siting on the toilet lid.
“Carmichael?”
He pauses for a moment before turning his head, his eyes meeting mine.
“It’s Koa.”
“What is?”
“My name.”
“Your name’s Koa?” But I heard the sheriff call him Carmichael. “But the sheriff—”
“Last name’s Carmichael, first is Koa.”
He leaves me still sitting on the toilet lid.
KOA
I MAKE MY WAY BACK downstairs, wondering why the fuck I felt the need to tell her my name.
Fuck, I need a drink.
I always need a drink these days.
My phone rings and I pull it from the back pocket of my jeans and answer.
“Dad?”
“Hey, bud.”
“Hey, Dad. Just checking with you that it’s still okay to come to your place for Thanksgiving?”
My heart rate picks up, and when I reach the bottom of the stairs, I sit on the last one.
“Yeah, about that. You’re welcome to come to visit anytime, you know that, but I’ll be spending it at Aunt Emily’s place this year, not in Aspen.”
“Yeah, Grandma said you’d gone there.”
“She told you right, son.”
“Have you started the renovations yet?”
“We’ve had few feet of snow here, so no, nothing’s been done so far.”
He’s quiet. Too quiet.
“Kai?”
“Dad, I hate it here.”
“It’s only been two months, you promised to give it a year.”
He gives a long sigh, and I know without even seeing him that he’s raking his fingers through his hair just like I am.
“How long is Billy letting you take off for the holiday?”
“I fly in Wednesday, fly out Sunday.”
“Well, that’s a decent break. You want me to come pick you up at the airport?”
“That’d be great. I’m flying into Aspen, though, I didn’t know you weren’t gonna be there until after I booked the flight.”
“I needed to get away.”
“I get that Dad, but Emily’s? You just left one shit storm behind and walked right into a worse one.”
Now it’s my turn to let out a long sigh.
“I hope not, son. You spoke to her at all lately?”
“No. She’s called, but I’ve got nothing to say. Besides, when she calls, it’s always at about two in the morning, and we know what that means.”
“Fuck, she still doing that? You want me to talk to her?”
“Would there be any point? Not like she’s gonna remember once she puts the phone down, and it’ll just end with you two getting into it.”
“Yeah, you’re right, you’re right.”
There’s a moment of silence before I decide to turn the conversation in a different direction.
“So, what’s been happening? You working with the horses, the land? What does Billy have you doing?”
“Mostly the land. Building fences, fixing fences, painting fences. I helped put a new roof on the big barn.”
“And you’re not enjoying that? I thought it’d be kinda your thing, all that manual labour?”
“Dad, I’m a nineteen-year-old dude who lives with his grandparents in bumfuck nowhere and works with five other dudes, all of who are over fifty. So no, there ain’t a lot here I’m enjoying, especially the lack of females… females with just two legs and a pulse that is.”
I move the phone away from my mouth as I try not to chuckle and rub my hand over my beard. I clear my throat.
“Didn’t send you there to enjoy the company of females. Sent you there so you could straighten yourself out.”
“I’m straight, Dad. I learned my lesson. I’m not her; I’ll never fuck up like that again.”
“I’m not backing down on this, Kai. I let you get away with not going to college, but a deal’s a deal.”
“Well, don’t be surprised when I get home and my right arm is a whole lot bigger than my left. You were nineteen once. You must remember the—”
He stops talking. I stop breathing.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Dad, I didn’t think. I’m so sorry.”
It takes me a few long moments before I can think of what to say.
“It’s okay,” is all I manage.
“Fuck, Dad.”
“Is what it is, can’t spend the rest of our lives pretending it didn’t happen.” I hear a noise behind me and stand from where I’m still sitting on the bottom step and turn to find Gracie watching me.
“Listen, son, you give me a call back with all your flight details, and I’ll make sure I’m out at the airport to pick you up that Wednesday.”
“I’ll text them to you.”
“Okay, you do that then and give Grandma a hug for me.”
“Will do. Love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too, boy. Now get going and give that right arm a rest and don’t go getting tempted by any of them young fillies or mares in the paddock. Pretty sure that kinda thing’s illegal, even out in bumfuck nowhere.”
“Yeah, fuck you, Dad. Fuck. You.”
Despite the ache in my chest, I laugh and end the call.
GRACIE
K OA. KOA CARMICHAEL.
I grab my phone and search Google as soon as he leaves the room.
I come from Essex, everyone there tries to outdo each other with an unusual name for their kid, some of them beyond ridiculous. I knew of a Tempranillo, a Maserati, and even a L’Oreal, but I have never heard of a Koa before.
The first few things that come up are about some country rock band, so I scroll right past them. I love music, but that is so not my thing.
Then I find it.
It’s Hawaiian. It means warrior. There’s also a tree that’s native to Hawaii that has that name. The wood from it is used to make surfboards and canoes.
A gentle, earthy, warrior, at
one with nature. I like the sound of all that, and once again, I find my toes curling inside my UGG boots.
I start to make my way downstairs but pause at the top for a moment when I hear Koa’s voice.
“Is what it is, can’t spend the rest of our lives pretending it didn’t happen.”
He’s sitting on the bottom step, head hanging forward as one hand works the back of his neck and the other holds the phone to his ear.
I feel like I’ve interrupted a private moment and take a step back, but Koa either hears or senses my presence and stands, turns, and looks up at me.
I take the first two steps with his eyes on mine but almost stumble and most definitely stop in my tracks when he says into the phone, “Listen, son, you give me a call back with all your flight details, and I’ll make sure I’m out at the airport to pick you up that Wednesday.”
Son?
He has a son?
Does that mean he also has a wife?
I don’t know why this should come as any kind of surprise, I guess his age to be at around thirty-six or thirty-seven, so why wouldn’t he have kids, a wife? There are people from the estate I grew up on who are grandparents by his age.
I start moving again while Koa continues his conversation. He’s blocking my way, so I stop two steps away from the bottom, waiting.
“Love you, too, boy. Now get going and give that right arm a rest and don’t go getting tempted by any of them young fillies or mares in the paddock. Pretty sure that kinda thing’s illegal, even out in bumfuck nowhere.”
He ends the call, eyes still on me.
“Did you just advise your child not to have sex with a horse?”
The gold in his brown eyes shines under the lights from the antler chandelier above us, and I wonder for a moment if they’re actually green and gold, not brown at all.
“Doesn’t every parent?”
“Not being one myself—a parent that is—I wouldn’t actually know, but I would assume it’s in the Parenting 101 handbook.”
“Then you’d assume right. Chapter ten, paragraph four: ‘Upon reaching teenage years, advise your child to abstain from bestiality.’ Were you not given that advice?”