17
HARRIET
It was one hell of a going-away party.
First Roland insisted on showering, because he'd been laying in bed for two days without cleaning himself, and although he smelled fine and sweet (with just the right amount of musky scent) I said okay. Then I waiting until the water was running, and slipped my clothes off and joined him, running my hands over his body with the bar of soap to help get him clean. So what if my motivations were less than altruistic? He gets clean, I get to rub soapy water over every inch of his chiseled body. Sounds like a win-win to me.
By the time we got out of the shower we were kissing and groping and pushing all the clothes off his bed to get dirty all over again, this time with me on top riding him so hard and squeezing my sex so tight that I thought I might break him off inside of me.
We cuddled for an hour and caught up on all the other information we'd skipped: childhood, hobbies, what we were currently watching on Netflix. I'd never heard of Peaky Blinders, but once Roland told me it had Tom Hardy in it I promised to watch it when I got back from Africa.
And then we were making out again, and he rolled me over onto my side and took me from behind, grabbing a handful of my hair to pull my head back so he could kiss and nibble at my neck, and the combination of that and the angle of penetration had me cumming so hard I thought I might literally die.
We picked up a pizza and went back to my place; I didn't need to invite him, because we had an unspoken agreement. We were on the same wavelength. Except when I joked about having sex a fourth time, when he practically choked on a piece of pepperoni and said that it might kill him to try. I giggled to myself after that.
"So why bare-knuckle boxing?" I said while we ate.
"Why not?"
"Isn't it illegal, because it's so dangerous?"
He waggled a finger at me. "That's a lie. Normal boxing's a great deal more dangerous."
"How's that?" I asked. It didn't make any sense.
"A few reasons." He touched one finger with the tip of his pizza. "First, gloves are more deadly because they're added weight. They more than double the weight of a fist, so every punch hits harder."
"Sure, but doesn't the padding make up for that?"
"No, love. The padding doesn't make a bit of difference. Not when you're punching that hard."
I chewed that over. "Huh, alright. Kind of like how if you fall out of an airplane, hitting the water is just as deadly as hitting the ground."
"You're a smart one," he grinned, then held up a second finger. "Two, bare-knuckle boxing limits how hard you can punch."
He paused to sip his drink, so I frowned and said, "What do you mean? How do they enforce that?"
"No. I meant it's a built-in limit." He held up his fist. "If I punch a man in the cheek as hard as I can with my bare fist, I'll break his jaw and my hand. So I have to limit how hard I punch. Enough to hurt someone, but not so hard that I hurt my own hand. So the punches in bare-knuckle boxing are far weaker, and less damaging. But boxing gloves? Those bloody things let you get away with punches that'll kill a man."
"Huh," I said. "I've never thought about it, but it makes sense. So why is one illegal and the other isn't?"
"Bloody politics!" he said, slamming his fist down on the table. "The boxing agencies are corrupt as all hell..."
I smiled as he went on his tirade, enjoying seeing him so passionate about something.
Roland sat on my bed while I packed, and the sight of him in the corner of my eye was an almost insurmountable distraction. Even with the list of things I needed to bring that Doctor Cardiff had sent, I felt like I was forgetting something. The small number of belongings in my suitcase didn't look like enough to sustain me for three months.
We slept like we were drugged, nestled against each other's body for warmth.
And before we knew it, in the blink of an eye, it was time to leave. Roland offered to drive my car to the airport and pick me up when I landed in June, and that sounded nice so I took him up on it. Driving there, I wanted to slow down time. To drag it out longer, because every second I was with Roland was a delight, our companionship blissful and comforting.
"You can just drop me off curb-side," I said, but Roland scoffed.
"Absolutely not! I'm taking you as far as I can go before the guards shoot me. Just see if I bloody don't."
I turned toward the window to hide my grin while he parked in the garage.
It wasn't very far: once my back was checked we walked 20 feet to the end of the security checkpoint line. I felt a tightness in my chest as I faced him, this man I'd only known for a week, which in reality was more like two days altogether, but for whom I wanted to stay. He was gorgeous in his tight T-shirt, lean and strong and all mine. Mine. I couldn't believe this man belonged to me. That he wanted me as much as I wanted him.
"Don't say anything," he said, pulling me into a bear hug. He squeezed me so tight I thought he might break my ribs, but then eased off. "There's nothing to say. Alright?"
"Alright." And then we kissed, faces coming together with automatic ease, and even though it went on and on I didn't give a damn that we were in a public place. And then I was staring into his eyes, his soft eyes which showed the vulnerability deep down underneath his hard exterior, and I nodded that it was time to go.
"Text me when you get on your connecting flight," he said, and I promised I would. I kissed him one more time on the cheek, let his hand linger on my arm, and then I turned to go.
*
I made it through security and sat down outside my gate before starting to wonder how long I should wait until texting him. I didn't want to seem too... I don't know. Needy? Guys didn't like clingy girls, though by flying across the world I was probably as far away from that as possible. But before I could think of something clever to text him, he beat me to it.
ASSHOLE ROLAND: You're not gunna be a dick to me when you get back, are you?
I frowned at the screen before realizing what he meant. I smiled, changed his name in my contacts list, and responded.
HARRIET: I haven't decided yet. I'm still torn between spiteful comeuppance and graciousness.
SEXY HUNK ROLAND: I don't think you have a spiteful bone in your body
HARRIET: Oh, you'd be surprised. When I get back, I'll order two shots of whiskey and drink them both right in front of you.
HARRIET: It'll break your Irish heart.
SEXY HUNK ROLAND: Now you've gone too far.
SEXY HUNK ROLAND: You don't mess with a man's whiskey.
HARRIET: Told you I could be spiteful. Muahahaha.
SEXY HUNK ROLAND: I miss you.
I held my breath at the sudden tenderness in the last text. I tried to keep the stupid grin off my face.
HARRIET: I miss you too.
The flight to Atlanta was uneventful, and I was still so behind on sleep that I somehow managed to rest my head against the window and not wake up until the wheels hit the ground. Our flight would leave at night and land in Johannesburg around the same time the next day, 15 hours plus the time change, and Doctor Cardiff had suggested it was best to try to sleep on the plane to get the right sleep schedule set, or at least close to set. So I grabbed a coffee that would hopefully keep me awake another few hours until we'd had our dinner on the flight, and spent the next hour reading documentation about Niassa National Reserve.
I had another window seat on the next flight, thank God, because 15 hours was a long time to be crammed in between two people. I put my small bag underneath the seat and tried to contain my excitement.
I was going to Africa. I was going to work with elephants! No more stuffy libraries or offices, or sitting in my tiny studio apartment studying. I was going to do real research.
It had been one hell of a week.
My luck continued when the middle seat between me and an elderly man was empty. Extra room, jackpot. The plane took off, and I watched the fading twilight as our plane raced away from the setting sun.
Once I landed at Johannesburg, I'd have a 14 hour layover before catching a flight to Pemba, Mozambique, on the Indian Ocean. Then we'd drive the rest of the way to Niassa, the wildlife reserve on the border with Tanzania. I wondered how far that was; Cardiff's emails (which I'd printed out) didn't say. Probably several hours, if not a full day. Africa was big.
The research schedule was set to have one project at a time: everyone would help with every other project sequentially. There were four of them, and mine was third on the list. So I wouldn't get to start on my specific thesis topic for about two months. But that was fine by me; not only would it be exciting helping the others, but it would give me time to mentally prepare for my research. I still had a lot of details to work out: the sourcing of the honeybees we would be using, the ideal spacing between them along perimeter fences. There were probably a million little details that would pop up I hadn't even considered.
But that's what made this exciting. No matter how well-prepared you were, real life field work always threw you for a loop!
Once we were over water, and the sun had fully set behind us, stars began to show on the deep spread of black above. Even with the glow of the plane's wing tips, I could make out faint constellations. I couldn't see Altair though, not from this angle. I decided I would look up at it every night before going to bed. I hoped Roland would do the same.
I reached underneath the seat and pulled the gryphon out of my bag. Holy potatoes, it was so beautiful! I wasn't just being nice to Roland when I said I loved mythical creatures; he couldn't have picked a better gift if he'd literally read my high school diary.
And the gem! It was obviously too large to be real, but it was mesmerizing nonetheless. Smooth facets around a teardrop shape, the point aiming down the beast's back. Every detail of the feathers on its folded wings was carved expertly, and I wondered how long it must have taken to carve it from the cool stone.
The ruby kept catching my eye, pulling my attention toward it. Maybe it was my imagination, but it almost seemed to glow in the dim cabin light. I ran my fingers over it, appreciating the weight...
CLICK.
I flinched: the ruby moved! It sunk into the carving several millimeters. For a long moment I was terrified that I'd broken it, somehow knocked it loose from whatever prongs were holding it in place. But as I prodded the edge with my fingernail it seemed firmly in place. Like it had never moved at all.
Huh. Maybe it had been my imagination.
Holding Roland's precious gift in my lap, I closed my eyes and dreamed of him.