Chapter Five
Eighteen Months Later – Mozambique
“Is the fact that you’re out here all alone mean that you didn’t get lucky last night after all?”
Lauren glanced up from the French newspaper she’d been poring over while sipping coffee and eating a bowl of fresh fruit and yogurt. “Depends on your definition of lucky,” she drawled. “If you’re asking if I shagged the jerk then the answer is a very unfortunate yes. But the word lucky doesn’t figure into the conversation for even a second. I would use the phrases “gravely disappointed” and “psychotically pissed off” instead.”
The three other members of her production crew quickly took seats at the patio table where she’d set up camp nearly half an hour ago. Each one of the men looked half-asleep, more than a little hungover, but also extremely intrigued by the reply she’d just given to Chris’s question.
“So where is Loverboy this morning?” inquired Stefan cheerily. “Did you wear him out?”
Lauren snorted in derision. “Hardly. After one go-round with Two Pump Chump, I was trying to figure out exactly how much I’d had to drink last night. Because I gotta tell you guys – there is no other excuse aside from being stinking drunk for me to have tapped that. As for where he is this morning, my guess would be at the closest medical clinic.”
Karl’s face held a pained expression. “What did you do this time, Lauren?” he asked in exasperation.
She shrugged nonchalantly and reached for her second croissant of the morning. “Nothing he didn’t deserve. And believe me, when you hear what that fucker was trying to get away with, you’ll all agree he got off easy.”
Chris smirked as he helped himself to coffee from the carafe that had been left on the table. “You sent the guy to the hospital just because he turned out to be a minuteman?”
Lauren refilled her own cup once Chris was done and began to dump cream and sugar – a great deal of it – into the strong African brew. “Minuteman? You’re being generous, Chris,” she replied caustically. “I’d say more like thirty seconds, if that. But, no, that isn’t why he’s probably seeking medical attention right about now. That would be due to the fact that the lying scumbag was trying to steal photos off my laptop. Turns out the bastard works for the travel bureau of one of those third-rate news agencies, didn’t have the budget to go on the dive we took yesterday, and thought he’d help himself to one of my photos for his article.”
Karl emitted a low whistle. “That’s fucked up, kiddo. How’d you figure it out?”
She slathered more butter on her croissant. “Caught him red-handed. I had a weird feeling about him from the minute we walked inside my room – the way he kept looking around, some of the questions he asked. So after the most pathetic excuse for a shag you could ever imagine, I pretended to fall asleep. He barely waited five minutes before he booted up my computer and plugged in his flash drive.”
“Ah, shit.” Chris shook his head. “How bad did you mess him up? Are we going to have to scrub blood off the floor or anything?”
“Nah.” Lauren waved a hand in dismissal. “I mean, I was so pissed I didn’t trust myself with a knife. Especially when the little prick – and you can take that description figuratively and literally – started whining that he was only going to copy one photo. Like that made it okay.”
Stefan regarded her with a guarded expression. “So what exactly did you do to him?”
She grinned evilly. “I told him that copying just one photo was a wise decision, since that meant I only had to dislocate one of his fingers. But then I remembered how he’d shot his load off before I’d even gotten warmed up, so I jerked a second finger out of joint as payback.”
All three men stared at her in mingled shock, amusement, and honest to God fear.
“Jesus,” muttered Karl. “You are terrifying, kiddo. Fucking terrifying. So what did Quickdraw McGraw do then?”
“Screamed like a teenaged girl at a rock concert,” replied Lauren matter-of-factly. “And while he was wailing away I grabbed his little flash drive and flushed it down the toilet. Then I got the knife out and slashed holes in all his clothes. He had some nice stuff, too – Ralph Lauren shirt, Diesel jeans, Magli boots.”
Stefan shook his flaxen head in disbelief. “You even slashed his boots? I remember admiring those Magli’s last night in the bar, too. He must have been pretty pissed off.”
Lauren winked at her crew members. “He was too busy chasing after his stuff. After I shredded them I tossed everything off the balcony.”
“Isn’t your room on the third floor?” inquired Karl.
“Yup.” She eyed the basket of croissants longingly, wondering if taking a third would officially classify her as a glutton. “Lucky for him it was late and no one else saw him running around bare-assed naked. Or wearing see-through clothes.”
Chris was laughing uncontrollably by now, clutching his stomach. “Christ, I can just picture him running around the lawn picking up his boxers and boots. And didn’t it rain most of the night?”
“Like cats and dogs. Though Minuteman looked more like a drowned rat by the time he ran off,” clarified Lauren. “Serves the cocksucker right. He’s damned lucky he got off that easy.”
Karl ran a hand through his nearly shoulder length dirty blond hair. As the oldest of the crew, he tried – usually unsuccessfully – to keep the others in line when they were on assignment. And ever since Lauren had joined the team six months ago, he’d more than had his hands full trying rather futilely to do just that.
He pointed a finger at her. “You’d better hope he doesn’t press charges, kiddo. Or file a complaint with the magazine. I’m guessing he already knows who we work for.”
“Yeah, right,” scoffed Lauren. “Because every guy I know – including you, Karla, Christina, and Stefanie – would be so anxious to admit some girl half your size dislocated your fingers and tossed your clothes off the balcony.”
Lauren had christened each of them with the feminine versions of their names within the first month of her joining the crew. It had been towards the end of an assignment, and only Lauren hadn’t been tired or cranky or eager to get home. She’d joked then that they were all acting like a bunch of high school girls, and from that point on she teased them with their nicknames whenever they got a little whiny.
The three men exchanged a glance before Karl nodded sheepishly. “I see your point. And hopefully Quickdraw will think twice about trying to poach someone else’s work again.”
“And I’ll tell you right now what else is never going to happen again,” declared Lauren. She glared darkly at Chris. “You are never again going to dare me to do anything that involves boinking some dude. You know I’ve got a problem, Chris,” she whined. “When someone dares me to do something I can’t back down, no matter what. So in the future dare me to do stuff like eat bugs or do a handstand on a six-inch wide ledge. But no – more – guys. Got it?”
Chris heaved a sigh of resignation. “Fine. But only because I don’t want a dislocated finger of my own.”
Karl chuckled. “Now that we’ve heard all the juicy details of Her Majesty’s adventures last night, let’s talk about today’s adventure, hmm?”
Lauren grinned at Karl’s use of the nickname Chris had come up with during her first assignment in Guadeloupe. They’d run into some difficulty with their hotel reservations, and she had shoved Stefan aside as he’d tried to resolve the problem in his usual calm, diplomatic manner. Instead, Lauren had let loose on the hapless desk clerk with a stream of rapid fire French. Within five minutes they had been handed room keys, and Chris had dubbed Lauren “The Queen of Confrontation.”
She’d looked at him quizzically. “Huh?”
“You know, like from Seinfeld,” he’d explained. “They used to called Julia Louis Dreyfuss’s character that because she always got in peoples’ faces and said what was on her mind. But you’re way ballsier than she ever was.”
So the nickname had stuck, and had gradually evolved into the abbreviated “Her Majesty”. And Lauren continued to make sure she remained worthy of such a title, never backing down from a confrontation or allowing anyone to intimidate her. The rest of the crew always seemed more than a little in awe of her, and in barely six months’ time Lauren had become the unspoken leader of the group.
Landing the job as a photographer with National Geographic Travel right after college had been so far beyond what Lauren could have hoped to achieve at this point in her life that at times she still couldn’t believe it. She’d entered a photography contest sponsored by the magazine during the fall semester of her senior year at UCLA, never expecting to win.
But win she had, and landed this job with the magazine’s travel affiliate that had been part of the prize. At the age of twenty two, she was traveling to all of the places she’d always dreamed of seeing, and taking photos of the tourist attractions and activities each location offered, like yesterday’s amazing dive off the Bazaruto Archipelago.
As the very junior member of her crew, Lauren had been fully prepared to have to prove herself to the three other members, to slowly gain their respect and earn her stripes. But she’d been pleasantly surprised at how easily and how quickly the three male members of the crew had accepted her and made her feel like one of them.
Karl, who wrote all of the articles and photo captions, was in his early thirties, tall and rangy with his long, dirty blond hair, and a full beard and mustache. He favored ripped jeans, funky T-shirts, and cowboy boots, and nearly always traveled with his guitar in tow. When he wasn’t on assignment, or attending planning meetings in New York, he lived with his longtime girlfriend in Gatlinburg, Tennessee.
Chris, the videographer, was in his late twenties and lived fulltime in Manhattan. Lauren had dubbed him – to his face – “a hipster doofus”. No matter the weather or climate he nearly always wore a knit cap of some type, his oddly mismatched clothes hanging loosely on his skinny frame. And, as Lauren teased him about on a regular basis, he couldn’t hold his liquor worth shit, and had the most appalling taste in women she’d ever seen.
Stefan was the crew’s producer, the person who worked with the magazine staff to make travel arrangements, obtain any necessary travel visas, procured film permits when required, and acted as liaison with the local tourist bureaus and adventure outfitters. He hailed from Sweden, spoke half a dozen languages, and thought everything Lauren said and did was both hilarious and rather shocking. She, in turn, loved to shake up the rather prim, reserved Swede as often as possible.
But as different as all of them might be, they jelled together very, very well, and it was rare when they totally disagreed on how to approach a feature. Lauren considered all of them to be good friends as well as co-workers, and trusted that none of them would ever make a serious pass at her – Karl because of his long-term but complicated relationship with his girlfriend Tamsyn; Stefan because he was more than half-afraid of her; and Chris – well, he’d got the message loud and clear during their first assignment that Lauren was not interested. Since then the videographer had treated her solely as a co-worker, drinking buddy, and fellow adventure seeker.
Lauren loved her job, thanked her lucky stars every single day that she’d been fortunate enough to win the photography contest, and therefore been able to realize her dreams so quickly. She thrived on the challenges the job presented, loved the ability of being able to combine her chosen profession with her love of adventure and physical activity. Thus far, the assignments had called for her to go scuba diving and snorkeling, white water rafting in Class IV rapids, hang gliding, horseback riding, ascend and rappel steep cliffs on fixed ropes, and ride dune buggies in the desert.
No job was perfect, however, and there were two major downsides that she had to deal with on a regular basis. One of those was the fact that her presence was required in New York City for a couple of weeks after each assignment had been finished. The crew would spend that time putting the finishing touches on their article before handing it over to the production staff, and then they would review plans for their next assignment. Once everything had been wrapped up, Lauren would head back to Big Sur for two to three weeks until it was time to embark on the next adventure.
She was no stranger to New York, having spent quite a bit of time there over the years. Her maternal grandparents had emigrated to the city from their native Montreal when Lauren’s mother and aunt had been just eight years old. Along with her parents and sister, Lauren had visited her grandparents and Aunt Maddy every summer and spent each Thanksgiving with them as well. And while Julia had always loved New York – the museums and theaters and restaurants, not to mention all of the fashion boutiques and high-end department stores – Lauren hadn’t shared her twin’s sentiments. She found Manhattan noisy, crowded, and claustrophobic, and couldn’t wait to leave each time she finished up with an assignment, was always eager to return to her beloved cabin in wild, rugged Big Sur.
Her grandparents had died within a year of each other a couple of years back, and their brownstone on the Upper East Side had been sold. Julia lived in Manhattan now, apprenticing at an interior design firm, but her tiny apartment was barely big enough to accommodate her and her extensive wardrobe. So whenever Lauren had to be in town, she stayed with Aunt Maddy, who owned a spacious apartment conveniently located near her job as the head buyer at Bergdorf Goodman, Manhattan’s most exclusive department store. And as much as Lauren adored spending time with both her sister and their beloved aunt, it was always with a sense of relief that she boarded a flight out of New York, whether it was to return home or to head out on a new assignment.
And that was the second issue she had with an otherwise dream job – the travel arrangements. Nadine, the staff member who was responsible for making flight and hotel reservations for the crews, stuck to the budget she’d been given like a hawk. She prided herself on not just staying within budget but saving the magazine as much money as possible. That was why the crew rarely got direct flights anywhere, being forced to make connections and endure long layovers. Each time Lauren had to fly to New York from the West Coast it was on a red-eye. Checking baggage was frowned upon since it incurred extra charges. And their accommodations were often on the borderline between three stars and dicey. Lauren certainly didn’t expect to sleep on five hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, or have a top of the line flat panel TV with a hundred cable channels in her room. But she drew the line at mildew on the shower walls, or air conditioning that didn’t work, and she would often nag and complain to the front desk staff until she got moved to a better room.
Yet another of Nadine’s cost-cutting tricks was to book their trips during the off season. That was why they’d traveled to Mozambique at the height of rainy season, and why the drive from the airport out to the guest lodge had been made through a torrential downpour and over nearly washed out roads. When Lauren had seen the nasty weather upon landing a few days ago, she’d overridden Nadine’s strict instructions and rented a vehicle with four wheel drive and tires that wouldn’t get them stuck in the mud. A stern lecture on staying within the budget would be awaiting her upon their return to New York, but it certainly wouldn’t be the first time she’d pissed Nadine off and it definitely wouldn’t be the last.
Fortunately, the rain had eased up enough yesterday for their diving excursion to go off successfully. And while the forecast called for more rain this afternoon – bucket loads of the stuff – Stefan was fairly confident they could get their morning shoot finished in time.
They were due to fly home tomorrow, with connecting flights in both Johannesburg and Frankfurt, before returning to a cold, snowy New York winter. And by the end of her time there, she’d be nearly climbing the walls, anxious to be back in California and her much loved sanctuary. Even if that sanctuary continued to brim over with memories that were almost unbearable at times.
Even now, a year and a half after Ben had broken her heart, she still reached for him in the night or found herself taking two coffee mugs out of the cabinet. And no other man had ever come close to helping her forget about Ben the Bastard – the not so flattering nickname she’d bestowed on him after he’d left her without so much as a “have a nice day”.
Oh, she’d tried like hell to forget the sonovabitch, to date other guys and move on. As soon as she’d returned to college, she had agreed to a date with the first guy who’d asked her, even though he had been way too clean cut and straitlaced for her taste. At least he’d been a decent kisser, and their make-out session had almost progressed as far as third base. But then Lauren had gotten cold feet, had felt more than mildly repulsed at the touch of hands and lips that hadn’t been Ben’s, and she’d abruptly called a halt to the action.
It had taken six months and more than half a bottle of tequila before she’d actually had sex with a guy, and it had been such an unsatisfactory experience that she’d sworn off men for the foreseeable future. A vow she hadn’t broken – well, except for a whole lot of relatively harmless flirting – until last night’s unfortunate hook-up.
The lowlife, would-be thief that she’d tossed out of her room had reminded her of Ben. The resemblance – plus his really sexy Australian accent – had caught her attention, and they’d made frequent eye contact across the largely empty bar last night. That still hadn’t been enough to tempt her into breaking her dry spell, however. It hadn’t been until that half-drunk idiot Chris had double dared her to approach the guy, taunting that she didn’t have the nerve to actually do it. And when Lauren had still refused to pick up the gauntlet, Chris had upped the ante by calling her a tease, a spoilsport, and, worst of all, a chicken.
That had done it for Lauren. Nobody called her a chicken, no matter what the circumstances, and so she’d bolted down another shot of vodka - since the bar didn’t stock what she considered a decent brand of tequila – and then approached the hot Australian surfer-type dude. And considering what a piss poor decision that had turned out to be, she figured she was due for a much longer dry spell to commence.
***
Stefan’s optimism about the weather had been short-lived, for the heavens had opened up about half an hour before their final shoot at an elephant reserve wrapped up. Lauren, who’d been standing in thigh-deep water taking her shots, had borne the brunt of the downpour, and was thoroughly drenched by the time they’d bundled back into the Range Rover. She’d wasted little time hurrying into the shower upon their return to the guest lodge, thankful that Nadine had at least booked them decent accommodations this time – with clean, hot showers, plush bath towels, and brand name toiletries.
As she dried off, she took a brief glance at the permanent reminder of Ben that she’d impulsively had inked on her body – a very small but nonetheless exact replica of his own intricate tattoo. It had hurt like fuck to have the super sensitive skin of her inner thigh inked, but she’d insisted on having it applied to that particular spot. When Ben had left her all those months ago, it had been incredibly difficult to fight past the pain, to go on with her life as though nothing had happened, and to never reveal to her family or friends how stupidly naïve she’d been.
The tattoo served as a painful reminder to never, ever let anyone hurt her that way again – and especially not a gorgeous, hunky man with dark blue eyes and three-day stubble. Lauren only wished with vengeful malice that she had thought to carve her initials on his skin so that he, too, would have a constant reminder of the girl he’d left behind.