3: It’s Getting Complicated-2
1864 Words
THEY MET FOR BREAKFAST.
She felt a little odd sitting across from him so early in the morning. His buzz cut should have sent alarm bells ringing in her head. But she reasoned that perhaps he was someone who, for no other reason than he liked the sound of his razor, liked his hair sheared close to the scalp.
The crew cut opened his face that was beautiful to look at. Lines were visible on the outside of his eyes, but they were laugh lines, not worry lines. The blue-green eyes didn’t appear to miss anything, and his lips had a permanent smirk on them. His shoulders were broad but not bulky, classic mountaineer physique.
Maybe he’s a sponsored Aussie athlete who earns millions looking beautiful.
She discreetly assessed him—at least she thought she was being discreet. But she must have been staring because the next thing she knew he was leaning forward.
‘Care to take it off my face, whatever it is?’
‘Sorry?’ she asked in surprise.
‘You’ve been staring at me. So, are there bread crumbs on my mouth or something?’
She reddened, looked down at her plate and stammered off a response.
‘No. I–I was just thinking. Sorry, I–I didn’t mean to...’
He cheekily replied, ‘It’s okay, I understand. I have that effect on women.’ Then he burst into laughter.
She turned a deeper shade of red.
He stared at her momentarily. ‘You’re beautiful blushing.’
She suddenly felt hot all over. She really didn’t think it was possible to feel that warm and not faint.
He gallantly saved her by changing the topic.
‘So, what are we doing today?’
She took a deep breath and said, ‘I had plans to go to Deep Creek Hot Springs. You’re welcome to tag along.’
‘I’d like that,’ he said. He called the waiter to settle the bill. She offered to pay for her share, but he refused to accept it. ‘Least I can do,’ he said with a wink.
They walked out to the car park. He looked up at the skies as he put his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker.
‘It’s gonna be a great day,’ he said. ‘So, who’s driving?’
She shrugged her shoulders to indicate she didn’t care who, so Banjo made the decision for them.
‘I’ll drive; you navigate.’
‘Let’s take my car,’ she offered.
He looked at the two vehicles parked side by side. His rental was a brand-new Land Rover and hers was ancient-looking. It was a no-brainer, but what the hell! He wasn’t a comfort creature anyway, so he raised an open palm, and she deposited the key in it. He opened the door for her, which she found rather old fashioned. When he slid his bum on the driver’s seat, she teased him about it.
‘Did your mother tell you to do that?’
He played along. Pointing to his ear, he said, ‘She whispered into my implant.’ He glanced at the back seat and found the familiar backpack.
‘Which way?’
‘Take the I-15 and follow it north through Cajon Pass. Exit at Bear Valley Road and turn right. Go east on Bear Valley Road for about ten miles, and after passing the Apple Valley Plaza make a right at the traffic light on Central. Drive about three miles on Central, across a railway line and over a steep hill to Ocotillo Way. Turn left on Ocotillo and continue for two miles, starting on a paved road but turning into a dirt road, until you hit Bowen Ranch Road. Turn right and drive about six miles to Bowen Ranch.’
She was nearly breathless by the time she finished giving him the instruction. She was taken by surprise when he reached over to her and stroked her cheek with his thumb.
‘How about we take this one step at a time?’
Her heart leapt to her throat. She twisted around to face the window and exhaled silently.
For God sake, get a grip! She scolded herself. You’re a twenty-five-year-old woman acting like a teenager.
He turned into the 1-15 and followed it north. He turned on the radio.
‘Talk or music?’
‘Music.’
He glanced at her.
‘Your choice.’
She turned the ancient radio dial to a station playing middle-of-the-road songs, which were mostly, horror of all horrors, love songs.
‘If my musical taste doesn’t suit you,’ she said, ‘feel free to change the station.’
He reached across to her again to touch her hand briefly, which sent a shot of electrical pulse through her.
‘I like mellow sound. That’s cool.’
The DJ played Westlife’s I Lay My Love on You. Lost in the moment, Banjo sang along in his throaty voice, tapping the steering wheel.
Bloody hell! And he can sing, too!
She wanted to sink deeper into her seat, wondering how she would manage to keep her heart from falling into pieces.
He saw the sign ‘Bear Valley Road.’ He turned the radio’s volume down slightly, eyed her from the corner of his eyes. ‘Left? Right?’
She snapped out of her reverie, ‘Turn right. Go east for about ten miles. Keep an eye for Apple Valley Plaza.’
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, sensing how quiet she had become.
She nodded. She reached for her backpack, took out a bag of jellies and offered him some.
‘A woman after my own heart,’ he said as he dug into the bag for a couple of snake jellies.
‘Do you say that to everyone?’
‘No way,’ he said rather defensively. ‘Not a player, though it seems people mistake me for one.’
‘I didn’t mean to imply...’
He looked at her. ‘Yeah, I know.’
She guided him after they passed the Plaza until they came to a dirt road.
‘This winding road has blind curves, so drive carefully,’ she warned. ‘After about a mile, we will pass this ranch with a tire fence. At any fork, stay right. The road gets narrow just before you reach Bowen Ranch.’
He commented that she was the best GPS instrument he’d ever had the pleasure of receiving instructions from. She wasn’t sure if he was taking the piss, as Aussies call it, so she rolled her eyes and shut up until Bowen Ranch came into view.
‘Bowen Ranch is private property. The owner expects visitors to pay five dollars per person per day and ten dollars for overnight camping. If he doesn’t come to the door, there are some envelopes and pencils on the steps for us to deposit our payment in the slot on the wall.’
He stopped the vehicle next to the homestead.
‘Stay here.’
He got out, rang the doorbell, rocked on his heels while he waited for someone to come to the door. No one came, even after the second try.
She rolled down the window and propped her head on the frame, watching him.
He picked up an envelope and slipped a ‘Jackson’ in it.
They continued down the road for another half a mile to the parking lot where a sign clearly stated, ‘No vehicles beyond this point.’ They disembarked.
He hefted the backpack and tossed her the car key. She caught it easily. He was impressed with her reaction time and hand-eye coordination and said so. Admiring her, he touched the tip of her nose. He assessed it as lovely and fantastic.
‘The hike is just over two miles down to the springs, but there’s an elevation change of about nine hundred thirty feet.’
‘Easy,’ he said.
They both picked up a walking stick. Being experienced walkers, they knew what a change of elevation of that height meant. They followed the well-trodden path downhill that meandered up towards the canyon. They got into the swing of things and engaged in easy banter. Just about the only topic they avoided was what they did for a living; even when he made a game of it.
‘Aerobics instructor?’
‘Nope.’
‘Tour guide?’
‘Nah.’
‘Sports teacher.’
‘No way, I’ve no patience with teenagers,’ she said, laughing. Then it was her turn to be the inquisitor.
‘Millionaire athlete?’
‘I wish,’ he said with a cackle.
‘Extreme sports practitioner.’
‘I could be, but I’m not.’
‘Trust fund baby! You gallivant around the world, spending your forebears’ money.’
He laughed out loud.
‘You should write fiction. You’d be magnificent at it.’
It was a stupid conversation, but safe; for her anyway.
The path started to gradually go downhill again until they reached a pool of crystal-clear water.
‘Where’s the hot spring?’
‘It’s on the other side of the creek. This is where we take off our clothes to swim across.’
She wasn’t self-conscious about taking off her clothes; after all, she was used to being in the company of men wearing just her bikini or sports bra and sports shorts. A fit and toned size six, she had everything to be proud of, although she never made a habit of flaunting it unnecessarily.
She turned around, pulled her tee over her head to reveal a black sports bra that held her bosom firmly. Next to come off were her walking shoes. Then she removed her shorts to reveal an itsy-bitsy black hipster. She dipped her toes into the water and shivered: it was cold still.
She turned around to find Banjo folding his clothes and hers. He bundled them and their shoes inside the pack. He rose to his full height of 6’2, wearing nothing but a tight boxer-shorts called AussieBum. She had a giggle.
He raised an eyebrow, twirled around for her viewing pleasure and said, ‘You like?’
She laughed. ‘Come on; stop fooling around.’
It was then totally unexpected when he gave her a gentle shove on her behind with his foot, causing her to tip into the creek. She gasped as the cold assaulted her. She angrily splashed about and threw armfuls of water at him.
Banjo laughed, waded in and swam across to the other side, leaving her seething.
But by the time she reached the other side, with the exertion of swimming in the cold creek, she had calmed down. She rose out of the water and walked the very short distance along the beach where she found their pack lying on its own. The hot spring beckoned for her to wade in. Banjo was already there, submerged up to his neck.
She felt a jolt as she waded in, coming in from the cold like that.
Banjo walked over to her, gazed into her eyes and ran a thumb across her lips.
‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘for bringing me here.’
She felt the hot, hot springs! But not in the way she hoped for.
They stayed in the water until their skin wrinkled and until their stomachs growled.
He invited her to join him on the beach where he laid a beach towel. He draped the second one over her shoulders and used his shirt to dry himself. She was used to perving on fit men: where she came from body fat was an alien concept, it just didn’t exist. It wasn’t just that he had an excellent physique, but that he had a certain quality about him that was captivating. She determined it was because he was oblivious to his s*x appeal. Most good-looking men, she learnt over the years, were in love with themselves. It didn’t seem to be the case with Banjo.
He was pouring white wine into a plastic glass for her when she asked, ‘What’s that?’ He pointed to a tattoo on his chest with her lips.
He smiled, a thought passed of wanting to kiss them as she pouted.
‘It’s the Black Kite, Australian raptor.’
‘Why the Black Kite?’
‘I like to watch them fly,’ he said with a twinkle in his eyes.
‘You like to fly?’
‘Yeah, I do.’
‘Are you a pilot?’
He nodded.
She closed her eyes and exhaled.
If he’s a pilot and he’s here for training, then it means ...
She cut the thought short. It didn’t bear thinking about. She felt hot again. This could get complicated.
She was blushing again, her red cheeks enhancing her magnetic appeal.
He gave in to his emotions, leant towards her and brushed her lips with his. His immediate thought after this was: s**t, it just got complicated.
- Writer
