Page 22 of Goode Vibrations
“Did the shots of the wreck make it into the feature?”
He laughed. “You know they did. Turned it into the main event—Stranded in the Gobi, Jerry called it. One of my most well-known pieces, matter of fact. I took lots of video on that one, too, and Jerry pitched it as a mini-feature on the cable network channel. I’d actually recorded the crash itself, as I’d been interviewing the pilot when it happened and never stopped. Caught the whole thing, by some miracle. I’m not really a videographer, but I like to experiment sometimes, and that was an experiment. Fairly successful, I guess.”
“You’ve been on TV?” I asked, incredulous.
“I mean, yeah. It was a little half-hour special that aired at midnight on a Tuesday in February. Nothing to go nuts over. I’m no David Attenborough.”
“Still. It’s cool.”
He shrugged. “I mean, yeah, I thought it was mean as to be on the telly, but I’ll take not being in a plane wreck if given the choice. Makes a good story, but it wasn’t exactly fun at the time. Thinking you might not make it home is never a fun thing.”
I frowned, considering that. “Yeah, I can see how the possibility of dying would put a damper on things.”
Conversation wandered naturally and casually after that, from topic to topic as easily and freely as if we’d been old friends for years. He’d discovered an appreciation for American country music on his journey—I don’t mind country and will listen to most songs if they pop up in a playlist, but it’s not my favorite. He introduced me to the fact that other countries had their own local favorite bands and famous singers—which seems like a duh, but I’m a self-centered sheltered American and never really considered the notion of New Zealand having its own crop of artists of all genres. Discussing artists and using references that are unfamiliar to me was something I had never explored. He had a whole playlist of favorites, and we spent a good two and a half hours listening to the playlist and discussing the songs and styles and comparing his New Zealand bands to my favorite American counterparts.
Eventually we found ourselves passing through a middling-sized town with a few decent places to get a real meal, and with only a minor amount of good-natured squabbling over fast food versus sit down, we ended up at a sit-down place eating burgers and fries and drinking sweetened iced tea, which Errol had never had before and found bizarre but good, in an eye-wateringly sweet sort of way.
“It’s like a fizzy, without the fizz,” was his remark.
“Fizzy?”
“Soft drink. Soda.”
“Oh.” I laughed. “You have funny terms for everything.”
“Only funny to you because you’re not from New Zealand,” he said. “And honestly, I’m rarely in New Zealand these days, so I don’t really use all the latest slang, plus traveling abroad like I do, the accent is fine but I gotta be understood by people for whom English is a second or third or fourth language. So I can’t really say things like what time is brekkie and how much are those sunnies and are you here visiting your rellies, and chur bro let’s bowl round the pub for a piss up…it kinda makes communication harder, so I try to drop the lingo and use basic English. Sometimes an old word will slip through, especially now that I’m in America and most people can sort out what I mean.”
I wasn’t going to tell him that I found the slang fucking adorable and hysterical at the same time, in a highly arousing sort of way. But then, what about him didn’t I find attractive? Not a damn thing. The way he drove was sexy, the way he slid his fingers through his hair was sexy, the way he talked was sexy, the way he looked at me was sexy…
He was just…sexy. But not in a trying too hard way. He was cool, smooth, easy to talk to, a good listener. He rode a very fine line between arrogant and confident, and the ability to straddle that line was, in some ways, the sexiest thing about him. I mean, yeah, everyone knows we women find confidence sexy but outright arrogance a turn-off. A man who can fit somewhere in between? A unicorn, as far as I’m concerned. And, so far, Errol seemed to be a unicorn with the biggest sparkliest horn of them all.
No, I don’t meanthathorn, but if he was as hung as the rest of him was sexy? Ooh lordy.
Question was how and when it would happen. I didn’t want to seem too thirsty, or so easy you can doink me with a little grin and a wink of those blue-blue eyes.
But then, I’m just not into games. I want someone, I’m not gonna drag it out for funsies. I want you, you want me, we’re both adults so let’s just have some fun and be mature about it.
Simple.
I knew he’d be game—I saw the way he was looking at me. The way his eyes flicked from the road to my boobs when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. I wondered if he’d make the move, or if I’d have to drop the obvious hints, like shoving my hand down his pants.
Afternoon turned to evening, and sunset found us rumbling down a dirt track somewhere just over the state line in Iowa, just to see where it went. Which was nowhere. After twisting and turning through cornfields, and between cow pastures and through stands of swaying cottonwood, it narrowed further to barely a deer track big enough for the van, and then dead-ended at a small pond buzzing with dragonflies, smooth as a mirror and the color of brine-worn green sea glass.
We got out, engine off, and stood with our feet bare in the muddy shore, algae sticking to our ankles.
Errol glanced up, around, at the muted red-purple of late sunset as it bled into lowering dusk, and then at me. “So the question here is, do we turn around and find a motel for the night, or do we camp here?”
I looked around. “I dunno, I’m sure this is private property.”
“Yeah, but there wasn’t a tire track in the dirt newer than a few weeks, so I’m guessing if it is private property, it’s seldom visited, and if someone does take exception, we can just apologize and move on.”
“So you think it would be safe to just stay here for the night?”
He nodded. “Yeah, she’ll be right.”
I inhaled deeply. “Then let’s just stay here. It’s quiet, peaceful. I’ll bet we’ll see the stars real well out here.”
“Oh, no doubt. They’ll be nice and bright. I don’t think there’s anything like even a village for miles in any direction.” He eyed me. “What about sleeping arrangements? The caravan has a tent top, but I’ve not tried to use it. The back bench folds down and that’s where I sleep, but it’d be proper cozy for a pair who’ve just met this morning.”