The Deception Dance (17 page)

Linnie
bounds over to give me a hug. She whispers in my ear, “Screw
Albert, he can kiss my butt.”

“Yeah,”
I say, “mine too, big jerk.”

She pulls
back to look at me, “You look tired, Birdie, having nightmares
again?” The amused smile she flashes sends heat spreading over
my cheeks.

I roll my
eyes, but I doubt she catches the gesture before she skips back to
the car.

Nicholas
stands halfway between the car and me.

I wave,
turn and call over my shoulder, “Gotta change. See you there.”
I walk into the guesthouse, listen until the car tires roll away, and
I’m home-free. Stretch pants, I need stretch pants. Walking
past the large oval cheval mirror in my room, I catch my reflection.
Pivoting, I examine my sides, then straight on. My nose wrinkles, as
I pinch my lips.

I don’t
only have one outfit, just a couple of similar shirts and skirts. And
Nelly washed my clothes, so they’re clean.

I change into my stretch pants, tank top and sweater. Maybe I’ll
buy an outfit or two in Copenhagen, but not around Chauncey. I grab
the scooter keys and head out the front door to the garage. The bike
waits, as I had last seen it. It is, as my dad would say, ‘loved’;
undoubtedly, Stephen has had many adventures zooming around on this
little red Vespa. I put on the helmet that’s perched on the
seat, throw a leg over, sit, and then realize I have no idea how to
work this thing.

I just sit and stare at the switches and levers.

“Miss,” a man says in a hushed voice. He looks familiar.
“Can I show you how?” He gestures to the bike.

I jump off.

He shows me where to store my purse, and then explains how to start,
ride, stop and turn off the bike; all the while, I’m trying to
place him. A second after he stops instructing, I figure out where
I’ve seen him before. I avert my gaze and blush; he was
Chauncey’s Guy Number Two.

“Thanks,” I say in a tight voice, suppressing a nervous
laugh.

He stays next to the bike, as I mount and make my escape.

Why am I being so squeamish? Chauncey has probably gone through half
the male staff in the mansion, by now.

I stop at the end of the driveway and press my thumb to the scanner,
opening the gate. The heavy wood parts to let me pass. Dang, I forgot
to ask Stewart to draw me a map. Oh well, I’m not going back
now.

In four minutes, I’m lost. It’s obvious that I’m
going the complete wrong way, when I come across the ocean, on the
wrong side. I stop at a black and white flower shop with a wide wood
door and leave the bike running. The woman in the shop tells me I’m
in Jonstorp, wherever that is, and I need to keep driving until the
112, which will take me straight to Hoganas.

“Can I avoid going through Hoganas?” I chew on my tongue
waiting for the answer.

She shakes her head, which is as round and as red as a tomato.

Maybe I should just go back. Linnie will get me a dress. Returning to
my bike, I flip open Stephen’s phone and dial the six button,
then bite my lip, flip it closed and throw it into the compartment
under the seat. Not giving myself a chance to change my mind, I hop
on the scooter and keep going. The countryside is so much more real
with my body not encapsulated by a car. Crops and dirt fill the air
with an earthy scent that seeps into my too-large helmet.

As I drive, the sparsely dispersed houses
proliferate, though green fields surround most of the road, all the
way into Hoganas. The 111 dead-ends at a roundabout with red brick
buildings on all sides. I have to loop around the circle to get to my
exit.

With quick glances, I read the passing
street-signs, then glance down at my arm. I remember the restaurant’s
name, which had eventually scrubbed off, but I don’t even know
where the place is. Anyway, it’s probably only one o’clock.

I pass by street after street, almost turn at
one, but continue onto the 111.

Just keep going; don’t stop. My hands resist steering down
every exit. Before long, there are no more warehouses, and nature
takes over again, with trees and long, stretching green fields. I’m
out of the city. I sigh into my helmet. Good job, I didn’t
stop. A sign states I’m now in Lerberget. Know what the best
thing about Lerberget is? Lerberget is not Hoganas.

A gas station nears on my left. I turn in. Argh. What is wrong with
me? Looping around the pumps I head back to Hoganas.

Soon I’m approaching the warehouses I just left. Turning right
on the first exit, I slow to ask a pedestrian, “Do you know
where the ‘trad-gaurd-veesa’ is?”

The lanky man lowers his thick eyebrows and pinches his lips. “Hotell
Trädgård Visa?” He says the name completely
differently.

“Restaurant?” I say too loudly; wow, I’m tacky.

He nods and says a stream of unintelligible words, but I understand
the gestures.

I’ll just scout Trädgård Visa out; it’s not as
if Andras will be there for another six hours. Two blocks farther, I
turn onto the street of the pedestrian’s indications.

There’s the restaurant, which I guess is also a
hotel
.
There’s a hotel above, where we could have dined. My stomach
clenches at the thought. I drive past Hotell Trädgård
Visa, turn at the next block, park and turn off my engine. I’m
just taking a peek, then driving off.

I tiptoe to the large, white wall of the neighboring building, place
my hands on the corner and peer around.

The hotel’s lower level is a wall of windows; the strips
surrounding large rectangular panes are an earthy yellow. The
building looks like a big Swedish house with an extremely sloped
roof.

The street is relatively deserted; a woman
rounds the corner and disappears from view. I hold my breath as
someone emerges from the restaurant; it’s a family. This is
stupid; why am I here, acting like a psycho?

I step from the wall and back into someone. Jumping away, I spin
around. My hand clasps over my racing heart and I gulp. “What
are you doing here?”

Andras’s emerald-colored eyes seem to
shimmer, as he grins. “Somebody left their keys in the ignition
of that scooter.” He gestures to the Vespa. “I’m
here to steal it.” The sound of his soft accent gives me
shivers. He walks toward my scooter.

“You can’t steal that!” I chase after him. “The
scooter is not even mine, I’m borrowing it.”

He climbs onto the seat. “Well, you
better jump on then.”

I hook my thumbs into my pockets and peer around at the side street;
it’s empty.

Andras starts the engine. He’s not kidding.

Nibbling my lip, I glance around once more, then climb on behind him.

He’s wearing long sleeves and the
mono-strap backpack I associate with Europeans. My arms sling around
his chest; then, I stop myself. Instead, I wrap my fingers around the
back of the seat, while he steers away from the curb.

Andras drives the way I came, then turns left on the 111, away from
Copenhagen.

I’m not thinking straight. What will I tell Linnie? Oh, no, I
need to call her. “Wait,” I call out; Andras doesn’t
hear me. I scoot closer, wrap an arm around his chest and say into
his ear, “Can we stop, just for a minute?”

He veers into a five-car parking lot.

I jump off, “I need to call my sister, and my phone is in the
seat.”

He dismounts, lifts up the seat and extracts Stephen’s phone.
Holding it out he asks, “What will you tell her?”

“That I’m chasing after a thief who stole my Vepsa.”
I snatch the phone out of his hand. My pointer finger hovers over the
six but I dial Linnie’s number instead of Nicholas’s.
I’ll pay Stephen back for the call. The phone rings three
times.

“Hello?” Linnie asks on the line.

“Hey,” I blurt out, “I can only speak for a second.
I’m not coming; will you make an excuse?”

“Yeah,” She draws out the word, making ‘yeah’
sound like a question.

“Later. Love you.” I close and toss the phone into the
compartment under the open seat. Andras closes the seat and jumps on.

Climbing on after him, I clasp my hands around his stomach. His shirt
is thin enough that my fingers brush against his muscles through his
white button-up. My grasp jolts looser.

He takes off, back to the road. We weave around cars. Andras drives
with complete confidence, as if it’s the most natural thing in
the world. Soon the sparse trees, farmland and houses back onto
shoreline, and the air smells like marine plants. There’s also
a delightfully musky scent; I lean in and realize: it’s Andras.

Realizing that I’m
sniffing
him, I lean away, almost
breaking my grasp.

We race by the houses, perching on the coastline, past a tollbooth
and into a nature reserve. After weaving down a narrow road, we park
in a small, unoccupied lot. Andras turns off the bike. With only a
light breeze, I smell his scent again; my insides twist, as I clamber
off the bike.

Andras grins, as he swings his leg over. Without saying anything, he
grabs my hand and starts walking down a path.

I don’t follow until his hand tugs lightly on mine, as he
continues to walk. After looking at the bike and sighing, I let
Andras lead. The landscape slopes toward the ocean, with craggy
rocks, emerging from the grass like hundreds of giant gray thorns.
Andras obviously knows where he’s headed. Slowing down after
descending the hill, he threads his fingers through mine. Andras’s
hand, merging with mine, feels natural.

Gathering my courage, I peek up. Andras’s
profile is filled with sharp, straight lines. He faces forward,
glances over, and then returns his gaze to the rocky path. The corner
of Andras’s mouth twitches up.

We stop at a spot with an open sloping field on one side and a steep
boulder jutting into the calm ocean on the other. I head for the
field; Andras climbs up the rough-faced boulder. The high, small
projection juts with its flattened top, thirty feet above the sea.

“Can we stay down here?” I point to the field behind me.

He’s already halfway up the small cliff
face, then, jumps down and follows me to a rock, protruding from the
drying grass. Andras places his hands on my hips and lifts me up,
onto the rock. His chest brushes my inner thighs, as I settle on the
rock.

I inhale and look down at his face, a few inches below mine. My face
drifts forward, toward him. I start to slip-- catch myself.

Andras steps away and does a backwards pull-up to sit beside me. He
unzips his shoulder bag and extracts, breaks and hands me, half of a
loaf of bread.

I’m starving; I start nibbling before he
digs up some soft cheese and dried fruit.

A brave raven lands beside Andras on the rock.

I lean in to get a good look at the bird. “Wow, they’re
everywhere!”

“In Sweden, ravens are thought to be the souls of people,
murdered.” Andras whispers some word that sounds like,
“key-ca,” and the bird flies away.

Ripping off a piece of bread, I raise my
eyebrows and peer at him, “I had a friend when I was little,
who could speak to birds.”

Andras leans back, propping himself up with his
arms, and gives me a grin. He raises his eyebrows, “What kind
of birds?”

“Ravens, like you.”

“What did your friend look like?”

My gaze unfocussed, I stare off at the sea. I’m silent for a
long minute, “I was really young and I can’t remember
that well.” I squeeze my eyelids closed, trying to remember any
defining feature, other than dirty. “I remember burns; he had
burns all over his arms.”

I turn to Andras and open my eyes.

A small smile plays across his full lips. Straightening his posture,
Andras unbuttons his shirt.

I stuff a large chunk of bread in my mouth and battle to chew.

Andras shrugs off his white-collared shirt to reveal his smooth, tan
unblemished skin. His muscular arms and stomach have very little
hair. The only hair trails from his bellybutton down to his…

The bread is paste in my mouth, as I swallow. I tear my gaze back to
the sea.

Warm skin brushes against my arm. Did he scoot closer or did I? I
stay very still.

His breath tickles my neck. “What happened to your friend?”

I slide away a couple inches and turn my face toward him. “He
died.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t
have said that. Something bad happened the last day we played
together...” I pause then lie, saying, "I don't really
remember what happened that day. I don’t know if Andrew died
after that, I just always had this feeling that he did. I never had
any proof.”

“Can I ask you a question, Raven?”

I blink out of my thoughts and focus on Andras. “Go ahead.”

“The men you are staying with, do they threaten you?”

I wrinkle my brow at the sudden change of
subject. After just staring for a few long seconds I ask, “Threaten
me? No, never.”

“Are you sure you are safe with them?”

“Yes.”

“Would they
harm
you for any reason?”

I shake my head slowly.

A grin spreads across Andras’s face, "I am relieved. I was
worried they would."

I know the answer to my question, but I ask anyway, “Do you
dislike them for some reason?”

His smile does not falter as he says, “I despise them.”

I lean away, “Why?”

His hand drops behind, as he leans over me.
“Because they’re trying to take you from me.”

My lips gape apart. “That’s a really weird thing to say.
Take
me
from
you?” I swallow. “
Take
me? As if... you think I belong to you?” Dodging him, I jump
down from the rock. My heels hit the ground hard. I spin to face him,
taking small steps backwards. “I’m not
yours
,
Andras. I don’t even know you.”