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doingthedirtydishes · 2 years

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Colombia: You sweet, hot and spicy, beguiling temptress – your kiss seduced me.

All I can remember is thinking, “Wow, is this really happening?” It was late 1990s and I had just been hired as a teacher at a collegio in Bucaramanga, Santander Department, north-central Colombia, for a two year contract. As it turns out, at the time I had received my work Visa for Colombia, I was also offered a position in Tokyo Japan, with the Japanese government. I chose to move east instead of south, determined I would find another time and opportunity to get back to Colombia. Well, usually life does not provide us a second opportunity but, twenty years on, finally she did. Colombia has been calling my name ever since, with boundless allure, whispering to me softly, the seductress de Indias – once bitten, not shy; I’m in love. This is the tale of my adventure to Colombia, traveling injured in a wheelchair, and all the wonder and splendor that resulted from the magic of the trail.

It was an early flight to the land of piccante y caliente from Philadelphia: 06:00. That meant a 03:00 wake-up call with little to no sleep. Not a prudent start to a long trip with a stopover each way. Being able to rest my body in horizontal position at night gives my body and muscles the relief from the daily onslaught of spinal pressure it so desperately needs. The stopover in Atlanta was a gift and a curse, all the same – it allowed me to stretch and easily access a bathroom but also lengthened my travel time, thus unnecessarily stressing my body. Before any trip I weigh all viable and imaginable variables: cost, total time of travel, airports, layovers and possible stopovers, food, and current recovery status. Each airline and/or airport has their own staff to assist those in need. Every year I notice these services not only increasing in their sheer numbers but also, most importantly, efficiency. They are a godsend – thank you for your assistance.

Upon arrival in Colombia one instantly knows one has arrived in the tropics. Old school airports where they roll out steel stairs, plane parks in the middle of nowhere, verdant palms abound, as the air hits you like a heated wet towel, navigation required, are the best; especially when in a wheelchair and need to be carried off the plane in a shaky old metal aisle chair by two slender ground-crew members. It was a fun ride. They did not drop me. One point for Stevo. (Photos of my travels can be seen here.) As I authored in my book, in life, if one wants to get anything grand or substantial accomplished, one must get in the mix, show up, take a risk, live and participate in: Doing the Dirty Dishes [of life]. This was to be my first trip to an industrialized country where I knew the standards would not be up to international specification, if they existed at all. Challenges abundant – like weeds in spring, they were everywhere.

No sooner I walked out of the airport and was accosted by a gaggle of local taxi drivers. Peter seemed like a nice choice. I liked his resume: biblical name in a very Catholic country. Good pick. Score two for Stevo. Solo bag in the backseat, wheelchair in the trunk, Cumbia music blaring, we were off to the hotel. It was a short drive, only 9 kilometers. It did not take long to know I was at the right place; the energy in Colombia was all encompassing; I could feel it in my heart. I was where I was supposed to be at that time, in life. There are no mistakes. I was still unsure why the universe had sent me to Colombia at this juncture but I was soon to find out. As we entered Boca Grande, meandering down the highway as it hugged the beach and waves, it was 420 and ‘Peter the Pope’ was more than happy to share some brotherly love. Bonus score for Stevo. Welcome to Colombia – a mighty nice Bienvenido, if you ask me.

Not a moment out of the taxi and my first real serious obstacle appeared. The slope of the driveway of the hotel was too steep to get up in the wheelchair on my own. That situation was not helped by the fact there were no sidewalks for 90% of the beach area surrounding my hotel. And when they had some form of sidewalk or stepping stones made of broken uneven pieces of jagged concrete, the curbs were almost a half meter high. Access to local eateries and bars was out of the question without assistance or a taxi ride. Even getting to the elevators of the hotel required a push up a small but steep incline. There were no accessible bathrooms except in my room on the 29th floor. I could not access the café in the lobby as it had a large step as an impediment. Travel while injured requires impeccable planning.

It reminded me of my days at Magee Rehabilitation Hospital, a “supposed” top physical therapy hospital in Philadelphia, where they wanted to kick me out of in-patient therapy for refusing to agree to learn how to jump my wheelchair up large curbs. I saw no point; I found it violent and dangerous. My answer to them was easy: “I’ll ask for help (throughout this trip I would be carried in my chair in the air, over more obstacles and occurrences than I could count).” Cartagena was a never-ending veritable obstacle course in a wheelchair; best left to the advanced; but never an issue. This is injured travel – welcome to the club. In my book, Unbreakable Mind, I speak of the need to get out into the world to live again, that it is not falling down that counts, it is how many times you get up that counts – that is the greatest source of maturity and development in life – in living – happiness. La Buena vida, mi amiga.

Hotel Dubai Cartagena did not originally come up as having accessible rooms in my initial search online with the big three travel websites. I knew better and so contacted the hotel direct. Good thing I did as they were willing and able and more than happy to have me as a guest. Most often you will find the information on travel websites to be inaccurate or flat out wrong. Be smart and seek out more information – write the property, ask the appropriate required questions and make sure all concerns for your injury or special requirements are addressed beforehand. Because even when you think you have it all worked out beforehand, it can easily go to shit, quick. This hotel assured me they would reserve a room with accessible shower and all the other required whistles and bells for an injured guest. Well, can you guess what happened? Welcome to a day in my life.

The doorman accompanied me to my room. Relieved to see a bed to lay down on to stretch my body, I shooed him off, performed a bathroom check, washed my face with soap and water, when no sooner was I prostrated across the California king duvet I realized I was not in an accessible room. Ramone, Operations Manager, arrived a few minutes later. After visiting ten different hotel rooms, all with unalike room layouts, we determined that some modifications had to be made to the shower and toilet to make one accessible. Three large glass panels had to be removed in order to allow access for my wheelchair to the toilet and shower area without having to go through a near impossible set of hurdles; ones that would cause trouble in an emergency situation, if required urgency. Juan, the hotel manager, was the most caring and accommodative person an injured person could wish for. He prepared the best calabaza y bombilla of Argentinean mate. Fabio and his kitchen crew went above and beyond to make the most delicious food. In the end, they upgraded me to a top floor suite. Pass GO, collect $200.

Cartagena, founded in 16th century, on the Colombian coast, replete with squares, cobblestone streets and brightly colored colonial architecture, is magical. The people are just as interesting and eclectic as the endless pastel painted buildings in the Old City. Everywhere you go you come across friendly Colombians, from taxi driver to street vendor to waiter; only a small tatter of the fabric that binds together this phenomenal El Caribe people and city. The seafood is some of the best I have tasted on the planet. And the very established Lebanese Diaspora, immigrating to Colombia from the Ottoman Empire in the 18th & 19th centuries for religious and economic reasons, also has out-of-this-world delectable eats. All the best local tourist spots are close-by and are easily visited by car or public bus. Since injured, I opted for a private driver for the day. And since I would be shooting photos with my new Sony Alpha 6300, the car’s window would serve as my creative aperture.

Not a week had gone by and two of my most feared injured traveler scenarios fructified. On my list of most feared anxious happenings while traveling the world in a wheelchair, two of the top three, are getting a sick stomach and a bad cold. Well, the time had arrived; of course, when it rains, it pours – both arrived back-to-back. After being nursed back to health by Simon and friends I decided to explore the Old City by taxi at night. It was just what the doctor ordered – allowing me to take in the city at its magnificent nocturnal glory. At night there is a different ‘feel’ to the people and city – as if a button is pushed and the energy becomes even freakier relaxed. Over the next two weeks I would take many taxi trips with my camera on the ready to shoot everything from Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas, Plaza de Las Bovedas, Getsemani and many other local cultural barrios, some with world renown street art. Cartagena is a city rich in history and culture, with infinite beauty, sure to delight. Go visit.

Other than your standard travel mishaps, occasional cultural faux-pas in Espanol, being robbed blind by a street money changer, fighting off beach hawkers and the perpetual fight with taxi drivers over padded fares , my adventure to Colombia was a huge success. It could not have been done without the loving care and support of others, friend and stranger alike. Michael, a friend from Germany, whom I met while living in Amsterdam, came to visit for a week. It was so great having him there; being a part of his inner-self journey as it commenced. Simon, my neighbor and a Norwegian yacht captain, based in Majami, Florida, was my arms and legs many a day when laid up in bed fighting a vicious cold or the horrendous stomach issues I experienced, requiring anti-biotics, pro-biotics and some international TLC. The hotel staff was so friendly and helpful. I am forever grateful for all the love and help I received.

As a result of my accident I was unable to travel internationally for six years. My will and spirit were broken. While traveling the globe I am most comfortable – being in the flow of life, living life. It was the last part of my freedom recovered and I was beyond ecstatic to travel and experience the world again. It is the same reason I started this blog: to help inspire other injured to travel again, to open their eyes to the possibilities that exist when one leaves the safety of their home. Each trip I push my boundaries a bit further than the last. This has provided me limitless inner growth and the most wonderful of experiences meeting extraordinary people and visiting supernatural places, the type only found when your eyes and heart are wide open; accepting and tackling new challenges at every curve, forming indelible memories – all while forging life-lasting deep and meaningful relationships. Colombia delivered on all the above. I drank her Kool-Aid and now find myself pining to hear her to call my name again – she is forever in my heart. Besitos, mi amor!

Travel Blog: Click here.

Spiritual Blog: Click here.

Book: Unbreakable Mind. (Print, Kindle, Audio)

Doing The Dirty Dishes Podcast: Watch or listen to episodes and subscribe: Spotify, Apple Podcast, Buzzsprout. Also available on Google Podcast, iHeart, Tunein, Amazon Alexa and Stitcher.

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Social Media links: Twitter, Instagram and Linkedin.

Travel Blog links: Covid-19 stranded in NYC JFK and Maine – also travel stories on Ireland, Spain, Sweden, Belgium, Iceland, Colombia (Espanol version), Amsterdam, Germany, New Hampshire, TN and NYC.

Personal Website link where you can also find my book, photos of my travels and updates on current projects.

Thank you for your love and support.

#steven quigley #steven quigley writer #steven quigley blogger #stevenquigleyauthor #doingthedirtydishes.com #doingthedirtydishesspiritual #doingthedirtydishestravel #doingthedirtydishespodcast #unbreakable mind #unbreakable mind book

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dragon-kazansky · 3 years

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Til death do us part | Helmut Zemo

Bodyguard AU! 🕶

Gender neutral reader

Collage by @realremyd

[Next chapter]

Part 1

You drive into the parking lot for Stark Industries. You had worked here for the last three years. Hiring out bodyguards was just a small service he provided among other things these says, but you guys had a whole floor to yourselves, so you weren't about to complain.

You parked, got out, and needed straight indoors. You greeted the receptionists at the front desk and made your way up to the elevator.

Over the past few years you had been working as a bodyguard. You had done many little jobs, providing security for celebrities at award shows, or being hired out to watch over parties and events here and there.

The pay was good and you loved your job. Granted, not every job is exciting and action filled, but you have met lots of wonderful, crazy, and questionable people over the years. You have kicked people out of parties, prevented crazy fans from getting too close, and one time had secure a lockdown for a client whose life was considered in danger one time.

You had plenty of stories to tell.

Today you were on your way in to receive your next assignment. Apparently this was a big job and Stark had put your name on the list. He needed the best he had, and you were one of them.

No doubt he had put Natasha down too.

You took the elevator up your floor and walked out. You headed into the changing rooms to put your suit on. It was important you looked smart for the job.

Once you were ready, you met up with the others in the meeting room at the time they asked you to be there.

Steve Rogers was the first one to greet you.

Steve was the head of the group. He, and his buddy James Barnes, were professionals at this job. They had been bodyguards much longer than you had and had secured the rest of the team over the years. It was Steve who trained you in the beginning.

"Glad you could make it," he says, smiling at you.

"I was told it was important."

"You're right about that. This is probably the biggest job yet, and could be quite time consuming too."

"Well, I'm ready to hear it out."

You take a seat. Bucky joins you. Steve slides a file across to you and you open it. You are presented with a photo and a document.

"This is Baron Helmut Zemo. Sokovian royalty. We've been requested to send bodyguards over while he travels through Europe to better his connections or something. We're not privy to all the details. Sam and Nat are already out there, flew put three days ago. You'll be flown over with Bucky and I'll join you in a couple of days. This is going to be a time consuming job, so keep your wits about you."

"Alright. I'm ready whenever," you say, looking at the photo.

He was handsome, that much you could tell. Brown hair, combed away from his face. Dark brown eyes and a confident aura surrounding him.

"A Baron, you said?"

"Yeah. You'll be situated as Castle Zemo. They'll provide rooms. You'll receive your schedule from Natasha when you arrive."

"Alright."

"You can keep hold of the file," he nods at it. You close it and pull it closer to you.

"When do we fly?"

"First thing in the morning," Bucky replies.

"See you tomorrow."

Steve dismisses you and Bucky. You both leave together. You tuck the file under your arm and walk in sync with your dear friend.

"Royalty. That's a new one."

Bucky chuckles.

"It's definitely going to be a job for the books."

"What's he like, this Baron?" You ask, glancing up at him.

"I don't know much. We're not suppose to."

"Yeah, I know. Aren't you a little curious though?"

"Yeah, I am," Bucky laughs, "but I'm a professional, and I'll keep it that way."

"You say that now."

You both knew you would both look him up because you always did. You both just liked to know a little about the person you were hired to protect. You never let anything you knew get out though. You were both professionals.

"I'll see you later, go eat and I'll be round in the morning."

"See you, Bucky."

You part ways and you go home, picking up some food on the way. When you get home you pull out your laptop and sit down in your living room. You lay out the file beside you and look him up.

Baron Helmut Zemo.

His picture popped up again. Yeah, he was definitely handsome. He lived in Castle Zemo in Novi Grad, Sokovia. That's where you would be stationed tomorrow before he flies out.

There wasn't a whole lot of information online. Just a little backstory on his family line and where Castle Zemo was located. Being a Baron, he was only a low form of royalty. Most of the news was about the decline of Sokovia. The country was struggling, hence why Baron Zemo was making a trip to strengthen connections here and there.

You felt like you understood him a little better, not that you were going to let this affect your job.

You close the laptop and finish your meal.

You wake up to constant buzzing on your phone. You reach out and grab it, answering the call and bringing it your ear.

"Hello?"

"Finally, I'll be there in ten," you hear Bucky say.

"Ten?"

"Ten minutes, get up!"

You sit up and check the time on your phone, its5later than you anticipated. You give a hurried 'see you later' down the phone and hang up, scrambling to get dressed and make some coffee to start your day.

By the time Bucky arrived at your door, you're ready and have a coffee in hand. Even have an extra for him.

Bucky actually looks impressed.

"Let's go."

You both hop into the car and he drives you to the airport, sipping your coffees as you went.

"We'll be spending the night in his home tonight, neither of us are on night duty, we'll be swapping out with Nat and Sam when we get there. We fly out for Paris tomorrow."

You listened to Bucky explain.

"What will happen in Paris?"

"The Baron will be escorted to the hotel, all guards will be present on that floor. Steve will meet us there with the last of the group and the Baron will be taken to his meeting spot."

"Just follow the routine, got it."

"You nervous? This is a big job after all," Bucky glances your way.

"A bit, but I'm going to prove to you all that I have what it takes. Nat trained me herself."

"Hey, we know you're capable. For what it's worth, none of us have ever done a job this big before. It's a first for us all," he smiles at you.

"Then we can do this together."

You both nod at each other.

You settle in for the rest of the ride. At the airport, you both quickly manoeuvre through the building. Bucky has the passports and boarding passes on him. You're both at the gate in time and board the plane with ease.

This was your first time to Sokovia. Your first time in the presence of royalty.

You were beyond nervous.

Bucky places a hand over yours and smiles at you. You smile back. It's all the reassurance you needed.

The plane takes off without delay.

This was going to be the biggest job of your life, and perhaps, just perhaps, your life would change too. You just didn't know what to expect when you got there.

@thesuitkovian @justfangirlthingies @belle82devart @zemosimp420 @anteroom-of-death @silverlambcaptain @that-stupid-head-tilt-thing @lieutenantn @daniielbruhl @awesomesauce-abbie @latenightartist-author @lazygurl05 @rumblelibrary @nonamec0s @shura-gorl @ginger-abreu @caligrl1992 @livvyshmiv @luciadiosa @vverliebt @tatooineisdry @charistory @somethingthatsaysbubbles

#helmut zemo #marvel #zemo x reader #helmut zemo x reader #au #baron helmut zemo #zemo #bodyguard au

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starlightrows · 3 years

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Something Sweet

Chapter 0 - Chasing Dreams

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Modern!Paz Vizsla x fem!reader

Word Count: 3.4K

Warnings: angst, symptoms of depression (not graphic or diagnosed), brief mention of alcohol and drug use, hopeful ending

Summary: Paz finds himself trapped in a routine that’s keeping him tied to a lifestyle that brings him no joy. It’s not until a phone call from his good friend Din, that he realizes that there are better things waiting just over the horizon if you can just be brave enough to make the leap of faith

This chapter is labeled chapter 0, because it takes places before the events of the actual story and does not include the reader. If you’re only here for the couply-goodness, feel free to skip this chapter and sit tight the romance is coming I promise!

Chapter 0 - Chasing Dreams is dedicated to @maybege who inspires me to chase my fan fiction dreams every single day, and is single handedly responsible for my love, yearning, and obsession with the Big Blue Mando Man we all know and love as Paz Vizsla! This is one is for you May ❤️

The 5am train is full of commuters, heading into work with coffee cups in hand and more or less rested ready to start the day. Everyone seems to be on the same page, consume enough caffeine to be personable by the time you get to the office, use the time on the train to do your hair or makeup or start a little early on emails from your phone if you’re behind. It’s all very hustle and bustle, keep your head down and keep grinding to make it in the big city.

Paz rode the 5am train every morning. But not heading into the city. No, he got on the train at 5am and rode it all the way down to the end of the line to get back to his dumpy little shoebox of an apartment on the outskirts of the city around 8am.

Why he chose to move to the city after getting out of the Marine Corps was beyond him. His commander told him that he had a friend that was looking to hire some muscle as private security for his upper echelon nightclubs and it could be a good job opportunity for him fresh out of the service. Not having anywhere else to go, he took the job. Now his days blurred together in a lopsided haze. Wake up around 3pm, eat something cheap and tasteless, work out, shower and get dressed to work. Catch the 6pm train into the city and spend all three hours thinking about far away places. What his life might be like if he was someone else or somewhere else. Get to the club and start work at 9pm. Spend the night watching people dance and sing and scream, drink ridiculously expensive alcohol and take brightly colored party drugs that blow out their pupils and make them want to dance and sing more. By the time 5am rolls around again his head is pounding from listening to electronic dance music for 8 continuous hours, and he spends the remaining 3 hours of his day riding the train back out of the city and wishing he had made different choices in his life.

Of course he does get Monday’s and Tuesday’s off, those days he still doesn’t really know what to do with himself. It’s too expensive to have a car in the city, so he can’t drive anywhere. And he’s too far away from any of the attractions of the city to walk to them. So he tends to spend his off days either walking around the track at the local park, or in his tiny kitchen kneading bread dough and baking test batches until it comes out the way he liked it. This is one of the big things he spends his time wondering about. If he kept up working in private security, and paying for this shit apartment, would he someday be able to afford to move closer to work and spend less time commuting? Maybe he could eventually save up and get a place with a bigger kitchen so he could try making more things. He liked baking. Kneading bread dough, making cake batter, mixing frosting colors. It’s telling that a man like him dreamt about pastries and cooking every night, and spent his long commuting hours debating on saving up more for a better place or spending a little extra on culinary equipment.

He didn’t tell anybody this is how he spent his time and money, not that he really talked to anyone these days anyway. Since leaving the service he hasn’t been good about keeping up with his brothers in arms, or his friends from before getting deployed. He hasn’t really made new friends in the city either. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to any of them, he’s just busy and when he does think about reaching out to someone, he always figures they’re busy too. Every day the sun rises and sets, and it’s like he’s just floating through life, waiting for something to change.

One Monday, Paz is walking around the track at the local park. It’s scraggly and not well maintained but at least it’s outdoors. He’s thinking about the sourdough loaf back in his apartment rising right now. Hopefully this one will turn out good, he’s planning to try a dutch oven bake soon, but that requires buying a dutch oven and he’s trying so hard to save up for a better apartment. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he considers just letting it go to voicemail figuring it was probably his boss asking him to come in and work tonight. But something in him tells him to look, the name on the screen surprises him. Din Djarin. His long time friend from way back before joining the service. Paz answered the phone.

“Hey buddy, Happy Birthday!” Din says. Paz stopped walking

“It’s not my birthday?” Paz stepped off to the side of the track and sat down on a bench running a hand over his face.

Din laughs on the other end of the line, “Yeah it is, April 30th right?”

Paz pulls his phone away from his face and checks the date, “Holy shit, it is my birthday,”

“Yeah man. Did you really forget?” Din asks, he sounds like he’s moving around Paz hopes he’s not bothering him or getting in the way of his day right now.

“Honestly yeah, it feels like April just started,” he admits

“Been busy then? Running around in the big city, making big money, romancing cute hunnies?” Din teases, Paz can hear another voice on the other side. He figure’s it’s Din’s son, he’s gotta be about two or three years old now.

“Yeah, something like that,” Paz mumbles

“Yeah? Then why don’t you sound happy about it?” Din asks, sensing his friends lack of enthusiasm

“It’s fine, really. The city is nice, I just wish I could actually live in it and enjoy it. Actually I wish everyone who lived here actually enjoyed it. Kinda just feels like everyone who lives here only knows how to work or be a strung out party goer,” Paz sighs

“Guess the big city life isn’t all it's cracked up to be huh,” Din says “Listen… you should come out to visit sometime. I feel like this city is more your style. We’re still a major city with nice attractions and events, but there’s more community here and things are a little slower ya know,”

“I can’t just drop everything and go all the way out there. You live over 2000 miles away,” Paz says, though the prospect of a smaller city with a community atmosphere does sound awfully appealing

“Paz, you’ve been working for a private security company for two years and I can almost guarantee that you haven’t taken a single hour of paid time off or sick leave. Flights are a little pricey, I’ll give you that, but you can stay with me so you don’t have to pay for a hotel or anything,” Din offers “I’ll pay for your half of your flight, call it a birthday present,”

“I’ll tell you what Din, I’ll think about it. You’re probably right, I do need to get out of the city for a bit. I’ll talk to the boss about taking some time off,” Paz says, standing back up.

“That’s the spirit!” Din exclaims “Call me when you figure out a time that’s good for you so we can book you a flight,”

Paz and Din chat idly for another couple of minutes before Din bids him goodbye, and happy birthday. Paz tucks his phone back into his pocket and smiles. For the first time in a very long time, he’s actually looking forward to something.

----

Two weeks later Paz is sitting on a plane for the first time since coming back to the states after deployment, with two weeks off of paid vacation time on his way to visit Din. It’s a long six and half hour flight and the seat is pretty small for how wide his frame is, but he’s hopeful. If nothing else, he was going to get to spend two weeks with his best friend.

Din is waiting for him at the airport when his flight arrives. He greets him with a bracing hug and the promise of a really good dinner waiting for him. The moment Paz steps out of the airport he knows he’s in trouble. Instead of a massive industrial looking city full of high rise buildings with thousands of people pushing their way through to get on with their day, he’s met with bright blue skies. Trees that are just starting to put out new leaves and flowers for spring. The air is fresh and clear. A feeling wells up in his chest, when he turns and can see mountains in the distance. It’s beautiful.

“You coming?” Din draws him out of his thoughts, tossing his suitcase in the back of his truck.

“Yeah, I just didn’t realize you lived so close to the mountains,” Paz admitted stepping up into the passenger seat.

“Everyone says that when they first come here. You should see them in winter when they’re covered in snow,” Din says. Paz can imagine it, but he hopes to see it with his own eyes.

Din drives through the city, it’s a lot like the city Paz had just come from, except older and less flashy. Less people, and less cars. All of the businesses looked unique and inviting.

Din passes a street and points down it without looking, “My studio is right down there. It’s a great little spot. All the business owners on the block are close, we play poker and shoot pool on Tuesday nights at the bar on the corner. You’re definitely coming with me for that this week,”

“I could shoot some pool,” Paz laughs.

Din turns out of the downtown area, and takes a main boulevard lined with fast food restaurants and dive bars. Din points again, “That’s the stadium for the university. Hope you like football, because it’s kind of a big thing here,”

“Still think I could have pulled a scholarship for football straight out of high school if I wasn’t so dead set on going into the Marine Corps,” Paz jokes

“It’s just as well,” Din shrugs with a smile “you make one hell of a Marine,”

Din turns down another road off the main drag. They pass parks, an elementary school, neighborhoods, and a lone Dairy Queen before turning into another neighborhood full of very nice houses with front lawns and trees giving off pink and white flower buds.

Din pulls the truck up into one of the driveways, and cuts the engine. Paz gets out of the truck and takes in the house. It’s massive by his standards.

“Is your girlfriend a CEO or something?” Paz asks with a laugh. Din gives him a look, and goes to take the suitcase out of the back.

“No? She and her brothers flip houses together,” he replies “why do you ask?”

“Your place is huge, man! When I was a kid these are the kind of houses I thought millionaires lived in,” Paz follows Din towards the front door.

Din laughs, as he unlocks the door. “Maybe in other states, but not here. The million dollar houses here are the size of castles. This house is pretty average for this area, and it didn’t cost us an arm and a leg to get,”

Paz nods and follows his friend into the house. It’s not just a house, it’s a home. Paz can tell because even though it’s clean on the inside it looks lived in, well loved. Pictures and art on the walls. The living room had a big tv and sectional couch, perfect for hosting game day events and watch parties. He could see a chest in the corner that clearly had toys in it. The kitchen was huge! A double doored refrigerator, cabinet space and marble countertops. He can see through a sliding glass door there’s a backyard, a play structure and home swing set sat in the middle of it for Din’s little boy. He didn’t have any pets but he could picture a dog running around out there too.

This is it. This is what he’d spent the last two years dreaming about on the train rides to and from the city. This is his far away place. He’s been here for less than half an hour and he already knows, he is meant to be here.

The next two weeks are the happiest Paz has ever felt. Exploring the downtown area, visiting the parks and the nature reserve just outside of town, the restaurants serve great food that doesn’t cost a fortune. He takes Din’s little boy to the zoo and out for ice cream. He gets to know Din’s girlfriend and her two brothers, apparently flipping houses in some of the older more run down parts of town is very rewarding and breathes new life into the city. He visits Din’s tattoo studio, and goes with him to the bar on Tuesday night like he promised.

Everyone there is friendly, welcoming and adamantly against him leaving at the end of the week.

“You sure you have to go back, you’re part of the crew man!” says Cara, she owns the boxing studio down the street.

Paz took a swing from his beer, and laughed “You think I want to go back there? I gotta figure out how to get out of my lease, quit my job. I gotta find somewhere to live and work here first,”

“If you’re looking for a job just to get on your feet, I could use another bartender,” Boba, the guy who owns the bar says “Fennec is looking to move to part time too, more time slots available for work,”

“If you’re serious, I’ll take you up on that offer,” Paz says.

Boba extends a hand to him, “Job’s yours if you want it,” Paz grins and shakes his hand.

A few days later Paz is genuinely sad about having to hug Din’s little boy goodbye, and get back on the plane to take him back across the country. Back to the city that never sleeps, and doesn’t appreciate the little things in life. Back to the six hours round trip of commuting. Back to the scraggly uncared for parks and dirty streets. He promised himself on that plane ride, he would not get caught up in the monotony and blinding routine like before. There is a better life waiting for him. All he has to do is make the leap of faith and take it.

———

He holds himself to his promise. In the first week when he got back he spent the entire three hour train ride to work researching apartments in the area he wanted to live. He was shocked to find out the exact same price he was paying for his shoebox apartment with no amenities and terrible maintenance; could get him a huge apartment with a big kitchen, access to a pool, gym, and shared entertainment space. It even came with a parking spot. And there were other options that were almost as nice for less money. And to think he had wasted so much time and money pretending he was happy, or was getting close to being able to afford to be happy living in the bigger city. What a joke.

He had Din submit an application to an apartment complex he really liked about a week after he got back. The second he found out he was approved and got the apartment, he put in his two weeks notice and started packing. Another six hours plane trip didn’t sound very appealing but, at least it was a one way trip this time.

Paz found moving out of his apartment to be exceptionally easy. He threw all of his belongings into two suitcases, and shipped the few things that wouldn’t fit in a box he could pick up at the post office when he got there. Everything else was not worth saving, so he put everything out on the side of the road in front of his old apartment with a piece of paper taped to it that read: FREE!

Unfortunately moving into the new apartment in the new city was a little more challenging. Furnishing an apartment from scratch is no small task. But to his amazement and truly heartfelt joy, all of Din’s friends he had met when he came to visit helped him move things into his new place. Boba even loaned him his truck to go pick up bigger furniture like the couch and bed frame he ordered. Cara and Peli, the woman who owned the auto parts store on the next block over from Din’s studio and Boba’s bar, sat with him for hours assembling IKEA furniture. Din’s girlfriend even came by with Din’s little boy, to visit uncle Paz and help him figure out how to appropriately decorate and furnish a “real apartment”.

He loves his new life in this new city. Working for Boba at the bar in the evenings is pretty low stress, and he makes quite a bit in tips. During the day he’s been working on sourdough starters, determining the best herbs and flavors to top focaccia bread, trying his hand at doing French baguettes. And more recently, he’s been trying to make chocolate croissants from scratch. Though he hasn’t had much success yet. But he keeps trying.

Every time something comes out perfect, he writes down every step in a blue notebook he found lying around with his things before he moved.

Paz never imagined his life turning out like this. If he was told just 3 months ago he would be moving across the country on a whim, to chase his dream of living a simpler life, he wouldn’t have believed it. And then things got even better.

About six months after moving, Paz really felt like he was home in this city. He split his time between working part time as an instructor at Cara’s boxing studio, bartending for Boba, and working on his culinary hobby. Until one day, the older couple that owned the bagel shop a few doors down from Din’s tattoo studio closed up shop. Apparently they were retiring, packing up the business and moving out of state to be closer to their grandchildren.

There was a sign on the vacant building indicating the unit was about to become available. A thought crossed his mind…. he had no idea where it came from or if he was remotely qualified to pull it off… but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

“Does anyone have a contact number for the couple that owned the bagel shop?” Paz asks the group

“Yeah,” Cara pipes up “I house sat for them once. Why?”

“I want to buy their industrial baking equipment, and takeover their lease,” he replies seriously

“You want to run the bagel shop?” Fennec asks

“No… I uh, I wanna open a bakery,” Paz admits

“You do make a mean sourdough dude…. I say go for it,” Din encourages him

“I’m sure they’ll sell you the equipment at a discount. Hell they might even leave it to you for free if you tell them what you’re gonna do with it,” Cara tells him, she writes down a phone number on a napkin and hands it to Paz. He pockets the napkin with a thank you and a nod.

The next day he calls the number, and has a lovely chat with the wife who, as Cara pointed out, was eager to get the equipment off their hands. She also provided a ton of helpful information on running a small business in this area, who trustworthy suppliers were, a good lawyer to get all the paperwork done, a good accountant to file taxes next spring, and more. Honestly it was a lot more than Paz has even considered, but something in his heart was telling him it’s the right decision. That this is a challenge he absolutely had to tackle. That maybe this has always been his calling.

And right he was. Vizsla’s Bakery had a grand debut the following autumn. And he knew, this is it. He’s finally made it. All of the time he spent in the Marines fighting in wars he never truly understood, all of his years spent working a mindless job in a depressing city, pretending he was not struggling. All of it has led him here. To a city he loves, with friends so close to him they’re like family, a home… a real home. And a dream he can finally live out.

Tag List: @maybege

#Star Wars #The Mandalorian #Paz Vizsla #Paz Vizsla x reader #Paz Viszla #Paz Viszla x reader #Pastry Chef!Paz AU #Pastry Chef!Paz #Modern!AU #Modern!Paz Vizsla

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mrneighbourlove · 4 years

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Metal Rider: Ch 1. The New Client

"Alright. Smile for the camera. Three, two, one." The light of the lens flashed, capturing the image of the family company. The photographer shook his head, raising a brow at the lead woman. "Ms. Tablitha. Please straighten your back. You're the shining new star. I swear wild animals follow the rules better."

"Okay, if it's so easy, you try sitting straight in this dress." Asakonigei huffed, trying to adjust a bit more comfortably on the chair in a so-called 'graceful' pose. "In heels, a dress, a push-up bra, and ten pounds of jewelry to be exact."

"Come on, dear, it's not that bad, is it?" Ragulul asked his niece. "We need you as our star for the new column in the magazine."

"Yes, there's too many pictures of old farts anyhow." Valeken assured her. "A pretty lady is exactly what we need."

"Dad, I'm sure I can put on a dress and look ten times better." Bodacin snickered, teasing his cousin. "What do you think, Asa? I could rock it."

"And those heels." Marmosel laughed, nudging Asa in the shoulder.

"Oh, shut it." Asa punched her cousin in the arm.

Kahli adjusted his camera, trying his best to tune out the immaturity. "Let's go again. Three. Two. One." He took another photo, looking unimpressed. "Adequate. Don't quit your day job for a career as a model. Mr. Tablitha. I'll take this down to the print shop and have her photo ready."

"Oh, come on, I just know you want me in a dress like Marilyn Monroe standing over a grate." Bodacin threw an arm around Kahli's shoulders. "I'd be an overnight sensation."

"There'd be overnight reports of sudden blindness." Marmosel joked, earning a giggle from Asakonigei.

Kahli shoved the man off him, gathering up his equipment. "Childish."

Outside, a tall man with red hair, gruff cut facial hair and a black suit waited sitting outside a limo. Smoking a cigarette, he silently watched Kahli walk out the building. This new client of his told him to wait outside the building. "Tablitha industries, huh?"

The brothers shared a laugh while the uncles paid Kahli for his services. Once the photos were finished, Asakonigei went to change back into her business attire instead of the dress that screamed 'millionaire desperate housewife' as she so eloquently put it. Not far behind Kahli was Ragulul, the elder of the two uncles. "Ah, you must be Mister Dragmire, yes?"

"Malik Dragmire. Limo service. I was told you may have wanted an ongoing service."

"Yes, please, follow me to my office." Ragulul motioned for the man to come along into the building. "I require a limo for my niece. She's the quote on quote, 'face of the company', and responsible for bringing in new clients. Yet, while I understand that she is very capable of taking care of herself, one can never be too careful."

Malik did so, slowly walking behind the man. His presence was immediately intimating, casting an aura of menace. Least, that was the expression on his face. "You're a rich company. Rich face needs a rich ride."

"Indeed, though despite our 'richness' as you put it, one also requires safety." As the two men rode the elevator up to Ragulul's office, he then stated, "On your resume, I noted that you were a fighter of mixed martial arts. You served three years before released early on good behavior. Yet, all charges against you were dropped due to newfound evidence. You drive the limo for parties, proms, and other clients in the area." He then asked, "What would it take for you to be exclusive for my niece's appointments throughout the week?"

Malik eyes narrowed down on the man. "You look into my background? Best you keep it spoken at that." Looking over some papers, Malik looked up. $1,500 dollars a day. $500 for gas and repairs on the limo. $1000 for my service. Doesn't matter how little I drive the client."

"Would you hire some random stranger, who may or may not be trustworthy, to drive your niece everywhere, everyday, before looking into him?" Ragulul seemed unfazed by Malik's tone or price. "Very well. That is agreeable. You will be here at 7:30 in the morning to await my niece. If she is not being driven, you follow her into appointments. If she works late, you wait with her. If she calls you in the middle of the night to be driven to the airport, you go. Any location, you drive. Understood?"

"Understood." Malik grabbed the papers, signing his work contract.

Cleaning the blood off his knuckles, Malik flipped his out from his pocket. Seemed Ms. Tablitha finally wanted his service. Good timing too. After texting he'd be there in 15 minutes, Malik wrapped cleaned up, got in his limo, and drove up the highway to pick her up. Sitting in the front, he unlocked the back door as he saw her coming out of the building.

Asakonigei had her huge tote pocketbook over her shoulder and heels in the other hand as she hurried to the limo. She was dressed in business attire, consisting of a white blouse, black skirt, transparent tights, and her hair pulled back into a long tail with hoop earrings dangling to her shoulders. In one ear was a bluetooth device, walking as she spoke to the client. She was currently doing damage control, the client fussing over supposedly a less than appealing set of doors for the custom-made car he ordered. Holding onto Malik's arm, she balanced herself while slipping on the heels.

"No, Mister Kiys, I understand, I'm heading that way now to personally inspect the doors myself." Asakonigei assured the picky man. "I'll be there within a half hour." Once the phone call was over, the petite woman then cleared her throat and quickly put on the other heel. "Thank you."

Malik nodded, leading her to the back door. "I have some water bottles in the back if you need to drink."

"You're a lifesaver, though I may need a beer after this." Asakonigei slid into the limo and then slumped into the seat with an audible sigh. "I'm hoping this is just a fluke and the old man is going senile."

Malik got into the front, turned on the limo, tapped in the coordinates into the GPS, and started driving. As they were heading down the road, he resumed his playlist, playing, "Take Me Home, Country Roads."

"... you know, I wouldn't have guessed you enjoyed country music." Asakonigei tried to keep a straight face, but with all the memes surrounding that particular song, it was impossible not to snicker. "Don't forget to take the ten second inhale before screaming 'West Virginia'."

Malik didn't sing along to the song, even as said 'West Virginia' beat played on. Turning onto the highway, the neon city light shined down on them. The next song that turned on was "Somebody That I Used to Know", only it had a synth edge to it.

"... You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness ..." He mumbled as the bar passed by.

As soon as the limo pulled up to the destination, Asakonigei barely had time to pull Mister Kiys' file before trouble started. The old man was out there waiting for her, arms crossed and foot tapping. Taking a breath, she put on her best smile and told herself this was nothing new. This particular client was picky and very selective.

Malik put on his shades, turned the limo off and got out. “You prefer me at the car or at your side miss?”

"You can come with me if you like." Asakonigei sighed and started to ask Mister Kiys how he was, but his tirade started before she could even start.

"The doors! What kind of work did you send me?" The old man huffed at the woman, shaking a finger. "You shouldn't hire ex-cons to do an honest man's work! They're costing you time and money." He gestured to her to follow him to the warehouse where the materials he bought to make cars were stored. "Look at all the warps in the metal!"

Malik chose to follow, glancing around at the cars. His shades hid his eyes from looking directly on Asakonigei. He was curious what kind of woman she was under pressure.

"Mister Kiys, I assure you, if there was a problem on my end of the work, then it will most assuredly be fixed." Asakonigei inspected the doors. What Mister Kiys said was true, there were warps. It looked like whoever was working on this model of door frame was doing a half-assed job. Great. If this pair was bad, she could only imagine what the others might look like. "It seems you are correct, MIster Kiys. This is not the greatest of work, yet we will send you new doors, free of charge. I will personally inspect the doors before the pairs are shipped here."

"Hmph." Mister Kiys still did not look too impressed. "When you find the man who did this, you should fire him. You need someone trustworthy and someone who does decent work."

"I do agree the individual who did this needs a lecture."

"How fast can I get new doors?"

"I'll see to it that you have them by the end of the week."

Seems she was able to keep her cool and analyze the problem in front of her quickly. Grabbing a paper cup, Malik poured himself a drink to parch his lips.

"I don't understand why you insist upon hiring these people..." Mister Kiys grumbled under his breath. "I'm surprised they haven't stolen from you."

"If they do steal from us, it's a straight, one-way ticket back to prison." Asakonigei reminded her client patiently. "We're trying to do a good thing."

"It's more like they're simply taking advantage of your good nature."

Malik casually nodded to the cute front desk girl eying and smiling at him. Green hair wasn’t his thing, but he appreciated the nod. Grabbing a paper, he flipped through the local news as Asakonigei continued talking. With a chuckle, he laughed at the Calvin and Hobbes comic.

Once Asakonigei was done with Mister Kiys, the face of Tablitha Industries was ready to throttle someone. Once Malik escorted her back to the limo, she then instructed, "Mister Dragmire, take me to the factory, please. I need to speak with my employees about this subpar work."

“Of course.” Driving down the road, he couldn’t help but smile rubbing the wheel. “You know, this limo is a Kikai Industries Model. Good company.”

"I've heard a great many things about Kikai." Asakonigei nodded. "We used to work with them until the scandal was exposed about embezzling money."

“Scandal? That was dismissed in court.”

"While it was dismissed in court, it still doesn't explain where all the money went. It hurt our company and several others." Asakonigei shook her head. "My uncles lost nearly 30 million dollars with Kikai."

“Well, Onaga Kikai was forced to step down. Maybe you’d do better with his successors. Heard they’re a close family of siblings now.” Smooth Criminal was about to play, but Malik switched the song to Poker Face. “Eh, bad taste.”

"Perhaps. Yet, it has to be a joint decision." Asakonigei did not sound too keen on trying to go back into business with someone who had hurt her family's lifelong work of building up an empire from the ground. "My uncles and cousins might not want to try to rebuild that bridge that someone else burned."

“Well, can’t fault you there.” Pulling up back at the factory, Malik followed Asakonigei closely behind.

"Wear this." Asakonigei handed Malik a mandated safety hat and a pair of protective glasses. "Each time you go into the factory, you need to wear these. You never know when something might fall or you could get a face full of welding sparks. Understand?"

“Uuuh, sure.” Malik complied, awkwardly putting the helmet and goggles on.

"... your hat is backwards." Asakonigei noticed the man was such a hulk, he had to hold the safety glasses in-between a thumb and index finger. "Bend down here and I'll help you."

Malik frowned, turning it around. “I’m fine.”

"Stay on the walkway and don't wander off." Asakonigei slid her card to open the factory door. "Don't touch anything. Just stay with me. A lot of this equipment can be dangerous."

“You got it.”

Once inside the entryway, Asakonigei power walked down the designated area for walking, outlined by two yellow lines, streaked through with white. As she continued through the factory, a lot of the workers paused in their task to greet her or politely waved. However, she was a woman on a mission. Each employee had a serial number for the work produced. And a certain employee was about to get a royal chewing out for his crappy craftsmanship.

Malik walked behind her, actually recognizing a couple people in the assembly line.

"Mister Urgo!!!" Asakonigei's voice was so stern and loud that a few of the other employees nearly jumped out of their skin. Several of them were either grimacing or muttering a soft prayer for Urgo's job because he was in serious trouble.

Mister Urgo nearly dropped his welding torch. "Damn it---sorry for the language, Miss Tablitha." Urgo apologized for the foul words. "What can I do for you?"

"Did you sign off on the shipment to Mister Kiys?" Asakonigei had her hands on her hips, a dark scowl on her face. "I... might have."

"Did you or did you not? It's a yes or no answer, Mister Urgo."

"Yes, yes, I signed off on the doors! Why? What's the matter?"

"Those so-called doors were warped, Mister Urgo. What happened?"

Malik took out a note book, charting his work schedule so far for the day.

Excuses. That's what Urgo said. All she heard were excuses. It only made Asakonigei madder. "Mister Urgo, when I gave you this job, I expected exemplary work. What you signed off on not only made me look bad to Mister Kiys, it made the entire company look faulty, lazy, and worst of all, cheap." Asakonigei's scolding could be heard from the other side of the factory due to the echo. "You have two choices. You can take a demotion, or you can quit."

"But---!"

"Which will it be, Mister Urgo?"

Malik glanced down at the man; his eyes cold. He hoped he had the common sense to take the demotion.

"The... the demotion, Miss Tablitha." Urgo gulped when the newest addition to the company glared at him with eyes of hell. "I'll take that, please."

"... you're back on janitor duty starting tomorrow. Go home." Asakonigei instructed the ex-con with a frown. "I'm disappointed in you, Mister Urgo. I expected better."

As Asa gleamed over the others, Malik watched the ex-con walk by. Least he still had a job.

"Everyone, back to work." Asakonigei instructed. "Due to Mister Urgo's negligence, you will have to pick up his orders as well. I trust you can do this? I will be happy to pay you overtime."

"Yes, yes, Miss Tablitha."

"Good. Don't forget about the mandatory check ins with your parole officers coming up at the end of the month." She reminded the employees. "Also, this Friday is the company picnic. Bring your families."

Malik checked his watch. 9PM. “Anything else you need Ms. Tablitha?”

"Drive me home, please." Asakonigei reminded Malik. "I have to be in downtown tomorrow for an appointment at 9am."

Getting in the car, Malik played some light music as they drove off. “So I can take Friday off then if you’ll be sticking around for the family picnic?”

"Mister Dragmire, you are an employee of Tablitha Industries, correct?"

“I’m on a week’s contract to start. That hardly qualifies me for company picnic status.”

"Regardless of your status, it would be bad taste to refuse." Asakonigei looked at his face from using the rear-view mirror. "Not to mention, it's free food."

He appeared to be a man who thought it was amusing, but ultimately below him. “The amount of money you’re paying me I can have all the food I want at home.”

"Suit yourself then." Asakonigei then said in a most sly tone. "I'd just... hate to call you in on your day off. For work related purposes, of course. Never know when you might run out of ice for the cooler."

Stopping at a red light, Malik took a look back at Asakonigei, studying her in the blink of an eye. “Sometimes a man needs his time off to be alone.” A light smile, he caught something. “That ring on your finger? Shouldn’t you be happy with your family instead of worrying about the help?”

"A man alone is always up to something, usually no good. At least, that's what my uncles say." Asakonigei knew that he was thinking about her, wondering what was going through her head. "I can tell just from looking at you that you've been in too many fights. Those knuckles have seen better days. Besides, what could it hurt to mingle?" When he remarked on the ring, she laughed. "Just because I'm getting married doesn't mean I'm going to stop working."

Turning back to the green light, his shoulders dropped. “Maybe I rather fight to break a sweat then go around mingling with complete strangers. Besides. I don’t have any family to bring.”

"It doesn't matter if you don't have anyone to bring, a lot of the men don't. It's just for good measure." Asakonigei reminded him. "And fighting won't solve everything in life, Mister Dragmire."

“Makes me money and it’s a fun activity.” Pulling up to her house, he turned back to her. “Pick you up at 9AM?”

"Yes, you'll be taking me around downtown to do some errands." Asakonigei started gathering her things. "Bring a book. You'll be doing a lot of 'hurry up and wait' tomorrow."

“Fine by me. Need me to walk you up the stairs little girl?”

"Little? I'm by no means little, Mister Dragmire." Asakonigei then shrugged, totally jesting. "Though you could just carry me up to my apartment. My feet are very sore."

“Your lover won’t protest?”

"My fiance is working late tonight. Besides, he doesn't live with me yet." Asakonigei shook her head as she took down her hair and removed her earrings, placing the jewelry into her bag. "We're looking for a new place together."

“Ms. Tablitha. What would the neighbours think?” Malik had a cheeky tone to him.

"And what makes you think I care what they think of me?"

“Rumours spread. Sometimes, people think what they want. And what they think puts you into trouble, regardless either or not they are true.” Unlocking the door for her, he waved her off. “See you in the morning.”

"Have a good night, Mister Dragmire." Asakonigei gave him a light smile. "I hope you sleep well. Get plenty of rest."

________________________________________________________________

Brand new Modern AU with @ridersoftheapocalypse! Very excited to start this story!

Next Ch. https://mrneighbourlove.tumblr.com/post/643135695872049153/metal-rider-ch-2-mr-chauffeur

#ridersoftheapocalypse #Modern AU #Malik #Klinge #Asakonigei

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artificialqueens · 4 years

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You're a Mess, 1 (Crygi) - Bell

A/N: This is my first fic I’ve submitted and I’m absolutely shaking with excitement for people to read it! Feel free to find me over discord or send an anon here if you have any concrit or anything else you’d like to say!!

Gigi Goode was never an extrovert, avoiding large crowds as often as possible, which was exceedingly difficult, with her being a musician and all. She truly thought that her music would never go anywhere when she started posting her little compositions on Soundcloud in high school, but life had other plans. When she got the call from the executive of the biggest record label in the country, she thought it was a prank one of her friends had set up, but here she was, almost ten years later, halfway across the world from everyone she’s ever loved, smoking behind a concert hall in Amsterdam. She would do anything to be in her bed in her parents’ basement with her dog and a plate of pizza rolls. Gigi snaps back to reality when her tour manager Adore comes out of the service door and clears her throat, “Geege, you’ve got ten until.”

“Thanks, I’ll be right in.” Adore heads back in, propping the door. Gigi sighs, twisting the cherry off of her cigarette and grinding it into the cement with her boot. “I need to call mom.” She mutters to herself, feeling a coolness to her cheeks as she turns, realizing she had been crying without noticing. She wipes her cheeks and enters the hall, grabbing her guitar and checking the tuning before stepping into the wings, not trusting the new roadie they hired for the European leg of her tour, Nicky, she thinks her name is. Gigi meets eyes with the stage manager and watches for her entry queue. When she finally gets it, she steps into the blinding lights, and the crowd goes crazy.

-^-^-^-^-

The ride to the hotel after the show was completely uneventful, mostly Gigi had been asleep the whole time. As much as she loved performing, it took a lot out of her, especially large venues like this one. The van rolls to a slow stop as they pull up to a stoplight, and in her half asleep daze, Gigi could swear she saw a familiar mop of red hair striding down the block. The woman turns the corner and the illusion breaks, the colour fading from the stranger’s hair revealing a dull brown. A few lights later, they pull up to the stone facade of the hotel that Adore had booked for the night. Gigi checks the world clock app on her phone and sees that it’s still evening back home, so she decides to call Jaida, despite being almost exhaustion drunk, from both the show and barely sleeping the night before. She flops on the too large and too fancy bed, dialing the too familiar number of her best friend, staring out the window at the canals as the phone rings, zoning out until she hears Jaida answer.

-^-^-^-^-

The next morning, Adore comes knocking on Gigi’s hotel room door, “Get up bitch! We gotta get our asses on a plane!” She slaps the door a few more times for good measure and waits for the younger girl to open the door. A moment passes and Gigi opens the door, drool crusted in the corners of her mouth, remnants of last night’s eyeliner smudged across the bridge of her nose, and her hair sticking out in every direction.

"I’m not going to Paris. I’m going home.“ Gigi insists, rubbing her eyes.

"Funny joke, girlie. Get your stuff packed and meet me downstairs.” Adore laughs, shaking her head.

"I’m not joking. I’m going home. I already called the label and talked to Michelle. She booked me a ticket home, so you’re right, I should probably pack, thanks Adore!“ Gigi smiles condescendingly before closing the door and shuffling over to her all but exploded suitcase to pack.

-^-^-^-^-

The rain pounding against the taxi’s windshield keeps Gigi awake as she lets her mind wander. She rubs her eyes wearily, her face puffy caused by either the crying or the low quality sleep on the plane. Since leaving the hotel she had almost texted Crystal three times, once in the lobby, once in the cab to the airport, and once at her gate. Instinctively, Gigi fumbles for her phone only to realize it’s beenoff for the last seven hours. She powers it on and checks her notifications. Texts from her mom, Adore, and Jaida were there, as well as some emails from her label, but nothing else. Gigi sighs, Why would Crystal text me. She doesn’t even know I’m coming home. She momentarily contemplates texting Crystal, if not for any reason other than a warning that she was back in town. As the taxi pulls up to the imposing white colonial Gigi was raised in, she lets out a shaky breath, letting the sinking feeling in her stomach settle before paying the cabbie and getting out. Her grubby sneakers scrape along the long path up to her childhood home as she trudges determinedly to get out of the rain and into the house.

-^-^-^-^-

After about an hour of recounting her tour to her mother, Gigi needed a good strong drink. After her mother puttered away to do some work in her office she scours the old bar cart, only finding empty bottles. She cranes her neck to yell up the stairs which her mother disappeared up, "Hey mom? When did you guys last go to the liquor store?”.

“Oh, maybe Christmas?” Her mother replies, clearly busy with something. Gigi sighs and resigns herself to the fact that she is going to have to go to the store. She slips her shoes back on, grabs her hoodie and the keys to her mom’s car from the foyer.

“Hey mom, I’m going to the store, you need anything?” She waits a beat and takes the following silence as a negatory and goes out to the car, the familiar drive a comfort of sorts.

As Gigi enters the small local grocery store, she gets a notification, pulling out her phone to check it. Almost as soon as the device is in her hand, she runs into someone, someone in a terribly familiar brightly coloured sweater. She looks up to see the face of the person she has been imagining across the world for the last eight years and breathlessly mutters, “Crystal.”

#rpdr fanfiction #gigi goode #crystal methyd #jaida essence hall #adore delano #crygi #light angst #lesbian au #musician au #you're a mess #bell #concrit welcome #s12

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roundtheworldrambles · 3 years

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Hanoi, Vietnam

Day 165 – Luang Prabang to Hanoi, Vietnam

I spent my final morning in Luang Prabang at Joma Café, a delicious bakery/café that my uncle Alan had recommended, run by a Canadian expat! I was surprised (and very excited) that the café served Canada’s famous Nanaimo Bar, and picked up one to have a ‘taste of home’ along with my coffee. I tucked into a cozy booth for several hours, doing research and bookings for the final 5 weeks of my trip, including Vietnam, Cambodia, Bangkok and Japan.

In the late afternoon, I packed up my bag and headed to the town centre to hire a Tuk Tuk to take me to the airport. At this point in Southeast Asia, I had become pretty used to negotiating a price when taking a Tuk Tuk, and agreed upon a price with the driver. However, he ended up demanding a higher price at the airport, after we had arrived. Even after months of travel, I was still never quite sure what to do in these situations, which occasionally arose. Given the increased charge that the driver demanded was little more than 50c Canadian, it felt petty to argue over such a small amount. At the same time, the whole practice also felt dishonest, and I struggled with it in principle – particularly wondering in the back of my mind whether I was a target of arbitrary price increases because I was a woman travelling alone. Irritated but not wanting to argue, I grudgingly paid the full amount and headed into the airport to catch my flight to Hanoi.

After a short flight to the east, I touched down in Vietnam just as the sun was setting. Having secured my e-visa to the country in advance, I sailed through customs and into the arrivals hall, where I had pre-arranged an airport transfer to take me into the old town of the city. While I generally preferred to take public transit or hail a tuk-tuk when backpacking, I had become cautious with my transportation when arriving at airports after dark. From my research on Hanoi, I had heard that taxi scams are unfortunately common, where certain drivers are paid by hotels and hostels to drive unwitting passengers to the wrong location, or charge excessive fares, to the point where a passenger would need to go to an ATM, or pay in foreign currency. In the communication I had received in advance from my hostel in Hanoi, I had also been fully briefed on possible scams in transit, and chose to pre-pay for a transfer to avoid the worry. I had also purchased a new Vietnamese SIM card in the airport, so that I could ensure I could follow my route to the old town city.

As my ride pulled away from the airport, we were almost immediately surrounded by scooters – hundreds of them! Weaving in and out of traffic, the drivers leaned heavily on their horns as they navigated their scooters along the road - carrying everything from tall plants, flowers and produce, and sometimes up to 3-4 people! After the quiet atmosphere of Luang Prabang, where honking was rare in the old city centre, the streets of Hanoi were quite the opposite, bursting with sounds from every direction. Heading South, we crossed the Red River and approached the Old Quarter of the city.

As it happened, even with my pre-arranged airport transfer, my driver still tried to drop me off at the wrong hostel. Fortunately I had already located my correct destination in Hanoi on Google Maps, and after much back-and-forth, and insistence on my part, I was finally taken to the correct destination. The streets of the old quarter are so narrow that cars cannot go down them, and I walked the final few minutes to my hostel on foot. I passed other hostels with live music, and food vendors with plastic stools arranged near their stalls for people to sit and eat. My friends from Vancouver, Kevin and Liane, had previously stayed at this hostel, Original Backpackers, a few years earlier, and recommended it highly – and rightly so! I felt immediately welcomed by the friendly staff, and began to relax again after many hours in transit. After several weeks of communal living, I had decided to pay a small premium for a private room, where I had a long, hot shower, before crashing immediately for the night.

Typical Food Stalls in the Old Quarter

Narrow Streets in the Old Quarter, with a perfectly placed photobomber!

Day 166 – Hanoi

I only had one full day in Hanoi – and woke up early, determined to pack in as much as possible! Through the front desk of my hostel, I arranged a motorbike “Backstreet Tour” for that afternoon, where a local Vietnamese guide would take me around the city on a motorbike to show me both popular sites, and what day-to-day life looked like in Hanoi.

In the morning, I began to wander the Old Quarter of Hanoi nearby to my hostel. This historic city has been inhabited for over a thousand years, and has been shaped by a complex history – from ancient kingdoms, dynasties and wars, French colonialism, Japanese occupation during the second world war, to more recently, with the influences of communism and the Vietnam War. After the war ended in the 1970s, it wasn’t until 1990s that the country began to open up to the outside world again, bringing in new opportunities for tourism and economic development. Modern day Hanoi is home to a multi-cultural community with strong French, Chinese and Russian influences. French colonial architecture continues to be visible throughout the city, with some streets resembling historic neighbourhoods in Paris. Near the Old Quarter, a large gothic cathedral constructed by French still stands; St. Josephs is one of the first structures built by the colonialists as they expanded their reach into Southeast Asia. Remarkably, the cathedral is still in good condition despite the wars of the last century.

The Old Quarter, part of a former citadel wall, is made up of a narrow series of alleys, tightly packed together. The historic area is known for its clusters of workshops, skilled craftsman, artisans and guilds, with the 40 streets of the area each named for the primary good and service provided on each street. It was a lively place to wander through in the morning; locals sat down on low, colourful plastic stools set up by street vendors, eating a breakfast of noodles. Honking scooters whizzed up and down the alleys, narrowing dodging each other. I spotted a few people playing chess in a doorway, right next to a vendor selling produce off the back of a scooter. I passed through one street mostly selling flowers, before turning the corner to find another street with almost all bamboo products.

I wandered further east to Hoan Kiem Lake, finally making an attempt to cross a major street – with scooters, cars and pedestrians going in every which way! One good piece of advice I had been given by friends who had visited Hanoi was to simply walk out into traffic at a slow, steady pace (without any sudden moves or stops!) and the scooters would simply weave around you. I walked beside locals crossing on my first few attempts, but it wasn’t long before I got the hang of it!

I stopped at Note Coffee to try my first Vietnamese-style egg coffee. This drink is traditionally prepared by beating egg yolks with sugar and milk, and bringing this mixture to a boil, before pouring in coffee. The result is a foamy, dessert-like coffee – and was delicious! The café itself was also unusual – with its walls decorated with thousands upon thousands of colourful post-it notes, with messages from previous visitors. The result made the entire café look like a giant art installation, and reminded me of Yayoi Kusama’s dotted “obliteration room”. Sufficiently loaded up on sugar and caffeine, I continued onwards towards the lake, popping into a few art galleries and stalls on my way. Along the streets, I was constantly amazed by the number of vendors selling fruit, art, and countless other items off the back of their scooters. Pushing or driving their laden motorbike through the crowds, these vendors would make sales right, left and centre – all while keeping moving!

Arriving at the banks of Hoan Kiem Lake, I crossed a traditional, red wooden bridge to Ngoc Son Temple, located on a small island in the middle of the lake. Aside from the crowds of other tourists, it was a quiet respite from the buzz of the surrounding Old City of Hanoi.

As it was approaching noon, I returned to my hostel to meet Kien, my local guide for the afternoon motorbike tour. Slightly younger than me, Kien had grown up in Hanoi, and was excellent company for the afternoon. His motorbike was a vintage, army-green, “Minsk”, a heavy duty motorbike that was brought back from the Soviet Union in the 80s. As luck would have it – I was the only person on the tour that day, which allowed Kien to take me out and around the city for almost 7 hours! I could scarcely believe that I was able to see and experience so much of Hanoi in a day.

Kien first took me to Train Street, where twice a day a speeding train passes through the Old Quarter, mere feet from the front stoops of people’s homes. We continued onwards to Hanoi’s notorious black market, where vendors sell everything from car and mechanical parts to appliances, DVDs and electronics. Kien pointed out things as we cycled; the dense scramble of black electric wires overhead called “black noodles” by the locals; the French colonial architecture throughout the city; and the “tube houses” of the Old Quarter – narrow homes that exchanged their width for height and depth – as a way of lowering property tax, since the wider your house, the more you pay! Many of these tall, skinny homes had large water cannisters mounted on the top of the buildings, used to maintain water pressure. We also visited a few wet markets – where every imaginable item was for sale, from a rainbow of produce to live turtles, eels, and frogs.

Train Street

Between our ventures into different areas of the city, Kien took me to many local restaurants and wet markets along the way, to try a wide range of different Vietnamese food, including more Ca Phe Trung (egg coffee), Banh Mi Chao (a hearty breakfast skillet), Banh Cuon (rice rolls, stuffed with pork), Pho Cuon (fresh beef rolls), Pho, and Banana Flower Salad. We also stopped at a tiny Bia Hoi right stand next to the road – “Bia Hoi” literally translating to “fresh beer”, and is draught beer that is sold on street corners and tiny bars throughout the city. It is delivered daily and is tapped straight out of a large steel barrel. Kien and I sat on tiny red plastic stools on the pavement, sipping the light beer and snacking on roasted peanuts from a nearby vendor.

Fruit Markets

A typical neighbourhood Bia Hoi Stand

A particularly interesting part of the day is when Kien took me East of the city center to the banks of the Red River. I was able to walk along Cau Long Bien, a colonial-era cantilever bridge that was heavily bombarded during the Vietnam war, as it was a key point of connection between Hanoi and the nearby port. Spanning a mile and a half in length, it is still one of the longest cantilever truss bridges in the world. While only part of the original bridge still stands, the bridge continues to be a symbol of pride for the Vietnamese people. Underneath the Cau Long Bien, impoverished families live in a cluster of floating homes, make-shift shelters that have been built on rafts of plastic barrels.

Cau Long Bien

Floating Homes on the Delta

We continued onwards to Bai Giua, or ��Banana Island”, an island located in the middle of the Red River next to Hanoi. Since this island is on a flood plain, no apartments or concrete buildings are allowed, and the island is mostly used for farming, including fields of bananas and papayas. Kien maneouvered his motorcycle down a maze of dirt paths between the fields as we explored the island. Barking dogs sometimes came up to our motorcycle, and ran along next to us for a while, before dropping off the trail again. We passed by many farmers working in the fields, typically wearing a conical, straw hat, (called “Non La”) tied around the wearer’s chin with a piece of cloth. These multi-purpose hats not only protect farmers from the fierce tropical sun, but can be used as a fan and also as a basin for water.

As the sun began to set over the Red River, we headed back into Hanoi, and drove along the large, tree lined boulevards around the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum and the Presidential Palace. Our day ended with a bit of a surprise - as Kien’s motorcycle broke down in the middle of an intersection! Fortunately, this seemed to be a common-enough occurrence in Hanoi, and all the other bikes moved around us seamlessly as we tried to get off the road. All in a day’s adventure! Arriving back in the Old Quarter after a terrific day of exploring Hanoi, I quickly crashed for the night, as I would be waking up early the following morning to catch a bus into the Sapa Mountains, a day’s journey northwest of Hanoi.

#vietnam

1 note · View note

harryandmolly · 5 years

Text

Complicit // 14 // Final

summary: Shawn is under more pressure than he’s ever known. He craves release and comfort, the simplicity of sex. He gets more than he bargained for.

warnings: language, love, love languages

WC: 8k

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He really, really should’ve had a plan.

But, in all fairness, Shawn’s never done the whole “jump on a 12 hour flight on a whim to chase after the love of his life” thing before, so how could he have been expected to make such a plan?

But still, he thinks, standing against a wall under a baseball cap outside Naples International Airport, he could’ve done some more thinking before all this. Or at least could’ve made a pseudo-plan on the plane.

The most Silver could give him in terms of guidance was the address of the house and that Naples is the closest airport. She’s never been to the “Vineyard” before. When Shawn asked if the “Vineyard” was a nickname or if it meant the house is on an actual vineyard, she didn’t know that either. Not extremely helpful, but he’ll figure it out. He has to.

From what he gathers on Google Maps, sucking up international roaming data charges like nobody’s business, Ravello is about an hour and a half southeast of Naples. Not ideal. But the Amalfi Coast is a pretty big attraction, so he figures there’s probably a train. He just has to find a train station.

On the way out the door with his backpack, the only luggage he bothered to pack, he Googles a train route.

Walk half an hour to the Calata di… something something and take the N5 to… somewhere and walk 3 minutes to somewhere else to catch a bus to somewhere…

.... no fucking way.

He bites into his lip and squints around. Should he rent a car? He winces. Driving in Italy sounds terrifying. What if he gets into a crash? Who is he supposed to call?

No. He needs to hire a car to take him to Ravello. That’s the plan.

More Googling. More squinting. He’s vaguely grateful that he’s been able to stay under the radar so far. He’s not sure he could handle this and dozens of screaming Italian girls begging for selfies without snapping.

He ducks behind a large leafy fig tree when he sees what looks like a group of middle school-aged girls on a field trip scramble past, squealing and laughing. Close call.

He leans against a column and sighs. Silver also gave him Mia’s personal cell number. He could just call her and tell her he’s here and hope she wants to see him and come pick him up.

Shawn sighs heavily, pouting. He’s not going to do that. This is his only shot at being a romantic hero, like, ever. He’s not going to pansy out and call her for a ride. He’s going to show the fuck up because that’s what Mia deserves.

Whether she wants to see him is another matter and he’d rather not worry about that until about halfway up her driveway.

He sets off toward the transportation center at a quick stride, curls fluttering between the brim of his cap and his forehead. He swerves suddenly to avoid another throng of young women that look ready for a beach vacation.

He parks in front of a driving service and a tall, unnaturally beautiful blonde man who doesn’t look up at him.

“Uh, ciao?” Shawn tries.

He glances up. Shawn holds his breath for the pop star response. It doesn’t come. He exhales.

“Do you speak English?” Shawn asks, wincing at how ignorant he sounds. The man nods boredly.

“Cool. Uh. Ok. I need to go to Ravello.”

“Si, Ravello. There is a train,” the man drawls, the slowest talking Italian Shawn’s ever met.

Shawn nods, uncertain. “Yeah. Right, yeah. But… can I get a car to drive me?”

The man even blinks slowly. “There is also a bus.”

Does this guy just not want business? Shawn sighs.

“Do you not take people to Ravello?” he tries, looking to bridge whatever gap this is as quickly as possible.

Finally, the man seems to give in. “Ravello is a long drive. 125 euro. We take--”

Shawn slaps his Visa down so fast the man stops abruptly and stares at him. He sees a tinge of crazy in Shawn’s travel-weary eyes. He fights the urge to roll his own and books the trip.

Shawn had hoped he’d start to relax in the car since at least then he’d know he was heading somewhere. There was no relaxing to be done.

His driver Giorgio seems to have gotten his start in Formula One. Shawn figures he should be grateful, given that the speed they’re driving at will probably cut the travel time in half. But he can’t help but wonder about the headlines if he dies in a fiery crash against the side of an Italian coastal mountain.

Pop Superstar Shawn Mendes Dies In Search Of Love, Giorgio to Blame

Shawn Mendes Perishes At The Height Of His Career, Unrecognizably Mangled

Shawn Mendes Is An Idiot, Fatally

He’s so sure there’s no way they’ll make it between the two trucks Giorgio decides to squeeze them through, but they do. Shawn slams his eyes shut and focuses on the Cez-approved meditation breathing exercises that, by the way, do not save you from your crazy Italian driver who almost plows into the back of a Peugeot going god knows how fast on the E45.

But at least he points out Mount Vesuvius. And doesn’t crash them into it.

They lose sight of the ocean for a while, which makes Shawn panic. The guy isn’t using a GPS, claims he knows every corner of every town on the Amalfi Coast. That sounded a lot better to Shawn before he got in the car, before they were winding through something called the “Riserva Statale Valle delle Ferriere,” which seems as good a place as any to ditch a body.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

It’s a chant in his head until, by some miracle, he catches sight of the water again and it’s exactly like every Instagram travel post he’s ever seen of the Amalfi Coast. He thanks whatever god there is, and thanks Giorgio, too, who grunts.

Ravello, Shawn’s not surprised to report, is fucking beautiful. Cliffs appear out of nowhere and spill off down bleached white coastline to crystalline turquoise water. It’s a goddamn postcard. The town, from what he can see of it from above, is a scattered board of colorful post-its clinging to the side of a mountain. His hungry brain tells him he can smell fresh pasta and seafood, but he knows it’s just an illusion of a man who ate half an airplane meal and a couple stale biscotti several hours ago.

Rather than descend toward the coast, Giorgio winds him around the hills past farms of lemon trees. The sun hangs low. Shawn thanks his lucky stars that he’s not having to deal with locating this place in the dark.

Giorgio stops at the base of a dirt road sporting a sign with Mia’s address. Shawn practically flings himself out of the car, almost forgetting his backpack. He shoves his Tom Ford sunglasses on against the harsh snap of the late afternoon sun. He looks around. Along the dirt path, hardly even a road, are rows upon rows of grape vines. It seems the house name is literal after all. He’ll be sure to tell Silver if he makes it out of this alive.

He starts walking.

It’s a trudge, really, up a reasonably steep hill. He slips once or twice and puts a knee into the dust, kicking up a froth of it around him that clings to his sweaty skin and white t-shirt. By the time he finds Mia, he’s going to look like he swam and crawled all the way to her.

Good.

He crests the hill to find… more hills. There are a series of large buildings that don’t look anything like homes, more like warehouses or farmhouses. Given that it’s not yet harvest season, only a few hands are out tending the vines. He descends towards them, probably looking as ridiculous as he ever has in his life.

They seem to want to ignore him. It’s a habit of Italian men, maybe. He has to wave and walk straight up to the closest figure, an older, shorter man with only a few teeth to speak of.

“Ciao. Uh… Mia Bianchi?”

Shawn hopes if she’s the lady of the house, they’ll know to take him to her. The man stares back blankly.

“Uh… dove… Mia Bianchi?” he tries again. The man looks over his shoulder at his coworkers, who’ve stopped to stare at the tall, sunburnt Canadian idiot. Shawn sighs.

He doesn’t even have a picture to show them. She’s the love of his stupid life and he doesn’t even have a picture of her.

Except that he does. He has a lot of them. Black and white and sparkling. And completely inappropriate to be sharing with a bunch of strange farmhands. He grunts and reaches for his phone anyway, nearly dead, just like his chances of making this stupid romantic gesture work.

Shawn zooms in carefully to just her face and shows it to the smaller man. He squints and attempts to touch the screen, but Shawn nearly slaps his hand away.

“Dove Mia Bianchi?” he almost whines.

One of the younger hands strides up and glances at the picture. He exchanges a few words with the others and looks Shawn over. He sighs and nods at a golf cart a few yards away, then walks towards it.

Shawn blinks, then follows.

If nothing else, it’s a faster way to get over the hills. Plus, if he’s on the vineyard, she can’t be far, right?

“Mia?” Shawn asks, eyes wide and hopeful.

The guy shrugs. It’s not very comforting. But Shawn’s out of options, so he gets in the cart.

The hills just keep going. After about ten minutes of cruising along and over them with nothing but vines in sight, he’s suddenly incredibly grateful for the ride. He glances over at his driver, seemingly much more sane than Giorgio.

“Shawn,” Shawn says, pointing to himself with a flat smile and a little wave.

The man nods. “Maurizio.”

“Grazie, Maurizio,” Shawn grunts, sitting back as they ascend another, steeper hill. He worries for a moment about the possibilities of this golf cart skidding back down from whence it came. It becomes unimportant when they reach the peak and he sees a house.

Well, it’s not just a house. It’s practically a palace. From behind it, he can see the way it sprawls over tens of thousands of square feet. There’s a pool, he thinks, and a few different gardens, and it looks like a grove of trees, maybe olive or citrus, he’s not sure. At some point, the path turns from dirt to pebbles and the ride gets louder. It almost drowns out Shawn’s heartbeat in his ears.

Maurizio slows under the shade of two old stone pine trees and turns up a narrow path lined by lush, well-tended gardens replete with color. He takes the curve around the fountain in the center of the path slow enough for Shawn to notice the detailing. The basin of the fountain is held up by a sculpture of a renaissance-style naked woman. Curled against her, with his arm around her hips, is a man helping her hold it up. His face is tucked tenderly into her neck.

The cart stops. Maurizio clears his throat. Shawn stands and steps off.

“Uh, grazie!” he calls as Maurizio starts to gun it back down the path. Maurizio looks back at him and laughs in a way Shawn doesn’t need translated.

You’re a fucking idiot.

Shawn sighs for the millionth time that afternoon. He knows.

It’s golden hour on the coast. Behind the red tiled roof, the sun spills marigold light everywhere it touches, including the belltower on the chapel beside the main house. Green shudders flap gently in the evening breeze. The front door is wide open. The smell of fresh bread has Shawn’s mouth filling with saliva. He starts to head toward the door when he hears something.

Off to the left, down a grassy footpath, he follows it. It’s as familiar to him now as her perfume, as the feeling of her hair in his fingers, as the smile she gives him when he’s very good for her.

He’d know Ol’ Blue Eyes anywhere now.

It’s one of his Italian tracks, playing off a turntable parked in another open door on the side of the house. He drops his bag beside it, smiling when he hears pruning shears and quiet steps. The record sleeve reads “Come Back to Sorrento.”

He takes a deep breath and follows the sound of the shuffling steps. Sinatra’s voice fades as Shawn nears a small grove of olive trees. The grass below his feet is dappled with shade and the streaming sunset light. A breeze rustles a wave of red fabric out behind the trunk of a tree toward the back of the grove.

Shawn holds his breath, watching a long bronzed leg follow it, stepping backward, then another. She’s on her tiptoes, barefoot in a deeply red mid-length sundress, the cap sleeves fluttering around her arms that follow her focused eyes to the branches above her head. She hasn’t spotted him yet. He could still run. He doesn’t have to stand here until she throws her pruning shears at his head for showing up at her family home unannounced in fucking Italy.

Mia turns her head to check on another branch and he lands in her periphery. Her lips part. Her eyes blow wide like saucers. The shears fall by her feet. She lowers off her toes to face him. The wrap dress hugs her everywhere he’d like to.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, lifting a hand into her hair just as another breeze picks up around them, lifting her dress around her knees to wave at him.

“So… uh… ciao,” Shawn nearly chokes.

Mia just stares for a minute. It feels like forever since she’s seen him, even if it’s only been a couple weeks.

He’s fucking glorious even covered in dirt. His hair is a little matted and sweaty, like he was wearing a hat. His white shirt clings to him. His black jeans have patches of dirt on the knees that give her flashbacks to the day she took him to Malibu in her Aston Martin. She shivers.

“What-- I mean, how… I don’t…”

“Silver told me you quit,” he blurts.

Mia’s eyes seem to swell again, then shut as she groans. “She gave you the address.”

“Yeah. I think… I think maybe she wanted you to want to see me.”

Mia chews on the inside of her lip. Another breeze tickles through the olive branches, surrounding them with a light earthy scent. Shawn shifts anxiously on his feet.

“So you just… showed up,” Mia murmurs. It’s a statement of fact, expressionless. She doesn’t sound annoyed or surprised or, to Shawn’s slight disappointment, pleased. But he knew better than to expect that. Or he thinks he should have.

Shawn shrugs. “I think after everything you’ve done for me, you deserve the effort.”

Mia’s lips tuck in slightly at the corners. She nods down at her feet. “Effort, huh?”

Shawn fights the urge to reach for her, even though it feels right. He wants to do this delicately.

Patience. That’s what Silver told him. If there’s anyone besides Mia he should be listening to right now, it’s Silver.

“I came because I want to talk to you. About everything.” His voice sounds impressively calm to his own ears, even as he feels his hands shake.

Mia looks up and immediately past him into the kitchen. She cards a fluttering strand of hair behind her ear and clears her throat.

“I have extra towels. You can clean up in the guest bath.”

She swerves around him and into the house. He stands there in the grove for a moment or two, blinking after her.

He’s not knocked out, he’s just… regrouping. That’s what Shawn decides in the shower as he scrubs the salty sweat from his hair and watches reddish dust swirl down the drain.

He was struck dumb when she led him up the stairs to one of what looks like many guest rooms. She got him a fluffy towel and showed him how to work the faucet because it’s a bit tricky. She turned and left without another word.

Shawn didn’t have a speech prepared or anything, he didn’t write a sonnet on the long trudge up to the house, but he didn’t expect her to shut down as soon as he started getting into it, whatever it was going to be. That took the wind out of his sails.

He’s not giving up. Not yet. If after a real conversation she says she does not love him and wants him out of her house, he’ll go. He’ll hold his head high and leave, knowing he put his heart on the line. And he’ll be ok.

Shawn’s breath shakes. He blinks quickly under the spew of warm water above his head. He plants a hand against the wall for stability. It’s the first time he’s let himself think about it, really consider the idea. What if he really actually made all this up in his head? What if she’s really as good as what he pays for and feels nothing for him beyond a professional sort of fondness? Or perhaps worse, what if she’s had feelings, but they’re not enough?

He closes his eyes and slowly scrubs his face with his pruny hands. He’s conspicuously been in the shower a long time. He bets she doesn’t mind -- gives her time to strategize.

Shawn lifts his head and turns off the faucet. He doesn’t want her strategies or her carefully delivered lines. He wants her.

He wants Mia as much as he wants Penny.

For once, Mia does something that would make the former owner of this home, her great grandmother, very proud. She sets aside her panic, confusion, irritation and angst and prepares for a guest.

She sets the table. She decants a bottle of Castello di Ama chianti. She hauls the record player back inside and switches over to Dean Martin’s Italian Love Songs and decides not to overthink the choice. She sets to work on a quick spaghetti alla vongole with the clams she bought at the market this morning. Her homemade loaf of ciabatta rests warm in a checkered cloth on the table.

Anything to distract herself.

But then she almost lops off a finger slicing the bread. She nicks the pad of her thumb and gasps, instinctively squeezing her fingers around the wound to staunch the bleeding.

“Hold on, I’ll get a napkin.”

She turns from the counter to see Shawn in a t-shirt and sweats at the bottom of the stairs, his hair shining wet against his neck. He swipes a paper napkin off a credenza and meets her at the counter. She watches him as he checks the cut, dabs it with the paper, wraps his hand around it to apply pressure and holds it over her head.

He looks down at her. “Does it hurt?”

“No, not really,” she murmurs, sounding sheepish.

He’s closer now to her than he was before. Holding her arm over her head seems an oddly intimate gesture between two people who’ve seen and done a lot more. It’s heightened by the way he caresses her palm with his fingers. He doesn’t even seem to notice he’s doing it.

“God, I missed you so much,” he says quietly, shaking his head.

Mia aches with the returning words and lets them rattle through her bones. She’s not going to say them back.

“I really don’t know what you were thinking coming here. Did you cancel work stuff? What about the album? And the tour?”

Shawn seems unfazed. “I’m on a break before we start working on tour promo. I actually went to your house. Got worried when I didn’t see Pammy’s leash outside.”

Mia’s eyes flash with affection. “She’s… staying with Gus for a while.”

Shawn nods slowly. “I bet you miss her.”

Mia’s eyes drop. Her other hand, gripping the counter behind her to keep from grabbing at him, squeezes tighter.

“Of course. All the time.”

After another few seconds of Shawn’s intense staring and Mia’s equally intense avoidance, he lowers her hand. The small cut has stopped bleeding. He cups her palm, kissing it gently. Mia turns away.

Shawn’s head drops. He sighs.

“So. You quit.”

Mia continues slicing bread. “Yes.”

“I’m surprised. I know how happy it made you.”

Mia’s stomach swoops. The ease with which he talks about her profession still strikes her sometimes when she least expects it. He talks about it like it’s any other job, like he never for a second thought to judge her for it.

“It got too complicated. I have other things I wanted to focus on.”

She takes the freshly sliced bread to the table. He follows with the bowls of salad and pasta.

“Like what?” he chirps.

Mia grunts, irritated. “A project. It’s a charitable thing.”

He seems to decide not to push for the moment. She tucks into her bowl of pasta, eager for something to shut him up.

He hums, bobbing his head as he slurps up a bite. “This is fucking great. I didn’t know you can cook.”

She shrugs. “I’m an Italian woman, Shawn. If I can’t cook, I shame my ancestors.”

He smiles as he swallows and reaches for his wine. He looks oddly relaxed, comfortable in her favorite surroundings. It strikes her as odd, suddenly, that he’s here. She’s never brought any non-family member here before. Not even Silver. Definitely not a client.

But Shawn brought himself. He flew 12 hours and, Mia knowing the journey well, probably took trains, buses, ferries and god knows what else to arrive on her doorstep.

She has yet to truly reckon with it. She sips at her own glass and watches him look around.

“This house is incredible. It’s a family place?” he asks.

Mia swallows and nods carefully. “For a long time. My great grandmother was the last one who lived here full time. We sold the vineyard in the 90s. The rest of the estate is still ours.”

Shawn looks around at the vaulted ceilings and the rustic stucco walls and stone floors. A glass door looks out onto a vast back patio strung with twinkle lights that overlooks the acres of vineyard land that used to belong to her family. The farmhands have packed it in for the evening. There’s no one in sight all the way to the horizon, where the sun has burst into flames of pink and gold. Shawn hasn’t felt this far away in a long time.

When he looks back, Mia doesn’t bother to look away. She knows the games are over. Glancing away from his pretty face so he doesn’t catch her staring won’t work anymore. He’s not here for a game. She swallows and feels her heart in her throat.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long,” Shawn murmurs. He sits forward across the smooth oak table. The sunset light catches him through the window. It makes his intense gaze even more entrancing. Mia’s fingers twitch around her wineglass.

“Don’t apologize. I don’t think I’m ready to hear whatever it is you’re about to say.”

She watches something flicker in his eyes uncertainly. He wets his lips and seems determined to soldier on.

“Mia, I know this wasn’t the plan. For either of us. It was never supposed to become… this. But I think it’s been something real since at least Vegas. Maybe before. And I think it’s as real to me as it is to you.”

Mia’s heart sprints. She knew what he was going to say. She’s known since he showed up in her little olive grove. She’s not sure why being so close to hearing the words has her pulsating in her own skin. She shifts in her seat.

“Shawn, please…” she begins, shaking her head, “I don’t want to put you through this. I know you’re already here and… god, I still can’t believe you’re here. But I don’t want to make you say it.”

“Why?” he presses, “Why can’t I say it?”

Mia closes her big brown eyes. He misses them immediately.

“Because it’s not going to make a difference. It can’t.”

She opens her eyes when she hears his wooden chair creak. He’s sitting back, his jaw tight, his eyes still on hers. He swirls the wine in his glass absently.

“Tell me I’m crazy. Not for coming out here, not for wanting this with you, tell me I’m crazy and I imagined all of it. Tell me it was all for show, all for money. Tell me Rio wasn’t real, or your house, or my house. Fuck, tell me Vegas wasn’t real. Mia, tell me you don’t love me. Please. If it’s true, please tell me.”

It’s silent. They’re far enough up the mountain from the town of Ravello that there’s no sound but the breeze in the trees and Mia’s heartbeat in her ears. She feels her face going scarlet with every word. Her hand shakes in her lap where he can’t see it.

She sits up tall, channeling Silver, and thumbs at the base of her glass.

“Like I said, it doesn’t make a difference.”

“How could it not?” Shawn hisses. He sits forward again, his gaze imploring, “Mia, it’s the only thing that matters.”

Mia scoffs. It’s patronizing and ugly. Shawn flinches.

“We both know better than that. We’re not teenagers, Shawn. Actually, even if we were, we’d be in the same position. You’ve been very famous for a very long time. I was never an option for you the same way you’ve never been an option for me,” Mia explains, her voice quivering under her false calm.

“Jesus Christ, Mia, you’re not an option,” Shawn spits. His eyes seem to darken, or maybe it’s a trick of the fading sun, “You’re the one. You’re the fucking one.”

Mia’s eyes drift shut as they well up. She lifts her hands into her silky hair and releases a rocky sigh.

“You’re not thinking. You have to think, Shawn, not just feel. This is your whole life we’re talking about. You know I can’t just fit into it. I would be catastrophic for you. Anyone could tell you that. Andrew would be first in line, I bet.”

Shawn stands. He walks to the door and stares at the rolling hills strung with vines like Christmas lights, neat strands growing darker with the night. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“If I let Andrew tell me who I can and can’t be with, my life isn’t mine. I’ve experienced something close enough to that this summer. I know I agreed to it, I know I was complicit in the whole thing, but I’m not interested in that anymore. If that’s where I really am in my life and my career, none of this is worth it. And that’s not even about you, Mia, that’s about me. I won’t put up with that. I’d sooner fucking quit and never play a show again if it meant I couldn’t be with someone I love because of however it looks to some people.”

Mia’s chest shudders. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. I can’t live with that, please.”

He whirls on his heel and stares at her, eyes hot. “Don’t say what? That I’d give it up for you if I had to? Fuck, Mia, of course I would. What kind of fucking human being would I be if I picked being famous over the person that I love?”

“Stop, please,” Mia begs, shaking her head, pressing her face into her hands.

She hears him shuffle over the stone to her. His fingers are gentle as they pry her hands off her face. He cups her wrists, massaging them slowly.

“Hey,” he whispers, the aggression in his voice gone as quickly as it came, “It doesn’t matter. That’s not our reality, it doesn’t have to be. I don’t have to make that choice, so neither do you.”

Mia’s lower lip quivers. “Shawn, I don’t think you realize what would really happen if you stood up in front of the whole world and told them you love a whore.”

Shawn releases her hands. The corners of his lips turn down. His eyes are hard and somehow cracked.

“Don’t do that. Don’t say that. I know you don’t even believe that. You’ve never thought of yourself like that, I know you haven’t. You know you’re so much more than that.” His voice grows louder as he continues until he’s shouting.

Her brow furrows. “You don’t know! You don’t know anything! The things I’ve done, the things I’ve said, the things I’ve had done to me. Shawn, if you had an inkling of the depraved… fuck. If you had any idea at all, you wouldn’t be saying this. You probably wouldn’t come near me ever again.”

“Are you trying to scare me?” he barks back, his eyebrows lifting, “Really? Fine. I’ll call that bluff. I’ll sit here with you all night if you want. Tell me everything. Every filthy detail. Sorry, Mia, it’s not that fucking easy. I won’t love you any less.”

“You can say that now! You don’t know, Shawn! You don’t even know me. What do you know? You know my dog, you know my music taste, sure, you know my name. What if everything Penny did was a lie? What if you love a ghost?”

Shawn goes cold. He stiffens all over. She watches it from his eyes down. She freezes in place.

“Don’t try to tell me I love something that isn’t real,” he breathes. There isn’t even a hint of uncertainty in his face or voice. Mia looks down at her feet.

Shawn steps forward again. Slowly, gently, he cups his hands around her neck, his thumbs working softly into her jaw.

“We can talk about image and PR and logistics. We can talk about Andrew and the headlines and the future. But don’t insult me, honey. I know what’s in front of me. I know what I love. I love you. I love you, I love you. We can talk about the rest, but we can’t talk about that. That’s real and it’s not up for discussion.”

Mia’s eyes close, pressing the building tears down her cheeks. Her head lowers in defeat. Shawn’s hands skim down her shoulders to her upper arms. He plants his lips on top of her head and breathes. Two deep inhales, two deep exhales. Then he steps away and heads back up the stairs.

Neither of them sleeps that night. He’s in the guest room down the hall from her master suite. At around 3am, she gives up altogether and sits out on her balcony under the crescent moon wrapped in a chenille blanket. She’s convinced that inside she can hear him breathe.

Meanwhile he sits at the end of his bed, sheets half torn off from his tossing and turning, begging for words. He’s never had to beg before. His artistic, lyrical brain has handed them to him his whole life. Those aren’t the words he needs now. He needs the ones that will convince her.

When she wakes up, he’s downstairs in a t-shirt and boxers. His hair is sticking up everywhere. He’s staring hopelessly at her espresso machine. She knows he hears her come down the stairs, but he doesn’t turn around.

Silently, Mia arrives by his side. She presses a few buttons until the machine starts to whir. She reaches up to the cabinet above her and pulls down two tiny espresso cups. When she hands him one, their fingers touch. They both nearly jolt apart.

She spends the morning outside. She gets her white sundress filthy picking citrus off the trees. She hauls baskets and baskets full up to the porch. Each time she brings one up, it disappears and ends up on the counter, but she never sees Shawn move them.

At lunch, he smells more seafood. She glistens with sweat over a deep dutch oven full of hot oil, frying calamari. He slices lemons and opens the bottle of white she has on the counter, pouring them glasses. They eat silently, picking at their salads, letting Rosemary Clooney’s voice do their talking. When he finishes, Shawn looks at Mia. Mia looks up at Shawn. He takes her hand and guides it to his lips, a silent thank you. She lets him touch her for five seconds before she pulls away and heads back out to the lavender garden. When she comes back for dinner, the kitchen is clean and the fruit is stored in the butler’s pantry.

She roasts a chicken with rosemary and thyme, along with some potatoes and carrots and lets him rest his hand on her knee while they finish a bottle of wine.

“I found a guitar upstairs,” he confesses, chewing his wine-stained lower lip.

She glances over at him. “My grandfather’s. It’s old and shitty but yours to use if you want it.”

He nods appreciatively, rubbing his thumb into her warm skin. She aches to rest her fingers on his pulse, just to prove he’s really there.

That night, they clean up together. He walks her to her room and kisses her cheek. She doesn’t hear his footsteps walk away from her door for a long minute after she closes it.

His gentle plucking of the guitar from down the hall puts her to sleep.

She’s gone when Shawn wakes up. He lets himself panic for only a minute or two. All her stuff is still here, and this is her house, after all. She returns around lunch in an old pickup truck with bags from the market. Eggs, cream, cocoa, fresh mascarpone. She announces she’s making tiramisu for after their branzino dinner. She smiles a little, tentatively, and it nearly makes him fall at her feet.

Neither of them seems interested in disappearing today the way they did the day before. They hover near each other, rotating positions, swirling like opposing magnets. Shawn keeps the guitar close. Once he gets it in tune, it doesn’t sound too bad. He works on a melody. He thinks it must be good because she’s humming along in the kitchen while she prepares a batch of limoncello and rosemary gelato.

(He doesn’t know what army she’s cooking for, but he just hopes he gets to be a part of it.)

He finishes the song that afternoon, pacing around the lavender garden with a sprig of it tucked behind his ear. When he’s satisfied and turns to head inside around sunset, he clocks her on a balcony above looking very settled, like she’s been there a while. She’s far enough up that she didn’t hear it, so she must’ve just been watching him.

They eat in silence -- branzino with lemon, citrus salad, arugula with balsamic, then tiramisu for dessert. They nearly finish two bottles of wine, like they’re both preparing to get mouthy. Shawn goes first.

“I think I knew when I bought the necklace. Like, I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. I knew what it would mean to you to have that. I wanted so badly to give you something as meaningful as what you’ve given me.”

Mia stiffens at the sudden conversation after a long drought. She recovers quickly, thanks to the wine.

“What I gave you was sex, Shawn. A lot of it. Really good sex that required you to make no decisions, gave you no responsibility. I took care of you in a way you’ve never been taken care of before.”

His eyes flash and Mia regrets her words immediately.

“If you really think I don’t know the difference between sex and love by now, you must think I’m a fucking moron.”

Mia’s chest deflates as she sighs. “I don’t think you’re a moron.”

“Are you sure? Because you’re treating me like one,” he jabs, draining his wine. She misses his heavy, warm hand on her knee when he stands and starts pacing back and forth in front of the table.

Mia stares at him, tensed with every word she won’t let herself say, every feeling she’s been beating back for months. Her spine aches. Her brain swims. Her mouth is dry.

Shawn stops suddenly so that his boot skids a little on the stone floor. Mia blinks quickly.

He stands in front of her, staring. Slowly, without moving his eyes from hers, he lowers to his knees, turning her in her seat to face him. Having his hands on her again makes her want to scream. She waits, holding her breath.

“I just need you to say it. Please. I know you don’t think it’s enough, so it can’t hurt, right? Because there’s a part of me, the piece I hate, the piece I’ve always hated and that’s always hated me that still wants to convince me it’s not true. So please, please, just once, just say it. Say it if it’s true.”

Mia’s knuckles are white as she grips her chair. They feel oddly detached and wiry when she pries them up, flexes them, and sieves them into his hair. His eyes shut. He lowers his head to rest in her lap. She takes a deep breath.

“I love you, Shawn Mendes.”

Mia’s on the counter in an oversized t-shirt, swinging her feet, eating limoncello and rosemary gelato out of the freezer bowl. Shawn stops at the bottom of the stairs and smiles at her. His love for her gets so big it feels ready to explode out of his ears.

He shuffles up to lean beside her at the counter with the extra spoon she offers. They eat quietly, smacking their lips.

“So what’s the charity project?”

He catches her off guard while she puts away the rest of the ice cream. She stands upright, a little too straight, then catches herself and forces herself to relax.

“Uhm… it’s an idea I had a long time ago. A non-profit sort of thing for La Splendeur. A way to look out for the girls that are working jobs like mine but on the street. It’s always seemed so arbitrary to me, you know? The women that wind up as courtesans making hundreds of thousands of dollars a year flying all around the world doing the same thing that women standing on street corners do, constantly putting their lives in danger. Sex work is so odd that way.”

Shawn nods thoughtfully. “How can you help them?”

He watches her brighten a little, scooping hair behind her ears as she explains.

“Resources make all the difference. Women like that end up there because they don’t have resources. We can provide shelter, safety, rehabilitation if necessary. We can start a scholarship fund. We can offer career counseling and interview practice and resume building. Or we can help them organize and stay safe so they don’t end up with pimps. They just need help, and money can provide a lot of that.”

He bobs his head, clearly interested. “So where does the money come from?”

“Philanthropists and investments. Between Silver and I, our network is pretty vast. A lot of the donors will likely prefer to remain anonymous because of the nature of it, but we only need a couple powerful people that would speak up and draw attention. If they say it’s ok to care, it’s ok to care. Julia Granger and Christian Becker could be those people.”

Shawn cracks a smile. “So where are you in all this?”

Mia smiles back, infected by the pride written all over his face. “Silver and I are finalizing the paperwork for the creation of the non-profit. We’ll start approaching investors formally when I get home.”

Shawn ducks his head, turning his enormous, goofy smile down at his feet. “That’s incredible, Mia.”

His voice is gentle, touched. She tingles all over. She wants to run into his arms just to feel them around her again. She locks her own around her chest instead.

“Th-thank you. It’s been a long time coming.”

They lock eyes again. The air sizzles.

Mia smiles sadly. The silence is pregnant with potential headlines written about the Canadian golden boy loving the whore who wants to help the whores. Shawn scrabbles for words to fight them off but comes up choked and huffing breath.

He watches her disappear outside, heading for the vineyard.

The bottoms of Mia’s feet are nearly black. She takes a sick sort of pleasure in it. It makes her feel like a kid again, she guesses. Reminds her of chasing Peter around the gazebo, skinning knees, playing “scuba divers” in the pool while their family ate and drank and sang, happier in Ravello than they ever were in New Jersey.

She sits on the swing beneath the pergola, listening to him sing now. The house is so much quieter than it used to be, but no less filled with love. It’s a different kind of love. And despite their desperation to beat it away, it gets stronger every second. Shawn is the strong one, the brave one, she thinks, letting it into his heart before she could.

Because it’s not like he’s not scared. She knows he is. She can hear it in his voice and see it in the way he holds himself around her. He can’t know what would happen if they made it real -- could they last? Could they manage to see past all the bullshit the papers would surely print and hold on? If they did, would their love be worth anything after all the bulletholes and sharp words?

She hugs her knees to her chest and closes her eyes, leaning into his melody. She has the song memorized now. He keeps playing it the same way like he’s planning on changing something but never does. She already knows it’s perfect.

It’s a love song about tortured yearning, a hidden love, a love that’s bursting, searching for the sunlight. Mia thinks it’s his best ever. She considers herself biased.

After the sun sets, she heads inside. He’s not really playing anymore, just kind of plucking away. She needs to think about getting dinner ready. He’s sweet, offering to cook, since she does so much of it, but she really loves cooking Italian food with Italian ingredients in Italy and won’t think of wasting an opportunity. Plus, she still loves taking care of him.

The stairs to the wine cellar are cool, worn stone. The cellar is built into the foundation of the house, which was once part of a fortress that stood on their property in the 11th century. Now lined with shelves of hundreds of bottles of every variety of Italian wine, it’s one of Mia’s favorite spots.

His footsteps are quiet, too. He’s adopted her barefoot lifestyle. He stops at the bottom of the stairs.

Facing the wall of dolcettos from the 80s, Mia twirls a finger around a protruding bottle, covered in dust, with a foil cap.

“I used to hide down here when Peter and I played hide and seek. For some reason he never thought to look down here. I always thought it was so obvious.”

Shawn steps closer, hands in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders slightly hunched.

“Maybe he wanted to let you win.”

Mia smirks, looking over her shoulder at him. “Maybe.”

She turns, her arms crossed behind her back, leaning against a shelf. He fixes his eyes on hers, biting the inside of his lip.

“I’m not… I mean, I’m not saying it would be easy,” Shawn murmurs, rubbing at the back of his sunburnt neck, “I know better than anyone how it all works. I don’t want you to think I’m just ready to throw us both to the wolves. I wouldn’t do that to you or to us. I just want to talk about it, for real. I… I know we’re worth it, honey.”

Mia’s chest inflates. She tilts her eyes up at the low ceiling. Her tears start hot and fast.

“I could be the thing that ruins everything you worked so hard for. I don’t want that for either of us. I’m not sorry about who I am or what I’ve done, despite what I’ve said. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to be ripped apart publicly for it. That kind of attention puts more pressure on a relationship than either of us is really prepared for. You have to know that.”

Shawn nods slowly. “I do. I know. I don’t want that for you or for me. But I don’t think that’s the only outcome possible. I think this would take a lot of thought and discussion about what we’re both comfortable with. And it’s going to take some of both of us… letting go a little. Which I know isn’t your favorite thing.” He looks at her pointedly, the corner of his mouth lifting.

Mia chuckles for the first time in days. “Point taken.”

Shawn senses cracks in the veneer with the way she’s looking at him now, like she actually might be considering it, all of it. For him. With him.

He takes a chance, and takes her hand.

“And the most important thing is we go at our own pace. We… I mean, obviously, we’ve done and seen a lot already. And I know I have so much left to learn about you. We can focus on that first, just getting to know each other more. I know how to make a relationship really loud, but I know how to keep it quiet, too. If that’s what you want.”

She looks down at their entwined fingers. She blinks quickly and feels her heart rate pick up, like her body knows something her mind hasn’t decided yet. She swallows and looks back up at him.

“I’ve never been both Penny and Mia with one person before. Because I know I am both. Penny’s as much a part of me as Mia is. I got good at letting them share my body because they never inhabited it at the same time. I’m still trying to figure out how that’s supposed to work. How I’m going to be caretaker and businesswoman, domme and girlfriend. I don’t know how to be someone who wants to be honest and upfront about my history and also wants a big white wedding and a couple kids. So if I don’t know how to do that, be that, how can you know and love that about me?”

Shawn’s smile is cautious but warm. He scoops up her other hand and cradles them close to his chest. He’s not afraid of showing her how his heart is clanging around in his chest. She’s had a piece of it in her body for a while now.

“Because it’s you, Mi. Whether or not you’ve meant to, you’ve let me know both. I’ve loved both this whole time. I just want the chance to be there with you as you figure it out.”

Mia looks up at him. She thinks about the night they met -- watching him come completely undone, taking a sip from his glass, waking up to see him slam his eyes shut to pretend he wasn’t watching her. She sees the same look of wonder in his eyes now as he looks down at her, all of her. Mia always knew she was worth loving. Having someone else figure that out was always the part she wasn’t sure of. But she’s sure now. He is, too.

Mia pulls her hands from his, sliding them up his chest. She plucks at the curls at the back of his neck, tugging him closer as she presses back against the shelf. Shawn’s breath hitches in his chest. His hands fall to her hips.

Mia nods, no words of protest left. His lips are gentle against hers, confident and calm. She lets him take the lead this time.

--------------

Grazie mille 💜

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dopescotlandwarrior · 5 years

Text

Bluegrass-Chapter Nine

A special thank you to @statell for all your help and wisdom

Previous Chapters on AO3

Chapter Nine

Claire was on her second day of coaching Runner about his air transport to the upcoming races. So far, all he wanted to do is race her. She was getting nowhere. When the answer came to her it was inspired and she smiled wickedly.

Later, Claire was in Runner's stall as he chowed down on fresh hay. She had 8X10 glossy pictures of some very fine, and fast horses. She taped the pictures to the back wall at Runner’s eye level and waited. She stroked Porcelain. Runner started throwing images at her of him beating these horses.

“Who is that horse? Oh, that’s Sham. He is favored to win the Champagne Stakes.” She threw him an image of Sham beating him.

“This little beauty is Angle Fire and she will beat you too.”

The hay was forgotten as Runner paced, getting more worked up by the minute. He sent an image of him crossing the finish line and the other two horses were way down the track, laying down. Claire laughed at the image and grabbed his face.

“The only way to race them is to ride the airplane. So be a good boy and don’t act up.”

She saw the last image of the sleeping competitors and Runner’s big finish several more times that day. He was stuck on racing them to the exclusion of every other thought. So easy, she thought.

Rupert’s giant king cab waited at the bottom of Claire’s stairs. Jamie stowed her cases and jumped in the front seat listening to Rupert explain what happened to Runner that morning at the airport.

“I’ve never seen a horse more eager to board a plane. He dragged the handler up the ramp and backed into his flight stall in under ten seconds.” They were laughing while Claire looked out the window with a slight smile. I’ve got your number Runner, she thought.

When Nick was picked up, Jamie got in the back seat to pester Claire and slapping his hand made Rupert look at her in the rearview mirror.

“Yer always pretty lass, but with yer hair down like that yer beautiful.”

Claire blushed and thanked him, and Jamie knew Rupert must be under her spell to make such a comment. He kissed her hand and felt like the luckiest man in the world.

Through the flight to New York and for the rest of the afternoon Claire tried to get Nick's attention. She wanted to talk about actually riding Runner as a partner and having input into the way he ran the race. After dinner, she pulled his arm until he stopped and looked down at her.

“Nick, you promised we would talk about techniques I can use on Runner…to help him make decisions, to actually decide for him.” Her voice got smaller as she completed the sentence because Nick was staring at her with irritation.

“Sure Claire, just pick the race you want to lose and go for it. Make him dance like a ballerina if you want, I don’t care because the race was lost as soon as you interfered.”

The blood drained out of Claire’s face and she looked at him like she didn’t know him. She felt humiliated the way he talked down to her and hated his heavy hand in the decisions about how Runner would race. Her anger and hurt feelings made this conversation impossible to continue so she took off toward the hotel.

“What the fuck is wrong with you Nick? Do ye really feel that way, are ye blind to the bond they have?”

Jamie’s face was purple with his rage as he fired off questions to the insufferable trainer. He wanted to rip his skin off for the way he talked to Claire, but found himself looking at a puffed-up self-anointed king of the trainers and his energy to hurt the man blew away.

“I won’t be needin your services anymore Nick, yer fired. I’ll have a ticket delivered to yer room and ye won’t be runnin into Claire on yer way out, by chance or otherwise. Yer done here, now get away from me.”

Nick looked at Jamie like he had lost his mind. He had trained racehorses for twenty years, no one knew this sport better than him.

“It’s a fluke that horse has won what he has. You put a rider with no history of racing on him and bet the farm on a retarded Thoroughbred that got lucky at Iroquise. He’s gonna kill your little girlfriend when he gets twisted up at the gate. Maybe she won't be missed. A guy like you must have a dozen waiting to take her place. That's on you, Jamie. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Jamie drew back and landed his fist in the jaw of one ex-trainer who went down like a sack of potatoes. He was out cold, so Jamie pulled a one hundred dollar bill out of his pocket and asked the Maitra d’ if there was someone to drive him to the airport.

“Tell him to listen for his name so he knows where to pick up his ticket home.”

Jamie’s thighs were burning when he raced back to the elevator and stepped off on their floor. He wanted to cry for Claire and tried to imagine her disappointment. The room was dark, but he could hear her sniffling in the corner. He knelt in front of her and waited, hoping he could fix this.

“I am so sorry mo chridhe. I don’t even know Nick anymore and never expected this. I didn’t know Claire.”

“I knew something was wrong when he never worked with Runner like the others. Nick was never serious about Runner, or me. Just keep him away from me, please.”

“I knocked him out, right there in the lobby, just after I fired him. Paid the Maitra d’ to drop him at the airport.”

Claire touched his cheek, “we have lost someone I felt was a valued member of the team. Runner needs a trainer, so what do we do now?”

“If you had one hundred trainers to choose from, all ages and backgrounds, varied experience with winners, which would you choose?”

“That’s easy,” she whispered through her tears, “I would pick the one that knew the science and didn’t fall back on his excessive, unproductive time on the track. I’d pick the one who used science to win.”

Jamie let Claire rest while he met Air Horse One at the airport and watched his goofy horse almost drag the handler down the ramp. Runner was looking around, nostrils flared, ready to explode until he saw Jamie and whinnied hello. Jamie asked the handler for a few minutes with Runner and felt the big colt pull the stress out of him.

“One more leg of yer journey my friend, and you get dinner and a rest.”

The handler took the rope and Runner resumed dragging him to the trailer where he ran inside and waited for the cross ties to clip to his halter. Jamie looked at Runner and shook his head, wondering why he was in such a hurry.

The alarm seemed ear-splitting at five o’clock in the morning. Claire pulled her riding clothes and boots on while Jamie stood under a hot shower praying for strength. Runner was still percolating high octane energy making Claire laugh at his head twisting in every direction looking for Sham and Angle Light.

Claire looked at the training schedule Nick left behind in his unconscious haste to leave. She read through his scant notes about Runner and compared them to pages of notes on the other horses he worked with. She felt her blood boil and realized she had lost faith in Nick’s training slamming the book closed. She looked at Runner.

“Let’s see how motivated you are today big guy.”

Jamie lifted her foot and held Runner while she adjusted her stirrups before turning into the track to warm up. Thirty minutes later she rode up next to Jamie who was deep in a conversation with a gentleman she didn’t know. She smiled and lowered her goggles. She circled in a canter before she let him go for a one and half mile breeze. Runner stretched into his stride, but Claire could tell his heart wasn’t in it today. She always got this feeling during training. If there was no one to beat, he often asked her why he was running.

When Runner was cooled down, Claire jumped off and secured her stirrups.

“I’ll take care of that Doctor Beauchamp.”

A young man, around twenty she guessed, pulled the reins over his head and smiled at her. “Mister Fraser hired me for your groom while you’re in New York. I will be here before you every day and hopefully, this big guy will grow to like me.”

Claire was stunned. She managed a smile for the pleasant man and offered her hand, pulling her glove off quickly.

“What is your name sir?”

“Ha, it’s weird enough you’re a female jockey, and you’re British too, that’s awesome. Oh, my name is Jason Campbell,” he said shaking her hand.

“Thank you, Jason, very pleased to meet you.”

The boy blushed and walked Runner toward the stalls and wash racks.

Claire walked to Jamie and the man he had been talking to. Both men stood while she sat next to Jamie pulling off her second glove.

“Sassenach, I’ve been talkin to Michael here about needin a trainer for Runner. He watched yer ride and asked me questions I dinna know. Perhaps you can supply the answers.”

Claire looked into the intelligent and questioning eyes of the man named Michael. He was twenty-something with an easy manner about him. Claire surmised this was just a trackside conversation and settled in to answer his questions.

“Do you hand ride him during races, like you did in today’s training?”

“Yes. I carry a regulation whip, but I’ve never needed to use it. Thankfully, because I don’t know how. Runner wants to win, so I let him.”

“Your body position is very different from the norm. I saw that you crouched and ducked your head in the last quarter mile, otherwise your …um…position was different. Why do you ride like that?”

“Let me help you ask the right question. I appreciate your gentlemanly tact sir but what you want to ask is why is my ass so high off the saddle and my hand holding his mane?”

“The Royal Veterinary college studied this position and the monkey crouch finding the open position kept the body weight forward and lessened the burden of the horse moving through space. They used…”

“Forty-five GPS monitors to watch the jockey’s body as the horse moved under him.”

Claire’s eyes went wide knowing this man was familiar with the study. “To be honest, it is my natural position, I mean it happened naturally. No one would show me how to position myself so that’s what I did.”

“No one demonstrated your position in school? How do they keep the doors open?”

“I am a veterinarian. I never went to jockey school, I don’t know any jockeys. I ride hunter-jumpers.”

Michael stared at Claire like she was speaking another language. “I have never heard of something more preposterous, however, I know it’s true, I can feel it from both of you. How utterly remarkable you can compete with world-class jockeys. It’s impressive.”

Yes, well, my wanting to take part in his race suddenly turned our trainer into a jerk and Jamie fired him. I know Runner is ready for the Champagne Stakes. What happens then, when there is no trainer to get him ready for the Hopeful Stakes in three weeks?

“That’s why you don’t use a crop, you don’t know how. The way he ran today I doubt you’ll ever need to.” Michael pushed his chair back so he could see both Jamie and Claire.

“If you don’t mind, may I ask how far you intend to go on the road to the derby?”

“We are going to win the Kentucky Derby sir. It’s Jamie’s dream, then I go back to being a vet.”

Michael sat back in his chair and rubbed his chin thinking. He knew this was a serendipitous moment in time, and he wanted to be a part of this remarkable story, no matter what.

“Can I come too?”

Claire looked at Jamie like she didn’t understand and then smiled at Michael with a questioning face.

“I graduated with a Master’s degree from the University of Michigan last year. I want to train Thoroughbreds and make a name for myself while I change the standard of whipping a horse over the finish line. I have prayed for a miracle and this is it!”

Claire looked at Jamie and laughed.

“I have a proposition for you both, may I explain it please.”

Jamie who had remained quiet for the past twenty minutes looked the man in the eye, “you have our attention, sir.”

“Let me train them, Mister Fraser. Half of my graduate curriculum was preparing me for a horse like Runner. Claire should be an active partner in the race. He seems to run all on his own, but he won’t always. When you start the super six he will be exhausted and whatever means you use to make it fun won’t work anymore. That’s where Claire takes over the race and keeps him going, guides his leads around the turns, holds him back for the first half mile and then lets him go. I want to come with you and train him. If we get to the derby I will write his story, Claire’s story, and mine. It will be a best seller and the world will never forget his name.”

“That’s quite an offer Michael, how do you eat in the interim?”

“Books and magazines.”

Claire recoiled at the thought of eating books and Michael noticed her reaction.

“No, I don’t eat them. My family is in publishing. I am sole heir to Pearson Publishing. I spent some time on the track five years ago and fell in love with Thoroughbreds. I don’t need a paycheck, but I want first rights to publish this amazing story.”

Michael had worked up a sweat in his excitement talking about training Runner. Jamie and Claire were speechless and got carried away with his excitement. Jamie could not untangle all the facts that had just poured out of the man’s mouth but when he looked at Claire, he knew the decision was made.

“Do you have track time this afternoon Claire?”

“Yes, five-thirty. What should I be doing?”

“An hour of breeze, then the short track to work on his leads. Tracks in America are run counterclockwise so he will make the best time on the right lead along the straight track, and change to the left lead around the turns. He isn’t changing leads in the turn and it’s costing him time. “

Claire stood up, “will I see you there?”

“You will see me everywhere Doctor Beauchamp.”

“Well, alright, but enough of the formality. He is Jamie and I am Claire.”

They checked on Runner who was sending Claire images of beating Sham and Angle Light. She laughed and kissed his nose before catching up with Jamie.

Claire lathered under a hot shower and thought about the race tomorrow. She no longer had the fear of death before a race. Her fear now focused on losing the race because Runner was out competed, or God forbid, she made a mistake that cost them the race.

With a big fluffy towel on her head and another wrapped around her body, she sat at the vanity and rubbed lotion into her skin. She could see Jamie behind her on the bed, grabbing some dream time while he could.

He was breathtaking. Easily the most handsome man she ever met. Her eyes swept over his chest and stomach, dipping into the region that brought her intense pleasure and she felt her heart quicken. She pulled the towels off and fluffed her hair as she made her way to him and purposely made little movement on the bed so he wouldn’t wake. She wanted time with his body. To look at every inch of him and touch his secret places.

She kissed his balls before sucking one into her mouth, lightly holding his penis up to watch it get hard. She had no will power to tease. She needed to come and ran her tongue up his shaft and circled the head. She heard him moan and slowly pulled him into her mouth pushing him as deep as she could before she choked. She felt a strong hand grab her hair and force her down on him and then back up until he reached for her and dragged her up on his chest. She could feel his cock pushing against her core, threatening her sanity as he bit her nipple and then feasted on the whole breast.

Jamie was energized and hungry for her. Pulling her to his chest before he rolled off the bed. He kissed her away from the bed and spun her back to his chest as he bent to place his hands behind her knees and lift her, spreading her legs so she was wide open, her pussy hovering above his dick. She reached her hands above her and locked them together behind his neck.

“Look mo chridhe, look at what I’m doin to ye.”

They were in front of the vanity and mirror and she could clearly see her body, wide open and descending on him.

“Jesus Christ, that is hot.”

She was completely dependent on Jamie to move her, set her pace, and open her legs. Claire was breathing hard, staring at the coupling reflected in the mirror. It was something she could never see without his assistance and the erotic view made her pant and moan. She was begging him to make her come when he walked back to the bed and lifted her off of him setting her down on her knees and pushing her head to the bed.

Jamie watched his cock slide into her body and shuttered at the site. When he pushed harder his hips slammed into her ass making it quiver until he was ready to lose it. He loved the erotic image, but he needed to feel the connection by looking into her eyes. He dropped his mouth to her until she exploded in her release. He flipped her over and locked into her energy, her eyes, and what felt like her soul. Jamie took his time as they spoke volumes about love, commitment, and desire without saying a single word. Jamie pumped his hopes and desires into her and clutched her to him. Claire dropped her head into his panting chest and cried.

Michael had lost none of his enthusiasm by the afternoon and stayed close to Claire to coach her through the crucial lead changes that Runner wasn’t used to doing. Claire knew the instant Runner understood what to do. After that, there were two quick reminders and he instantly corrected his lead.

Claire wore her new silks for race day and when Jamie lifted her foot into the saddle, she was the very definition of calm determination. Runner knew it was time to race and shot blinking pictures of him winning as they were ponied to the gate.

Michael stayed up in the stands, high enough to get the whole race on his video recorder. Jamie admired his equipment, all very high tech, and his confidence in this man grew a bit. He had tried to vet Michael, but the weekend made it impossible to reach the registrar’s office at the University of Michigan. He was able to bring up photos of Michael on the internet which proved he was the only son and heir to Pearson enterprises.

Claire stayed quiet in the saddle as the horses were loaded into the gate. Runner would be coming out of gate 3 in a nine-horse race and would face all the old habits of breaking late and hanging back. She wondered if Jamie thought to mention that to Michael.

When the gate slammed open, Claire was off Runner’s back, ready to move. The pack of horses was well away before Runner bolted into his race lane, running a methodical slow race to the first turn. Claire could feel the easier gate as he changed to his left lead in the turn and then engaged his power. It felt like she was flying as he chased up the outside and caught up to the pack. Even with the deafening sound of hooves pounding the dirt she could hear the roar of the crowd as Runner past one horse after another. He told her he would run very fast to catch up to Sham and Angle Light. Claire tucked close to him, no time to hope, no time to pray, Runner became a bullet, coming out of the second turn with Sham and Angle Light twenty lengths ahead, he lengthened his body as his front feet pounded the ground at the same time making each stride a leap to cover ground. Claire felt her heart sinking as the finish line came into view but suddenly Angle Light was fading behind her and she was neck and neck with Sham’s jockey who whipped the horse mercilessly.

She realized that Runner was keeping pace with Sham so he could torture him and she let him know, in no uncertain terms, it was time to win. He did. Claire was screaming at him with her joy and disbelief he had done it again.

“Runner! You big beautiful horse! You won the Champagne Stakes! You won, you won, you won. Thank God, thank you, God!” Runner was still in a gallop as Claire tried to pull him back, slow him down, but he wasn’t listening. When she saw Angle Light ahead, she knew he just had to race by her and flaunt his win. She let him, after which he obediently started to slow down. She looked for Jamie in the stands, and on her second loop, she saw him and Michael at the rail waving. Claire was crying with joy and pulling back on the bit. When a track handler rode in front of them, Runner finally slowed down.

In the winner’s circle, Claire smiled with her tear-streaked face and Jamie and Michael proudly smiled with her. Claire jumped off and let Michael take Runner so she could get lost in Jamie’s kiss and cling to him like he was the most important man in the world to her. Because he was.

In Kentucky, Nick logged into the track at Belmont Park and snorted with disgust. He felt a small flair of pride and happiness at Runner’s win and then logged off. He was moving his training horses out of Highland Brother’s and had little time to waste.

Michael’s enthusiasm never seemed to lessen and Jason the groom was not far behind. Claire saw Jason jumping and waving at her from Runner’s bath and she smiled at him and his happiness. She passed several jockeys as they moved through the facility, each having a curt nod for her as they passed.

Claire was too exhausted to find a restaurant for dinner, so they ordered a pizza, watched a movie, and slept like the dead.

Jamie checked in with Rupert or Angus daily, happy the construction was going so well. He had ordered new locks on all the doors in the compound and had them monitored by a local security agency. When they returned, each of the borders would get their own password and Jamie could print a report of who entered and exited at any time. If the doors were tampered with it would trip a silent alarm and the video surveillance would wake up Jamie’s phone and beep. Each improvement he made brought him that much closer to a peaceful existence.

Having Jamie to herself was like heaven to Claire. They went sightseeing during mid-day, walked for miles and talked about their early lives. It was a struggle for Jamie to hear about Claire’s life as an orphan and he stopped several times to pull her into his arms and just hold her. This time together deepened their bond and devotion to each other.

Michael had changed Runner’s training schedule and Claire was spending more time breezing and working on lead changes. When he discussed new ideas with Jamie and Claire, he always had the latest research to support his changes. He and Claire were in their element and Jamie was excited for them both.

When he held her close and ran his hands down her body, the changes were obvious and worrisome. Her hip bones and shoulders were bony protrusions where she once had soft round curves and she had constant bruising on the insides of her knees. When she kept losing weight Jamie made an appointment with a nutritionist who gave her a list of supplements to take every day, keeping her energy up and stabilizing her weight.

On race day, Claire was feeling so good, and she teased Runner about beating Sham again because he would be racing too.

To Jamie and Michael, it was a smooth transition to the Saratoga racetrack as Runner was getting very accustomed to traveling. Runner looked calm and ready to race during his workout and Claire’s rosy cheeks were a blessing to Jamie’s worried heart.

When Runner bolted onto the track, the other horses were well ahead, as usual, and he came out of the first turn like a bullet, as usual. He took the lead before the second turn and was never caught. An easy win for this horse who was gaining notoriety because he was unbeatable. The day and the race were so perfect and Claire lavished him with praise during his post-race flaunting to Sham. When she came around the turn and saw Jamie it felt like the air evacuated from her lungs. Something was terribly wrong, and she felt confused and scared until she heard the announcement.

“Midnight Runner has been disqualified from the Hopeful Stakes."

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hazelenergy · 4 years

Text

What happened that final night.

One year ago today was my last Elysium in Atlanta. And in a mere 48 hours, I will have betrayed and killed my adoptive sire, blood bonded myself to the wild sister of two famous Malkavians, and lost two people I loved.

A few days prior to this night was the beginning of the end. A bloodhunt was called in Atlanta. Not for me. Not for the other thinbloods. A salubri had entered the city. Our adoptive sire, Mary Andrews and primogen of the Tremere (and the only Tremere in the city..I dont know actually why she was alone but I have theories) ordered her children, myself and my two shovelheaded broodmates to bring this man to her alive. We complied. At first.

Solomon had been working closely with Reverend Clancy, the primogen of Clan Brujah. We never knew Solomon’s bloodline, but he vibed with the righteous and nonviolent nature of Clancy’s leadership. Clancy told us the other half of the history of clan Tremere and the Salubri. We were devastated. And now our adoptive sire wanted this man and would probably experiment on him like she did to us. And it would be worse. He can heal. He’d be able to endure what she did to us. So Clancy asked us, two lowly thinbloods, to help him and his clan free this man and get him out of the city. We said yes without questioning the consequences.

Long story short we put our ability to blend with humans to the test at Airport security. We managed to slide through the TSA check with ease- without tipping off the inquisition either. Solomon and I had intercepted the international flight by getting the plane to dock in the incorrect port, allowing the Salubri to slip past the sheriff and his hired guards. Things didn’t go as well as we hoped- as the Sheriff caught on to someone was messing with the radio tower and hopped over to where we were hiding. We had already called the brujah boys to the airfield to intercede the sheriff’s men. A huge fire fight broke out. The brujah were losing so Solomon and I made a rash decision. We used far reach together and launched a fuel tank at the gun fight- fire engulfed the scene. Solomon and I fled into the night- starving, but unscathed. Cue camarilla media blackout and clean up.

The next night we were ordered to return to the chantry. We refused and gave pitiful excuses saying things like keeping face by going to a night job or Solomon had a legit excuse of needing to write his Yom Kippur service. Instead we tracked down Clancy and the brujah and high tailed the Salubri out of Atlanta. Clancy handled the money for the dark flight and I wore less clothing to convince the guy to bypass security. Our Salubri was in the air and out of Atlanta. But the sheriff was on our trail. Someone had to take the blame. Clancy knew how hard we had worked. He was the only kindred who knew about the safehouse project. He took the fall for freeing the Salubri and let himself be staked by the sheriff as we fled unseen into the night.

The following night, we did go to Mary’s Haven. She immediately shoveled us into the car and took us to Elysium. She knew we had something to do with this. Or just wanted to see us squirm. Regardless. Clancy had been placed on trial for his crimes against the Prince and the brujah were ready to Throw. Down. The air was tense and violent choleric resonances dominated the room. There is one brujah in particular, Jamal. He was basically an anarch. The only reason he wasn’t a Baron and fighting the Prince was because of his faith and trust in Clancy. He was nearly going to free Clancy then and there- if it wasn’t for Solomon. Sol begged him to let him play the political game first. Solomon offered himself to the prince as the duskborn primogen. He advised the prince that Clancy’s life was the spindly thread that kept the brujah from rioting. Solomon ruled that Clancy should be exiled but allowed to live. The Prince agreed. The brujah and Jamal backed down- begrudgingly. Clancy was still staked and was to be driven out of the city once Solomon achieved a few goals as his new primogen. Mary was furious. Was it because her ex had arrived in the city and had gotten close to her other child? Oh that was a part of it- for sure. Somehow this night really did not go according to plan and the car ride home was AWKWARD.

That night Mary tried to get me to drink from her again- which uhhh no. Idk what you all know about Tremere who follow Carna- but they can still blood bond. And that made her even angrier. She was willing to try anything to get either myself or Solomon to comply. We resisted. That’s when I figured out Mary had slipped on some control over us and wanted to reclaim it. So, I left the haven that night and went to get some sweet distractions at Atlanta’s Asylum chain. That’s when I decided to stop being careful and took that final drink- as a huge fuck you to Mary and to give myself the edge I wanted. I’d have the swirling madness and premonitions in my system for a while and could be thinking ahead of her. I didn’t realize how loopy I’d get. I felt higher than ever before and couldn’t keep my thoughts from spilling out of my mouth. I stumbled back into the chantry and told my adoptive sire this:

“I reject your blood.”

and

“Any kindred that bothers with me is up to something. You. You chose me. YOURE Up to Something And I wont let it happen.”

She looked me in the eye and said, "tell the truth."

I babbled about everything. The page from the book of Nod and how I copied it. The alchemy I kept from her. The thaumaturgy I tried and made a mess. How she blood bonded Tommy. Letting the Salubri go. How I knew about her plan to usurp the Prince- the madness told me what she’d do. We argued until the sun came up. I went to bed, thinking that I’d have to continue the talk in the evening. I didn’t expect to find myself warded into my own room, windows loaded with explosives, security cameras installed, and my girlfriend Lisa trapped with me. Mary had called an emergency Elysium- excluding Solomon. They were planning our executions. I made it out, barely. Mary’s ghoul and Lisa were killed when one of the explosives went off. There was nothing left but her necklace. In a fit of grief, rage, sorrow I don’t know what emotions I was feeling but it was a lot of them. I obliterated the wards around Mary’s private lab and took whatever I could carry.

We drove off, thinking we’d lay low for a few hours before Mary could use trail of prey on me. We could beg borrow and steal to get our things and get out. I had just parked the car when I vomited the first time. My blood began bubbling and boiling and oozing out of every open surface it could. I had three bullet holes in my stomach- the bullets were pushed out as my blood gushed. I spent the next fifteen minutes in agonizing pain as Mary called my phone. She heard every gag and wretch- and laughed. The ultimatum was to bring me before the Prince to be put out of my misery, and return what I stole. I told her to go fuck herself. Within seconds, my blood was boiling again and I was a mess on the sidewalk.

The next few hours were agony waiting. I didn’t know if she’d do it again. But the clock was ticking. The Prince had ordered a hunt for us. And Mary’s ritual to dominate the Prince and the entire court was already ignited. We could have just fled right then. Fuck the Camarilla of Atlanta. Fuck everything about this place. Lets leave and never look back.... But Solomon still had too much to lose in Atlanta- and was willing to fight for it. And Cass had old wounds from Mary (they were an item at one point omg). And I wanted to go so badly- but what I wanted more was to see her vitae spilling out onto the floor as I drove my knife through her. So after cleaning myself from the third wave of dagons call and alleycat hunting for the first time- we took what little time we had left in the city to put an end to this.

We used the first hour before sunset to gear up. I immediately drove out to the few spots to where thinbloods were hiding and told them to RUN. Find a new city or something- just get out. A few times they looked at me with power hungry eyes. It was a perfect opportunity to take a wanted kindred to the Prince and move up the ranks. I reminded them that they are not known by the prince. And to take me in was to also announce themselves- amidst a time when they are using thinbloods as scapegoats for anything gone wrong. And BOY. Is it going wrong. The last stop I made was to my alchemical dealer. I drained my bank account and bought some of the most powerful brews I’ve ever drank. As a parting gift, or grift if you ask me, he let me have his best brew: Potence.

Solomon went to free Clancy with a group of the brujah boys. A minor fire fight broke out. Solomon was a bit roughed up- both physically and spiritually. I think he had broken one of his own oaths and it was weighing heavily on him.

When we met up at the edges of Mary’s Haven- we didn’t realize how quickly she had redone the wards. As one of the Brujah boys drove up the path it kept twisting and winding to steer us back to the front gate. Eventually I crawled into the drivers seat. Even though I wasn’t welcome anymore- I was the last one to drive this path and now armed with malkavian whispers. It wasn’t my best driving. Certainly creative. But I got us to the bottom of the hill and we could see the lights to the haven. Mary had laid tons of traps as we made our crawl up to the porch. Landmines specifically. Seriously, where the fuck did she get these? Were they always here?

When we made it to the porch, the sheriff sat illuminated by the single flickering light. That certainly explains why it was so easy to bust Clancy out. Solomon took the diplomatic approach and tried to reason with the sheriff. I knew it wasn’t going to work and hovered one of the explosives over him. If anything happened to Solomon I’d-- two gunshots. Solomon clutched his chest and fell to the ground. There goes the second person I believed was actually good in this world. Thats when fresh vitae rained from above. Yeah, this is where I get frenzy bombs. The brujah boys immediately attack each other. Clancy and I keep our cool.

I dropped the explosive and the sheriff flies back into the haven. I go to enter the door, and am met with Mary’s hell cat. Far reached the cat aside. I didn’t care. Nothing was going to stand between me and ending this. The sheriff, his skin singed and peeling, turned to me with frenzied eyes. Far reach again. He’ll never lay a hand on me again. I held him still as Cass drove the stake through his chest. We tossed him aside.

Thats when we realized the basement was warded. It sent Cass flying back everytime she got close. Even Clancy couldn’t get closer than five feet to the doorway. So I pulled out that potence brew and drank it. I slammed my fist into the mahogany floorboards and crashed through two levels of the haven. I fell to my knees surrounded by rubble and looked up to see my adoptive sire performing her ritual- the circle nearly illuminated. “Mom, I’m home.”

When it came down to it, my hand shook and I couldn’t pull the trigger. At first I tried to far reach her out of her circle, but my hunger had gotten the best of me. So instead, Cass took my hand. She fired at my adoptive sire. The Tremere collapsed and fell to ash. I hadn’t seen someone suffer final death before. I stared at the wispy grey ashes fluttering around the room. Suddenly, the house began to crack and crumble. Clancy grabbed both me and Cass and leaped out of the rubble. When we got back to the ground level- the sheriff was gone. Jamal had taken all of him-the last drop. He told Clancy that Atlanta won’t be the same without him- but its going to change in a way he didn’t like. Clancy looked so disappointed. Without a word, He turned and picked up Solomon’s corpse. Sol was now warm. He was dying. He breathed his last breath in Clancy’s arms. The old brujah carried him to his family that night and they got to give him the proper funeral for his faith.

I told Jamal my dark secret and it’s why I couldn’t stay in Atlanta. He told me to get moving and come back when I’m zeroed. “I need a chameleon that can put on charm and take a punch like you.” I was still chased out of Atlanta by a few kindred who wanted that sweet sweet blood hunt boon- but Jamal used it to his advantage. He took them out as I sped away with Cass to Miami. I don’t know what the affairs of Atlanta are like- a mere year later. I know Jamal was going for the Prince since was now without a sheriff missing his two heavy hitting primogen. But regardless of who is in charge- the duskborn trio perished in that haven that night. And we keep it that way.

~HB

_____

Here Jackie, this is the sob story. @ventrue-in-control

#vtm #thats what happened #most of this is canon...in the chronicle the third drink didnt happen but hazel was still loopy af #vtm chronicle #vampire the masquerade v5 #vtm rp

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devious-kat · 4 years

Text

I dunno. this *is* a blog, I might as well get this off my chest.

Alright.

In school, I was a theatre kid. I come from a small town; I know the names of all of my classmates. I hated sports, I was never any good at them. I’m not smart. But somehow, I can act. And I really enjoyed doing it. From the time I was in 4th grade until I graduated, I did every kind of theatre stuff my tiny public school offered. I went off to college and did some there too, until I lost my way and had to drop out.

When I came back after leaving college, I didn’t really know what to do with myself, besides work. But I stopped back at my old school to see how the theatre department was doing. The directors wound up asking me if I wanted to help them out. I would attend the after school practices and watch the students perform, and give notes. When it came time to do the yearly school musical, I helped then too. During rehearsals and then during performances backstage. I love theatre, so I loved being able to help and be involved.

Years passed, and both teachers running the theatre department were going to retire. They’d been teaching me things here and there about how to run the department - it’s an after school activity for us, so I didn’t need any kind of degree. It was a bit of a rocky road, but being able to finally coach - offically - was amazing. I really love watching the kids bond, being able to teach them all that I’ve learned. I love having freshmen join and being timid, and getting to introduce this world to them.

It hasn’t been easy - there are rules and restrictions of the school or the district I would have to follow. Hoops to jump through. Requirements. I did them all. Anything I had to do, I would. And more.

Part of how this all works, is a contract. Signing your name and saying you’ll abide by the student handbook, etc. This contract in particular, was yearly. So, every year, technically speaking, I was hired again. I would sign a new contract. On occasion, I’d have to interview. Formalities. Didn’t matter to me, I just loved the job and everything about it.

So this past January, it was time for a new contract, for the musical. (the musical director contract and the drama coach contract were separate, even if the department was all the same place) I waited.

Nothing.

So I contacted some people, to find out what was going on. No response.

Turns out, one my “friends” had been hired instead. This “friend” had just moved back from a different state, been around for a few months. Younger than me. Similar state of college education. She didn’t have to jump through a single hoop. No interview. Just hired. All the rules they insisted I follow strictly bent just for her.

Not much was said on the subject. “Once the contract is up, we’re under no obligations to talk to you about anything. You’re not our employee.” I fought. Well, I shared words with someone in charge. I knew I wasn’t going to change any minds, but I wanted them to know I was aware of what they’d done and how it wasn’t fair. They didn’t care. Not their problem.

I was hurt, but being hurt wasn’t going to help anything. At the time, I consoled myself by telling myself I was still the drama coach. I spoke to other members of the community, other teachers in the school, my fellow drama coach. Everyone felt sorry for me and was on my side. My co-drama coach assured me that she would fight if they tried to take me out as drama coach.

So September rolls around. Time for school to start. I’m unsure of the status of after school activities, with the state of the world. I do research. I keep up-to-date on the school’s plans for opening. I reach out to my fellow coach to make plans for rehearsals.

I hear nothing.

Until the other day, in keeping up with the school’s plans, I see that they’re going to be holding auditions in a few days. I realize what’s going on. So I reach out to the other coach again. “It’s out of my hands, but they’re not hiring you.”

oh.

I can easily admit to myself how stupid this is. trust me. “Big deal” I can hear you saying. and I get it. I sound like a child whining because I didn’t get the thing I wanted.

I’m an easy target. My heart bleeds constantly, I get emotional. I let things get to me. When you look at the logic, you can say a number of things as to why I should shut up. And I get that.

But let’s take a moment to look at the other stuff.

Because it’s the other stuff that GETS to me.

Like the 7 Y E A R S I spent just volunteering my time to assist the department. Because I wanted to. Because I love theatre. Then the 3 helping run it. Doing anything and everything to help.

I’m gonna take a moment and get emotional about this.

FUCK. YOU. FUCK YOU FOR JUST THROWING ME ASIDE LIKE EVERYTHING IVE EVER DONE MEANT NOTHING.

I AM SO GOD DAMN SICK AND TIRED OF BEING STEPPED ON.

I can admit that I, as a person, am meek. I let others lead, I don’t trouble the waters, I make myself small and try to never cause problems. A people pleaser. I apologize too much. what have you.

Thing is, I like to make others happy. I really, really do. It’s not just a thing to say to sound like a good person; I genuinely get a warmth and satisfaction knowing that by expressing care and positivity that I really feel, that isn’t just words thrown together, that someone feels a little better. maybe smiled. I *like* to help.

I go out of my way to do things for the people I care about. Drive hours away to get that thing they talked about and can’t find. Drop them off at the airport when they don’t have a ride. Sneak money into their bag because I can. Bring them medicine and soup and tissues when I know they’re sick. Bring them chocolate when they’ve had a bad day. Those kinds of things fall under the ‘making others happy’ thing. I will go above and beyond even at the expense of myself, just because I care. That’s not to brag, in some cases it’s been bad for me. Emotionally, or physically or financially. In the long run, bad for me mentally. Because the thing is, part of the reason I love doing these things? Is because if someone ever, EVER did any of those kinds of things for me, it would make me so happy. Beyond words. I would feel loved and cherished and cared about.

I wish I knew what it was like, to have someone care about me the way I care about others.

I wish I could say “yes, this is what I deserve in life.” is this what I deserve?

I live a life in service to others because I WANT to.

But does that mean I don’t deserve something good?

what the fuck does the universe want from me?

What other piece of me can I rip out and hand over?

I’m just so, so tired.

#life #this is long #if you read this whole dang thing thank you #I just can't do this anymore #me

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brajeshupadhyay · 4 years

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“I started to juggle three apps to make ends meet,” said Okawa, who recently reduced her work hours after receiving unemployment benefits. “It was really hard, because at that time, I could not afford to stay home because I had to pay rent.” Okawa is one of an estimated 1.5 million so-called gig workers who make a living driving people to airports, picking out produce at grocery stores or providing childcare for working parents. Theirs had already been a precarious situation, largely without safeguards such as minimum wage, unemployment insurance, workers compensation and health and safety protections. But with the pandemic pummeling the global economy and U.S. unemployment reaching heights not seen since the Great Depression, gig workers are clamoring for jobs that often pay less while facing stiff competition from a crush of newly unemployed workers also attempting to patch together a livelihood – all while trying to avoid contracting the coronavirus themselves. U.S. unemployment fell to 11.1% in June, a Depression-era level that, while lower than last month, could worsen after a surge in coronavirus cases has led states to close restaurants and bars. Marisa Martin, a law school student in California, turned to Instacart when a state government summer job as paralegal fell through after a hiring freeze. She said she enjoys the flexibility of choosing her own hours but hopes not to have to turn to gig work in the future. The pay is too volatile — with tips varying wildly and work sometimes slow — to be worth the risk of exposure to the virus. “We are not getting paid nearly enough when we’re on the front lines interacting with multiple people daily,” said Martin, 24, who moved in with her parents temporarily to save money. Alexandra Lopez-Djurovic, 26, was a full-time nanny in a New York City suburb when one of the parents she works for lost her job while the other saw his hours cut. “All of a sudden, as much as they want me to stay, they can’t afford to pay me,” she said. Her own hours were reduced to about eight per week. To make up lost wages, Lopez-Djurovic placed an ad offering grocery delivery on a local Facebook group. Overnight, she got 50 responses. Lopez-Djurovic charges $30 an hour and coordinates shopping lists over email, offering perks the app companies don’t such as checking the milk’s expiration date before choosing which size to buy. Still, it doesn’t replace the salary she lost. “One week I might have seven, eight, 10 families I was shopping for,” Lopez-Djurovic said. “I had a week when I had no money. That’s definitely a challenge.” Upwork, a website that connects skilled freelance workers with jobs, has seen a 50% increase in signups by both workers and employers since the pandemic began, including spikes in jobs related to ecommerce and customer service, said Adam Ozimek, chief economist at Upwork. “When you need to make big changes fast, a flexible workforce helps you,” he said. Maya Pinto, a researcher at the National Employment Law Project, said temporary and contract work grew during Great Recession and she expects that many workers will seek such jobs again amid the current crisis. But increased reliance on temporary and contract work will have negative implications on job quality and security because it “is a way of saving costs and shifting risk onto the worker,” Pinto said. It’s difficult to assess the overall picture of the gig economy during the pandemic since some parts are expanding while others are contracting. Grocery delivery giant Instacart, for instance, has brought on 300,000 new contracted shoppers since March, more than doubling its workforce to 500,000. Meanwhile, Uber’s business fell 80% in April compared with last year while Lyft’s tumbled 75% in the same period. For food delivery apps, it’s been a mixed bag. Although they are getting a bump from restaurants offering more takeout options, those gains are being offset by the restaurant industry’s overall decline during the pandemic. Gig workers are also jockeying for those jobs from all fronts. DoorDash launched an initiative to help out-of-work restaurant workers sign up for delivery work. Uber’s food delivery service, Uber Eats, grew 53% in the first quarter and around 200,000 people have signed up for the app per month since March — about 50% more than usual. “Drivers are definitely exploring other options, but the issue is that there’s 20 or 30 million people looking for work right now,” said Harry Campbell, founder of The Rideshare Guy. “Sometimes I joke all you need is a pulse and a car to get approved. But what that means is it’s easy for other people to get approved too, so you have to compete for shifts.” Delivery jobs typically pay less than ride-hailing jobs. Single mom Luz Laguna used to earn about $25 in a half-hour driving passengers to Los Angeles International Airport. When those trips evaporated, Laguna began delivering meals through Uber Eats, working longer hours but making less cash. The base pay is around $6 per delivery, and most people tip around $2, she said. To avoid shelling out more for childcare, she sometimes brings her 3-year-old son along on deliveries. “This is our only way out right now,” Laguna said. “It’s hard managing, but that’s the only job that I can be able to perform as a single mother.” Other drivers find it makes more sense to stay home and collect unemployment — a benefit they and other gig workers hadn’t qualified for before the pandemic. They are also eligible to receive an additional $600 weekly check from the federal government, a benefit that became available to workers who lost their jobs during the pandemic. Taken together, that’s more than what many ride-hailing drivers were making before the pandemic, Campbell said. But that $600 benefit will expire at the end of July, and the $2 trillion government relief package that extended unemployment benefits to gig workers expires at the end of the year. “So many drivers are going to have to sit down and decide, do I want to put myself at risk and my family at risk once I’m not getting the government assistance?” Campbell said. Follow @cbussewitz and @Alexolson99 on Twitter Copyright 2020 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed without permission. The post Gig workers face shifting roles, competition in pandemic appeared first on Sansaar Times.

http://sansaartimes.blogspot.com/2020/07/gig-workers-face-shifting-roles.html

#SEO #Local SEO training #daily news paper #daily news india #daily news newspaper #technology news a

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gaudeixcc · 5 years

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Peloton news. G20 – the Pyrenees

A much more reasonable start to this year’s tour. No crazy-early alarm clocks, just a nice trip to the airport with only hand-luggage and a gently grumbling Macca.

Our favourite plane man had unbeknownst to me fired a very early warning shot regarding our mode of transfer on arrival in France.

At 5.50am, whilst shooting the breeze on my couch, McEvoy had enquired as to whom I’d booked the hire car with. The one which would take us to resort.

‘I dunno….it’s on the App’ sayeth I.

I had a quick look. Whoever the third party was, they had a stunning 6.5 out of 10 rating. Not quite M&S levels of service, granted, but still it’s on a trusted App, we are only using it to transfer, I’ve got insurance, it’s France for fucks sake. It’ll be quiet and I’m a capable and experienced driver…. Well, we’ll come back to that last bit shortly.

We get to Gatwick with ColMac and Drip in tow and await the arrival of HRH.

The first of many 2019 tour errors soon became massively apparent.

We’ve got two gingers on the trip. Fuck. How on earth did that get through the vetting process? I sent my beloved co-chair a text

‘JT, I’m at LGW. We’ve got problems…..’

Before too long Drip and HRH are bonded in conversation which carried over onto the flight. By the time we were at 30,000 feet they were each answering the others questions before they had even been asked. It was like listening to 2 people taking it in turn to read out just the answers on a bunch of Trivial pursuit cards.

Macca whispered to me whilst transfixed by this sight. ‘What’s happening over there?’

‘They are becoming one Macca, they are becoming one’.

By the time we had landed things had progressed further. They were now communicating with eyes closed with just index fingers lightly touching. Silence. Occasionally dripping would meow.

When we got to Toulouse we started the hunt for the hire car counter. The twin gingers (Twinge?) followed gently behind in a glowing orange aura.

Whilst all this was going on, I’d failed to notice that Macca had entered a worrying (and just about controlled) mental meltdown.

‘Where’s the hire car counter…? It’s off-site isn’t it… remote.. we’ll need to get a bus… not even in the terminal…what were they called again?’ he blurted out in staccato perfection.

‘er…. Gold cars’… sounded good to me. What could go wrong when you’ve got Gold in your company name?

Within minutes we were at the Gold counter waiting to be served.

Macca had moved to DefCon level ‘Blind-Frenzy’.

He’d got straight onto his iPhone and had a full list of every negative customer review for Gold cars. I’m in the queue and he’s jabbing the phone at me and saying ‘look’ in a high-pitched squeal, ‘Maureen from Romford….. she’s 97… and this is how they treat our British citizens..!!’

‘They’re going to sell us extra insurance and then steal all our money’.

At this point I was starting to lose my legendary zen-like calm.

Macca connected with his iPhone again and dialled up a quote for a Hertz rental car equivalent.

‘Look, we could have had this one’… and with that, he was gone. Off to the Hertz counter.

I queued quietly on my own. Drip had temporarily disconnected from the Twinge umbilical cord and was trying to locate Macca to gently nudge him toward the exit.

Right, I thought… time to get this car booked and get the hell out of dodge.

My turn came and I presented myself at the counter with my usual finesse. My mouth opened to speak and just as I was about to wish the nice lady a very good morning Macca arrived on my shoulder, phone gripped in fist and launches a barked question at the unsuspecting clerk.

‘WHY DOES YOUR COMPANY HAVE SO MANY BAD REVIEWS?’

‘WHAT DID YOU DO TO MAREEN!?’

Macca was metaphorically wrestled to the ground by airport security and tied to the nearest pillar using clingfilm and then gently tasered… (this was how my mind was dealing with the situation at any rate).

The rest of the mini-peloton looked onward in apathetic bemusement. None of them gave a flying fuck about the arrangements on the basis that if it all went wrong, I’d be the one getting all the shit and would subsequently have to get us out of the hole I’d dug.

3 pairs of peloton eyes would say ‘your name on the form, your fucking problem sunshine’.

Anyhoo… after the drama of the hire car counter (which went perfectly smoothly), we picked up the car (which went perfectly smoothly), and got ourselves in and ready to go (smooth… perfectly).

I then started to drive. Dear fucking god where the hell has my driving ability gone?

I tried to change gear twice with the door handle and got completely befuddled with the clutch before a near impalement with a coach at the very first roundabout.

There was a flurry of uncensored ginger telepathic communication in the back seat which I am sure ended with Drip saying to HRH ‘if he kills us now, I want you to know I love you’.

At one point early on in the journey, I drifted the car toward the right (something I’d done subconsciously, I suspect in an attempt to place my body in the middle of the road).

I had started to edge us toward an 18-wheeler in the next lane. I could see HRH in the rear-view mirror edging in to the middle of the car whilst breathlessly mouthing ‘watch out’.

White-knuckled hands gripped the wheel as I steadied myself. Drip, after further telepathic liaison with HRH suggested we listen to some music. No sooner thought than done, HRH racked up some impressive tune-age on the multi-media and we settled in to our journey to the Pyrenees.

Now this particular hire car was blessed with a behemoth-like engine of 1.0 litres of petrol frugality. Barely enough power to progress much past a standstill. With 70 stone of Peloton meat and gravy aboard, the thing struggled. The useless fucking clutch had zero feel and as the engine generated the mechanical momentum of a spinning 5p piece, so stalling was a regular occurrence.

4 of the 5 car inhabitants saw stalling not as a consequence of a shit car and 5 fat blokes, but more as an aching lack of talent on my part.

Worst was yet to come.

We entered resort and got to within 25 yards of destination when a tricky hill-start was required. Handbrake on, gentle rise of revs, I’ve got this. I’ve got this…..I didn’t have this.

I was about as far from having this as you can get whilst remaining in the same country.

The engine squealed, the clutch slipped, massively. NWA was turned down on Spotify and all we were left with was the stench of burning clutch.

I had a sinking feeling that I’d properly fucked the hire car.

Anyway, announcing your arrival in a plume of melted friction plates is how we rolled in team Gold car.

Greetings aside, quick sit down and then to the job of bicycling.

And so we return to the annual highlights list. A snap-shot of the rides and the riding from this year’s Grande Tour. But before we get to that, some stats.

The Rides

• Day 1. Lac d’estainge. Shortest ride at 32k but 3rd for overall ride gradient. • Day 2. Col des Tentes. A punchy 96k but a bit bleak on arrival at top • Day 3. Tourmalet. 101k. Great ending with really steep gradient for the last few hundred meters. You can see why it’s used on the tour so often. Fairly bleak riding through the town halfway up. Unrelenting 2 hours of climbing at over 8%. Brutal. Sensational ride home though through some beautiful countryside though • Day 4. Col d’Aubisque via Col du Soulor. Probably the ride of the tour in terms of utterly breath-taking scenery. Beautifully ribboned and freshly tarmacked road on the ascent, which I spent all my time on just thinking about the future descent. And then a jaw-dropping ride along a precipitous drop all the way to the top of Aubisque. A hard slog. Particularly on Soulor when a mid-teens ramp halfway up punches you right in the kidneys and jabs you in the eye for good measure. 2nd for overall ride gradient with 2.62% average for the total ride. Ouch • Day 5. Hautacam. Short out and back. 38k. God, that was one punchy climb. Kilometers click past and are either 8,9 or 10%. Felt unending. Overall ride average gradient of 3.1% made this the most climbiest rider per K we did.

The experience and the stories

• Good accommodation at the Pyrenees cycling lodge. Although Mark, our host, was somewhat perturbed to find Twinge v1.0 curled up and asleep at the foot of the front door on day 1. Twinge v2.0 preferred the comfort of the nest • Formal police notices issued for a range of offences including; the leaving of new tour top on the back of the chair overnight….shocking. The public dissing of one of the team whilst he was out on the hill. Police notice issued following a ‘whistleblower’ incident. • Yellow cap went to HRH on his maiden tour, but he was run very close by the impeccably dressed ColMac who, in my view, nailed the best single day performance with his well-judged blue accents matching the tour top perfectly. There was no suggestion of Twinge vote irregularities. Well, none were verbalised at any rate • JT won orange on the fact that he pulled his thumb out of his arse a couple of weeks before tour and did 2 or 3 turbo sessions. Everyone agreed that this sullied the good name of the Orange cap and that perhaps we should remember last year’s benchmark winner when awarding in the future. General shock and disappointment all round. At least one person cried. • The group as a whole consumed 18 complimentary fun-sized Mars each and every day. • I accounted for 17 of the above • Perfect weather • I’m not saying that sharing a room with Macca is like drawing the sleep equivalent of the short straw…….. this year’s tour saw ear-plugs land. At last we can now embrace our favourite flyer like a long-lost brother..snore onward little one, snore onward • Biggest tour disappointment was the e-bike not running out of juice. At least 8 people prayed daily for this to come to pass • I only fell asleep twice this year at the various lunch stops… once in a deck chair next to ColMac whilst holding a pint (which I subsequently spilled on myself)…oddly enough, this incident went completely unobserved. Second time was at the top of Aubisque and lasted a nano-second. Not only was this observed but it was also filmed. Cat-like reflexes of the Pittock

….and so much more besides.

G19, a Grande Tour and huge success. My thanks go to JT for wrangling the accommodation with usual Teutonic efficiency and a huge shout out to Damo for driving all the bikes over there, complaining decidedly little and pandering to many a disorganised cyclist.

However in drawing to a close this year, I’d like to highlight 2 particular tour performances.

Firstly Dripping. The lad has had most of the bones in his body removed and replaced with man-made replicas. He has the back of a 90-year old and the combination of the 2 have meant that any sort of reasonable training regime was nigh-on impossible. He wasn’t ready to perform. At times he could barely walk straight let alone ride. To top it all off he’d had an epidural to release the muscles in his lower back, an injection which effectively puts your muscles to sleep, a consequence of which must undoubtedly seep into the legs one way or another.

Early on Tourmalet, and I mean really early, first 15 mins I reckon, I passed Dripping who was panting and out of the saddle, wrestling his bike reluctantly up an unrelenting climb.

It took me 2 hours. Drip spent an hour on top of that defeating his foe. 3 hours of climbing at over 8% in that condition. I don’t think there was anyone present on this tour who would have had the mental strength to achieve what Dripping achieved. I would have thrown my bike off a cliff having doused it in petrol and set fire to it long before the summit. Amesy wouldn’t have even boarded the plane. Clemo wouldn’t have left the bower.

As pink cap performances go, Dripping knocked it out of the park with gritted determination and practically zero complaining (apart from when our host effectively called him a vagrant for dossing in the hall).

The biggest problem Dripping now faces is going to be awarding the cap next year. He has shocking form in this particular decision-making department. Last time he did the honours he overlooked Damo’s stellar tour and gave it to James, who had pulled his thumb out of his arse and had done 2 or 3 turbo sessions. I swear to god I think I’ve seen JT do the old Obi Wan Kanobi Jedi mind tricks on awards night more than once…’there’s nothing to see here… move along’

In a bold future prediction, the G20 pink cap odds are currently, Damo 3/1 (patience and service of Drip’s woefully cleaned bike), JT 2/1 (Jedi), HRH evens (blood is blood).

Before we finish, time to look at things through a slightly different lens.

A coupla months back, I accompanied JT and his chum Neil (inventor of the petrol engine) on a wee trip to Austria. This was prior to JT putting in his incredible 2-3 turbo sessions I might add.

As the wee-man and and I snuffled and puffed our way up Großglockner we both discussed the possibility of e-bikes on future tours. We saw families of all ages out on bike, often with the older generation right in the mix on their leccy MTB’s.

We loved being out on the bike but could feel the pain of the combination of hurt from lack of preparation, weight and age.

In a universe which sees entropy rule, moving order and structure slowly but inevitably into chaos, time is our enemy. We can fight and push but this ride is one-way only. It’s a big step to make decisions to tackle a harder path just to be able to enjoy the journey, but by chosing to go on tour with an e-bike this year, this is the path Moley chose. And he bloody loved every second of G20. Always smiling. Riding every mile. The e-bike enabled him to continue and properly enjoy the love of cycling in the big country with the boys.

He took a lot of shit for that decision. And indeed, can rightly expect to continue to do so. In fact, we are all still praying the fucker will run out of juice one day! But taking the piss is one thing, I actually think more than one of us looked negatively on the decision to do these rides on an e-bike. Almost as if it were cheating.

Now Moley may have had some assistance enjoying the trip, but he still had to put a shift in. And what else was he to do..? Not go, because he didn’t want to suffer and at some point, or even worse, fail over the 5 days?

Moley is the first person to take an e-bike on tour.

He will not be the last.

I want to ride as long as possible on a normal bike, but fuck me I’ll be e-biking it all the way if it’s a choice between doing or not doing.

Dripping aced pink on G19 with grit and utter determination.

Internally he said ‘fuck this, I’m going no matter what’.

Moley knew he would get a lot of stick for the e-bike choice.

Internally he said ‘fuck this, I’m going no matter what’.

That’s the spirit fellas.

G20, the summit, beckons. Majorca. The weekend of 25th April is looking likely. Gentlemen, clear your diaries. Gaudeix press release and invite to follow shortly.

Do 2 or 3 turbo sessions and a cap is more or less guaranteed.

Ride safely my lil fuckerinos….

Hoppo

#PelotonNews

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svguavajelly · 5 years

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“You don’t get to decide!”

By the time the meeting adjourned with Juan Arco, the director of the Macas Airport, his niece, my friend Adam Gebb and Marcelo who is our Shuar guide, the weather had drastically changed since our arrival after a beautiful 4+ hour drive from Cuenca. Transiting Parque Nacional Sangay on a windy mountain road the park is a UNESCO World Heritage Site (like Cuenca Centro) and is home to Volcan Sangay, a 17,400ft active volcano with a snow capped perfect cone. The weather had been mostly clear with typical mountain clouds and it was the same on arrival in Macas.

Valley to Macas. There’s a road in there somewhere.

Our plan was to depart after the meeting but unfortunately the tiny Cessna, 4 seat plane doesn’t fly well in sideways rain. When flying into the Amazon over the Cutucu and Shaimi ranges and landing on a primitive grass runway cleared by machetes on the edge of the Mangozita River you need the weather to cooperate. Juan Arco explained that during this time of year the weather could remain foul for days and suggested we backtrack and travel many more hours by bus to our planned final destination and do the trip in reverse. Clearly our plan to fly in and land up river and find a canoe to take us downriver is logically the best. We were anxious to start our journey and had suggested we fly the next morning when it is typically clearer before the afternoon storms roll in.

"That sounds nice but you don’t get to decide!” Juan Arco rebutted with a snicker. We all agreed we could look at the weather in the morning and decide and set out to find lodging for the evening. I needed to buy rubber boots for the journey into the deep Amazon anyway and we enjoyed our last night with a comfortable bed and good meal.

Fortunately the mist in the morning lifted and we lugged our gear to the airstrip, got weighed, paid the fare, tax and wandered around the hanger until we were called to board. Aside from the desk attendant, pilot and baggage handler, we were the only other people around. This is my kind of airport.

The cockpit of the tiny plane was smaller than most taxis we use around Ecuador. They had the plane loaded specifically to balance the weight. Adam offered me the front seat as I had the better camera but the pilot said we were specifically seated for weight distribution. That explained Adams giant backpack leaning against me in the seat between Marcelo and I in the back. After ambling down the runway we managed enough speed to get off the tarmac and immediately banked east towards the Amazon.

Within minutes of the bustling Macas (pop. 30,000) we were skimming the dense canopy of virgin rainforest. Looking down I was imagining what secrets lie below the treetops. There are few places with undisturbed forest like this and especially so close to developed areas. The next half hour we saw a couple of clearings with primitive dwellings but no roads. All travel was by foot and possibly pack animal. Many parts of the dense forest, growing on the steep mountainous land, looked impassable.

Finally the river appeared and we got a glimpse of our airstrip in the distance before circling around the surrounding bluffs. As we descended the plane slowed we were soon looking into the trees as the canopy whooshed by beyond the wingtips. The bumpy landing was exciting though never particularly scary. It’s just another day for the pilot.

We quickly unloaded the plane while surrounded by a dozen uniformed schoolchildren. The heat and humidity was clearly a noticeable change from Cuenca and even Macas…about what you would expect for the Amazon jungle. We shuttled the gear to the river and took a quick dip while asking about canoe transport to Miazal, our first village.

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Our longboat canoe measured 25 feet plus an outboard outfitted with a 6 ft long shaft and a tiny prop for skimming the surface of the river. It wasn’t too stable and fortunately I am accustomed to tippy boats. We asked how far down river was Miazal and the teenage driver flatly responded “3 curves” like that would give us the info we needed. He was keen at navigating the features, currents and obstacles of an ever changing Mangozita River. The rapids were small but still made us grip he gunwale a little tighter as we approached any whitewater.

When traveling in the areas of the Shuar territory, which we were transiting, there are no public lands, per se. It is a community of scattered families and their connecting parcels. It is fairly remote and I doubt many of the locals make trips outside the area. There is no cell service (though some locals did have phones) and no internet nor electricity. Yes…off the grid. So the locals don’t really have any outside information or news.

We hired Marcelo to be our guide, mostly a liaison to vouch for our presence on their land. More than once when we desired to pull up to a village, while landing the canoe somewhere below a bluff, we heard shouts and warnings from above…voices from the trees saying we were not welcome…don’t stop…move on. It was hard to hear if they were speaking Shuar or spanish but it was clearly not welcoming. Having the local boat operator and Marcelo with us didn’t matter…they didn’t want Adam and I there.

In Miazal and subsequently everyone we talked to were aware of a new rumor that some gringo men had come to a village upriver and cut off the heads of 3 Shuar girls. Obviously not true and when we heard this the first time we laughed and thought it was a joke and soon realized they were serious. The two different places we camped for a couple of days each didn’t really believe this (so they say) but they did inform us that this rumor was strong and well traveled among the territory. Regardless of what locals really knew or thought about this, it made our trip a little tense and put restrictions on our ability to explore or go anywhere without a local family member in tow.

From Miazal we hiked to the next village to get permission to visit the Aguas Termales. Not your regular natural springs this sacred location has a 50ft waterfall with a temp of about 104F cascading into a mountain jungle river with other towering, cool falls. The 2 hour hike was on a very primitive trail and without our local guide, Luis, and his machete we would have never found it. We crossed the river half a dozen times and finally I gave up trying to keep the inside of my rubber boots dry and copied Luis and Marcelo who would just let them fill. We scrambled up steep banks that are frequently flooded and washed out and avoided all the pokey, stinging plants and animals of the jungle. These mountains are home to the 3 big cats that reside in Ecuador, the Puma, Panther and Jaguar. Though we didn’t see any, nor did we expect to, we did see some big paw prints down by the river.

Cold Cascada

After some time soaking, swimming and admiring this special place we sensed some nervousness from Luis as he kept looking at the sky. The weather seemed pleasant but he knew that it could be raining miles away and the flood could hit us before the rain even appeared. It would be impossible to get back with any level of inundation. So we gathered our snacks and clothes and returned a different way along the river.

Back at the village I was passed a giant bowl fashioned from a natural gourd containing chicha, the tradicional drink made from the yucca root. Harvested, cleaned, boiled and mashed. While mashing the women chew handfuls of the mixture and spit it with their saliva back into the mixture. Ferment for a day or so and serve it up! The weak alcoholic flavor is mild with a light, fizzy tingle on the tongue. The bowl is passed around and around or more commonly passed to a woman outside the circle who wipes the rim and offers it to the next man. It is an ancient tradition and I sheepishly accepted the patriarchal ways of this ritual. I felt it was important to participate and later found out they don’t really trust visitors that don’t drink chicha. This was done everywhere we went for our week in the territory.

Chicha-tender

A couple of hours down river was our second stop at the community of Los Angeles. Esteban and his family have a big parcel with a variety of fruit trees and a soccer field surrounded by various casitas. In our exploration Esteban pointed out a plant from which they make Ayahuasca. I got an immediate tingle up my spine as I caressed the trippy, twisty vine of the soul…a regular reaction whenever referencing Ayahuasca from my experiences with the medicine in the past decade. He informed me they had a ceremony the previous night and I was both bummed I missed another opportunity as well as somewhat relieved.

Esteban showing me the Ayahuasca Vine

Daughters Cabañas

None of this had any effect on the regular Sunday gathering at this property. Many families arrived with food while music blared from a giant single speaker and various official soccer matches were played, all the while the skies poured down on the party. At dusk, Esteban took us on a canoe ride and long walk exploring his property. The trail was flooded and knee deep for a long section as we approached his daughters' compound, a tidy area with a couple of cabanas and easy access to the river.

Right behind this goal the riverbank steeply descends. If they are lucky the ball will get hung up in the brush, otherwise it rolls or flies into the swift river below.

Goooooooooaaaaaaallllllll!!!

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Our last night was spent cooking for the entire village as they lined the walls of the casita watching as if we were a 1 act play in the round. Using a camp stove we cooked up a vegetable stir-fry with jalapeño tuna topping with fruit and salami appetizers, finishing with Ritz and Oreos and they could not have been happier. Later we spoke with Esteban about the weather and departing mañana and after some discussion he matter of fact stated the familiar saying “I know you need to catch a ride but you don’t get to decide”. Duly noted.

Waiting for Dinner

Palm Larva. Yep, I ate it, crunchy black head and all.

Fortunately in the morning the rains had subsided while I made strong coffee for Esteban and his wife and chatted with the kids as they took turns drawing pictures in my journal. Before long we were packed and ready for the couple of hour trip downriver to meet our ride from Cuenca. Though the rain had stopped the river was still cresting and it took all hands on deck to keep an eye for floating trees, snags and changing currents. Half way down river we spotted the lost canoe from the night before, hung up in some overhanging branches which were normally 12 ft above the surface but now provided the perfect “arms” to stop the runaway canoe and cradle her until we arrived.

Our mission to recover the boat was dangerous and charged with the type of excitement I remember from a decade of sailing on Guava Jelly when these types of situations arose. We can do this but be aware, move deliberately, don’t do anything stupid and make matters worse. Crossing the strong current we made a wobbly approach and as Marcelo grabbed the line of the stranded canoe from the bow of our boat the current swung us around and pushed the 2 hulls parallel. While attempting to hold the position and not trying to pinch fingers the 6ft long prop shaft (still running) was stuck between the hulls, craned 180 degrees forward and spinning between Adam and my head. We remained calm and managed to get everything sorted and towed the canoe across the river, tying her up safely for Estebans’ son to gather later.

Riverfront Property

We arrived at what we thought was Puerto Morona to a flooded and confusing ‘dock’. Squeezing in and climbing over other boats we managed to exit without falling in the drink. This town, though small, had the regular port feel. Interesting and grimy with all the action at the intersection of the dock and the only road passing through town. We clearly were outsiders but people were generally curious and friendly while we ordered our almuerzo (lunch) and a beer.

Flooded Dock.

Ready to return to my crazy family in Cuenca, our ride was nowhere to be found and pondering another night in the Amazon..where would we stay, we decided to get a mixto (pick-up truck taxi) and hope we see him on the way. A few minutes down the road when we reach Puerto Morona…wha?!?…he was there. We had been waiting in Puerto Morona(ish). Do you know there are a half a dozen San Rafaels within 30 minutes of the capital of Costa Rica? Also quite a few San Antonios, San Isidros, San Franciscos, San Others in the same area? In my confusion I remembered this and shrugged it off…we had a ride home!

Climbing into a 2016 extended cab, 4 wheel drive Toyota, I felt almost at home with the familiar comforts the Amazon failed to provide. 5 minutes later our driver explained the only reason he arrived at Puerto Morona on time (the correct Puerto, not the one where we were waiting) was his truck. He approached the washed out road…no road remained, just a little sliver of flat ground over the curb of the shoulder, beyond the avalanche mud. The locals said you can’t pass (aka “you don’t get to decide) and our driver reminded them he just came thru an hour before. We were waved passed and we repeated this process a couple of more times. Hours later I was embraced with the hugs from the wee ones I so missed.

One of many landslides covering the road home.

Aside from the Amazon exploration and adventure, this trip had another more noble purpose. Adam Gebb has been putting together plans to save the rain-forest, albeit only the corridor we visited that is the Shuar Territory.

Looking over 2000+ miles of Amazon jungle basin before it reaches the Atlantic Ocean.

Like so many other unspoiled lands and last frontiers of the world, this area has no protection from the exploiting petroleum, mineral and other industries that threaten to destroy it. From those industries there is currently an influx of money and deals negotiated to steal these lands from the indigenous locals and they have little representation to prevent this from moving down that irreversible path.

The black oval is roughly the Shuar Territory. You can see the value of a bio-corridor between the 2 National Parks. Cuenca is to the west in the Andes.

Adam’s multi-level plan is relatively simple though it faces many hurdles and even if things move forward the progress will be at a glacial pace. Change is difficult when dealing with the many facets…the landholders, government departments, conservation organizations and the research, reports and knowledge necessary to achieve protected status.

Traveling to the territory to meet with the locals and persuade them to even listen to ideas about conservation is a daunting task. That was the purpose of this trip and as you may have read, it was difficult to obtain trust.

Briefly the plan, with the approval and support of the Shuar community, would be to establish eco-friendly tourism to the area by means of a simple hut to hut hiking corridor. This would get the locals involved, bring them some income and hopefully with the reports of like minded travelers and tourists who visit the area, alert the larger conservation organizations (where the future money would come from) to the importance of ultimately establishing a protected bio-corrodor connecting the Parque Nacional Cordilla del Condor on the Ecuador/Peru border to the Parque Nacional Sangay in the Andes of Ecuador.

Though it sounds straight-forward and obviously necessary, there are many steps in between and every turn requires much planning and revisions, meeting, studies, funds, travel, etc. All the while maintaining focus and awareness to the delicate needs and desires of the Shuar community. I hope the unforeseen hurdles are few and the project is successful.

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