Ingela Bohm's Blog, page 56

WIP

My cheeks ache from smiling. I try to stop, to relax, but my face is all screwed up and tight. Like gum that you’ve chewed for too long. Nothing but a tasteless, hard lump, and yet you can’t stop chewing. Because that’s what you do with gum. You grind it between your molars until nothing remains but tatters.

It even hurts to breathe. It’s as if my lungs don’t want to part with the air. I have to force it through my throat, and it chafes against my vocal cords like a desert wind.

But I only have myself to blame. I never told him, and now it’s too late. I found out on Facebook – Facebook, for fuck’s sake! I don’t even use Facebook. I check it once a month, and this morning when I went there, his post screamed at me from the top of my otherwise eventless feed: I’m moving! And then a smiley.

I blink, and my family takes form again around the table. They’re laughing and chatting, completely unaware that Armageddon has been and gone. Linda catches my eye and smiles like only she can smile: hopeful, yet resigned. It’s a long time since she had any illusions about me.

“Going down to the studio after dinner?” she asks, and I’m horrified to blush. I know she thinks I use that room to jerk off, and in a way I guess that’s true. But not the way she thinks.

“Yeah, I thought I’d have a go at the album,” I mumble. I’m not lying. That’s exactly what I’m planning to do. But the lyrics to those songs are an X-ray of my heart, and she knows it. She just doesn’t know who the mystery woman is.

Just as I think it, the doorbell rings. We both jump, and I clutch the edge of the table. Her eyes slip down to take it in, and she cocks her head slightly. Does she guess?

Hungry for love?

It was a biting winter night, two months into Robert’s new job at the restaurant. Finding five minutes at the lag end of a horrible day, he went to the lunch room and saw Mick, hunched over a coffee, staring dejectedly into his mug.

“Too bitter?” Robert asked, his cheerful tone a splinter in the somber mood.

Mick jumped, but when he saw that it was only Robert, he resumed his scowling. Pushing the coffee away, he muttered, “You could say that.”

Robert bit the inside of his cheek. He sort of knew what the problem was, but if he mentioned it, he might make it worse. Instead he sat down and plonked his weary feet on the table. Mick glanced at them, but didn’t comment. Robert considered pointing out that if Chef Thierry approached, Robert would hear it from far off and have time enough to take his feet down.

“Want some gum?” He held out a packet to Mick, who threw a look at it and shook his head.

“Better not,” he said. “Might get sacked.”

Robert made a face. It sounded like snark, but maybe it wasn’t. The afternoon had been hectic, with lots of complaints and plates being sent back to the kitchen, but chef Thierry hadn’t taken responsibility for them. Instead his minions had taken the blame. Mick had even been sent out to apologize.

The place was a joke.

“He’d be a fool to sack you, though,” Robert said. It was the closest he could come to saying that Mick was a fantastic cook without actually revealing that he sometimes tasted the sauces. The closest he could come to saying that he’d be sorry to see him go.

Very sorry.

“Yeah…” Mick stared at the door as if he expected Chef Thierry to walk in at any moment. “I’d laugh if he died.”

Robert couldn’t stop a surprised snort.

Mick’s eyes swerved towards him. “You think I’m being unfair?”

“Not really.”

“At least I’m honest about it.” Mick started picking at his chef’s coat. Robert watched him for a while, useless sympathy tearing him up inside. They were colleagues, not friends. He wasn’t really who Mick wanted to confide in. He just happened to be here when the bowl ran over.

“He’s a jerk,” he said awkwardly.

Mick shrugged. “He’s a chef.”

As if they’d somehow summoned him by mentioning his name, Chef Thierry’s heavy footstep could be heard approaching. Robert sat up straight, and Mick shot to his feet.

“Oh, I’m glad someone’s got time to rest!” Chef Thierry barked. “You’ll be glad that you got to have a little snooze, because you’re staying late tonight.”

Mick frowned, and it was enough.

“Oh, you’re too weak to do even that? Can’t stay up late and miss your beauty sleep? Afraid to break a nail, are you?”

“I’ll stay,” Mick said quickly.

Chef Thierry’s nostrils flared. “Damn right you are. There’s a busload of tourists arriving at eight. I would have asked Anton, but he’s got a date tonight, so I’ll have to make do with the runt.”

A cold hand squeezed Robert’s heart. He wanted to swing a punch at the overbearing man, or at least say something. But what could he say? You’re being unfair? He would only be giving him ammunition.

So instead he went back out into the restaurant and started cleaning tables. It was quiet now, the lull before yet another storm, and he had time to notice his sore feet. He tried to walk lightly, but his borrowed work shoes pinched in all the wrong places.

He threw a look at the clock. Five minutes to eight. He wanted to groan, but what was the point? He had chosen this job. He had to do it. And he was far better off than Mick.

He heaved a deep sigh. He wanted to help, but he had no idea how. Mick was surrounded by walls, and Robert was afraid to climb them. What if Mick wanted to be left alone? What if Robert let something slip and ruined everything?

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Can a waiter and a sous-chef cook up the perfect revenge and satisfy another hunger at the same time?

Coming soon on Amazon.

Love in the rubble of history

Around me, the remnants of ancient pillars are scattered in the brittle grass, mute evidence of a long-lost culture. Here on the mountain, people now dead and forgotten have sung and danced and made love like there was no tomorrow – which, for them, there wasn’t. The volcano put a stop to that.

I wander up the path, almost forgetting my errand as I take in the petrified remains of those olden days. Happy at last, I take out my phone and switch it on to take a few photos. I walk into a square construction identified on a sign as the temple of Dionysos, and I stop there, turning around and running my gaze over the ruined walls that surround me. The stones whisper silently and I smile in reply. There’s no one here. No one at all, on this day of power cuts and broken routines. Just me. Just me and history.

Still smiling, I walk a little further up the road, past what was once a theatre and another temple, this one dedicated to Apollo. I glance down at my name tag. I owe my travelling companion a favour. Maybe I can find him and buy him a drink tonight.

I stop and sit on a boulder where I have a magnificent view of the sea, but where the cliff obscures the fallen plane from view. I prefer not to think about that little adventure right now. Sighing contentedly in the sun, I open my rucksack to dig into my Spartan delicacies. Once again, I find myself wishing that I will never have to go home. What would happen if I didn’t? As the figs melt on my tongue, I entertain the ridiculous notion with a passion. I could stay here, playing an acoustic at street corners and scraping by on coins tossed by tourists, perhaps seducing their purses open with my Nordic blondness. I could live like that, without a care in the world, nibbling on leftovers and drinking from the fountains like the stray dogs of the island.

Perhaps a little bit like the people who once inhabited this island, this mountain. Actually, how did they live up here? How did they grow crops in this blazing heat? How did they manage for drinking water? It’s a mystery, but one I don’t have to solve, one I can just wonder at and then leave alone. I have no obligations here. I’m an outsider, a visitor from the future, a ghost.

The thought sends shivers through me, as if someone’s watching me from behind. Spooked, I turn to scan the stones for watchers, but there’s nothing, only the minutely waving branches of short, gnarled trees. Snorting at myself, I turn back to my plastic mug of sour-tasting wine and swallow a big mouthful. Drinking before noon. I chuckle to myself. I am turning Mediterranean. I’d fit right in.

But something’s wrong. I can feel it. Someone rational and mature like Marco would laugh at me, but I just know that there’s something… something… there. I slowly turn again, half expecting to see Death himself standing with his scythe among the scraggly bushes, but what my gaze snags on is not a concrete shape. It’s a nothingness, a black hole. There’s a crevice or a cave of some kind behind me, a portal to the unknown. The shadows in there make it impossible to see if someone’s in there, but I can feel that there is.

Rising on legs which feel brittle like sugar, I take a few steps up the slope, ready to run at the first sign of danger. The air is warm and quiet, only the odd cicada chirping into the void. My knees are trembling beneath my weight as I approach the black opening, and I reach out a hand to steady myself. I duck my head and peer inside, and the darkness stares back at me, reluctant to divulge any of its secrets. My eyes slowly adjust, and I pick out the odd ray of light snaking its way inside the crevice. There are stones and sand, a turf of struggling weed in a crack.

And eyes.

My brain short-circuits. I stumble backwards. There are eyes in there! Someone is looking at me!

Heart thundering into presto, I almost fall down the slope and catch myself with my hands on the gravel, scraping my palms to bloodied shreds. Regaining my balance, I’m off down the path like a desperate escapee, running from I don’t know what, running like a rabbit from the hounds. The pounding of my shoes on the sandy ground echoes in a crazy counterpoint to my pulse and I imagine it magnified and doubled, imagine a pursuer hot on my trail, slavering jaws stretching to clamp down on my neck.

I reach the fence and rip the skin on my shin open while scrambling over it. The shock of it reverberates hotly through me, but I don’t stop to stem the blood. I have to get away from here, have to get back to civilization, to the dependable, predictable world of the everyday.

Only there is no such world. There’s nowhere to go. The island is beset by calamities of every kind, the small dot of human settlement is open to the elements, to forces we don’t understand, forces we thought we had conquered and tamed.

And up there, some creature just saw me.

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Being seen can be a frightening thing, but also healing. Will Olov dare go back to whoever is up there? Will he take a chance on someone who’s as far from his usual type as they can get?

Coming soon on Amazon.

What if you were the OTP?

It’s Jakob’s birthday, and boy is he getting a surprise. His friend Leo has written a sexy blog about the two of them — all untrue, of course. Or is it? Identity hijacked, fake love life laid out for the world to see, Jakob is devastated. He should deny it all, but he can’t stop reading. Soon, he’ll have to confront Leo, but he’s afraid — can there be a tiny grain of truth in those stories?

Not Safe For Work

London: the third character

Conductor Jeremiah is having a shitty day. He’s late for his concert, the hotel missed his booking, and touring is making him lonely. Things improve when violinist Tony arrives and offers him a room. But Tony wears a wedding ring, and tomorrow they’re booked to perform on opposite sides of the world. Will their one night in the same city lead somewhere, or are the odds too stacked against them?

Find out in Strings Attached

M/M freebie

Well, this was long overdue… changing the cover on my freebie.

Worn-out teacher Jack has just about had it with this life. But just when he’s ready to give in, cute temp Alexander unexpectedly helps with his class. Is the man just abnormally altruistic, or is there something else going on here? As the lesson progresses, Jack’s barricades slowly crumble. Even as he struggles to retain control over the class, he’s losing it over his heart.

First peek at Pax IV

Ships in the night and the road to healing

The door to my compartment opens and I don’t even have to turn my head to know that the person entering is not the train attendant. Clenching my teeth, I turn to the window and curse the train company for managing to fuck something up each time. Today there were no delays, but instead I get this: another person in my sleeping compartment. I specifically asked to pay triple the price just to avoid it.

Dismissing the idea of finding someone to complain to, I opt for the second alternative: I turn and glare at the intruder to make him understand how unwelcome he is, how much I was looking forward to a night of sleeping without ear plugs, and that I’m not going to stand for the slightest–

My heart leaps up, knocks out my brain and falls into my stomach with a sickening thud. The only thing I’m able to verbalize to myself is Jesus, Mary and Joseph he’s bloody handsome. A tentative hello balances on my lips as my mangled mind tries to categorize the stranger. He notes my predicament, flashes a goofy grin and extends his hand.

“Alan.”

English, then. My cheeks burn as I nod and give my own name, “Jerker.”

Alan shakes my sweaty hand without blinking. Then he starts putting his luggage away, and I concentrate on shutting down the document on my computer. With my disobedient fingers, I take half a minute to save it, only to realize what my wallpaper is and hastily closing the lid. I don’t want him to start asking about that. I don’t know if I can smile and evade the subject like I usually do.

I glance at Alan, just to ascertain that he really is the epitome of male beauty. And dang, he is. He’s also quietly noting my aberrant behavior, and I decide to put on my headphones instead, close my eyes and pretend to listen to my mp3 player.

Alan rummages around and finally sits down, but when the compartment grows quiet, I can’t keep my eyes closed anymore. When I open them, he quickly averts his eyes. Dark brown, with a little quirk at the corner. Broad mouth, broad nose. Just like…

I shy away from the thought. Nothing good can come from dwelling on it.

Still, he won’t talk to me if I’m pretending to listen to music, and I do dearly wish him to talk to me. At the same time I think I might pass out if he actually does. It’s just too familiar.

Not that he looks like Geir, exactly. He may have the same bone structure, but the rest isn’t like him at all. It’s just my brain, trying to find similarities, trying to hold on. Trying to deny that he’s gone.

Alan gazes out of the window. Studiously, like he’s aware of being watched. Maybe I should try to be a little less Swedish. Make an effort. Be nice, polite.

I take my headphones off, and Alan flashes me a smile.

“So where are you going?” I ask, wincing at my accent.

“Don’t ask me to pronounce it,” Alan smiles. “But it’s supposed to be good for hiking.”

“Arjeplog?” I offer, mostly as an in-joke with myself, but Alan’s expression changes abruptly.

“Wasn’t that…?” He turns to his phone, starts thumbing it for information. Moments later, he looks up again. “You know it, then?”

“I… was born there,” I say reluctantly. “Please don’t make me talk about it.” Realizing that I’m being rude, I hasten to add, “It’s very beautiful though. The scenery, I mean. Should appeal to a Londoner.” Alan raises an eyebrow, and I realize that I’ve presumed. My heart pounds at my ribs as I reach for the first excuse I can find. “I mean, you sound like you come from London…?”

“Indeed I am,” Alan grins. “Very perceptive. Have you lived there?”

I look away, out at the speeding trees. They’re just a grey-green blur. Like my memories. This isn’t going well. Maybe I should avoid conversation altogether? But we’ve kind of broken the ice now, so I can’t just stop talking. I have to find an excuse that won’t have him ask more questions. “I’m quite interested in dialects,” I mumble.

Alan nods, apparently satisfied with the explanation. “And you know this place – Aryuh-plough? Maybe you can give me some tips on good trails?”

Situation normalized, I rack my brains – or rather wreck them – to dig up some slivers of pertinent information: despite being an avid fan of the wilderness, I’ve spent precious little time there. I try to remember bits and pieces from childhood hikes with my parents, and fill out the rest with self-deprecatory remarks.

“So what are you writing?”

My eyebrows shoot up at the sudden question. Alan smiles. How did he guess? Oh, the computer… Should I talk about work, then, or about pleasanter things?

“Oh, er… a self-help book.” I wince again. It’s a phrase that, despite some two years of practice, I can’t say without feeling like an idiot. I hate the inevitable questions that follow it: Oh, really, you write? Yes. Have you published anything? No. Have you tried? A few times. So what’s this one about? Depression.

Oh…

And then the uncomfortable silence.

“What’s it about?”

Bam. There it is. I feel myself coloring even before I’ve opened my mouth. “Depr… Well, it’s about overcoming difficulties.” I grimace and quickly launch into my explanatory tirade. “I used to be a psychiatrist, and I’ve always wanted to take it to the next level, so to speak. I guess I can blame my weird parents – travel writers, both of them, can you believe it? Anyway, this book is kind of my take on how to allow yourself to grieve, and how society works against it.”

“Really?” Alan studies me, his eyes so dark, so intense, and my chest tingles. “It’s about grief?”

“Well… yes. And how to get through it in a culture that wants you to function like a normal person.”

Alan’s eyes drop to his lap. I look at his hands. They’re seeking strength in each other, his fingers lacing themselves together. Sometimes I wish I could shut off my brain. Stop analyzing. But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t ‘think too much.’

I also wish I didn’t see the wedding band on his ring finger.

“So what’s your theory?” Alan asks. “How do you survive?”

I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. There’s a lid on my vocal cords, and my mouth is full of air. Of nothing.

“I don’t know,” I say finally, and the admission is so close to home that my throat cramps and my eyes fill. Forcing a chuckle, I make a dismissive gesture. “Haven’t got to that chapter yet.” Even after two years of trying. “So far, I’ve only described the problem.”

Alan’s gaze is bottomless. “But you began the book anyway?”

“Excuse me?”

“You started writing a book on how to get through grief without knowing how it ends.”

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Can two strangers on a train help each other see the light at the end of the tunnel?

Coming soon on Amazon.

Walking along the river bank, he heard a faint sound, li...

Walking along the river bank, he heard a faint sound, like a thread of gold in the silver rush of the water. A vague, almost inaudible melody, but it was there, buried in the swirling music of the river. A single melody, the thin, fragile sound of a violin. A plaintive call that sounded almost human, and yet… not.

He shivered. Whoever answered that call would sink to his death.

Friends with history – but do they have a future?

By the time they got off the shuttle, shouldered their bags and hurried into the hotel lobby, Patrick was pouring with sweat. The night was tropical, and his cotton shirt was way too warm. Stopping just inside the door to wipe his fringe out of his eyes, he felt it trickle down beneath his collar. Disgusting. He would have to take a shower first thing after they got their key.

He squinted at the reception desk, where Tom was already joking and bantering with the lady behind it. How he had the strength to after hours on a plane was a mystery, but that was Tom for you. Charm was default setting.

Patrick ambled up to him and leaned with one elbow on the counter.

“Sorry, we only have rooms with actual double beds,” the receptionist was saying. “And they’re not…” She faltered, her eyes flitting towards Patrick. “Um, very wide. They’re meant for married couples.”

“So?” Tom’s wrinkled brow made him look boyish.

“Well, I…” The receptionist opened and shut her mouth a few times. “I just mean that… if you’re very good friends it might be big enough, but–”

“Oh, never mind,” Tom interrupted. “Give us the key, please.” He turned to look at Patrick. “I mean, if you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind,” Patrick said quickly. Maybe too quickly.

But Tom didn’t bat an eye. He just turned a smile at the receptionist and shrugged. “Bed for a married couple it is.”

The receptionist looked both relieved and mystified – a fairly accurate reflection of Patrick’s feelings. But he couldn’t think about that now, about how he would be lying next to Tom the whole night, how their half-naked bodies would touch for every small movement…

“I’ll try not to snore,” he attempted to joke – anything to divert attention from his reddening face.

Tom chuckled. “I’ll settle for not being pushed to the floor.” He bent to pick up his bag.

Patrick tried on his best manly laugh. “Well, a man who can’t defend himself…” He let the sentence trail away, because he had no idea how to finish it. He was a bit of a messy sleeper, and it made for ample joking material, but if he accidentally touched Tom in the night, it would feel like a trespass. No amount of rationalization could take away the fact that he actually wanted to.

Or that once upon a time, he had.

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Can a diving trip to Turkey reveal what lurks beneath the surface?

Coming soon on Amazon.