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Setting me down on the edge of his big bed, he pulled my shirt up over my head, as I lifted my arms to help. Then, he took off my jeans and panties. I really thought he would start touching me again, but instead, he tucked me up under the blankets. Taking off his own clothes, he joined me in the bed, staying on his own side. I was the one who cuddled up to him, which he didn’t seem to mind at all.
It didn’t make sense. All logic would say we shouldn’t work, but there we were. The connection, as well as affection, between us undeniable. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was just a fling, or if there might be more to it. If we might have a future together, despite our hugely different backgrounds and cultures, particularly if Ragnar returned to Norway.
I tried not to think about it, pushing all negative thoughts from my mind, so I could just enjoy the moment. Ragnar and I cuddled and kissed and were happy, right up until the scourge of sleep took us.
Chapter Six - Ragnar
The sheet was cold. Where there was once an arm full of my warm lover, there only remained a smooth, cool surface. Like a rink before the first skaters took to it. I wondered if maybe I’d dreamt the whole thing.
It did seem a bit too perfect. Life was rarely, if ever, so glorious. A lesson I’d learned at a young age.
There was an odd sensation on my mouth. A sticky wight that called for further investigation by my finger. Fingers which came away smudged with a deep burgundy. Lipstick, like Stephanie had been wearing. Okay, not a dream, but she was still gone. Where did that leave us? Friends, lovers, ‘fuck buddies’ as the Americans apparently said?
Was it a fling, or something deeper? It felt deeper but how reliable was human perception? A whole philosophy textbook of quandaries to unsettle my mind. It really was a wonder I was able to sleep at all.
Fortunately, I didn’t have much time to ponder. I had to be at the Sanctuary in an hour, and Varg and Stig would be around in just a few minutes to pick me up. At least according to a text I’d received a few moments before. No time for breakfast then.
I had just enough time to wash my face and throw on clean clothes before the distinctive rattle of the van rounded the corner onto my street. I was relieved to see Stig was driving. Varg had many talents, driving was not one of them.
“Join the party,” Varg invited, sliding the side door open.
He was already drinking. The beer cans rattle in as I climbed in the back. A district whiff of lager on his breath.
“Scale of one to ten?”
“Four,” he belched, holding up that number of fingers.
It wasn’t the most impressive gas-based feat I’d ever witnessed. One night, after a small, club gig in Oslo, I saw him burp the alphabet, backwards in both English and Norwegian. Woe betided any well-meaning patrolman who tried to do a DUI test.
“Good, keep it that way, okay?”
“Okay, Mom.”
The fresh can didn’t even make it all the way out of the cooler before it was bouncing off the wall.
“What the fuck, man?” he demanded, retrieving his assailed brewski, cradling it like a wailing baby.
“Four is plenty,” I declaimed, in my ‘don’t fuck with me’ tone.
He gave me his best scary look, practiced and perfected over many years. The only problems was that I’d seen it too many times before. I knew what he was really like, so his attempts at intimidation fell flat.
“You have no one to impress here, Peter.”
He flinched slightly at the sound of his birth name. He’d been known as ‘Varg’ for as long as anyone outside his family old remember. ‘Peter’ didn’t sound nearly hardcore enough, so he changed it to the Norwegian equivalent of ‘Wolf’ to try and sound dangerous.
He seemed to hope it would stop the bullying. It didn’t really work, except to get the attention of the local cops. The more Peter got pushed around the more intense he became. Far from drawing him to the dark side, I would die on the hill of arguing it kept him from it. Both the band and metal music in general became an outlet. One I was almost certain kept him from doing something terrible were he left to his own devices.
He’d been collecting weapons before we started Loki’s Laugh, turned into music equipment soon after, selling many of his weapons to afford it. In one memorable case trading a Dane ax for his first guitar, a scathed but usable Epiphone Flying V, which we referred to as ‘the ax’ thereafter.
The parking lot at The Sanctuary was almost empty when we got there, Sven’s wagon the only other vehicle in sight. Apparently, Seth didn’t come to every session, which only stood to reason really, he had a label to run. Were it not for what happened at the wedding, requiring him to drive me in to the session, he likely wouldn’t have been there at all.
