“You won’t be seeing him again,” Stig said, with a lot of confidence.
It was very convincing, not in the least because Keith had run away from him. He was a dick, but he wasn’t stupid. If Stig could knock Keith on his ass that easily, it didn’t take a genius to predict what would happen if Stig was actually trying to hurt Keith.
“Thank you,” I told him sincerely, feeling so glad he was here to protect me.
“You’re welcome,” Stig said, gently squeezing my hand. “That’s in the past now, okay? Let’s focus on the present.”
“Of course.”
I found myself literally sitting up a bit straighter. Tension left me by the second as I was able to ease into the swing of things.
The two of us were soon drinking, chatting and flirting like we’d been together for years. The spark I’d felt back at The Sanctuary was growing into a raging inferno— one that was mostly located between my legs.
Our date was over way before I wanted it to be. Once we left the bar and got out to the street, Stig stood beside my bike and looked down at me.
“I’d kiss you goodnight, but I don’t want it to end,” he said.
“Me neither,” I agreed.
“Well then, I’d offer to give you a ride to my place, but you’ve already been in the van. I haven’t had the pleasure of riding on your steel demon here.”
“Would you like to?” I asked, and I couldn’t help but smile as he nodded, loving a man who was confident enough in himself to ask a woman to give him a motorcycle ride.
He told me his address and them we hopped on.
Once we were both on the Black Shadow, with Stig’s hand encircling me closer to my breasts than my waist— which was mostly due to our height difference although I couldn’t help but hope it was for other reasons, too— we rode into the night.
The headlamp cut through the darkness until we pulled up in front of Stig’s apartment building, which was bright with lights.
“Want to come up and see my record collection?” he asked me. “It’s a very impressive size.”
I chuckled but was still about to say no, because of not wanting to move too quickly and jump into bed together. The answer was in its chamber and ready to fire. Except I had a feeling that he was being literal, despite his joke. Rather than a variation on “come up and have some tea,” he really did want to show me his impressive collection of vinyl.
So, I said yes, and my suspicion was confirmed once he brought me up to his condo. Kept in its own room on a set of bookcase style shelves, his vinyl collection was definitely the biggest I’d seen outside of the underground record store I liked to frequent.
Located down a steep flight of stairs that led twelve feet below street level, Shadow Realm Records took the term “underground store” pretty literally, and it had a lot of records. But Stig’s collection gave it a run for its money.
“These are amazing. Did you bring them all with you from Norway?” I asked him.
“Not all at once, and definitely not all of these,” he said.
“Oh, okay. I was going to ask how you managed the feat of fitting them all into your suitcase!”
He laughed.
“Yeah. I only took a few favorites at first. But my family shipped some over when I got settled in. There are others I’ve bought since arriving. A good chunk of my advance from the first album was investing in buying other bands’ records.”
“The circle of life,” I joked.
“Pretty much, yeah.”
I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not, but I held fast to his hand as he escorted me to the soft leather couch at the center of the room. Across from the couch, in a specially installed shelf, was a modern, suitcase style record player, augmented with external speakers flanking it like bodyguards on either side.
I certainly couldn’t question his credentials as an audiophile.
He selected a record from the inventory, the spines of which blended together to resemble funky, multi-colored wallpaper.
Once he set it on the player, the needle touched the surface, and the soft pop and crackle gradually gave way to “Further Complications.”
“I didn’t think you could get this on vinyl,” I said, as he walked back to where I was seated on the couch.
“Not anymore, no. This one came from Jarvis Cocker himself, when he was touring through Oslo. I filled in for his bassist, who messed up his hand playing soccer. The album was part of the payment.”
“That must have gone over well with your family and friends.”
“Family, absolutely. My friends still don’t know about it, though. I’d never hear the end of it— from Varg, anyway. Especially back in those days.”