Page 45 of Badd B*tch

I fished for over an hour, and a fucking half, and the damn slippery little bitches just would not get on my hook.

Frustrated nearly to the point of tears, I tried one last time before admitting defeat. I gently, carefully rotated my wrist so the worm-strung hook swung in tight little circles, gradually letting out the line so the circles grew wider and wider, and then finally releasing it with my eyes fixed on my chosen spot. For once, the damned hook went right where I was aiming it—and let me tell you, that shit ain’t as easy as they make it look on those wilderness survival reality shows, folks. My first couple tries that first time with Jax, I tossed it straight up and ended up with a wormy hook in my hair. Which makes me realize I probably still have worm guts in my hair. Ew.

I tuned in to the line as it drifted in the slow current, lazily nearing the shadowy patch of rippling water. I saw the thing, dammit—a massive shadow in the water, cutting this way and that in quick, darting tacks.

"YES!" I hissed. "Get on there, you big bitch!" I tugged the line so the worm would dance. "Come on, fishy-fishy-fishy. Get the nice worm. I picked the juiciest one just for you."

I tugged and twitched the line, and then…BAM! The line tugged hard enough to almost pull the stick-reel right out of my hands, which would have been a motherfucking epic catastrophe. I'd have gone in after it, honestly.

I crowed in triumph, keeping Jax's advice for pulling it in top of mind. I reeled and tugged, and then let the fish play out the line, repeating the process until the tension on the line had, not slack exactly, but less of a ferocious resistance to its impending doom.

I carefully reeled the fish in, twisting the stick along its long axis to roll the line around it. I had it at the bank, and only then realized I'd forgotten the shirt-net. All I could do, at that point, was gingerly draw the wriggling, flipping fish—a fat, beautiful salmon—up onto the bank well away from the river’s edge and then whack it on the head a few times with the stick-reel. It stilled, eventually, its gills slowly ceasing to flap. I considered trying my luck at filleting it on my own, but decided against it. Who knew when we'd get another fish, so we couldn't afford to lose any of the meat due to my clumsy attempt at cleaning it.

I shouldered the bag and simply carried the fish back to camp hanging from the hook. I found Jax lounged against the granite wall, breaking a thin bit of stick into tiny pieces and tossing them into the fire, which, miraculously, hadn't gone out. Or he'd gotten it going again; I wasn't sure which. He had a thin joint dangling from his lips, his legs sprawled out, his torso leaned away from his injured side a bit. I could tell even as I approached how much pain he was in—his brows were furrowed, tension drawing sharp lines on his forehead. When he saw me, though, he lit up.

"Hey! You got one!" He took the joint from his lips and gestured at the fish with it as he exhaled smoke. "And a big fat fucker of a salmon! Told you you could do it."

"I almost gave up. I was about to come back empty-handed and decided to try one last time." I shrugged. "And then this guy hit."

He nodded as if I’d said something wise. "It's always when you're about to give up that the fish hit. Kinda like how the thing you're missing is always in the last place you look."

I snickered. "Well, yeah, by definition. You'd have to be pretty damn dumb to keep looking after you've found something."

"Pretty damn dumb. Pretty dumb damn. I mean, damn dumb."

I cackled. "How much of that have you had?"

He took a hit. "Not enough." He took a slow, long, careful toke and exhaled it through his nose. "No grinder. Took a while to break it up and even longer to roll it. Kept messing up." He wiggled his fingers. “These are a little clumsy.”

"You need a grinder?" I asked.

He laughed. "Wow. Yes. I mean, need? No, but it’s a hell of a lot faster, grinds it more evenly, and you don't end up with sticky fingers."

"Sticky fingers?"

He boggled at me. "You've literally never even so much as touched cannabis?"

I shrugged. "Nope. I rarely even drink. I fly, think about flying, study flying, and practice flying. And sometimes, I even dream about flying. No part of my life has ever had any room for distractions, and that shit is nothing but a distraction."

“So you don’t approve. Got it.” He shook his head. "What do you do for fun, then?” He held up a hand. "That doesn't have anything to do with airplanes, helicopters, or flying."

“It’s not that I don’t approve, it’s just not for me,” I said, and I frowned. “What do I do for fun? Um. Run. Lift weights. Listen to music while doing the preceding two."

"You run. For fun."

I nodded. "Ten miles most days."

He spluttered. "Fuck me. That's absurd." He took a hit and exhaled. "I mean fun. Have you ever even had fun?"

I smirked. "Ask me that after I've taken you up in my Sopwith Camel."

"Your what?"

I stared at him. "Sopwith Camel? World War One fighter plane.”

“World War One? So you mean like a biplane?"

“Yes, Jax, like a biplane. Let me take you up someday. Do a few loops and maybe an Immelmann or two, and then you can ask about fun."