So I stood in line at the terminal’s burger joint and kept one eye on the Smith & Wesson watch my mother had given me when I’d graduated from the academy. I was cutting it close, but I had no choice. It was either refuel here or get the shakes on the ride across the Atlantic, because a chintzy bag of pretzels and a plastic cup of soda on the plane wasn’t going to cut it.
The line seemed to take forever, and I peered over the white-haired couple in front of me twice, wondering why they weren’t moving. In the meantime, I stared down at the little old man in front of me. He had two islands of white hair around the backs of his ears and a sea of chicken-like speckled skin in between. I’d been playing connect the liver spots in my mind when at last it dawned on me that maybe they weren’t waiting in line. Perhaps they were simply discussing the weather in Omaha while standing in the vicinity of the line.
“Are you in line?” I finally asked.
The husband, whose shoulders were so rounded and hunched over that he would’ve been lucky to register in at five feet tall, wore a pink-and-blue Hawaiian shirt that hung down low over the back of his khaki chino shorts. Pale, birdlike stems poked out of the hems, and his white nylon socks were pulled up just below his knees. His legs ended in a pair of all-white New Balance sneakers. When he turned to look up at me, his entire torso turned as a unit. “What?” he asked, cupping the back of one ear.
“Are you in line for burgers?” I said, louder this time, slouching over to get my mouth closer to his ear.
The man looked at his wife. She was shorter than he was and wore a floral beige cotton dress and a pink sun visor that said “World’s Best Grandma.” “He asked if we’re in line, Al,” she hollered into his good ear.
His eyes opened wider, showing a pair of watery greenish-blue eyes sunken into his wrinkly face. “Oh!” His mouth formed the letter as he said it. The combination of the wide eyes and mouth suggested that somehow my question had surprised him.
“Go ahead, go ahead,” he said. He hobbled several tiny steps to the left while scooting his wife and their small silver rolling suitcase covered in bumper stickers over with him.
“Thanks,” I said, giving them the kind of smile where my lips mashed tightly against my teeth and my cheeks squished up into my eyes. It was a fake smile, but I didn’t care. I rolled my suitcase with me as I lowered my head and cut in front of the pair of senior citizens.
Budging in front of old people. Mom would be so proud, I thought as I ran a hand self-consciously through the dark mop of hair I hadn’t bothered to put product in that morning.
Even cutting the elderly couple out of the equation, the line seemed to take forever. Glancing at my watch didn’t seem to make it go any faster. In fact, after staring at the second hand, I discovered it took exactly seventy-three seconds for me to move the distance of one fourteen-by-fourteen-inch square tile.
At long last, I was at the front of the line. I ordered a triple bacon cheeseburger and a bottle of Dr. Pepper for the flight. I was going to need some serious caffeine if I was going to make it, and I’d never been a coffee drinker.
The three cashiers behind the counter stood, seemingly, with their thumbs up their assholes. There was a whole lotta kitchen and not enough cooks, apparently. But they dutifully stood their ground at their stations with uncomfortable looks on their faces, trying not to make eye contact with the angry faces of the people waiting for their food so they could make their connecting flights.
Once my order had been filled, I shoved my bottled soda into my bag, grabbed my burger, and took off on a dead sprint for the gate that I was now surely late for. My long legs helped me pass about six other runners, and then I heard the announcement over the loudspeaker. Delta Flight 661 to Paradise Isle, final boarding call.
Fuck.
I ran even faster, just about knocking a little girl over with my suitcase along the way. The crash spun me around and I arrived at my gate even more disheveled than when I’d begun the day.
“I’m here!” I shouted at the young black woman at the gate. Her hair was tied back in a little fuzzy ball at the crown of her head making her appear to be about fifteen. “I’m here!”
“Boarding pass?” she asked in a thick Georgian accent.
I shoved my burger into my mouth to hold while I patted myself down. I’d stuck that damn thing somewhere. A crinkly piece of paper in the back pocket of my trousers stopped the patting. I tugged it out and handed it to the girl.
“Thank you, sir.” She flattened out the paper and held it against her scanner. It beeped appropriately and she handed it back to me. “Enjoy your trip to Paradise, sir.”
I shoved the paper back in my pocket, pulled the burger from my mouth, and steered my suitcase towards the waiting door. As soon as I’d stepped onto the gangway, I heard the girl closing the doors behind me.
3
Because I’d nearly missed my flight and I was the last to board, I’d been in a rush to find my seat. Which must have been why I hadn’t noticed the woman in seat 23B until about halfway through the inflight movie.
Staring up at the ridiculously stupid comedy playing on the televisions fixed to the plane’s ceiling, I grinned with my mouth hanging half-open like a douchebag with sinus problems, all the while pressing the airline’s cheaper-than-shit free earbuds into my ears with my thumbs in an effort to hear the movie over the roar of the engines out my window.
So it wasn’t until she was right upon me that I finally noticed her. Heading to the restroom at the back of the plane, no doubt, she took a slight pause to stare down at me with the sparkliest pair of crystalline blue eyes that I’d ever seen. Her spicy scent, which immediately turned my testosterone up to a low boil, was more intoxicating than the twelve-year-old bourbon I’d wallowed in the night before, and in that split second, I realized that I’d never seen anyone like her before. The woman could have been a movie star, she was that fucking gorgeous. She had a certain Megan Fox quality to her. Her shiny black hair was straight and fine. My imagination immediately started thinking about how it would feel to run a hand through it and maybe give it a little tug. Chicks dug that. I was sure it would be soft and silky, like smooth satin sheets, and if I closed my eyes I could almost feel it slipping across my shirtless torso. She had an exotically tanned flawless complexion, as if she’d just come from a vacation instead of heading off on one, and she had a perfectly shaped little turned-up nose. It was the kind that a butterfly might land on in a Disney movie. As I stared at her, I could almost hear the little fairy sparkle noises in my head.
My heart stopped beating in my chest for the length of time she paused next to my seat, and with my mouth hanging open like an idiot, I was forced to quickly snap it shut. When I did, I nearly choked on my dried-out, oversized cotton-mouthed tongue. The hangover I was fighting made my brain go limp—the complete opposite of what my penis was doing at that exact moment. And because of all that, all words escaped me, and I’d only managed to croak out a raggedy, “Hey,” before she’d moved on down the line.
I thought I caught a glimpse of the pale pink corners of her mouth quirking up, but ultimately, she passed by without so much as a hello.
“The force is strong with this one,” I said in an exaggeratedly deep voice, and my urge to follow her kicked in like a salmon’s instincts to swim upstream.
Curious to see if my Darth Vader impression had garnered a smile out of my seatmate, I shot a glance over my shoulder. His greasy brown hair was plastered to his forehead in clumps, and a small pool of drool soaked the pillow he clutched between his head and the window frame.
I lifted my eyebrows and pulled my lips to one side in a frustrated sigh. I should be sleeping like that guy right now, I thought. Instead I was wide awake and now horny as hell.
My mind raced back to the plan I’d made on the nine a.m. flight from Kansas City to Atlanta. It wasn’t a complicated plan. Quite the opposite, in fact; it was a fairly simple plan. I was going to fly to Paradise Isle, a tiny British territory in the C
aribbean Sea. I was going to maneuver myself to my all-inclusive resort. I was going to take advantage of the free drinks. And then I was going to screw the first woman that would have me. If I was lucky, I’d find myself a pair of females on a girls-only getaway, and I’d end my virginal streak with the biggest fucking bang I could.
I scratched the scruff around my chin. What had begun as a five-o’clock shadow the day before was now practically a full-on beard. I looked down at myself. My grey polo shirt, made of some type of polyester that wasn’t supposed to wrinkle, was wrinkled. It had a certain satiny sheen to it, which wasn’t my usual style, but I only wore it because it was the least offensive shirt in the suitcase of clothes that Pamela had packed for me.
I knew I wasn’t exactly looking my finest, and yet, I felt like I had to try anyway. I owed it to myself. Hell, the universe owed me something, too. I’d fully committed to a sexless relationship the way my mother said God had intended, and then I’d been fucked in the ass as a reward. I was owed this. I deserved some mile-high sex with a random hot stranger, goddammit.
I straightened my collar and smoothed out my shirt. Then I stood up and opened the overhead compartment, while casually turning my head to stare towards the tail end of the plane. The Megan Fox lookalike had her hip propped up against the last seat before the restroom. That was when I noticed the S-curve of her body. Her cropped black leather jacket allowed me to see not only her narrow waist, but also her heart-shaped bottom.
I felt a definite constriction in my pants. What I wouldn’t give to… I bit my lip hard. Baseball, Drunk. Baseball, I chided. I couldn’t very well walk towards the back of the plane sporting a teepee in my pants. I had to get things under control. It’s just that it’s been so long, my subconscious whined back.
I reached up and unlocked the overhead bin, pulled my generic-looking black carry-on out, and dropped it onto my seat. Unzipping the front pouch, I extracted a fresh stick of Doublemint, jammed it into my mouth, and then made a beeline for the sexy thing at the end of the plane.
Ignoring the fact that I probably reeked of whiskey shits and bacon, and ignoring the fact that I was feeling somewhat swampy in the nether regions, and also ignoring the fact that I was using gum to hide the fact that I had yet to brush my teeth, I pressed on. I’d smelled, looked, and felt worse and had still managed to score tail in my past.
This was on.
On like Donkey Kong.
I passed several rows before a pink sun visor on my left caught my eye. World’s Best Grandma, it read. I winced as I passed the little old married couple I’d cut in front of at the burger joint and kept walking. There was no time now to think about how my mother would smack me with a rolled-up newspaper if she knew I’d cut in front of an elderly couple. I heard the toilet flush in the lavatory. Soon the door would open. Megan Fox was on deck.
I heard the smooth slide of the lock. The door opened and a big meatball of a guy tried to pry himself out. I wondered how he’d gotten himself in there in the first place. By my estimation, it should have taken a shoe horn and a can of Crisco to wedge him into such a tight spot.
I was right behind Megan Fox now. I caught another strong whiff of her spicy perfume, and I wanted to lean over and give her a love bite on the neck, but big beefy guy was headed our way. She turned her body sideways so that she was flat up against the side of the seat, and I stepped into the row beside me, nearly squatting on a twelve-year old’s lap while her father shot me the stink eye.
Big beefy guy pushed past us.
I sprang into action.
4
I’ll give the woman one thing.
She’s fast.
No sooner had big beefy guy planted one of his stretched-out navy-blue sneakers directly on my sandaled foot than she was gone. My head had literally lolled back in agony for all of two seconds, during which time I’d had to fight the overwhelming urge to scream, and when I lifted it, big beefy guy was gone, my foot was throbbing, and the bathroom door had slammed shut.
Dammit.
While waiting outside the door, I cupped my hand to my mouth and blew, inhaling immediately. What blew back at me vaguely smelled like mint but had undertones of bacon and booze. It wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined it would be, so I was feeling pretty positive. Now I just had to have a good pickup line. She looked like the sexual deviant type. In my experience, that type responded best to shock tactics. I had to make it sizzle.
When I heard the water shut off, I put one hand against the door frame and leaned forward. The lock sign went from red to green and folded opened.
Go time.
I rubbed a hand against the bristles on my chin. “Excuse me, miss. Sorry to bother you, but did you happen to see any airplane keys laying around in there?”
She blinked her long black eyelashes at me, looked back in the bathroom and then back at me. I was pretty sure I saw a smile quirk one corner of her mouth. Making a woman smile was half the battle. Getting her to drop her panties was the other half.
I was close.
She lifted a brow and shook her head. “Nope, no keys.” Her pillowy lips parted and her head tilted forward slightly, almost challenging me to keep going. I could tell I was on the right path.
I leaned in a little closer, and my voice lowered an octave, hitting that raspy range that I liked to reserve for one of two good causes: the preliminaries or the Olympics. “You know, in case you were wondering, I’m federally licensed to go down your landing strip.”
Whatever joviality I’d seen in her eyes disappeared, her face sobered slightly, and she tilted her head to the side. “Excuse me?”
Some guys might be shaking their heads right now, palming their foreheads, even, saying, “Buddy, you didn’t read the signs!” But I wasn’t one of those guys. I’d been taught to commit. Once you commit, you don’t back up. Only fucking pussies back up, and I’ll tell you one thing right now.
I ain’t no fucking pussy.
So I pressed on, rubbing my jaw like someone might rub a genie’s lamp for luck. I grinned at her then, thinking, of course, that would make her swoon. My crooked, stubbly smile tended to do that to women. So even at this point, I’m still feeling confident, right? Can you believe that?
Yeah.
Neither can I.
“So, uh, how about you and me join the mile-high club?”
I’ll give her credit. Megan Fox kept her cool. She smiled at me patiently and touched her fingers lightly to her lips. In that split second, I thought I was in. I thought we were headed into the lavatory for a little airplane Q&A.
But then things took a turn. And I’m gonna be real here. It wasn’t a turn in my favor.
Megan Fox popped that hand forward in a sharp right jab, punching me squarely in the esophagus.
FUCK.
Now I’ve been punched in the face before. Loads of times. Jealous boyfriends and bar fights, mostly. The occasional criminal. My buddy even punched me in the face once after a particularly bad disagreement over the outcome of a fucking video game of all things. But I’d never taken a throat punch before.
I’ll tell you this.
It fucking hurts.
It felt like a Lego was now wedged in my jugular.
I was immediately incapacitated. My shoulders rounded, my chest caved in, and my head rolled forward as I began to gag. Psycho Megan Fox gave me a shove so she could go back to her seat, and I stumbled back against the bulkhead. At that point I didn’t care that I’d struck out. I only cared about the fact that I couldn’t inhale.
Yeah, so there I am, writhing about in the back of Delta’s flight 661, wishing once again I’d hung myself with that belt, when my seatmate of all people comes strolling down the aisle. His hair was still matted to his forehead, and his cheek was red and indented from where he’d been smashed up against the plane’s window. He took one look at me and gave me a nod and a thumbs-up signal.
“All good, then?” He paused for a split second while I barked out some unintelligible seal verbiag
e. “Right,” he said and walked right past, into the lavatory, where he promptly shut the door.
Fuck my luck.
5
You’d think a punch to the throat would wear off at some point, but it really doesn’t. No. That kind of shit sticks with you.
I’d actually been kneed in the nuts by a woman before, and while I’ll wholeheartedly agree that it hurts, eventually the pain goes away and you can go about your day. Getting throat-punched is like the gift that just keeps giving. It hurts to swallow. It hurts to breathe. And at that point, I didn’t even want to know what it felt like to eat.
So as I’m reclined back in my seat, struggling to survive, my seatmate, who’s fully awake, decides now’s the best time to reach over, shake my hand, and introduce himself.
“Ow ya goin’, mate,” he says in jolly fashion and what could only be described as the language of kangaroos from the land down under.
I’m sitting next to him quietly whimpering and wishing for a stiff drink and a Vicodin. I might have been happy to have shaken his greasy mitt pre–Megan Fox, but after, I wasn’t feeling quite as congenial. I managed to give him a blink.
He pulled his hand back and nodded before wiping his nose and giving a sniffle. “Right. Tough day?”
I gave a stiff nod. I still didn’t feel like talking.
“No worries. She’ll be right,” he said cheerfully. “Where you from?”
Holding my crushed windpipe, I sat up and looked at him. The Aussie wanted to chat. “Missouri,” I croaked.
“Missouri. That in the US?”
I nodded. “Midwest,” I whispered.
“Right. I’m from Straya, if you couldn’t tell by my accent.”
Get the fucking hell out of here, I wanted to say.
He pointed at my neck. “A lady do that?”
I looked away. It was too embarrassing to admit to a total stranger that a woman had just assaulted me in the john. Not only was I ashamed at my lack of game back there, but I was further ashamed at my inability to dip, duck, or dodge. The guys at the station would have had a field day with that one.
Drunk on a Plane Page 2
