Off Plan

by May Archer

  But as we hung up, I vowed to myself I wasn’t going to request his help for anything short of that.

  There was a little desk set off to one side of the baggage area with a JetSet airline logo hanging in front of it, so I headed in that direction, doing a push-pull routine with my luggage that occupied way too much of my brain for me to have situational awareness about anything else, which was why I didn’t notice the other guy standing in front of the counter until it was too late.

  “I’m just asking you to do one simple little thing,” Serial Killer Guy was telling the pretty blonde behind the desk. His voice was gravel-rough, and it made a shiver dance up my spine. I could feel frustration pouring off him in dangerous waves, so I was pretty sure the woman could, too.

  “So you’ve said, sir. Three times.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and pursed her lips. “And I’ve told you that it’s against our policy to use the PA system for people who aren’t customers of our airline. I don’t have the authority to make an exception.”

  The other person behind the counter, a man with ruthlessly styled hair and a perfectly knotted tie, nodded emphatically in support, which seemed to help the blonde stand a little taller.

  Serial Killer Guy all but growled as he loomed over the desk. “But I’m looking for someone who is a customer of your airline. Get it?”

  The blonde’s voice quavered. “We can neither confirm nor deny whether any person has been a passenger of our airline. Sir. So I don’t have the authority to—”

  “Make an exception,” he bit out. “Yeah. Got that. Loud and clear. So who can make an exception…” He looked pointedly down at her name tag. “Rachel?”

  The woman looked down at her name tag like it had betrayed her somehow, then shot a glance at her coworker. “I suppose I could call Shirleen,” she said dubiously. “What do you think, Bertram?”

  Her coworker shrugged agreement.

  “Super! We’re making all kinds of progress now. Call Shirleen,” Serial Killer Guy instructed, nodding toward the phone on the desk. Then he added the world’s least polite “Please.”

  While Rachel got on the phone, Bertram noticed me hovering in the background and gave me a wide smile. “Can I help you, sir?”

  I pasted on an air of unconcern as I walked up to the counter, even as Serial Killer Guy’s attention swung in my direction.

  “Good morning! I’m afraid there’s been a mix-up with my luggage. Here’s my claim tag.” I pulled a sheaf of tidily clipped receipts from my pants pocket, then dug out my wallet. “And here’s my ID. The bag looks exactly like these.” I nodded at my suitcases. “I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry. Traveling for work, you know?”

  “Yes, sir.” The man’s smile grew warmer. “Thank you, sir. I’ll look into this right away.” He scurried off through a swinging door behind the desk.

  I could feel Serial Killer Guy watching me through those stupid sunglasses again, and it made the back of my neck prickle with awareness. I tried ignoring him, drumming my fingers on the countertop and pretending I couldn’t hear the blonde arguing with Shirleen about corporate policy, but it felt wrong and dangerous. When you had a hungry hyena within biting distance, it wasn’t prudent to simply pretend he wasn’t there.

  “Can I help you?” I asked, whipping my head around to catch him staring.

  The guy didn’t so much as flinch. His head moved up and down like he was checking me out, and when he got to my face, his lips twitched like something about me amused him. “Nope.”

  I set my jaw. I had never met someone so immediately and thoroughly infuriating in my entire life. I got along with a wide variety of people—doctors generally had to. But everything about this man—his appearance, his attitude, even the way he popped the p in nope—was precisely calibrated to drive me crazy.

  And that was probably why, with no trace of reason or caution, I found myself shooting back, “Have you considered trying to be polite? I find a friendly smile and not looming over people goes a long way toward getting them to help you.”

  “Yeah? Have you considered minding your own business?” Serial Killer Guy shot back in his rough voice. “I find that when prissy little fuckers don’t judge people they’ve never met, that goes a long way toward me not wanting to kick their asses.”

  He tilted his sunglasses down to give me a severe look, revealing a spectacular black eye that was painful to look at. Judging by the way purple-blue striations were leeching into the red, this guy had been in a fight mere hours ago.

  Right, then.

  I pushed my lips together and turned my attention toward the swinging door, praying Bertram would come back soon. As in, immediately. Picking fights with serial killers was nowhere on my plan for the day.

  “But, Shirleen, you don’t understand,” the blonde was arguing into the phone, darting suspicious little glances at Serial Killer Guy, and I felt rather than saw the man deflate a little, like the air had been let out of him.

  “People should do things because they’re the right things to do,” he muttered, “not because someone gives them a fake smile and dresses nicely. Not because they think they might get something out of the deal.”

  I swallowed. “Are you talking to me?”

  “The fuck else would I be talking to? Duh.”

  Do not engage, Mason. Ignore him, Mason. Remember why you’re here, Mason.

  My head snapped back toward him of its own volition. “I don’t know. To God? To Rachel? To the voices in your head? Just trying to mind my own business over here.” I noticed he’d pushed his glasses back into place, but I could feel his gaze anyway, cutting through me like a laser. “That’s not how the world works, FYI. People are nice to you when you’re nice to them. Quid pro quo. That’s Latin,” I added smugly. “It means—”

  “I know what it means, Loafers.” He darted a glance down at my caramel-colored, Italian leather shoes, and somehow I had the ridiculous urge to cover my feet so he couldn’t see them. “News flash: the real world does not work like that. Outside of Loafer Land, people don’t care about pretense and pretty words, they care about who you are and how you treat them when you have nothing to gain from the interaction.”

  I gaped. How… incredibly…

  “It’s not pretense!” I hissed. “My default isn’t rudeness, so I’m not covering anything up! I’m a decent person, so I act like one. Simple as that.”

  “A decent person,” he scoffed. “I saw you watching me back there.” He nodded toward carousel six. “All judgy-judgy, looking at me like I’m spoiled milk. Was that you being a decent person?”

  “What? I…” I felt my face go hot. “I wasn’t judging you.” My voice lacked conviction. How to explain that I’d been judging the alternate-universe version of myself?

  “Thought so.” He sounded so self-satisfied that I felt my blood boil with the need to commit violence for the first time since I was seventeen. “For all you know, these are the nicest clothes I have because I give all my money to starving children!” He sighed wistfully. “Pretty sure that makes you an asshole, Loafers.”

  I frowned. “Wait. Do you give all your money to starving children?”

  “Fuck no. Just don’t give a shit about what I’m wearing.” He grinned broadly. “But you didn’t know that, so you’re still an asshole.”

  My brain buzzed, and I had the distant thought that Victoria had been wrong about my ability to feel passion, because I was feeling pretty fucking passionate now.

  Though I’d guess this hadn’t been exactly what she was talking about.

  “FYI, there’s nothing inherently noble about poverty. And I’ve learned to take pride in my appearance precisely because it shows other people I value them and myself,” I sniffed, giving his flip-flops a scathing look. “It’s a pity others are not so enlightened.”

  Serial Killer Guy gave a disturbingly deep chuckle that sounded like it had been startled out of him. “Someone, alert the media! Man in Florida Airport Claims One True Path to Enli
ghtenment Is…” He leaned closer, until I could feel his breath against my face and the only thing keeping me in place was sheer force of will. “Loafers.”

  It was not funny. It wasn’t.

  It was also not funny that his breath against my skin sent another very annoying chill down my spine. Stimulus was stimulus, regardless of the source, and I knew that, but I still jerked away like I’d been sprayed with acid. I wasn’t used to reacting that way to anyone, let alone someone as horrible and… male… as Serial Killer Guy.

  “How about if you stay on your half of the desk, and I’ll stay on mine?” With the side of my hand, I demonstrated cutting the desk in two and drew an imaginary line across the shiny floor between us. “Let me introduce you to the concept of personal boundaries. This is a wall. You stay over there. Got it?”

  The guy’s smirk said he’d achieved exactly the result he’d hoped for: making me react.

  Grrr.

  But before I could make up my mind to retort, let alone think of something to say, Rachel hung up the phone with a bang.

  “So, apparently my supervisor says we can make an exception for you or whatever. Because JetSet is committed to serving.” She barely repressed a sigh. “Just write down who you need me to page and where you want to meet them.”

  “Thank you. Finally,” Serial Killer Guy said, taking the pen and paper Rachel offered, not noticing or caring the way her nostrils flared.

  “Sucks,” I said, giving her a small, commiserating smile. “When you don’t have the authority to change things, and then your supervisor does. Makes you look like you don’t know what you’re doing, when you’re really just upholding the policies they created.”

  She gave me a grateful smile. “Yes! Thank you. That’s exactly it.”

  Serial Killer Guy finished writing and slid his paper toward Rachel before turning toward me. “Look at you! Loafers McGee, Man of the People. Are you running for office?”

  “The wall is soundproof. I hear nothing,” I remarked in a low voice to no one in particular.

  Serial Killer Guy snorted.

  The swinging door behind the desk opened and a frowning Bertram appeared.

  “I’m so sorry for the delay, sir! It seems your bag ended up on a flight to Ohio instead of Sarasota.” He grimaced. “I’ve put in a request for it to be transferred here, and we’ll deliver it to you momentarily!”

  “Momentarily,” Serial Killer Guy repeated dryly. “Lotta moments between here and Ohio.”

  For once, he wasn’t wrong.

  “When you say momentarily, you mean…” I prompted.

  “Three to five business days.” Bertram was a picture of disappointment.

  “And since today is Friday…” I let the words hang there, and Bertram didn’t rush to fill them. I sighed. “Right, then.”

  “I can’t read your writing,” Rachel complained. She thrust the paper toward Serial Killer Guy with a grimace. “Does this say Boom? Is this a practical joke, sir? Is this a bomb threat, sir?”

  I snorted and Serial Killer Guy shot me a glare.

  “I’ll have your bag forwarded to you as soon as possible at your Florida address,” Bertram said, passing me back my claim stubs. “Thank you so much for flying with JetSet, Doctor…”

  “Are you kidding?” Serial Killer Guy handed the note back to Rachel. “It’s clear as day. It says…”

  “Bloom,” Bertram and Serial Killer Guy concluded together.

  Serial Killer Guy turned toward me, and for the briefest second, his jaw went slack with the same kind of dismayed shock I knew had to be written all over my face.

  “Bloom. Mason Bloom.” He said this in an angry-but-resigned sort of way, like I was no worse than he’d expected, but significantly worse than he deserved. A statement, not a question.

  I nodded slowly anyway. “And you… You can’t be my…” I swallowed. “Ride?”

  “Welcome to Florida, Loafers,” Serial Killer Guy said, his lips parting on a very false, very feral smile.

  Well, fuck.

  Chapter Three

  Fenn

  Of all the shit ideas Rafe Goodman, Senior, had ever shat, the one right now trailing me to the parking lot was the shittiest.

  “I was expecting a sign,” Loafers mumbled, like the world had conspired against him somehow. “You were supposed to be holding a sign.”

  All I could think of was Beale and his signs, his stupid portents. But there was no way the Universe could have engineered this level of tomfuckery. This was all decidedly man-made. And I knew exactly which man had done it.

  “Yeah? Well, you were supposed to be…” I stopped and turned to look at Loafers when we reached the back of my Charger. He was red-faced and sweaty already, his brown hair stuck to his temples as he attempted to haul three rolling suitcases across the uneven asphalt. I’d debated helping him for a hot second, then remembered that adversity built character… and this guy sorely needed some.

  “Actually, I have no idea what you were supposed to be. I didn’t know you existed until a couple hours ago.” I heaved a dramatic sigh. “Looking back, it was such a peaceful time in my life.”

  I still wasn’t sure exactly what Rafe’s plan for his newest “employee” was, but I was pretty sure the guy at the baggage desk had called Loafers “doctor,” and given the shit Rafe had said that morning, a picture was starting to come together in my mind—a picture I did not like or approve of at all, thankyouverymuch, especially when it involved this pasty snob with a silver spoon up his ass.

  Loafers glanced up at me, his green eyes all cranky like he was trying to be intimidating and didn’t know he was failing miserably. “Uhhhh… why are you stopping?”

  I leaned against the side of the Charger. “Uhhhh… because this is my car?”

  “You… Your…” He blinked at my baby—a vintage 1968 beauty in racing green, which happened to be the only useful thing my dad had left me—and blinked again. “Did you not bring the town car?”

  “The town car!” I hooted, truly amused for the first time that day. “No, Loafers. My town car’s in the shop. Along with my limo, my flying unicorn, my horse-drawn carriage, and my magic fucking carpet.” I popped the trunk, leaned a hip against the quarter panel, and nodded toward his bags. “Get crackin’.”

  “But I…” He looked from his three suitcases—two large, one gigantic enough to hold a child comfortably—to my trunk, which already contained a spare tire and a bunch of my tools, and then to me. “I have concerns.”

  “Understatement,” I agreed mildly. “Hope you have some rope in one of those bags so we can tie something to the roof.”

  “Who in the world travels with rope?” he demanded.

  “Let’s see. Mountain climbers? Magicians? People with healthy sex lives?” I ticked off on my fingers.

  He scowled and wiped his forehead with the arm of his shirt. “Well, I certainly do not.”

  “Have a healthy sex life?”

  “No. I mean, yes! I mean…” His face flushed deeper, and he kept his eyes trained just above my left ear. “I do not travel with rope.”

  “Color me disappointed.”

  He ignored me and pointed to the child-sized suitcase. “This bag is clothes. This one is toiletries and shoes, and the other is basic medical supplies. And my last bag is missing.”

  “Yeah. Caught that.” But despite my better judgment, I found myself repeating, “Basic medical supplies? For what?”

  He straightened, not unlike a porcupine with its quills standing on end. “Mr. Goodman suggested I bring supplies I like and am familiar with until I got to the clinic and could order more.”

  Oh, yeah. The picture was coming in clear now.

  “He wanted you to buy your own medical supplies,” I repeated. “For the clinic.”

  “That’s what I said.” Loafers frowned. “He told me I’d be reimbursed.”

  I grinned with no humor whatsoever. “Well, if Big Rafe—sorry, Mr. Goodman—said it, it’s gotta be true, right
? Just out of curiosity, did he say how he’d repay you? Monopoly money, maybe?”

  “What?” His eyes were bewildered, and his voice went up at the end, like the shiny Loafers-veneer was about to crack. I was kinda curious what would happen when it did.

  “Never mind.” I waved a hand negligently. “Chop-chop. This shit isn’t gonna load itself, and I’d like to get back to the island before the bridge goes up.” I shot him a look over the top of my glasses before shoving them back into place over my eye, which was throbbing in time to my pulse.

  One more thing to blame Rafe for.

  Loafers frowned even harder, then blew out a breath and assessed the trunk like he was trying to solve a math problem. “Right. Yes. Okay.”

  He grabbed the handle of the largest suitcase and pulled, but nothing happened—the bag was clearly heavy as fuck and came almost to his waist, so he had no leverage.

  “You know it might work better if you—” I began, but he cut me off.

  “Don’t bother. I’ll do it myself.”

  “Awesome.” I folded my arms over my chest and settled in for what promised to be a long show.

  I tried not to notice the way his eyes raked over my arms disapprovingly, or the way his lips pursed when he stared at the grease-stained shirt I hadn’t bothered to change before running Rafe’s stupid errand.

  Why should I care? If I had a nickel for every asshole who disapproved of me, I’d own Whispering Key and then some.

  Loafers tilted the bag on its side, grabbed a different handle, bent his knees like a sumo wrestler, and heaved one corner of the bag onto the bumper. Face straining, he tried to lift the back end of the suitcase, and the front end slid onto the ground.

  His face was so comically disappointed, I couldn’t help laughing. And when he glowered at me, I only laughed harder.

  “How much does it weigh, for God’s sake? How’d you manage to get it on the plane in the first place?”

  Loafers set his hands on his hips. “It weighs a hundred pounds, and I paid two hundred and fifty dollars extra, that’s how.”

  “Damn.” I whistled long and loud. “Here in the real world, that’s a lot of money. You must really love your clothes— Wait, what am I saying?” I asked the cars around us. “Of course you do. Loafers without his loafers is like Superman without his—”