“Did I mention my father gave me a private jet for my 20th birthday? Anytime your family wants to come along, I can send the plane,” Yuńior said watching Millicent.
She didn’t miss a beat. “Your father gave you an airplane for your birthday?”
“Sí, but it is not a new plane,” Yuñior confessed. “It is slightly used and smelled like the former owner liked to party and eat the corn chips. It has been cleaned and the odd smell is no more. We can take off and fly into any country.”
Yuńior knew he had them on the hook.
“If it helps any, Saxton the Blakemore and my father also have a home in St. Lucia, if you ever wanted to visit there,” he said with a smile. “Senora, on the trips where Irena are present, I shall compensate you for the employment as the chaperone.”
“St. Lucia?” Millicent said, her eyes growing wide.
“There is a private beach behind the house, plus a pool,” Yuńior said. “We have homes all over the world, so there will be no issue of nasty hotel rooms. If we are near water, we can stay on the yacht or play it by ear. So, what do you say, Brody the Johnson? Will you yield to my request?”
Millicent bit her bottom lip, hoping her husband said yes. She didn’t know how it all would work out, but he traveled a great deal, anyway. Chad bobbed his head up and down. And Yield found himself giving in, and saying, “Yeah, but we need a schedule. My family and I would have to work it out, so that I’m not missing games, family time, you know? Millicent and Chad are everything to me.”
“Of course. Of course! Family is everything to us as well. Speaking of this...my father would like to meet you all. We eat, board my plane and can be in my country by dinner,” Yuńior said to wide eyes. His focus went to Chad. “We have ponies and my brother, Micah is a bit older than you but could teach you to ride a horse.”
“What?” Brody and Millicent said at the same time.
“Dad, I think we should just go with it,” Chad said then quickly scampered off to go and pack his suitcase. “I’m going to pack and get ready because I’m going to ride a real pony!”
“Easy. Peasy,” Yuńior said in a Texas accent. “Dinner at my home. Mi Mama you will love. I shall call and have her make a traditional African American meal with the bones of the neck of the pig or Colombian food, whichever you prefer.”
“You expect us to just dart off to Colombia?” Mr. Yield asked, moving closer to his wife, whom he knew didn’t have a passport nor did Chad.
“I shall have you back in time for school on Monday,” Yuńior said, giving a tilt of his head. The timelines would need to be flushed out, but it would be simple. Careful planning would be required to be across the world when the first strike hit Central America. Yield understood more than the words the young man spoke. He’d already considered one week a month to start until Millicent and the boy could join them. All of it would work perfectly.
“Muy Bueno! I think we should make some waffles!” Yuńior said.
“No,” both Millicent and Yield said at the same time. “Making waffles means something different in this house.”
“Is that the word you use for your sexy time?” Yuńior asked, frowning. “Americans, always referring to intercourse as food. Saxton the Blakemore calls it his breakfast. Bobby Ray the Blakemore calls it a snack, and my stepmother, I still don’t understand this eating at the Y. What does that mean?”
“I’ll explain later, Señor,” Yield said, giving a small smile.
“Señor is too formal. I like Ed,” he said. “Please, call me Ed.”
The End
Yuńior will return in six months with his second adventure as he kicks off his gap year.
Keep reading for the first three chapters of Stranded in Arizona.
Stranded in Arizona
Chapter One – Flake it Rain
FLAKY.
Of all the harebrained, insane ideas that popped into Dionne Caplan’s dyed blonde head, this had to be by far the most extreme. A mail-order bride was high on Kevia Caplan’s list of things not to do to find a husband, but leave it to her younger sister to think this would work as an option for compatibility. It made her butt itch in the worst way. As the eldest of the two, it was Kevia's responsibility to look after her younger sister, a job in which she was ready to tender her resignation. However, at the age of 18, she had made a promise to their mother on her deathbed to look after Dionne. Elisa Caplan swore on their pinky fingers, a little thing she did with her daughters to ensure they would keep their word, to care for the younger of her girls, a responsibility Kevia never took lightly.
The weight of the responsibility sat on her shoulders like an American eagle, fully grown and watching an eaglet pack her bags to head to New York from Pittsburgh on a redeye to meet a matchmaker, a woman whom Kevia hadn’t had time to perform an adequate background check on to find out if she was a scam artist or not. The world was chock full of people ready to take advantage of wide-eyed young women seeking to find an easy way in life. She personally knew of too many horror stories of young women looking to travel the low road by hooking up with a man who promised them a life of luxury or dances down Easy Street.
She’d been to Easy Street, and the road was littered with broken bodies filled with broken spirits that were held down by the weight of broken dreams fueled surreptitiously by broken promises. Kevia didn’t want that for Dionne. Moreover, she didn’t want the responsibility of having to look for her remains when the man in the mirror decided he no longer had use of her body.
“Dionne, this is not a good idea,” Kevia pleaded with her younger sister. “The sheer idea of getting on a plane to New York to meet a matchmaker who will find you the ideal husband is madness.”
“It’s madness to use an app to locate a man for sex, but people do it all the time,” Dionne said. “This is safer than meeting a rando in a bar and hoping he is the man he says he is.”
“I am so through with you right now. You and these wild ideas of yours will land you in a body bag,” Kevia cautioned.
“Or it could land me in a nice cabin with majestic views, waking up next to a man who is my perfect match in all the right ways,” she said with a wink.
“Just for the record, I am totally against this, and I’m asking you again to reconsider,” Kevia said.
“Nope. I’m going.”
Breathing deeply to calm the jittery nerves that made the acid in her stomach wake up and jump on the unseen fire simmering in her gut causing the bile to start bubbling up. Kevia’s long brown hair, clamped at the base of her neck by a large barrette, began to ache all the way down to the follicles. Dionne had a way of doing that to her.
In many ways, she wanted the plan her sister had to work and for Dionne to find a husband and get settled in life halfway across the United States. At least that way Dionne would be someone else’s problem. The acid roiled again in her belly at having such a selfish thought, but for 21 years she’d been a guardian for her younger sister, who was, in fact, a completely spoiled, self-centered, pain in the ass. Maybe if she found a man to look after her, Kevia thought quietly to herself, that it would free her up to live a life of her own and not worry about the trouble Dionne was getting herself into this time.
“Fine, go,” Kevia said. “I hope you find yourself a loveable idiot to deal with you and the bag of bullshit you like carry around trying to convince others it’s a miracle fertilizer. And when you call, as you inevitably will, I am not coming to your rescue. You are almost 30, and I’ve had enough.”
“Dang, you are so dramatic,” Dionne chortled, “and at some point, you will have to stop playing mother hen and get a life of your own. I agree that you’ve spent far too much time looking over my shoulder and moving sharp objects out of my way. Twenty-one years is a long time to see about another person.”
Kevia eyed her suspiciously. Her sister didn’t do anything out of the goodness of her heart. At times, she didn’t believe the girl had one, let alone desire to help another person. She took a seat on
the foot of the bed, looking at the suitcase. The bag, filled haphazardly with three matching outfits, sexy underwear, and shoes that should only be worn in the privacy of a bedroom, was the perfect metaphor of her sister. A bag full of sexy craziness. Kevia was out of words, out of time, and out of the desire to protect a fool from joining the circus to get a job as a clown.
“I tell you what, big sis,” Dionne said, reaching for her purse. “Because of who and how you are, I also bought a ticket for you to come with me.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Dionne said. “Go pack a bag. We are headed to New York. I booked us a hotel, and we meet with the matchmaker tomorrow at one. That gives us plenty of time to get in, take a nap, grab a bite, and get to Perfect Match.”
“I can’t just take the day off to go to New York, Dionne. I have a job and responsibilities,” Kevia argued.
“Don’t worry,” Dionne said with that sideways smile. “I ran into John the other day and cleared it with him. He is giving you a sick day since you never take any.”
“You talked to John, my boss? You asked my boss to give me a sick day to accompany you to New York for you to sign up to be a mail order bride?” Kevia asked in sheer disbelief.
“No, I ran into John at the coffeehouse. I told him I was going to New York, and it would be fun if you came with me, but you never take any time off, even when you are sick,” Dionne said. “Your boss thought it would be a good idea and suggested he would give you a day since we would be back on Sunday.”
“Sometimes, I swear you make me so angry, I want to throttle you with everything in me,” Kevia said through gritted teeth.
“Whomp-whomp,” Dionne replied with that smile Kevia detested. “Go pack so we can get to the airport. Trust me, this is going to be a fun adventure.”
“I don’t like your idea of fun,” Kevia said. At this point, she truly did want to accompany her sister, just so she could get the wart off her ass that kept growing exponentially. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“Awesomeness!” Dionne said with a twinkle in her eye, a twinkle which made Kevia’s hair stand up on the back of her neck, yet she packed the bag, which she placed in the trunk of her sister’s car, and she rode in the passenger seat, quiet, with her lips pursed and angry as hell. New York of all the damned places. Meeting a matchmaker to become a mail order bride of all the damned things.
This was going to turn out bad, and she knew it, but it was like a car accident on the side of the road. A person couldn’t help but look over at the rubble, not sure of what they’re expecting to see, horrified if they actually do see a body. Curiosity was a dangerous thing, and in Kevia’s case, she just hoped the two cats in the car didn’t get broadsided by a vehicle larger than themselves killing everyone along for the ride.
AS HARD AS SHE TRIED to find the positive in the moment, like a free trip to New York, she couldn’t. The right side of her logical brain couldn’t fathom the reasoning behind her sister’s latest idiotic scheme. It also didn’t help that she was flying on El Cheap as Hell Airlines that her sister worked for to make pocket change. Dionne should make a fortune as a flight attendant considering no real money had been spent on the plane, but that too wasn’t the case with her sister. Outside, everything was functional and worked as it should, but on the inside, it was just a mess. This statement applied to Dionne as well as the plane. The backs of the chairs were bare, the seats didn’t recline, and the little tray to use to place a food tray was barely big enough to hold her phone. Adding insult to no frills flying injury, passengers had to buy everything, including water.
Kevia’s stomach growled in protest, only to be curdled at the same time by the large man sitting in the row with her. He’d purchased two seats because one wasn’t wide enough to hold all of his girth and parts of him flopped over in her chair. That part, she understood. What she didn’t understand, and the puzzle unfolded in layers, was the giant meat sandwich he pulled out of the pink knapsack.
“A substantial snack,” he whispered to her as he unwrapped the foiled lined covering to reveal a pile of lopsided artery-clogging eyesores. Three layers of beef, sandwiched with three large, chunky slices of cheese, a smattering of lettuce, and possibly a tomato, but the oozing piles of ketchup and mayo made it hard to determine if the slice was hidden beneath the folds. A giant onion ring dangled from the sides of the stack of death. As the man’s eyes grew wide, he reached for his diet soda.
“Too much sugar in a regular one,” he added with a wink and proceeded to bite into the meal. After each bite, he shoveled in two or three French fries, leaving Kevia to watch in amazement as the sandwich disappeared in less than six huge chomps. She wasn’t judging, but the man was going to die sooner than his life expectancy. She groaned a bit as he attempted to lean back in the seat to allow the meal to start the digestion process, but her breath was taken away when he pulled out the red ball cap to cover his eyes.
The bold white letters on the hat nearly made her burst into laughter. Instead of the famed slogan many sported with pride, she sincerely felt that someone should create an ad campaign of “MAHA,” Make America Healthy Again. An entire campaign focused on mental health, physical fitness and taking care of the soil in which we grow our food. The irony was baffling as she listened to squeaks and the expelling of gas from the oversized body, who more than likely had limited health care, bordered on obesity, and supported a slogan that genuinely didn’t apply to the likes of him.
Such was her life. Kevia often hated the idea that she could see past what so many looked at every day and didn’t understand. Her sister was a prime example, always ready to believe the fairy tale, not realizing that many of the men in the stories were control freaks and stalkers. There was no happily ever after. At best, all a girl could hope for was a man who worked, remembered her birthday and anniversary, and didn’t find it necessary to raise his fist to make a point. She didn’t believe in love. It was an antiquated notion fantasized about by women who kept their heads stuck in romance novels.
Real life surrounded a person with a harshness that couldn’t be quantified by the evil deeds of others. Kevia not only didn’t believe in love, she also didn’t trust. Coraline Newair, owner of Perfect Match had been added to the list of names of individuals she thought were sketchy, and she hadn’t even met the woman yet.
“I’m prepared for any eventuality,” she whispered. However, she was not prepared for Coraline or the special the gift the woman had in pairing each person with the perfect match.
Chapter Two – Not All People Are Bad
WEIRD.
Dionne was happier than the fat man on the plane with the death sandwich in a food desert in the urban north a week before food stamp day. A greedy fast food lover doesn’t understand that it’s about to die a horrible death and that is precisely how the whole scenario felt to Kevia. She would, however, reserve her judgement until she met the woman. She held her tongue as they climbed into a cab headed to the hotel Dione booked for their stay.
The hotel that Dionne booked them in was a two star at best, but leave it to her sister to skimp on the pennies when it came to safety. As Dionne napped, Kevia sat in the large chair looking out the window, wondering, worrying, and slightly fretting that her sister had once again signed herself up for a shit storm that would eventually lead them close to ruin. Sighing deeply, she showered and ordered a sandwich from room service as she waited for Rapunzel to awaken and deal with her hair.
Two hours later, in a mass of curls she ended up pinning to the top of head, Dionne was ready to meet the matchmaker.
“I am so excited, I can’t stand it,” Dionne said as she dragged her unwilling sister down the busy New York sidewalk. Men in suits with ties too tight around their necks like modern day nooses threw appreciative looks at Dionne, who ignored the wolf whistles and shitty comments on her tits and ass.
“How can you just ignore them?” Kevia asked.
“Who?” her sister asked, as if she didn’t hear the men’s c
omments.
“All of these men, making comments and gawking at you?”
“You attune yourself to those things which bring you life,” Dionne retorted. “Those men mean nothing to me or to my self-esteem, so I don’t hear them.”
“Only if life were that easy, Dionne. You have to be aware of your surroundings,” Kevia cautioned.
“Oh, I am,” Dionne said. “The last one, in the $4,000 suit, the one with the blue tie, had amazing eyes, a wedding ring, and a bit of spit up on his lapel. Married with a newborn, I would guess.”
“You saw all of that?”
“Kevia, I see more than you think,” Dionne said with a smile as they turned the corner to the Avenue of the Americas. “The shop is right down here. Aren’t you excited?”
“Just bursting,” Kevia replied.
In half a block, they reached the location. A muted sign read “Perfect Match, Coraline Newair, Proprietor.”
Upon opening the door, a buzzer sounded, announcing the arrival of new guests. A woman in her late 30s appeared, wearing a throwback dress in a 1950’s style, black low-heeled pumps, and green eyes that took in everything she saw.
“Ah the Caplan sisters, welcome,” the woman said, “I am Coraline Newair. Welcome to Perfect Match.”
Coraline’s hands tingled as she felt the old magic of her ancestors coursing through her at the new challenge which stood before her. Two sisters, as unalike as the sun and moon, stood before her, one open and receptive, the other closed and guarded. Taking slow, measured steps forward, she reached with her left hand to take Dionne’s while slipping her hand into Kevia’s right. Kevia immediately drew her hand away.
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