by Megan Hart
“What is this?” Stella asks suddenly, interrupting whatever it was that Craig had started to say. Before he can say anything, she keeps going. “What are we doing? What do you want, Craig?”
He’s silent for a moment while the river breeze ruffles the light jacket he’s wearing. When it looks as though he’s going to reach for her, Stella takes a step back. Craig’s brow furrows, but he lets his hands fall back to his sides.
“I don’t know.” He sounds sincere. “I just like to be with you, Stella.”
It’s the nicest and worst thing anyone has ever said to her, both at the same time. The look of sudden longing on his face slumps her shoulders. Tightens her throat. It makes her want to leap into his arms and cover his face with kisses.... It makes her want to run away from him and never look back.
“I like to be with you too,” she says in a thick, choked voice that embarrasses her.
“Can we sit?” Craig points to a metal bench overlooking the water.
They sit. Their knees touch every so often as they turn toward each other. Stella keeps her hands in her lap so she won’t touch him.
She wants to touch him so much.
“Look,” he says finally, after long minutes in which neither of them speaks. “I know this is one of those things that is supposed to be wrong. But it doesn’t feel wrong. Does it.”
He makes it a statement, not a question, but she’d have answered the same way even if he had. “No. It should. I want it to.”
For a moment, Craig looks unsure and sad. Then he nods, as though her reply has made something clear that had previously been cloudy. “Do you want me not to call you anymore, Stella?”
This is not at all what she was expecting. It’s not what she wanted him to say, not what she wants to hear. The thought of it, of never talking to Craig again...of never seeing him... This is when Stella can’t pretend anymore that this friendship hasn’t gone too far, and she gets up on numb legs to take a stumbling step away from him.
Her voice is far away and cold. She’s made herself an automaton. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, I think that would be best.”
Craig looks stunned. Then he gets up from the bench. Neutrality slides across his expression, shutting her out, but she can’t let herself be upset. Stella lifts her chin. Tightens her jaw. Craig mirrors her stance.
He nods once, sharply. “Right. Okay, then. Well, Stella, thanks for lunch and...good...luck, I guess.”
“Goodbye,” Stella says, and does not offer her hand.
She watches him walk away from her, his back straight, shoulders square, but somehow, though not a single step he takes is in any way faltering, Craig is limping. There’s a moment when she sees herself run after him so clearly it takes her a minute to realize she hasn’t moved. Her hand’s raised, and Stella forces it back to her side.
She watches him climb the stairs to the sidewalk, and she waits for him to turn around, but he never does.
* * *
Hey, Stella typed quickly in the dark without letting herself think too hard about anything. Got your message, but it’s too late to call. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, if you’re free.
She settled the phone back into the dock and wriggled deeper into her pillows and blankets, her eyes at last closing. She was just drifting off to sleep when her phone lit up—it didn’t make a noise because of her Do Not Disturb settings, but the glare tickled her eyelids enough to wake her. She already knew who it was before she rolled to check. But even so, she smiled at the sight of Craig’s name.
Looking forward to it.
CHAPTER NINE
Not all pilots fool around when they’re away from home, but this one is clearly DTF. That’s what the cool kids call it—Stella learned it from the Connex account she’s basically abandoned. Down To Fuck. Actually, the cool kids have probably moved on from that phrase now, on to something else she’ll have to look up on urbandictionary.com to understand. It doesn’t matter how it’s said, the man in front of her is clearly down for something.
This isn’t the first time she’s flown with Captain Truax, and it’s not the first time he’s checked her out when she’s boarded and unboarded. He has a wide, nice smile for everyone, but his eyes linger on hers when she gets on the plane. There’s recognition there, even though today Stella wears a blond wig in a chin-length bob. He’s seen her in all shades of blond before. Also brunette. She wonders which he likes better. Maybe he prefers redheads.
“Welcome aboard,” the captain says, and Stella smiles.
In the few minutes before they ask everyone to turn off their phones, Stella shares a few texts with Craig. She’d tried earlier to catch him in a call, as she’d promised, but missed him. Then he’d called back while she was in the shower, and then it had been time for her to get to the airport. She’s not sure how she feels about this new development in an old situation.
But she doesn’t have to think about it now.
Today’s flight is short enough that Stella barely has time to get through a few chapters of her book. She’s among the last off the plane. She pauses to pull up the handle on her wheeled bag, and while she does, Captain Truax passes her with his own carry-on. He stops when he sees her struggling.
“Need a hand?”
“The handle’s stuck, that’s all.” Stella steps aside to let him help her. “Don’t you have another flight to catch or something?”
Captain Truax, who stands at least six foot three, straightens. His teeth are very white. Very straight. “Nope. I’m off duty. This last little jump was my final flight for a few days.”
“Oh. Nice. So you’re going home?” They fall companionably into step along the corridor. “You live in Philly?”
“Oh. No. Just taking a little layover, do some sightseeing. Spending some time with my daughter. She goes to Temple. I live in Atlanta.” He gives her another grin. “How about you? You make this flight pretty frequently, don’t you? Travel a lot for...business?”
And there’s the problem with doing what she does. Being noticed. Recognized. She doesn’t want to talk to Captain Truax about why she’s in the standby seat every other Friday and Sunday. She doesn’t like anybody asking her questions.
“Yes.” Stella smiles but says no more, and Captain Truax doesn’t ask what it is, exactly, that she does.
“Have a great weekend,” he says. “Maybe I’ll see you on Sunday.”
But it doesn’t take that long for her to see him again. Stella has also decided to do some sightseeing, mostly because there are sights to see in Philadelphia, and she always means to take Tristan for the day but they never end up doing it. It’s only a couple hours from home, but it took a plane to get her here. She’s picked Philly because it’s convenient and because one of her favorite bands is doing a show Saturday night at a bar downtown.
She sees Captain Truax at the Liberty Bell. He’s with his daughter, both of them standing far enough apart from each other to highlight the tension between them, but there’s no mistaking the resemblance. Stella, dressed casually, her hair in a ponytail, stands right next to him without him noticing her at all. She watches him try to woo his daughter into a smile, but it’s obvious that she’s not ready to let go of whatever traumas his parenting has given her.
The night before, Stella had found a much younger man who’d been totally amenable to taking her back to his apartment, if only she didn’t mind the fact that he had roommates. That wasn’t what bothered her as much as the dilation of his pupils and the too-firm grip of his fingers on her upper arm when he tried to convince her it would be the time of her life.
“I have a nine-inch cock,” he’d promised. “And a six-inch tongue.”
Stella as a blonde could sometimes be more easily convinced than as a brunette or with her natural hair, but something in the dent of his fingers on her flesh didn’t feel right. Sh
e put him off with a smile, then watched him move immediately down the bar to another girl, already wasted, who seemed far more inclined to take him up on his offer.
Watching Captain Truax flounder with his kid, Stella feels a pang of sympathy that echoes somewhere in the vicinity of her ovaries. It’s so obvious how much he wants her to smile. Or at least take the fucking look of doom off her face. Stella shakes her head as she follows them discreetly past the row of giant plaques giving the history of the Liberty Bell. The bell itself hangs inside a special building. Stella looks at it and waits to feel patriotic, but all she feels is hungry, thirsty and tired from getting up too early. She wanted to take advantage of the whole day.
“Let me take you to dinner,” Captain Truax says as he and his frowning daughter leave the Liberty Bell pavilion. “I’m only in town until tomorrow....”
“Sorry, Dad.” She doesn’t sound sorry at all. “I have plans.”
“Maggie...”
The girl shrugs, not looking at him. Stella’s heart goes out to him, even though she feels the tiniest bit creepy listening in on the conversation. She keeps herself busy looking at the historical information while she eavesdrops.
“It was good to see you,” Maggie says. “I have a lot of studying to do now. Thanks for breakfast and stuff. Call me when you’re going to be back in Philly.”
It’s clear this is an old argument, because Captain Truax shakes his head and steps away from her. “At least let me give you some money.”
Maggie shrugs, apparently not at all ashamed of taking her dad’s money without giving him anything resembling affection or respect in return. Captain Truax watches her go, his shoulders drooping. Not the man who’d piloted the plane Stella took on Friday, not the man who’d stood so straight and tall and confident, flashing her that sexy smile.
“Hi,” Stella says abruptly. “Captain Truax.”
He looks confused. “Hi?”
She moves a little closer. Gives him a smile. She has no idea if he knows her name or not, and all the better if he doesn’t. She presses a matchbook into his hand—it’s from the club she went to last night. “There’s a great band playing here tonight. You should come see it. You’ll have a good time, I promise.”
She takes a few steps back, turning as he focuses on the matchbook and calls after her, “Do I know you?”
“Yes,” she says without looking over her shoulder. “And tonight, if you can find me, you can have me.”
* * *
He’ll find her. Stella has no doubts. He might’ve preferred to be spending time with his daughter on a Saturday night in Philadelphia, but scoping out a stranger in a crowded bar will have to do.
She’s blonde again. This wig is one of her favorites, soft and flattering in the cut, hitting her at chin level. She’s outlined her eyes in thick dark shadow. Red mouth—of course, it’s always red when she flies. She’s powdered her skin to paleness that accentuates her dark eyes. She wears a bright blue dress, sheer stockings, matching blue heels that were the reason she bought the dress in the first place.
Devil in a Blue Dress, that’s how Stella feels in this outfit. It’s served her well in the past, though she hasn’t worn it for about a year. It must’ve been fate that she packed it, since she’d been planning on jeans and a T-shirt for tonight. Denim jacket. Still blonde, though. She’d always meant to be blonde.
The club’s the same, but tonight’s crowd is different, which makes sense considering the band. It’s a better fit for her, this crowd, than the one last night where she moved among them like the Ghost of Christmas Future. Stella likes younger men as much as she likes older ones—she doesn’t think of herself as a cougar, which has always sounded so predatory and faintly derogatory. If her captain doesn’t come for her, she won’t have any trouble finding someone else if she wants to.
She really is just there to hear the band play, after all.
Of course her captain finds her. It’s the blonde hair, like a beacon. Maybe it’s her ass, the curve of her hips. Maybe it’s fate, because when she turns around with an iced tea in her hand, there he stands. In a pair of worn jeans and a long-sleeved, waffle-fabric Henley shirt pushed up on his forearms, his silvering hair catching the multicolored lights from the dance floor, Captain Truax looks even more fuckable than he did in his pilot’s uniform. Maybe it’s the frown, she thinks as she lights the way for him with her smile. He looks so broken, and there’s not a lot sexier than a man who needs fixing...so long as when the morning comes you can say goodbye.
“Hi,” he says uncertainly. “It’s you.”
“It usually is,” Stella says.
He smiles then. “What a coincidence.”
“The band,” she says. “They’re going to start soon.”
It’s a local group she’s seen play live at least a few dozen times. She started listening to them during those endless nights when her infant son wouldn’t sleep anywhere but tucked against her in the rocker, the singer crooning in her ear through her headphones in those long, long hours until dawn. Certain songs will forever be linked to that time in her mind, sending her back in time as easily and steadily as the Doctor’s TARDIS—maybe that’s why Jeff always refused to come with her to see this band play.
Stella always makes the time to come and see the group whenever they’re booked within traveling distance for her. Dive bars, midsized clubs, renovated art deco theaters, county fairs. She’s seen them play in all these places, but never in this one. It’s not a venue she’d have thought well suited for the group, which has a folksy rock feel rather than a dance club sound.
It doesn’t matter. She’s here, listening, and the band’s rocking the house, and she has a handsome, damaged man by her side who puts his hand between her shoulder blades when he leans in close to ask her what she’d like to drink.
“Iced tea,” Stella says. “Regular. Not Long Island.”
Captain Truax doesn’t seem put out or surprised by this request, and he doesn’t ask her why she’s not drinking alcohol. That earns him an instant bonus point. She’s met plenty of men who seem personally affronted by her refusal to drink booze. The captain brings her a tall, sweating glass. His is shorter, full of amber liquid, no ice. He sips, grimacing a little, and lifts his glass toward the stage.
“I’ve heard these guys before.”
Stella turns. “You have?”
His gaze skates over her hair and lower, over her breasts and hips, before meeting hers. “Yep.”
The lead singer, a burly guy with a full beard and a head of wild red hair, takes the mic. Dressed in plaid and denim, he holds a wooden block in one hand, a hammer in the other. The wood is chipped and bruised. He taps the hammer against it.
“You ready?”
The crowd roars. The band joins him. They play traditional instruments, yes, but also wood blocks. They stomp on boards. They pound on plastic gallon jugs full of sand. Halfway through the first song, the singer breaks the wood block in half and tosses it into a container at the side of the stage, where he pulls out a replacement block.
Stella moves to the music, aware of the captain beside her. She wonders what he thinks of the band. She doesn’t care, really, is simply curious. She also wonders what his first name is and, when she turns to ask him, finds him staring at her.
“What?” she asks in a lull between songs as the singer tells a long story about the next song’s origin. She’s heard the same story a dozen times, could probably repeat it nearly word for word. She has a live recording of the band’s set in which the singer told the story, and he keeps the cadence and words almost the same every time.
Again, the captain’s gaze takes in her hair. The dress. The liner around her eyes and the red, red of her mouth. She’s not surprised when he leans in to kiss her. The slip of his tongue is sweet, not intrusive. She opens for it, greedily.
They slide into an easy embrace. His hands on her hips, hers resting on his shoulders. Her fingers play with the hair on the back of his head, tracing the bumps of his spine at the base of his skull.
His eyes are wide and gray. His mouth grows more insistent. When he presses that long, lean body against hers, Stella feels an answering heat. He surprises her by slipping a hand between them, his fingers without hesitation finding her sweet spot.
Surprised, Stella breaks the kiss but doesn’t move fully away. “Someone might see.”
“I’m discreet.” His body blocks hers from any but the nosiest eyes, and Stella knows nobody’s paying any attention to them in this shadowy corner by the side of the bar. “And I like to watch you get turned on.”
She is, suddenly. Slick and aching, her cunt throbbing, her nipples tight. The captain’s an excellent kisser, but that confident stroke between her legs is what sends her over the edge.
“You want to get out of here?” she asks the captain, and is gratified and flattered, as always, when he immediately says yes.
They go to his hotel, which faces the Delaware River and is much older than hers. The rooms are probably three times the price too, she thinks as she follows him into a huge bedroom dominated by a king bed. Fireplace, antiques, a river view. She turns to him with a smile as she sits on the bed and smooths the comforter under her fingertips.
“Nice place,” she says.
“Thanks.” He moves toward her, confident and fully male when he pushes between her legs to bend and kiss her.
God, she loves that.
The way he grips the back of her neck to hold her close. When he pushes her back and covers her with his body. When his mouth moves along the slope of her throat to nip at her exposed collarbones, Stella sighs.
“So hot,” he whispers against her skin.
She wants nothing more than to lose herself in all of this, but Stella puts a pause to it with her hands on his chest to push him upward. Truax stands to unbutton his shirt, revealing nicely sculpted abs and pecs covered with salt-and-pepper hair. Stella props herself on an elbow to watch him. She loves these moments. The reveal. She’s had to force herself into not feeling embarrassed about her body, so she appreciates self-confidence. He tosses his shirt onto the chair next to the bed and then puts a hand on the button of his jeans.
