by Kim Karr
I take them up a notch, hoping I don’t sound like a porno star.
With a shift in his stance, his arms snake around me and he comes at my pussy. His rough, callused hands glide down my belly, and his fingers are easily sliding inside my thong.
That dirty mouth mutters another curse when he touches my bare flesh, and I tremble from both the delicious touch and the arousing sound.
Oh God, without even giving me time to recover, he’s stroking a finger along my sex, and again, and one more time, as if just liking the way it feels.
There’s a very real possibility I might explode in anticipation of what’s to come before it actually happens.
Men cream their pants. Do women do the same?
His chin presses into my shoulder. “You want this.”
Not a question, but a command that demands an answer. My belly squeezes again. It’s the first time anyone has talked to me like that in a bedroom situation. I like it. “Yes,” I breathe.
Soon, I hear the small clatter of a metal buckle being undone, followed by the soft sigh of a button easing from its hole, and then finally I hear the light purr of a zipper parting.
I try to catch his reflection in the mirror, but my body is covering his.
Just then another round of turbulence hits. This time, the plane starts shaking. It’s not a small bump. It rocks. First right, then left. Our bodies rock in the same motion. Unlike the last time, the turbulence doesn’t pass in an instant. The bumps are so much more severe, and almost frantically, we try to brace ourselves against the wall.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the ‘fasten seat belt’ sign. We are now crossing a zone of turbulence. Please return to your seats immediately and keep your seat belts fastened.”
The turbulence causes the plane to lose altitude, and when it drops, he tries to grab for me, and I attempt to grab for him. We need to anchor each other until the plane levels out.
Our bodies shift and move and it’s then that I see it—the scrolling letter B on his chest. It’s now that I get the déjà vu moment. This man I’ve affectionately termed Mr. Beach Bum is Mr. Uptight Prick from last night. He’s Cam.
Removing my hands from his body, I clutch whatever I can. I feel a little sick that I’m in here with him. He let some woman blow him and then dismissed her like she was trash. Is that what he is planning to do to me? Oh, wait, he wouldn’t have to, because we’ll never see each other again.
I need to get out of here.
Now.
It happens before I can stop it. I’m holding onto the small lever that secures the door. He tries to grab my hand, and the movement of the plane causes my hand to jolt to the right. And then, just like that, we’re flying out of the door.
It’s both of our doing.
I blame him.
Horrified, I can’t even move. I’m lying nose first on the carpet, and his body is covering mine. For those who happen to want to watch the show, I’m certain they can’t see much, but they will know. Know without a doubt what we were about to do in there.
The palpitations I’m feeling in my heart are no longer a result of lust, but complete embarrassment.
“You need to get to your seats.”
Mortified, I can’t even look up to see who is talking to us.
I feel a tugging of my dress, down, down, down it goes. It’s him. The beach bum. The prick. The manwhore. The slut. Thank God the material is cotton and not the cheap stuff that easily rips.
Soft lips whisper in my ear. “I think you’re good to stand.”
Regardless of my latest realization, I can’t be mad at him right now. Besides, I wanted this. I practically begged for it. “What about you?” I whisper.
“Don’t worry about me.”
A throat clears.
This can’t be happening.
Daring to allow my gaze to lift, I know as my eyes make their way up the body before me that it’s Tiffany, the flight attendant with the crush on my seatmate. Soon enough, a frown and blond hair appear in my vision.
Yep. I was right.
The Mile High Club is going to be my doom.
The flight attendant is sitting in her jump seat and she is leering at me. “Federal Aviation Administration regulations mandate a lavatory occupancy of one. I’m going to have to report this incident to the captain.”
I want to slap that smirk off her face, but that would require standing, not lying horizontal with my partner-in-crime half-naked on top of me.
In addition to that, aggravating her now won’t do me any good. If she turns me in, I could be accused of a flight violation or even public indecency.
Slowly, the weight on top of me disappears. The man I was just about to have sex with is rising to all of his six-plus feet.
Oh, God, his pants. His pants. They’re undone, and without that belt buckled they’re certain to fall as soon as he stands.
I don’t pray often, but please God, give me a break here.
“This is a total misunderstanding,” my seatmate tells the flight attendant, twisting to look at her over his shoulder. He’s pulling his shirt over his head.
I should care about what is going on, but right now all I can think about is that scrolling B disappearing. Puff, it is gone, like it was never there. But it was. And I know who he is. What he is—a manwhore, a slut, a player, whatever term fits.
Tiffany, or Jodie, or whatever her real name is, scoffs. “I don’t think there is any misunderstanding.”
Turning around, he holds a hand up as if in surrender. “Can we at least discuss it before you do anything rash?”
Petrified she’s going to refuse him, I can’t even fully raise my gaze to look at him now that he is facing her for fear that his big, thick cock, the one I never saw, but oh how I felt it, is out on full display.
Finally, I dare to take a peek. Phew, it’s not hanging out, or sticking out, whichever is the case, for all to see. Somehow in the midst of the chaos he not only managed to push my dress down, but pull his pants up.
If I didn’t hate him right now, I might kiss his feet. I think he just got us off the public indecency charge at least.
Slowly, I rise to my feet, more than aware that I am one hot mess. Even so, I try to stay close to him, shield him, give him time to zip and buckle. To make himself presentable.
The bubbly flight attendant is glaring at me.
It’s like we’re in a standoff.
Well, I’m not backing down. In fact, the more she narrows her eyes at me, the straighter I stand. I have to tell myself not to ball my fists for fear I might take the first swing. Probably a time to remind myself that I’ve never been in a fight.
When Tiffany or Jodie or whatever her name is continues to stand before us in silence, my seatmate pleads with her. “Please.”
Still with the glare, this time when he speaks, she steps around me. “Well, I guess we can discuss it. Maybe I misunderstood what was taking place,” the flight attendant practically purrs to my seatmate.
At that, my head snaps in his direction. Oh, please, she didn’t misunderstand a goddamn thing. The physical turbulence might have passed, but the emotional one is just starting to battle within me.
Although he didn’t have time to fix himself, at least his shirt is pulled down low enough to cover the fact that his pants are undone.
Thank fuck. Not a word I use often, but it is more than needed right now.
“Please take your seat,” the flight attendant instructs me, but not my seatmate.
I narrow my gaze at her. This behavior certainly wasn’t covered during the in-flight safety demonstration.
My seatmate nods his chin beyond the first-class curtain. “Take your seat. Let me talk to her, alone.”
There’s that arrogant, domineering bastard I remember from last night.
Furious, I almost say no, but then I remember I am in jeopardy of being escorted in handcuffs off the plane, so like a good little girl, I start back to my seat.
“O
ne minute.” It’s the flight attendant telling him her rules. Now this is her game.
I turn to glare at her.
“Please sit in the empty row across from your assigned seat. I’m going to have to ask that you sit alone the rest of the flight.”
The look on my seatmate’s face is one of utter blankness.
Then again, what else would it be?
After all, a slut’s work is never done.
Besides, what happened between us was a hookup gone wrong. I should be thankful that I’m not just another notch in his belt. Let that role go to her.
Sticking my chin up with pride, I look the fake Tiffany in the eyes. “I wouldn’t want to sit any other way. He’s all yours,” I huff. With that, I pivot and march my hot mess back to my newly assigned seat.
Stewing, I practically chew my lip raw waiting for the outcome.
My ex-seatmate is back within five minutes. I want to say, “That was quick,” but I hold my tongue. I know he didn’t do anything with her. Yet. He must have had to make some promise about the next time she’s back in Santa Ana or New York City, depending on where he lives. I never bothered to ask, too caught up in my unusual behavior. He was a stranger and needed to stay that way, so I avoided personal questions. Now, I feel depressed that I’ll never know.
“Hey, can we talk?” he whispers across the aisle.
Sensing his sincere concern, I consider it for a moment, but then I remember how he behaved last night and shake my head no. “I’m tired. I’m going to go to sleep,” I tell him. Tell Cam, that is. And then I close my eyes.
Looks like I won’t be checking the Mile High Club off my list today or anytime in the near future.
Too bad that’s not what makes me sad.
MAKAYLA
THERE ARE SOME TITLES YOU earn that nobody can ever take away: Mother. Veteran. Ph.D. And, of course, there is the ever-coveted card-carrying member of the Mile High Club.
Yes, once you’ve done it high in the sky, you’re pretty much set for life when it comes to always winning the never have I ever game.
But, make no mistake about it—joining the Mile High Club isn’t as simple as you may think.
Or maybe it was just me who thought that.
In my defense, Maggie made it out to be so incredibly easy.
Maybe for her it was.
For me—not so much.
In fact, the attempt was downright humiliating.
Then again, I should have known better. Maggie always makes everything seem easier than it is.
Across the aisle, light and shadow paint him.
I haven’t slept, but I have pretended to do so. Still, whenever I move or shift a little, he catches my quick glance his way, and this time is no different.
“I’m really sorry,” he whispers for the hundredth time.
I can’t even look him in the eyes.
In his defense, he doesn’t understand why. He doesn’t know I saw him getting head last night and then treat Megan with a B like she was dirt. Sure, I felt there was a reason, but after today, I wonder if that is just his way with all women.
Still incredibly embarrassed about everything, I look away without saying a word. Awkward situation equals bitchy woman. It’s how I’ve always been. I can’t help it.
At last giving up, he stretches those long legs, and from the corner of my eye I can see him rest his head against the window.
When I can’t take it anymore, I dare to sneak a quick peek his way.
I know I shouldn’t.
In that one instant it takes for me to focus on him, my heart starts to beat out of my chest.
Tall, dark, and handsome—the three perfect words to describe him.
As if uncontrollable, my breathing also picks up.
And then I stupidly start to think maybe we could try that again. This time with a lower volume, a little more discretion, and a whole lot more coordination.
No, I silently tell myself.
At least this time I listen.
One embarrassing moment on this flight is enough—for a lifetime.
With his eyes closed, I can almost pretend we never met and that what just happened never took place.
Almost.
Except the feel of his lips on my neck still lingers, and the touch of his fingers against my skin continues to burn, and then there’s my lady parts, which are still tingling wildly to the point of maddening irritation.
Chastising myself for even listening to Maggie, and forever considering joining the Mile High Club, I feel like I want to cry, which is stupid.
I.
Will.
Never.
See.
Him.
Again.
The speaker crackles and the pilot’s voice booms through the open space. “Cabin crew, prepare for landing.”
Sighing, I avert my gaze and then ever so quietly buckle my seat belt and pray that the sound doesn’t disturb him. I can’t take another “I’m sorry” or “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Soon enough, the plane starts to descend and my stomach drops. I find myself digging my nails into the armrest so tightly that my knuckles are turning white.
He was right.
And right now I have this odd feeling. I wish I were sitting next to him, listening to the sound of his caramel-like voice as he reads to me.
No. No. No, I tell myself, and I know I’m right. I don’t need a man in my life, and definitely not a stranger who fucks for a hobby.
At 37,000 feet in the air, everything still feels like a haze of white fluffiness, but then the lights from the landscape below start to become clearer and so does my mind.
I’m about to start something new.
And it’s exciting.
Looking out the window in anticipation, I know there are adventures waiting for me here. I’ve visited Laguna Beach many times with Maggie through the years, but this is different. This will be me, making a new life, in a new city.
I’m so ready.
As soon as the plane lands, the pilot’s voice comes over the speakers again. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to John Wayne Airport. The temperature is sixty-four degrees . . .” He continues giving us information, but I tune it out. I just want to get off this plane.
Atypical of my normal airplane behavior, I stand up immediately after the plane stops, open the bin over him, over Cam, without glancing down, and as soon as the door opens, I bolt out of it.
“Hey, wait.” Cam is calling after me.
He doesn’t even know my name, or that I know his, and I have to be okay with that.
He’s a stranger.
A random almost screw.
And I will never see him again.
I have to be okay with that.
I say it to myself one more time so that maybe I’ll believe it.
After all, that’s the way it is.
MAKAYLA
THERE AREN’T THAT MANY PEOPLE in the arrival terminal.
In fact, it’s somewhat quiet. Then again, it is one of the last flights of the day.
Walking fast, then faster still, I practically sprint in my wedges so that Cam doesn’t catch up with me. The floor is recently polished and a bit slick, so my high school track skills are a little slowed, but as soon as I come upon the first restroom, I duck into it.
Drawing breath after breath to remain calm and steady, I lock myself inside a stall and lean against the chilly metal until the threat of tears passes. Then I stand in front of the mirror. Staring at my reflection, I give myself an assessing gaze. Smudged mascara against pale skin. Naturally light-brown hair more kinky than wavy. Splotchy cheeks and a colorless mouth. All of this is the aftermath of a woman ravaged—swollen lips, messy hair, flushed cheeks.
Maggie is going to see it a mile away.
To combat the almost-just-fucked image, I splash water on my face, smooth my hair, wipe under my eyes, dab on a little lip gloss, and powder my face.
There, much better.
Not really.
/> Done trying to improve what only a shower can fix, I contemplate going out there.
Women come and go while I pace the wash area and wait and wait and wait until I think it’s safe. Until I think Cam has passed by the security gate and gone into the main terminal. By the size of his duffle, I doubt he has luggage, so I won’t have to worry about seeing him in baggage claim.
Convinced the coast must be clear, I step out of the restroom and head for the main terminal, where I will proceed directly to the baggage claim. The plan is for me to text Maggie once I get my luggage and that she’ll pull her car up to the curb to get me.
As soon as I reach the terminal, I see her. So much for my plan to save time. She’s standing beside the John Wayne statue, talking to someone. I can’t see who it is. Still, she’s not hard to miss. Tall, blond, and beautiful. Even though my plan has been aborted, I smile to myself. I’m happy she’s waiting for me. She doesn’t see me, though. I should surprise her.
Slowing my steps, I freeze when I get a little closer.
Oh.
My.
God.
The person she’s talking to is Cam.
No.
No.
No.
This isn’t happening.
He really is a manwhore. Trying to pick up a girl at an airport. How completely lame.
Just as I’m about to turn and run in the other direction to wait for Maggie to reject him, he starts walking away from her. That was fast. Then again, he’s so not her type. Or the Cam from the plane isn’t, anyway. The one from last night is more her style. As flexible as she is, she always goes for the suits. Unable to see the rejection on his face, I watch that long, lean body disappear down the escalator toward the parking garage.
It is just as the top of Cam’s head disappears that the screech echoes in the large space. “Maakaayylaaa!” Maggie yells and comes rushing toward me. Her long blond hair is parted down the center and flaps against her loose, flowing silk top. Wearing one white and one black Converse sneaker, she moves like the wind in her short-shorts. Seeing her in her quirky getup makes all my worries melt away.
Maggie has this thing: she hates to match. No, wait—actually, she thinks matching is putting pieces together that don’t match. Stripes with polka dots. Studded boots with frilly dresses. High heels with casual shorts. Leather and lace. She’s a fashion merchandiser with her own sense of style. Sadly, not many approve, which is why she was fired from almost every major boutique in SoHo and is now a lifeguard.
