Not Betty.
“I’m sorry, but you already have a carry-on bag and a personal item. That’s all that’s allowed on the plane. Those are the rules, and they’re clearly marked.” She points to a sign on the wall next to me that explains the rules for flying with Delta. It’s the second time she’s pointed them out to me, and the stubborn arsehole I am, I refuse to look.
“But this is my one true love.” I lightly stroke the case.
“It’s a guitar,” she says dryly.
I lift the case up on the counter and pop open the metal snaps, giving her a view of the yellow and blue instrument. “She’s a Gibson Les Paul that’s gutsy as shit but lightweight at the same time. She’s made from maple with rosewood inlays—the best money can buy, worth over five grand. Paid for this baby myself. Dear old Dad didn’t even help.” I point to a small horizontal strip at the end of the fingerboard on the neck of the guitar. “See this here? That’s the nut on the bass and it controls the string placement. It’s made from real bone. I don’t know what kind of bone it is, but I like to think it’s from a lion or a tiger. Of course, they weren’t killed to make the guitar, but their bones were donated after they died in some majestic battle in the wild. Fitting, right?” I grin.
Come on, Betty, let us on the plane, my eyes beg.
But Betty bristles at me, her bushy gray eyebrows lowered in a scowl behind tiny reading glasses. Her lips thin as she gazes down at the beautiful piece of art. “Please remove your item from my desk, sir.”
I lean over the counter, widening my eyes, giving her the full-on Spider effect, or in other words: my gorgeous peepers with long black eyelashes. People tell me it’s a gaze that’s devastating to the female reproductive organs, and I question if she has working anatomy because she doesn’t seem fazed by my allure, even when I bite my lip. “Helene and I—that’s her name, Helene—have been together since I was fourteen.”
“That’s nice.” She’s already looking over my shoulder at the person behind me.
I forge on, lying through my teeth. “My girlfriend dumped me while I was here in New York.” The truth is it’s not hard to fake feeling low with a massive hangover. “She always had a cheating problem. Once it was my cousin she slept with—talk about some weird family get-togethers after that.” I sigh. “We came here to, you know, figure things out, and then she met him.”
“Look, Mr.—”
“Please, call me Spider.”
Her brows shoot straight up, her eyes bouncing back to the black widow tattoo on my neck. “Er, Mr. Spider, I’m sorry about your girlfriend. She sounds awful, but—”
“Have you ever been cheated on, Betty?”
She nods, albeit a little grudgingly.
I wave my hands at her. “You get it then—the heartbreak. God, the way she played me.”
“Was it your cousin again?”
I nod, dabbing at my eyes with a napkin I tucked in my pocket last night at the club. I peek at Betty, watching as she moves from foot to foot, her eyes weighing me, checking for sincerity.
“My dog died last week, too,” I toss out in a last-ditch effort, sinking to a whole new low for me.
The thing is, I’m headed to see my father, and just the thought of seeing him makes me want to puke. He’ll see what kind of shape I’m in and know the truth.
I need help.
But also . . . fuck him.
“What kind of dog?” Betty asks, startling me.
What kind of dog?
Shit. I freeze, unable to snatch a breed of dog out of thin air. Think of a dog! It’s not that hard. What’s that multicolored collie that had its own show in the seventies? Ah, my head. God, hangovers suck.
“Say Yorkie,” a female voice hisses in my ear from behind, the push of her words causing tingles to slide down my spine as she breathes against my neck. “They’re cute and small. She’ll like those. Plus, I’d really appreciate if you’d get out of my way so I can get on my plane. You’ve been holding up this line forever. It’s rude.”
The girl’s warmth leaves me as she takes a step back.
I feel summarily dismissed.
“Collie,” I say to a waiting Betty. “Like in Lassie, the TV show.”
“I like Yorkies myself,” Betty murmurs as she taps on her computer.
“Told you so,” grumbles the voice of the girl behind me.
I ignore her and place our latest CD on the desk, signing it quickly with a permanent marker from my backpack. “Someday I’m going to be famous, and this is my gift to you, and I’m not giving you this so you’ll take care of Helene . . . it’s because you’re a beautiful woman, Betty, and every beautiful woman deserves a little surprise in her day.” My lips kick up in a grin. “But, if you can find a way to get my guitar on the plane, well, that would just be icing on the cake. Maybe I’ll write a song about you—Betty has quite the ring to it.”
Lo and behold, a dimple appears on each of her cheeks as she takes the CD and gives me a considerably warmer look. “We have an area in first class that we usually reserve for coats and such. Maybe there’s room there. Let me check.”
Two seconds later she’s calling someone up, checking if they have a place for my guitar.
I smell victory.
Something soft pokes me in the back.
“What the—” I turn and see a large bed pillow currently being held by the girl who whispered in my ear. I move my gaze up and take her in.
Ruby red lips.
A tight black dress.
And a pair of high-top red Converse.
Damn. I bite my lip—and this time, it isn’t fake.
Pillow Girl checks all my boxes.
I half-expected some uptight old lady in a nun habit, but she doesn’t look old, maybe somewhere in the vicinity of my own age of twenty-two. She’s gorgeous in a way that makes guys—and girls—look twice, maybe three times, but I see beautiful babes all the time on the road.
Wide eyes stare back at me, landing on my tattoo and then dropping down to take in my shoulders, hips, and legs. I smile widely because I know I look tight. My face is near perfect, my shoulders are muscled, and my long legs look damn good in designer jeans.
“Sorry I poked you,” she says with an arch to her brow.
Somehow I don’t think she’s sorry. I think she was trying to get my attention.
I smile. “Ever fancy trying a neck pillow instead of that jumbo-sized thing?” I nod my head at her large, fluffy accessory. “They’re small and travel quite well. You can even purchase one in the airport.”
Full, perfect-as-fuck lips tighten. “I happen to like my pillow.”
I pause as a wave of déjà vu washes over me. There’s something about her face . . .
I cock my head. “Do I know you?”
She shakes her head but she doesn’t look sure.
I squint. “Are you sure we haven’t hooked up before?”
“We haven’t,” she says curtly. “I saw your band in Greenwich Village last night.”
Ah, the bar next to New York University. It had been a sold out show, and I didn’t get out of there until three in the morning.
I nod. “Shame. I don’t remember you.”
She shrugs. “I’m not surprised. You were covered up in girls.”
“We can get to know each other on the plane?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow in her direction.
She blinks as if I flustered her and it makes me grin.
“You aren’t my type.”
“Too bad,” I murmur. “You’re mine.”
Her eyes flare.
Betty hangs up the phone. “Good news! You can take the guitar on. There’s a flight attendant on board named Heidi who’ll be looking for you.”
Finally.
I grin broadly as Betty scans my pass, and with a sardonic Cheerio to the babe, I saunter off to board the plane, my thoughts on seeing my father for the first time in six months. He’s summoned me to his home in Highland Park, outside of Dallas, where he’s starting a whole
new life. He wants me to meet his new wife where we can pretend to be one big happy family.
Whatever.
If I want his money, I have to play by his rules.
I walk down the jet-way and stop at the entrance to the plane, where a flight attendant is greeting the passengers.
“Heidi?” I say, my lips tipping up at the curvy redhead in the typical navy skirt and heels.
She smiles back, checking me out. “You must be the owner of the guitar.”
“Indeed.”
She laughs. “Great. I’ll just stow this in the coat closet in first class for you. You can grab it on your way out when we land.” Her smile widens. “Adore your accent. You in a band?”
I nod. “Yeah. Vital Rejects. Ever heard of us?”
She gives me a blank stare.
“Yeah, we’re nobody—at the moment.”
She flicks a strand of hair over her shoulder. “I’ll be sure to check on you quite often,” she says, her lips curving up. “If you need a blanket or a pillow—”
“Good grief, don’t you ever stop flirting? Just please move over. You’re blocking the way for everyone,” calls an annoyed voice from behind me.
Pillow Girl.
Damn, she’s everywhere.
I watch in amusement as she weasels past me, her bottom brushing against my crotch as she huffs and carries on down the aisle.
Her heart-shaped ass sways from side to side in her black dress. She has to be at least five eleven, and that isn’t even in heels. Her legs are tan and smooth and long—
Someone bumps into me as I watch her, and I scoot over to give the passengers coming onto the plane more room.
“Would you like to meet the pilot?” Heidi asks me, her smile flirtatious.
“Delta is my favorite airline,” I say.
She giggles and introduces me to the pilot, and I end up giving both of them a copy of our CD and a quick spiel about our music. I sign them both, and before I know it, two other flight attendants are crowding into the cockpit area, insisting on a copy.
I smile at them, used to the attention.
One girl slyly tucks her business card in the back pocket of my jeans as she pats my ass.
I smirk at her and waggle my eyebrows.
She and Heidi exchange a few whispered words, and it’s obvious she’s warning the other girl that I’ve already been claimed.
I chuckle.
Sebastian Tate, our lead singer and my best mate since my prep school days in Highland Park, jokes that I have a way about me that sucks people in. His theory is it’s the accent, but mostly it’s my party like the world is ending attitude. I’m the mate everyone wants. Hell, I’m the guy who volunteers to do the beer run (and pays for it) then comes back with a case of tequila and a carload of beautiful women.
Live fast and collect no hearts is my mantra.
I’m fearless.
After all, I have nothing in life to lose, not when I’ve already lost it all.
I shove those dark thoughts away, blaming them on my pounding head. Fuck hangovers. I just need a bump of pure white bliss to get me over the edge.
After cheek-kissing the flight attendants, I head to my seat and see that my seatmate has already arrived—and guess who it is?
She’s still just as hot as before.
I halt and stare down at her, surprised when I catch a gander at what I see on her Kindle: 100 Foolproof Rules To Get A Man To Fall In Love With You.
I grin.
Is the girl trying to get a bloke?
Oh yeah.
This flight isn’t going to feel nearly as long as I expected after all.
You know the old adage of turning lemons into lemonade? Pillow Girl is my lemon, and I’m going to turn her into the sweetest drink ever.
Rose
I WALK DOWN THE AIRPLANE aisle and eyeball the window seat I’ve been assigned. Three, maybe four inches separate me from death.
Yeah, I’m tough, but flying makes me crazy scared.
Planes are basically just battered tin coffins traveling a million miles an hour. Toss in a small thunderstorm—like the one currently surrounding us—and I’m a freaking basket case. Sweat beads on my forehead as I picture my mangled body on the ground amid flaming debris.
My hands tremble as I unpack my backpack, removing my lucky paperback copy of Jane Eyre, my Kindle—you can’t have too many books—and a sweater. I’m freezing on this plane, and I’m not sure if it’s from nerves or if it’s actually cold. Nerves, I decide as I furtively check out the other passengers who seem warm and toasty.
Shivering, I settle in my seat and try to read the ridiculous book my cousin Marge has downloaded to my Kindle. A twenty-something New Yorker, I stayed with her while I visited New York University on my spring break from prep school. We had some late-night talk sessions, and when I mentioned my crush Trenton back in Highland Park, she made it her mission to load me up with self-help books and advice about how to get the man of your dreams.
It’s a dumb idea, and I know it.
But it’s hard to tell Marge no.
Forgetting the book, I lean my head back against the headrest on the seat. I’m tired from my evening out with her, even though I sat in the corner at the back of the bar and just watched everyone most of the night. I was nervous since I’m only seventeen and used a fake ID, which Marge provided. I’ll be eighteen in September, about five months from now.
My thoughts go back to the hot guy from the gate.
From the moment I first saw him last night, something about him just . . . called to me.
It was as if I knew him—yet I didn’t.
My eyes followed him the entire night, the way he stalked across the stage as if he was fearless, the way his lean and muscular body whipped around, moving with the rhythm of his gritty and evocative music. With an excuse to Marge that I had to go to the bathroom, I’d even followed him outside during the break where I watched from the doorway as he smoked a cigarette, leaning his head against the brick of the building as he blew smoke up into the air. He hadn’t noticed me . . . of course. There’d been too many girls around him vying for his attention. In a nutshell, he was way out of my league.
Forget about him.
Right.
What I should be doing is focusing on convincing my adoptive mother Anne to let me attend NYU this fall.
As if she knew I was thinking about her, my phone pings with a text from her.
Did Marge behave herself? Growing up, she was quite wild.
From Anne, this really means she thinks Marge is a slut. I was actually surprised when she agreed to let me visit Marge, and I attribute her acquiescence to her own recent surprise pregnancy and subsequent hasty marriage. That’s right. My uptight, forty-five-year-old adoptive mom had a one night stand and got pregnant.
I type out a reply. She was great. Very hospitable. Her apartment is close to NYU.
Her reply is quick and fast, and I picture her fingers typing the words furiously. She hates any mention of NYU and every time I bring up attending there, she shuts me down.
I know NYU seems exciting, but Winston University is smaller and here in town. Plus, you’ve been accepted. It’s too late to apply to NYU. Only a few more weeks and you’ll be graduating high school. Love, Anne
Only Anne texts as if it were a term paper, with complete sentences and correct punctuation.
I sigh, my fingers running idly over the surface of my phone. I don’t want to attend Winston. Exclusive and located just ten minutes from Highland Park, it’s just like the prep school I currently attend, only with older students. It’s also where Anne went to college. I mean, I’m grateful she’s providing me with an education, but I’d like to have a say in the matter.
She’s under the impression that this trip was just a quick visit to see her cousin and take in the sights on spring break. She doesn’t know that I secretly already applied to NYU months ago and recently got the acceptance letter. I just have to talk her into it.
A well-known Dallas philanthropist, I first met Anne after two years of being shuffled around in the foster system. That day, she’d sat with me in the office at the Department of Human Services and marveled over my hair color (a mix of brown and auburn) and complimented me on my perfect skin. I read her right away, a rich lady looking for an accessory, and I used it to my advantage, telling her about my above average test scores and my dream of getting a doctorate in psychology someday.
It worked, and once she took me in and adopted me, I was given a complete makeover: a new layered hair cut with a tutorial on how to style it, conservative clothing, and a course on manners and etiquette. Want to know where the water glass should be at a place setting? Just ask me . . . approximately one inch from the tip of the dinner knife. She molded me into her idea of what a perfect girl should be.
I sigh as guilt tugs at me for going to the bar in New York . . . for even wanting to attend NYU. She’s given me so much, and I shouldn’t want to get away from her, but I can’t breathe in Highland Park. With famous residents such as past Presidents, country music celebrities, and Texas bigwigs, I simply don’t belong in the wealthy suburb.
Before we have to turn our phones on airplane mode, another text comes in, this time from Trenton.
Butterflies go crazy in my stomach as I read it.
Senior Spring Fling is coming up. Wanna go?
Senior Spring Fling is a notoriously secret party sponsored by the popular kids at Claremont Prep and held the first weekend in May, usually at a destination that’s only revealed at the last possible moment. If you don’t get the invite, you’re a nobody—which I am. I don’t really care about going, but Trenton is popular and attractive, and I’d be crazy to tell him no.
Yes, I reply then quickly lock my phone before I say anything else like, Is this a friend thing or a date thing?
He and I have been flirting with each other for a while . . .
Whatever. I can figure all that out later.
Glancing up from my seat, I see Spider—yes, I know his name from the bar last night—stalking down the aisle like a Greek god. Wearing expensive black jeans with holes in the knees, motorcycle boots, and a gray leather jacket, he has major bad boy vibes all over him.
Spider Page 2
