Unable to Resist

by Cassie Graham

  My parents owned about ten acres in Arizona. We had horses, cows, chickens and any other damn farm animal you can think of. I learned how to drive a tractor at the age of five, and Dad often joked I could drive the tractor better than I could ride a bike.

  I can still smell the freshly-cut grass in the hot summers. Back then life was simple. I’d hop on a horse and ride until the sun went down. I’d spend hours in the barn with my chestnut gelding, Skip. There would be times when my parents would fight all through the night, and I’d escape to the barn and sleep in his stall. He was my buddy.

  The driver door opens, and Duane gets behind the wheel. “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” I reply with hesitation.

  He starts the truck and we back out of my comfort zone.

  As we get closer to the airport, my hands begin to sweat, and I start doubting my decision to go back to Arizona.

  The daunting thought of returning to my hometown is a scary thought in itself. I have a lot of demons waiting for me there. Demons I don’t know if I want to face. They fight their way into my subconscious, making me doubt life, love and happiness. They torment me so I suffer in silence, making sure I don’t let the past go. Dad and—other things—have stopped me from living. Truly having a happy life is alien to me.

  I guess being a good actress comes in handy in this case. I can go through life acting like I’m fine. When really, I’m struggling to keep my head above water. I’m so close to drowning; I don’t know how much longer I can take treading in the sea of my past.

  The craziest thing about my freak out isn’t just the massive heap of issues I have waiting for me in Arizona, it’s oddly being in that damn plane that’s making me waver.

  Again—I. Hate. Heights.

  I really didn’t think this through.

  Holy shit, what am I going to do? I need to get out of this truck and back to my safe home where I can stew in my own head. Just go back to normal and ignore my problems.

  My forehead glands start to cry, and I wipe the perspiration with my hand.

  “Ann, you okay?” Duane asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.

  I don’t think I’ve talked the entire trip. God, what is wrong with me?

  “Umm, actually,” I falter.

  Before I can answer, Duane places his hand on my bare leg and squeezes. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Dammit. When he touches me it makes my head fuzzy and I have a hard time concentrating. There’s a serious possibility that he’s a ninja. He karate chops my brain into thinking I can bend the rules and let him in.

  I huff a lungful of air and debate telling him my childish fear. On one hand, it makes perfect sense; being miles up in the air is beyond unnatural. I don’t want to go plummeting to my death. Then on the other hand, any logical person, who I am clearly not right now, would say that traveling by airplane is safer than driving. More people die every year from car accidents than airplanes.

  Therein, lies my problem. No one survives a damn airplane crash. Once those masks shoot down from the ceiling, you’re done. Bye bye, no more life, adios amigo. It’s reason enough to put me in full-panic mode.

  Yeah. Panic mode: engaged.

  “I don’t know if I want to tell you,” I say honestly, “I feel like an idiot.”

  He removes his hand, and returns it to the massive steering wheel. “You can tell me anything, Ann, I hope you know that.”

  I nervously laugh. “It’s stupid, really. I’m alright. I’m fine, totally fine.”

  Quit rambling.

  Duane gives me a stern look and shakes his head. “No way, Ann, I see you sweating bullets over there. Spit it out.” He pulls up to a stoplight then turns toward me. “I’m sure it’s not stupid. Just tell me.”

  The sincerity in his eyes diminish my uncertainties.

  “Okay, this is going to sound crazy, really crazy,” I trail off, “but I’m deathly afraid of heights. The only other time I’ve been on a plane is when I moved here. I shouldn’t even tell you that I had to take a sedative to calm myself down before getting on the plane. And of course, the dumbass thing didn’t help one bit. I was like a kid hyped up on candy, and I couldn’t sit still. I bounced in my seat, and constantly asked the flight attendants if the pilots were conscious. It was bad. I was a mess. God, what am I saying? I am a mess. This is me. Messy.”

  Duane’s laughter fills the cabin as he pulls into the airport parking lot. “First of all, you aren’t a mess. Being afraid of flying is totally normal. But, you’ve got one thing going for you that you didn’t have before. You know what that is?”

  I wrack my brain. Oh geeze, I have no idea. I’m older, so I should be more prepared? I can drink alcohol on the flight? Heck if I know. I’m completely clueless.

  We’ve pulled into a parking space, and he shuts off the truck. I tear myself from my deliberations and look over at him to answer, but his seat is empty and the door is swinging shut. Damn ninja.

  Scrambling to unbuckle my seat belt, my fingernail catches on the clip and I yelp in pain. Quickly, I bring my injured finger to my mouth to relieve the aching throb.

  Nursing my finger longer than necessary, I attempt the seat belt again. This time, my door flies open and Duane leans over my body to click the damn contraption. The belt snaps back into place and I’m set free.

  Traitor seatbelt.

  I look up at him in gratitude. “Why thank you, kind sir.”

  “Not a problem, Darlin’. She sometimes doesn’t let extraordinary women out of her clutches.”

  Be still my overly beating heart. Are we flirting?

  Playing off his corny, yet sweet, words, I shake my head. “Smooth Duane. Very smooth.”

  Duane looks of goodness. “What? I’m being serious, although this is the first time.”

  I thrust his shoulder playfully and hop out of the cab. The last thing I want to do is think about all the women he’s had in his truck.

  Inside the stacked parking garage, the light wind from this beautiful Nashville day makes for a hurricane, whipping my hair into my face, blinding me. Before I can get my bearings, I hear a loud screech and I’m thrust back against the truck.

  My back hits the protruding door handle, producing a scream at the white-hot pain. Keeping my eyes closed, controlling my breathing, Duane cradles my body from some unknown force. In the stumble, I’ve managed to wrap both arms around his waist, and bury my head in his chest, feeling way too comfortable.

  Duane pulls back in the slightest, breaking a little of our connection. His breathing falters, looking into my eyes and, I swear, into my soul. Pupils dilated, his eyes jump between my lips and my eyes. My lips and my eyes. Over and over again. I lick them, maybe hoping to sway his next move. His eyes stop at my lips, and just when I think he might do something we, or just he, will regret, a car door slams and cracks our foolish dream.

  Duane moans a frustrated sigh, and lets me go.

  A groan? Hmm, maybe he wouldn’t regret it.

  So not the time, Ann.

  “Sorry about that, guys.” A man in a douche-looking suit appears from behind the trunk of his overly feminine convertible vagina with wheels.

  How did this guy fit in that car? He has to be at least six foot five. Damn clown car.

  Duane balls his fists and turns to the suit. I see the flicker of anger in his eyes, and immediately go into protection mode. Lightly, I put my hand on his arm to get his attention.

  “Hey, it’s alright. We didn’t get hurt. You were there. No harm done. Okay?” I gently coax him, hoping to get him to settle down and rein in his temper.

  Like a raging bull ready to escape from a bullpen, Duane huffs and steals a quick glance at me over his shoulder. With pleading eyes, I ask him to settle down. It’s not verbal but I know he understands.

  The thought seems to pass through his mind and he gives one curt nod.

  Thank, God.

  “Yeah, sure, it’s cool, man,” Duane says with a venom-laced cadence.


  The suit doesn’t miss his rage and quickly retrieves his bags to scurry off.

  When the suit is out of sight, Duane runs his hands through his thick brown hair and sighs. “I’m sorry. It’s just—he really could have hurt you.”

  His eyes shine with earnestness and I let the look fill me up. I’ve missed looks like that.

  “While I think that’s incredibly sweet, Duane,” I pause to step closer to him, “you could have been hurt just as easily as me.” I grab the bottom of his t-shirt and smile. “Really, thank you for doing that. It means a lot that you worry about me. I saw the fury in your eyes. You wanted to do much more to him, but you stopped.”

  “If you hadn’t said anything, I probably would have bashed his face in. But I can’t deny your sweet face.” He looks into my eyes and grins.

  Swoon! I say nothing back. How could I? I’m a puddle on the nasty ground of the Nashville International Airport. The man reduced me to a puddle of mush.

  I let go of his shirt and step back. Our flight leaves soon, and we need to get going. I turn on my heel to grab my bag.

  “Thank you,” Duane says as he grabs the bag from my hands.

  I quirk an eyebrow and let it go. “Thanks.”

  Then his statement from the truck registers in my mind. “What’s so different about this time?” I ask.

  “Huh?” Duane looks at me, questioning.

  He’s sort of cute when he’s confused.

  “Earlier, before we almost got run over, you said this time is different. How is this time on a plane any different than my first time?”

  “Oh,” he smirks, “well, you’ve got me this time, of course.”

  I blush and look down at my feet. Yes, this is very different than my last time, indeed. Much, much better.

  We exchange small talk while we wait for the shuttle to arrive. We talk about nothing and everything, exactly what I need to get my mind off of the soon-to-be plane ride.

  Duane tells me he has a twenty-one year old brother, Aiden, whom he has taken care of since they were young. People begin to pile into our little area so I move closer to Duane.

  “Can I ask what happened to your parents?”

  I don’t know if it’s crossing a line, but I sort of want to know everything about him. The good and the bad.

  Little by little, we get pushed to the back of the group, so he sets down our bags between his legs. Shuffling from foot to foot, he looks nervous.

  “They, uhh—they both died in a car accident when I was a teenager.”

  Without thinking, I wrap my arm around his strong bicep. “Jesus, I’m so sorry.”

  Regardless of our working relationship, I can’t help but want to touch him knowing he’s clearly pained when talking about his parents.

  Grabbing his hand, I lace our fingers together and give him an encouraging squeeze.

  “You’ve had to deal with a lot. I know what that feels like.”

  He looks to me, maybe thinking I’ll elaborate, but I decide to omit the truth.

  The possibility of me telling him definitely needs to be set for another day.

  With my head turned up at him, he looks down at me with earnest. “Thanks, Ann. It was difficult and probably one of the worst times in my life, but it was a long time ago.” He drawls on, “I’m lucky I was old enough to take care of Aiden. I can’t imagine what would have happened if he was taken from me.”

  The conversation is getting heavy and I really don’t want to ruin the trip before it begins, so I reply, “I’m glad, too. He’s lucky to have you.”

  Duane delights in my words and does something I don’t anticipate at all. He softly kisses the crown of my head, and I choose not to react. One: because I really don’t want him to regret it, and two: because if I look at him, I can’t be responsible for my actions. I’m likely to throw myself at him.

  It takes longer than necessary for the shuttle to arrive, but when it finally does, Duane loads our stuff into the underneath bins and leads me to the seat in the back.

  “So, where did you grow up?” I ask.

  “I actually grew up on a farm. I still live there. We harvest hay”

  “Really?” I exclaim. “I grew up on a ranch in Arizona for most of my life. I miss it.”

  “You lived on a ranch? Seriously?” Duane questions, seeming a bit surprised.

  “What?” I scoff. “I don’t fit the mold?”

  He rubs the back of his neck. “Not exactly,” he teases, “I would have pegged you for a city girl.”

  “Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Rynard.” I quip.

  “Can you ride a horse?”

  “Pshh, with my eyes closed,” I joke. Who lives on a ranch and can’t, at the very least, ride a horse?

  “Drive a tractor?”

  “In my sleep. Next.” I pick at my nails, acting bored, earning me a smirk from Duane.

  “Pick up a bale of hay?”

  I roll my eyes. “Please, with one hand.” Okay, that’s a lie, but I’m on a roll.

  “Alright, alright, Annie Oakley. I get it. I’m sorry.” His arms go up in defeat. “So does that mean you’ll visit my place when all this is said and done?”

  If it means I can spend more time with you, hell yes.

  “Sure. Sounds fun.”

  The door to the shuttle opens in front of the airport, and we head for security.

  I feel like a jerk with Duane carrying my bag and his, but every time I grab the damn thing, he pops my hand.

  “Do you have something against me being a gentleman?” Duane asks with a grin.

  I pause to think. It’s been a very long time since someone did something like hold my bags for me.

  “No, I’m sorry, I just forget how nice you are. You can be kind of an ass too, though, so your niceness seems to slip my mind.” I shrug like it’s no big deal.

  “When have I ever been an ass?” Duane mocks hurt and places his hand over his heart.

  A snort accompanies my laughter and it comes out as an odd cough sound. I mentally face palm.

  Real attractive, Ann.

  I recover and tap my finger to my chin. With a smartass grin, I coyly address him. “Hmmm, let’s think back to, I don’t know, ten minutes ago. You know, when you were questioning my ability to do anything productive on a ranch. That could have been considered ass-worthy.”

  Taking off my shoes, belt and necklace, I place them in the bin and wait for Duane to do the same. He’s quietly laughing and I can see a shimmer of gleam in his beautiful hazel eyes.

  Once he pulls his black Converse off and empties his wallet into the bin behind mine, he turns to face me. “Ass-worthy?”

  Seriously? That’s all he got out of what I just said?

  I narrow my eyes at him and wait for him to say something else. I’m damn sure not going to elaborate on his ass-worthiness.

  “Okay, that was an ass move.” He concedes.

  “Thank you, but I’ll let it slide,” I say as I pass through the body scanner, trying to hide my smile.

  I don’t think I did a very good job, though.

  The underwire in my bra makes the metal detector go off four times before TSA pulls me over for an invasive body check.

  With my arms and legs spread out like a bird, I blush in mortification. The idiot agent pokes and prods every damn inch of my body until he confirms I’m not secretly carrying anything in my bra. I mean, really? How many women go through this just because their boobs are too big to fit in a simple cotton bra?

  Well, my big-boobed friends, here is a bit of helpful information: wear a sports bra when you have to go to the airport. Men, no matter how old, are seriously dense when it comes to undergarments, and attempting to tell a sixty-year-old man that there is wire in my bra is exhausting.

  It’s like I’m speaking some foreign language. Which, to him, I’m sure I am.

  Duane sits in a chair, watching the whole exchange with a smirk on his face. Every time I blow a piece of hair out of my face or huff in frustration,
he barks out laughter, but offers no help.

  Ass.

  After way too much bra talk, between the TSA agent and myself, he let me go.

  “Ann, we’re gonna be late.” Duane looks at his cell phone with a creased brow.

  Grabbing my phone from the bin, I throw an annoyed look at the old TSA agent and contemplate if I have enough time to pull my Converse on. Eleven forty-five displays on the screen of my cell phone. Shit, nope—no time.

  Duane’s up, and waiting to book it to the gate. I toss him my shoes and we bolt like lightening to our plane, laughing the entire way.

  Luck is on our side. When we arrive, the flight attendant notifies us the plane is delayed twenty minutes. Winded from our dash to the gate, we plop into a set of chairs to catch our breath.

  With suspicious, silly eyes, Duane gives me a side-glance, goofily toying with the situation. A smile spreads across my face and we burst into laughter.

  “Can you believe that guy?” I ask in between giggles, motioning behind me.

  “You can’t blame him, the guy was ancient,” Duane sputters while holding his stomach.

  “Yes I can!” I screech. “Just because he is old doesn’t give him free access to maul my body. He had to know I had underwire in my damn bra.”

  “Can’t fault a guy for trying.” Duane shrugs one shoulder, giving my chest a quick glance.

  I roll my eyes, and tuck a few strands of hair behind my ear.

  Duane’s phone beeps, and I stifle the remaining laughter.

  “Mind if I take this?” He asks.

  I look around, trying to find something to do so I can give him his space. “Sure. I’m going to go get something to drink. Want anything?”

  Duane scowls at the phone and slightly shakes his head, but I don’t think he meant it for me.

  Ooookay. I’ll let him be. I really do need something to drink. After our little sprint to the plane, I’m thirsty. Stumbling upon a small café, I grab Duane and I water, and chocolate for a treat. Once I pay, I slowly head back to Duane, giving him time to get off the phone.