Flight Risk

by Barbara Valentin

  "Come on," he laughed. And she followed.

  Twenty minutes later, their cab pulled in front of her address.

  "OK, just give me five minutes to pack a bag and grab my car keys. Wait here."

  "Ya sure? Meter's running."

  Aubrey looked towards her building where the words Psychic Readings glowed neon-red in the middle of the first floor window. Looking up to the second floor, she noticed a light shining brightly through the thin slits not covered by her nana's heavy drapes.

  Trepidation gripped her insides. When the subject of her social life came up with her nana, she still managed to revert to her thirteen-year-old self—especially when men were involved.

  Please be asleep. Please be asleep.

  Turning back to John, she nodded. "You're right. Come with me."

  As the cab sped away, they stood alone together on the dark quiet tree-lined sidewalk. "Before we go in, there are two things I have to tell you."

  He lifted his chin and shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. "Shoot."

  As if she were divulging a secret that would compromise national security, she whispered, "I live with my nana."

  She watched as his eyebrows shot up. "And…?"

  "You don't find that odd."

  Another shrug. "Not in the least."

  "Not in the least? You know, you don't sound like…well, never mind."

  "Like what?"

  They started up the walkway to the front door.

  "Never mind."

  Before she slid her key into the lock, John asked, "What's the other thing?"

  Aubrey turned to face him and found that with him standing on the step below hers, they were the same height. Bracing herself, she blurted, "She's a psychic."

  Given his reaction, she may as well have said her nana was really a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. "Seriously? I can't wait to meet her."

  Aubrey remembered Max's reaction to the news as if it was yesterday. "Oh, so she's a whack job?"

  When she shoved the heavy door forward, they stepped into the carpeted foyer and ascended the stairs. The higher they got, the stronger the familiar aroma of braised beef, garlic, and paprika became.

  Goulash.

  John must've smelled it, too. He let out a low groan before whispering, "That smells so good."

  Holding an index finger to her pursed lips, she signaled for him to be quiet and unlocked the first door they came to on the second floor. Stepping in, she cringed as she heard pots clanking together in the kitchen.

  "Hi, Nana. I'm home."

  Glancing at John who had come through the door behind her, she whispered, "Wait right here."

  With every intention of throwing some things into a bag and grabbing the car keys from a hook on the kitchen wall before escaping into the unknown with a window washer (desperate times call for desperate measures), she was just making her way towards her bedroom when a small woman sporting a dark-gray babushka appeared in the entryway to the kitchen, large spoon in hand.

  "Hi Nana," Aubrey repeated before giving a hug that her nana did not return because she was staring at John.

  Here we go.

  "Nana, this is John. John Trelawney."

  Pointing her spoon at him, her nana gave him a slow once-over and asked with a thick Eastern European accent. "You hungry? Vee eat."

  "Yes, thank you. I'm famished."

  So much for a quick in and out.

  Aubrey watched as her nana waved him into the kitchen. "Come. Come."

  When John had finished the hearty helping of savory stew, she pointed at his empty bowl and asked, "You vant more? I got more."

  "Yes, please. That was so good." He leaned closer to the table and looked at Aubrey. "You get to eat like this all the time?"

  Before she could answer, he turned his gaze back to her nana who had bustled over to the stove. "You know, Nana, I can see where Aubrey gets her beautiful eyes."

  "Suck up," Aubrey chortled.

  Redirecting his gaze to her, he lowered his voice. "You think I'm the only one with beautiful eyes?"

  Aubrey's mouth suddenly felt as dry as the Sahara.

  When would she learn that bringing men home to meet her nana was never a good idea? The only other guy she had introduced to her was Max, and it had been a disaster from the start. First, he had asked, "What's that smell?" as soon as he'd walked in then declined a serving of her Paprika Chicken. No wonder her nana had delivered the reading of his palm with such contempt. After gazing at the lines of his outstretched hand for several seconds, she had shoved it back towards him, turned her head, and spat right there on the kitchen floor. "He no good," she announced before getting up to leave the room, to which Max replied, "Whatever. Let's go."

  And she had followed.

  Not one of my better moments.

  A month later, she had returned, trying to get her bearings—which she still hadn't found.

  She watched and waited while John polished off his second serving. When, through a huge smile, he raved, "That was outstanding," she actually caught her nana blush. A rare sight indeed.

  "Aren't you the charmer," Aubrey observed when they had a moment alone.

  Looking offended, he retorted, "What? It was delicious."

  "Whatever. I'm gonna go throw some things together, and we can get out of here."

  She would've been ready in no time flat if she hadn't come across a long-forgotten box of condoms in the back of her underwear drawer. Staring at it, Teddy's advice played over and over in her head like a broken record.

  An all-nighter with a really hot stranger, an all-nighter with a really hot stranger…

  By the time she returned to the kitchen, her nana was sitting right next to John, hunched over his palm.

  Oh no.

  She slipped into her chair at the table. "Listen, Nana. John's helping me with an assignment this weekend, so we really should get going."

  She was surprised how easy that was to say. Maybe because it was true.

  Still, the old fortune teller didn't seem to hear her.

  "Nana?"

  This time, it was John who shushed her with his free hand.

  After what seemed like an eternity, her nana raised her wrinkled face and gave Aubrey a knowing look which she had seen her use on clients a million times before. "Thees iz da one."

  Despite the glow she felt spreading up her neck and over her cheeks, she fought back the urge to roll her eyes before growling under her breath, "No, Nana. He's not."

  John piped up. "What one? What does that mean? The one what?"

  Aubrey closed her eyes briefly and shook her head. "Never mind. It's nothing."

  But her nana wasn't ready to concede. In as stern a tone as she had ever heard her nana use, she announced, "Soul. Mate."

  When her nana grabbed Aubrey's hand and placed it on top of John's open palm, she felt a chill run down her spine and half expected the curtains to flutter despite the windows being closed tight.

  Barely tolerating the spectacle that she had seen her nana perform for countless clients before, mostly nervous couples looking for validation, Aubrey pulled her hand away. As patiently as possible, she whispered, "But, Nana. He doesn't have the right initials."

  And he's a window washer, for Pete's sake!

  This seemed to throw the poor woman. Standing up, Aubrey thanked her for the food, kissed her, and explained again how she wouldn't be home for the rest of the weekend.

  Much to her surprise, her nana didn't balk. In fact, she practically shoved the two of them out the door. "You go. You go."

  The sound of her securing both the dead bolt and the slide chain lock echoed in Aubrey's ears.

  No going back now.

  "Well that was fun," John laughed as he followed Aubrey to a Volvo parked on the street.

  "Yeah, she's pretty eccentric," Aubrey huffed as she trudged along.

  "Heh, you oughtta meet my gran. Polar opposite."

  "Wanna trade?"

  Hearing John suck
in a breath, she turned to him as he warned, "Be careful what you wish for."

  "That bad, huh?"

  "Well, for starters, she can't cook."

  Aubrey nodded as she unlocked the doors. "Yeah, Nana is a good cook. Always has been."

  "And she's nowhere near as interesting. I mean a fortune teller? From Romania? Is she for real?"

  "You bet. She's got clientele who have been coming to her for decades. You think they'd keep coming back if she was a sham?"

  "That is so cool. Did she ever predict anything for you?"

  Aubrey didn't reply. Instead, she watched her alleged soul mate fold himself into the front passenger seat. When he did, he arched an eyebrow at her. "You sure you're OK to drive?"

  "So sure," she said, gripping the wheel with the resignation of a woman hell-bent on not repeating past mistakes.

  Besides, the humiliation she had just endured at the hands of her fortune-telling nana, again, had been quite sobering.

  "So. Where am I going?" Aubrey asked.

  "Oh, uh, just take Campbell straight up, and hang a left on Lyndale."

  They barely spoke the entire way.

  All Aubrey could do was wonder how the same scene would play out if she were ever to bring Malcolm home to meet her nana. And it wasn't pretty.

  "Here. It's this building on the right."

  "That was fast," she gulped as she pulled into a spot alongside it. That there was an open spot so close to his building on a Friday night spoke volumes.

  The brick building, apparently in the middle of a renovation, given the scaffolding, looked shabby compared to the sleek riverfront high-rise Malcolm called home.

  She forced back the memory of how she breathed a sigh of relief after parting with the well-coifed accountant after their not particularly comfortable lunch date and turned to John.

  "So, what's the game plan?"

  He turned to face her, those caramel-colored eyes smoldering in the streetlamp glow. After looking at her a good long while, he said, "You're coming upstairs. With me."

  Right.

  But all she could do was grip the steering wheel even harder and avert her gaze to the car parked directly in front of hers.

  Damn that Teddy.

  Everything her best friend had said to her earlier was spot on…and Aubrey knew it.

  While she was still deciding if she had the nerve to go through with it, she felt John reach over and slide his warm, strong hand behind her neck, rubbing it ever so gently.

  Her pulse quickening, she drew a deep breath and squirmed, "John, I—"

  Before she could finish, he withdrew it. "I understand. Be careful going home. I'll call you first thing, all right?"

  There was no mistaking the disappointment in his voice. All she could do was give him a quick nod.

  Then she saw him reach for his door handle. "Thanks for the ri—"

  "Ya know what? Yes."

  He stopped and looked at her. "Yes?"

  Turning, she locked her eyes onto his. "Yes, I want to come upstairs with you. But, again, no—"

  John reached behind her, grabbed her bag, and scraped out, "No relationship. Got it." Without so much as even looking at her, he was out of the car and bounding over to the front door of his building. When he reached it, he turned and looked at her still sitting behind the wheel, stupefied, and yelled, "Come on. What are you waiting for?"

  * * *

  Allison Delaney spoke into the handset of the wall-mounted phone in the cavernous subway-tiled all white kitchen. "Yes, officer, that's right. A black 2014 Range Rover, license plate…" She snapped her fingers at Eugenia standing nearby, who pulled a piece of paper from her pocket.

  When she didn't release it, Allison tugged hard while glowering at her housekeeper. After reciting the license plate number, she covered the mouthpiece and hissed, "Trust me. It's for his own good."

  Hearing the police officer resume her line of questioning, she spoke into the phone. "Yes. It was here when I left for dinner at approximately 5:30, but when I returned, it was gone."

  After a moment, she said, "No. No sign of forced entry." Then she looked off into the distance and repeated the officer's question. "Do I suspect anyone on the staff?"

  Her icy gaze fell on Eugenia who managed to return it.

  "No, I trust everyone on my staff implicitly. There's only one person who could've taken it…"

  Her eyes darted to her driver Cameron who had just burst into the room waving a small piece of paper, mouthing, "Hang up."

  She spoke into the mouthpiece, "Uh, excuse me officer," before turning to Cameron and hissing, "What is it?"

  He held the paper up to her face. "A copy of the vehicle registration." Lowering it, he added, "Made out to Mac."

  Allison grabbed it, moving her lips as she scanned the name in the Owner box.

  MacLyn John Delaney.

  With the strands of her brilliant scheme unraveling before her very eyes, she barely heard Cameron mumble to Eugenia, "Last I looked, you can't steal your own car."

  Allison slowly raised the handset back to her ear. "I'm very sorry, officer. I seem to have wasted your time."

  * * *

  "Close your eyes."

  Aubrey, panting and overheated from racing up six flights of stairs with him to the dim, empty landing, did as she was told.

  And her senses came alive.

  First, she caught a whiff of John's intoxicating cologne then felt the warmth coming off of his body and heard the soft crinkle of his windbreaker as she pressed against him.

  The rusted hinges whined in protest as he pushed the door in front of them open.

  Aubrey held her breath, releasing it only after one of his hands grabbed hers, and he secured the other at her waist.

  Then she felt a delicious breeze bathe her face with cool air, the scent of which made her think of gingersnaps and Thai food.

  John's voice, warm and enticing, sounded in her ear. "Ready for your first lesson?"

  She nodded and let him lead her—where, she had no idea.

  After taking a few tentative steps, she heard him murmur, "Almost there."

  When they had reached their destination, he stopped, moved behind her, and grasped her upper arms, just as he had in the restaurant some twelve hours before. Aubrey felt his body press against her back and his warm breath again, this time on her cheek, as he asked, "You're not peeking, are you?"

  With every cell in her body tingling, a smile broke over her face, and she gave her head a giddy shake, as if she was a little girl again on Christmas morning waiting to see what Santa had delivered.

  "All right. Just checking." She could hear the smile in his voice. "Ok, step up, just once. I got ya."

  Aubrey felt for the step with the tip of her shoe. "You're not gonna push me, are you?"

  Holding her shoulders tighter, he muttered, "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

  "You just did," she responded through a nervous grin.

  "Very funny. One more step."

  When his hands moved to her waist, she announced, "If you start singing the theme to Titanic, I'm so outta here."

  The breeze was stronger now. She knew she was pretty high up, but with his hands securing her, she never felt safer.

  He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "Open your eyes."

  Oh dear God.

  The first thing that caught her attention was the cable-strung fence about four feet high directly in front of her. Hardly enough to prevent a body from falling over the edge.

  Then she looked down. Suddenly, it didn't matter that she was standing completely still on a rooftop, anchored by a big guy standing behind her. The sensation of falling washed over her, and her sense of balance abandoned her. She shut her eyes to ward off her terror and the inevitable wave of nausea.

  "Now—very important—do not look down."

  "Too late," she heard herself whimper.

  Even the feel of his arms locking around her torso did little to soothe
her.

  "Come on now. I've got you. Look up. Check out that gorgeous skyline or the stars. There must be at least a million of them out tonight."

  Aubrey willed her eyes upward and let the twinkling architectural splendor of Chicago's distant high-rises fill her field of vision.

  As they stood there, little by little, her pulse slowed, and her whole posture relaxed. "It's beautiful," was all she could manage, but it really was. Her whole life she lived in Chicago but had never really appreciated its splendor until she saw it from this vantage point. "It looks like Oz."

  The exercise exhausted her.

  After a few more minutes, she looked back at him. "Are we done here?"

  He lifted his chin from her shoulder. "No. Time for a quiz."

  Gripping him as she carefully turned around, she let out a gasp as she took in the sight of the most enchanting roof deck ever. With bright Mayan patterned cushions plopped onto the bleached wood built-in seating that rimmed the perimeter of the space, plank flooring, small trees and shrubs jutting out of terra-cotta planters, a brightly striped hammock off to the side, and a dock box that doubled as a coffee table, she half expected Martha Stewart herself to waltz right in bearing a platter of homemade guacamole and chips, each of which she had shaped into the silhouette of Chichén Itzá with her very own hands.

  John stood firm before her, his eyes bright, his mouth teasing her with that half smile. "You ready?"

  Filled with an unexpected yearning to return to Mexico, she answered, "Sí."

  "When you're up high, what should you never ever do?"

  With a light laugh, she answered, "Look down."

  "Score!" he arched backwards. "Give the pretty lady a prize."

  As soon as he straightened back up, she asked, "What do I win?"

  John released her, went down a step, and cocked his head. After a few beats, he lowered his chin and asked, "What do you want?"

  A warm rush zipped up Aubrey's neck to the top of her head and back down to her toes, covering all points in between with a tantalizing tingle.

  She looked away, knowing full well what she wanted—security and stability. No more rash decisions. No more tea leave predictors.

  And no window washers.

  But she also knew what she needed.

  A one-nighter. With a really hot stranger.