Flight Risk

by Barbara Valentin

  Like the one standing in front of her.

  Catching the low flame still smoldering in his eyes, she rasped, "What have you got?"

  For a split second, she caught the flame roar. His entire body seemed to tense as he drew a bit closer. Then his eyes dropped to her waiting mouth, and he replied, "A twin bed and a futon couch."

  Aubrey flinched.

  Adding a smirk to his smolder, he added, "You can have your pick."

  Just then a loud bam sounded as the wind blew the door to the roof deck shut.

  His face clenched in a grimace, John looked back at her and said, "Forgot to put the door jam in place."

  A cold chill blew over her as she watched him turn and walk to the center of the deck. Looking back over his shoulder, he announced, "I call dibs on the hammock."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star." —Friedrich Nietzsche

  Burrowed against John's spent but warm body, Aubrey tugged the corner of a sleeping bag over her bare shoulder as her sleepy, smiling self pondered whatever random thoughts came to mind.

  Who knew hammocks were so sturdy?

  Thank you, Teddy…

  Best friend in the whole wide world…

  Must buy thank you gift…

  Like a new car…

  Or a house.

  And, before returning to oblivion, I could love this man.

  * * *

  At some point later, when a gray-, blue-, and lavender-streaked dawn broke over the vast expanse of Lake Michigan and swapped night for day, the crash of beer bottles being cast into a dumpster behind a bar down the block woke John with a start.

  So did the ahem of an old man seated on the opposite side of the deck. Without moving, John peeked over at him. It was Mr. Hammett from 3C. Nearly ninety and frail, he was dressed as usual in his Sunday best and had a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a section of a newspaper in the other.

  John poked his hand out and gave the old man a brief wave. "Morning, Mr. Hammett."

  It's not like it was the first time John had been caught sleeping on the roof deck. Weather permitting, he usually slept there instead of in the cramped quarters of his studio apartment. Only this time he wasn't alone.

  With Aubrey's head nestled against his chest, he stroked her hair until he felt her stir against him, cursing Mr. Hammett and his daily sunrise ritual.

  Kissing the top of her head, he whispered, "We have company," even though said company had returned his attention to whatever he was reading.

  Expecting her reaction to be one of alarm, confusion, or surprise, the last thing he expected was for her to purr, "That's too bad," before kissing his chest.

  He peeked into the sleeping bag to make sure he was waking up with the same woman with whom he had fallen asleep.

  "Can you get rid of them?" she asked before kissing him again, only lower this time.

  Don't do that.

  "It's a neighbor. We should go."

  "We were here first."

  She planted another kiss, lower still, this time with a bit of a lick.

  Stifling a groan, John reached over the edge of the hammock and started groping around until his hand found his jeans.

  I can't believe I'm doing this.

  After he wriggled them on with no small degree of difficulty, discomfort, or resistance from the future Mrs. Mac Delaney, he rolled off the hammock and bent to pick up Aubrey's panties, bra, capris, and blouse that were scattered on the floor around them, forgotten.

  And, what's this?

  Oh.

  Shoving the condom wrapper deep into his front pocket, he handed Aubrey her things, still not entirely over the surprise of her pulling said condom from her purse the night before.

  After making sure Mr. Hammett's attention was diverted elsewhere, John stood watching as she wrestled her clothes back on without exposing herself to the chill morning air.

  When she had dressed, she pushed back the sleeping bag and sat up.

  "Good morning," Mr. Hammett called out. "Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?"

  Aubrey gave the distinguished-looking gentleman a broad grin and wiggled her fingers in a wave while he lit his pipe.

  After she took the hand John held out to her, he pulled her upright. Her makeup was smudged, and her hair was a mess, but she took his breath away.

  Her eyebrows knotted up in the center. "What? Do I have raccoon eyes?" She moistened the tip of her finger and started rubbing under the lashes of one eye.

  "Nah," he breathed. "You look perfect."

  At this, she did a crappy job of trying to hide a blushing smile before leveling him with a look, the meaning behind which was perfectly clear.

  No. Relationship.

  "For somebody who just rolled out of a hammock, I mean."

  Except, he didn't.

  After the night they'd just had, he expected her to feel something, anything.

  But he still had thirty-six hours. And his work cut out for him.

  "Aubrey," he said rather loudly as he motioned to the gentleman sitting silently in the corner while he pulled his T-shirt over his head, "I'd like you to meet Mr. Hammett. Mr. Hammett, Aubrey."

  "Good morning, Audrey," Mr. Hammett called out. "Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?"

  Aubrey, ignoring the mispronunciation of her name, exclaimed, "Yes. It's going to be a beautiful day."

  John waved her over to where Mr. Hammett was sitting. "Have a seat."

  "So, Mr. Hammett here," he continued, "is a retired WWII fighter pilot."

  Aubrey sat straight up, her eyes honing in on an Honorable Service pin on his tweed lapel. "It's an honor to meet you, sir."

  John listened, fascinated, as Aubrey explained that her dad had been a naval pilot before he was shot down and given up for dead during the Gulf War.

  Mr. Hammett's wrinkled face broke into a smile. "Well, the feeling's mutual, Audrey." He raised his pipe in John's direction before proclaiming, "John here is a fine boy. I hope you know how lucky you are to have him."

  At this, he couldn't help giving her an I-told-you-so look.

  Aubrey met it with a wary laugh. "And, uh, how do you two know each other?"

  John explained, "Weather permitting, I sleep up here. Quite a bit, actually." He paused and motioned to the hammock. "Which is why I keep pillows and a sleeping bag in the dock box."

  She winked her acknowledgement.

  "Yeah, so one morning, I woke up and saw Mr. Hammett here taking in the sunrise, and we got to talking. Turns out, he lives down the hall from me."

  The old vet smiled appreciatively.

  "OK," John urged his elderly friend. "Go on. Tell her the story."

  "Story?" Aubrey asked, shuddering as a chill wind blew across the deck. Holding up her index finger, she dashed back to the hammock to retrieve the opened sleeping bag and wrapped it around her. Snuggling into the black-and-red-checked flannel lining, she said, "I'd love to hear it."

  "Aubrey's a journalist," John interjected.

  "Well, I'm a travel writer," she clarified and waited for Mr. Hammett to begin.

  "I joined the air force when I was just seventeen. All I ever wanted to be was a pilot. Never knew I was afraid of heights until I was on my first training flight. Scared the bajeebers outta me."

  "So what did you do?" Aubrey gasped.

  The old man shrugged. "I jumped."

  Her eyes darted from the vet to John and back again. Swallowing hard, she asked, "You jumped?"

  "And just like that," Mr. Hammett said as he held up a trembling hand and snapped his fingers. "I was never scared of heights again. The military called it desensitization."

  John, who had been hanging on his every word with a wide smile, turned to Aubrey. "See?"

  "When's your jump, dear?"

  "Next Wednesday," she replied through a grimace.

  Mr. Hammett reached over and covered her hand with his. "I look forward to you telling me all about it."
r />   Giving the old gentleman's hand a squeeze, she smiled. "You can count on it."

  At this, John stood. Looking at Aubrey, he nodded toward the stairwell door. "We should get moving."

  "So what's the game plan?" Her question bounced off the walls of the stairwell as they descended to his apartment on the third floor.

  Pushing through the door and into his tiny studio, he whispered, "Uh, yeah, so I'm taking you a couple different places today, but the first one doesn't open until ten."

  Closing the door behind her, he added, "So we've got some time to kill."

  And I have calls to make.

  One to Javi to see what time he could pick up his car later and one to Eugenia to find out if his gran was going to be out at all so he knew when he could return it without running into her.

  But first, he had to contact Gary Revets, his former jump master over in Rochelle, to help him arrange for Aubrey to take a tandem jump the very next day.

  He was just scrolling through his contact list when he heard Aubrey say, "Cute place you've got here. How about a shower?"

  His head snapped up.

  Don't go there.

  With her lying sans clothes on top of him all night long, it was impossible not to hold her, smell her hair, feel her breathing, and think about…things.

  One of which had to do with Whitney. The trophy wife wannabe never would've stepped foot into his dilapidated building, let alone run up six flights of stairs with him to the roof as if they were little kids in search of an adventure…and she sure as hell wouldn't have tolerated sleeping outside with him—in a hammock.

  Aubrey, on the other hand, was everything Whitney wasn't.

  Independent.

  Exciting.

  Fun loving.

  Being with her felt amazing. Natural. Like they belonged together.

  Now, all he had to do was make sure she felt the same way about him, and then he'd be all set. Well, they'd be all set. For life.

  I hope she doesn't mind a short engagement.

  "You have one, don't you?" Aubrey asked before clarifying, "A shower, I mean."

  He pulled a face. "Please. It's behind that door. Towels on the rack." As she made her way towards it, overnight bag in hand, he added, "Now, listen. It might take a while for the water to heat up, but it will eventually, so take your time."

  She had no sooner shut the bathroom door than he hit the call button on Gary's number. When he didn't pick up after four rings, John left him a hushed message and asked that he text him when he had a minute.

  By the time Aubrey was done and had emerged wearing a pair of jeans, the kind that ended just below the knee, and a mint-green long-sleeved sweater, he had confirmed that his Range Rover was safe and sound in Javi's garage, and he could come by anytime to pick it up. Best of all, Eugenia informed him that his gran had an appointment at two and would be meeting friends for a pre-Chicago Symphony dinner at four. And then he had that wedding party dinner thing in Ravenswood at six.

  Plenty of time.

  Careful to take his phone into the bathroom while he showered, John was done and ready to go in five minutes.

  "How 'bout some breakfast?" he asked as he pulled on his socks.

  Aubrey, whose thumbs were flying over her phone's keypad, looked up. "Excuse me?"

  "Breakfast?"

  "Oh, yeah, sure. Great."

  After they checked on Aubrey's car and fed the meter, the pair grabbed some coffee and scones from a nearby bakery. From there, they had a short walk to the Blue Line CTA train that would take them downtown for lesson #2.

  * * *

  "Just promise the next time you hear me volunteer to host someone else's party for them, you'll remind me of this very moment." Claire, seven months pregnant and in no mood for, well, for anything, looked down at her husband, Paul, dutifully folding cloth napkins on the dining room table while she dusted the blades of the ceiling fan above him.

  Dropping a half-folded maroon napkin in a heap in front of him, he looked up at her and shook his head, "No, I won't."

  Claire was aghast. "No?"

  Paul just resumed folding.

  "Why not?"

  "Because, you love this," he laughed.

  "This being…what? The planning? The stress? The cooking? The coordinating everything?"

  "Yes."

  Not ready to admit defeat, Claire let out a heavy sigh while she worked an old cloth baby diaper over one of the fan's blades.

  Having folded the last napkin, Paul stood and rubbed his hand against her back. "Come down from there before you hurt yourself."

  "I just have one more…" She strained to reach the last blade.

  Bracing her hips, he purred, "No one will notice, querida."

  Claire froze, preoccupied by a tightening sensation at the top of her expansive belly that slowly morphed into a cramp in her lower back. "You're right."

  Paul pulled out his phone while he helped her down. "I'm sorry. Can you repeat that, please? I'd like to get it on video."

  When she plunked into a chair without responding, he knelt before her, his face tight with concern. "What's wrong, babe?"

  Claire held her breath as she rubbed the spot where she felt the tightening. With her other hand she applied pressure to the last area she had felt the baby's feet press against her hours before.

  When the baby finally pressed back, she blew out a sigh of relief and smiled at her husband. "Braxton Hicks."

  Paul's eyebrows shot up. "A contraction? This early? All right, that does it. To bed."

  She waved him off. "I'm fine, and there's still so much to do."

  Disappearing through the pocket door that led into the kitchen, he returned a moment later with a pen and a pad of paper. "Make a list. The boys and I will take care of everything. And don't forget Sara and Andrew said they could come early to help if Mattie and Nick are held up at the track meet."

  "Oh, but you wanted to go to that and see Luke run," she protested.

  Paul stood before her with his hands on his hips. Using the same tone she had heard him use when reading the boys the riot act, he laid into her. "Claire Elizabeth Mendez. This is your fifth pregnancy. You know better than to overdo it. Now, get to bed, and get some rest."

  If she didn't weigh the equivalent of a refrigerated ice cream truck, she was pretty sure he would've carried her upstairs. Instead, he walked her up, waited until she actually got into bed, and deposited her cell phone and laptop next to her.

  Standing in the doorway, he pointed his finger at her. "Do not get out of that bed."

  "Yes sir." She gave him a mock salute.

  At that, he returned to the bed and sat down. Taking her face between his hands, he looked at her a moment. Then, with a tenderness that belied his scowl, he said, "I mean it. I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you or the baby."

  Pulling her face into a pout, she whispered, "Sorry, sweetie."

  Paul leaned over, kissed her, and then kissed her belly. "Now stay put. Text me or one of the boys if you need anything."

  As soon as he closed the door behind him, Claire positioned herself on her side, shoved an extra pillow between her knees, and had just closed her eyes when she heard her phone chirp.

  It was a text from Aubrey.

  Would it be all right if I brought someone tonight?

  Claire let out an excited little gasp and texted back Malcolm?

  No.

  "Oh." She frowned at her phone, trying to remember the name of Aubrey's friend who worked as a freelance photographer at the Gazette. All Claire could recall was that it was one of those androgynous names. She was running through the possibilities (Sammy? Alex?) when her phone chirped again.

  That guy from Chez Doug's.

  * * *

  John couldn't have asked for a more beautiful day to secure the affections of one Aubrey Michelle Thomas if he had planned it. Not a cloud in the sky, temperatures in the mid-seventies, a slight breeze coming off the lake. Perfect weather for everythin
g he had planned.

  "So where are we going?" Aubrey asked as she walked alongside him down Wacker Drive towards State Street where they'd catch the #22 bus to the Navy Pier terminal.

  "You'll find out soon enough."

  He was glad he had planned this stop first. Given the gorgeous day, the lines would be crazy long later.

  Still, the negative vibe coming from her side of the sidewalk was starting to concern him.

  Better distract her.

  "Hey, so tell me more about your nana."

  Aubrey, marching stoically along like a soldier going off to battle, huffed, "What do you want to know?"

  "What did she mean when she said I was 'the one'?"

  Stopping in her tracks, his fear-be-gone protégé looked at him and said, "If you could pretend you never heard that, that would be great. Thanks."

  She resumed marching.

  John tried to think of something else to ask. "OK, how about this? What did you mean when you said I didn't have the right initials?"

  Again, she stopped and squinted up at him.

  "You know what? I think it would be better if we just didn't speak. Would that be all right?"

  Then suddenly, she spun around to face the building looming to her right. When she spotted the two-foot-high gilded numbers over the revolving doors leading to what looked like an opulent lobby, she looked up at the complex, her face wistful.

  John followed her gaze and then looked at her. "What are we looking at?"

  She glanced in his general direction. "Oh. I, uh, just know someone who lives in that building."

  That makes two of us.

  Resuming their walk, she spoke to the sidewalk. "I plan on moving there someday."

  Knowing people who already lived there and roughly what they paid for their units and exactly what reporters at the Gazette made, this surprised him.

  "Seriously?"

  "What?" Making no attempt to hide the irritation in her voice, she asked, "You have something against living the good life?"

  The tenants John knew had been more than willing to plunk down a fortune for their units just so they could say they lived at the prestigious address—exactly the kind of people he didn't like and didn't want to be, even if he could afford to buy the entire building.