by Liv Leighton
I could pull the my-dead-father-wanted-this card, I thought. But the thought of bringing up my dad in Jack’s presence seemed like a cowardly thing to do.
The waitress walked away to let us figure out what we wanted to eat. The moment she was gone, Jack sat his menu down and looked at me with a sly smile. He had a great smile, but the look on his face indicated that he still wasn’t quite sure what to think of me.
“There is one thing that might be able to solve this problem,” he said.
I made a frustrated chuckling noise and tore my eyes away from his face. “Does it involve you giving me Mr. Tanner’s plane?” Shut up, I told myself. You’re starting to sound like a whiny entitled bitch. My own comments to myself were starting to sting.
But at the comment, Jack did nothing but smile. “No. Not quite.”
“Then what?”
I watched him as he thought over his words. The look of concentration reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t place my finger on who it might be. For a moment, I thought that I had maybe seen Jack somewhere before. But then it was gone when he looked at me again. His eyes looked directly into mine and I tried to keep the desperate part of me that badly wanted this to be a date far to the back of my heart.
“Well, you said that you had the same plan as I did, right? About flying people out to remote locations?”
“Yes. I was going to offer it through The Pine Way.”
He nodded, mulling it over.
“What?” I asked. I hated that he had me on the edge of my seat. If this had have been a real date, I would have been an absolute mess by now.
“Partner with me.” His eyes were glued to mine.
The idea was so far out of left field that I was unable to respond right away. When I finally did, all I was able to say was “What?” and even then my voice sounded strangled, like some weird exotic bird.
“It makes sense,” Jack said. “You know the people of the town. You have a central hub for people to come to when they need the services. And I have the plane and the pilot’s license.”
My first reaction was to flatly refuse. But as the negative response started to fill my mouth, I started to understand that although I hated the thought of working with him and sharing the plane, his idea made sense.
It was actually sort of brilliant.
“I don’t know,” I said. Truthfully, I wanted to accept right then and there. So what if I was angry beyond words at him? Did anyone
ever genuinely like the people that worked with?
“Think about it,” he said.
He didn’t ask me to think about it—he told me. He knew he had absolute control of the situation. It made me even angrier at him.
I finished my glass of wine in two large gulps. I looked for the waitress, wanting another and another.
She finally came by, refilling my wine and taking our orders. Five minutes went by without either of us saying a word. I looked over his shoulder, to the ocean view, and thought about leaving… just walking out before my meal even arrived.
“How long have you lived here?” Jack broke the silence.
I looked at him curiously. He was either choosing to ignore the fact that I was clearly furious, or he was oblivious and didn’t see it.
But still, I found myself answering him. And by the time our meals had come, we were in a full conversation. For the next hour or so, we talked innocently, like two people on a first date, and the plane did not come up in our conversation a single time.
10—Devlin
Although there were twenty-four of us, it felt like much less as we stormed through the ghetto with our guns across out chests and our packs along our backs. It was my second tour in Afghanistan and the only combat I had seen had involved apprehending four men that we had caught planting roadside bombs. During that confrontation, all I’d done was throw a right hook at a guy half my size. Other than that, the closest I had come to actual combat was being three blocks away from a stand-off.
But now here I was with this team of soldiers, knowingly heading into the midst of live fire. Even as we strategically made our way through the dirty streets, we could hear gunshots and people screaming. Some of those screams were coming from children.
The shots came when we were a block away from the school. Whatever the enemy was shooting at us with, it was nothing too heavy. It was something more than a standard rifle, but nothing even close to matching the automatic M4s we were all carrying.
I watched two men fall, one of which had been clearly shot in the head. We had been trained to keep our cool in these situations, to ignore the blood and the death and to not fall back and panic unless our orders directed us to do so. So we dashed forward into the gunfire, towards the screams.
By the time we reached the school, taking cover behind a deteriorated wall, the twenty-four members our squad had dropped to twelve. We had managed to take out a few as well, but we couldn’t hone in one single location. It seemed like they knew we were coming, where we were going and the route we were going to take. The shots were coming from everywhere, even while we were ducked down behind the wall beside the school.
We tried splitting up, half of us going to the rear of the school, the other half going in to the front. My group went to the back and it was then, as I came around the back corner with my M4 raised and ready to fire, that the world shook with a violent explosion. Most of it hit the ground, still firing at our unseen enemy. While none of us dared speak it out loud, we all somehow knew for certain that the explosion had been a planted bomb or mine at the front of the school; our men that had tried going in through the front were dead.
One of us—Michaels or Vasquez, I was never sure—started screaming right beside me. There was pure fury in his scream and he went running into the school without much caution. I watched him get shot twice but keep going. And then, one right after the other, we all did the same.
Entering the school, I was the last one in line but the first to see the insurgent hiding in the small classroom to the left. His gun was trained on the man in front of me and I instinctively raised my gun, took aim, and fired.
The round hit him in the head and when he rocked back, his eyes went wide and as he fell to the ground, he was looking right at me. I wanted to scream but couldn’t, wanted to fall out on the floor and wail, but couldn’t—
I woke up gasping. I could feel the recoil of that ghost M4 in my hands, the shot from the dream so loud and so real that I could easily feel its phantom presence in the waking world.
I was sweating and my heart was pounding. I sat in bed and looked at the bedside clock which read 5:05. I rubbed at my forehead, as if to coax any of the remnants of the dream out, just to be rid of the damn thing. I’d had that same dream from time to time since I had been rescued by the chopper roughly twenty minutes after going into the school. It had come less frequently when I’d been at my busiest in Hollywood. Last summer, I’d been on location for three different films at one point, averaging three flights a week and around five hours of sleep a night.
I thought I had somehow exorcised myself of the dream, but there it was again. It had found me here in Sitka reminding me that no matter what sort of lifestyle I chose to lead, that pivotal afternoon in Afghanistan was going to be a part of me forever.
Knowing that it would be next to impossible to get back to sleep, I went into the kitchen and put on a cup of coffee. I tried reading a book while listening to the coffee brew but couldn’t concentrate. I tossed the book to the side and then did something I hadn’t done in several days: I cut on the TV.
One of those far-too cheery morning shows had just come on and they were quickly running through the recent headlines. I caught up on the news, zoning out in front of the television until the coffee was done brewing. I scrambled some ages, made some toast, and then plopped myself in front of the TV again while eating.
As I started in on my second piece of toast, I nearly choked when my face appeared in the little graphic box next to the morning hos
t. Coughing and spitting up the chunk of toast I had nearly choked on, I grabbed the remote and turned the volume up.
“…to the world of Hollywood,” the host was saying. “It’s been six weeks since Devlin Stone disappeared and the conspiracy theories are flying! Was he part of the Illuminati? Was he kidnapped by insurgents or terrorists due to his heroics in the war four and a half years ago? Or has he simply tired of the Hollywood lifestyle and retreated to some unknown location? From his agent, to his PR manager, from his romantic interests to his accountant, this manhunt has grown to epic proportions. Later in the show, we’ll be talking to Adam Parker, Devlin Stone’s agent, to get the latest in the developments of this case, so stay tuned.”
With a grunt, I turned the TV off and slung the remote control across the room.
How could I have been so stupid?
It was a thought that clung to my brain like the dream of Afghanistan. Someone would eventually find me. And, with my luck, it would be because of the money transfer I’d approved for the purchase of Mr. Tanner’s float plane.
“Whatever,” I said out loud into the cabin.
I stared at the blank TV for a moment, sorting it out in my head how I might handle being discovered. What would I do if Aubrey or Adam showed up at my door later in the day? How would I explain myself? And how I the hell would I manage to fend off the reporters and journalists?
It was the first time since arriving in Sitka that I actually allowed myself to be bothered by such details. And as I let it sink it, an amazing thing happened… I learned that I didn’t care.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and did nothing but think for a moment. It was surprisingly easy to push the nightmare of Afghanistan and the worries of being found out by my Hollywood zombie-acquaintances to the side and focus instead on the meeting Mac and I had arranged.
Two days had passed since our awkward dinner and she had texted me last night to ask me to come to The Pine Way to go over the details. I assumed this meant that she had given thought to partnering with me and had decided in the positive. With this hope obliterating all of my worries of being found out by snooping eyes from Hollywood, I got on my bike and headed into Sitka, riding through a crisp and cold morning.
The sun was barely warming my face as the frigid wind bit into me, but it was a pleasant feeling. By the time I was halfway down Moose Hill, the new reports and my nightmares of Afghanistan were forgotten.
****
I got to The Pine Way just as Mac was flicking on the lights for the day. When I walked in, I smelled coffee brewing in the back of the store and in an odd way, it was a very private sort of moment for me. This was Mac’s place of business and I was seeing it during its first moments of the day. It was quiet and quaint; I felt as if I was intruding on some sort of special moment.
Trying to be as polite and non-confrontational as possible, I said, “Hello?” in a soft voice.
I heard shuffling footsteps behind the counter. There was small room in the back, joined to the rest of the store by a small doorway. Mac came through this doorway with a cup of coffee in her hand. She didn’t look too thrilled to see me. The look on her face made me think that to her, the mere thought of partnering with me on this little venture was the equivalent of the South surrendering to the North to end the Civil War.
“Am I too early?” I asked. I was overdoing the cheerfulness in my voice and I hope it didn’t seem too fake. I did, after all, have the acting background to support it.
“No,” she said. From that one simple word, I couldn’t help but wonder if she was still sleepy or just really didn’t want to see me.
“Good.”
“You want come coffee?” she asked. The tone she asked me in made me think that if I said yes, she’d possibly castrate me.
“No,” I answered.
I walked up to the counter and gave her plenty of opportunity to start the conversation. Truth be told, I had absolutely no idea how to start. I was thankful to her when she finally opened her grumpy mouth to talk.
“Here’s the thing,” she said. “I’m not a bitch. I’m really not. I’m also not a spoiled brat. Now that you know those things, you maybe can understand why it is so hard for me express to you why I was so upset when I found out that you had purchased the plane from under my nose.”
“It wasn’t under your nose,” I corrected. “I had no idea there was another interested buyer until I walked into Mr. Tanner’s with my check.”
“I understand that. But I’ve seen it time and time again around here—someone new comes in, sweeps down and buys out a business. It’s a crappy thing to do.”
“I didn’t buy out a business,” I said. “And quite frankly, you are coming off as being spoiled. I bought the plane. It’s mine. I bear you to it. I hate to rub it in, but it seems that those cold hard facts are the only way to get through to you.”
A hurt look crossed her face, but she made it disappear right away. “Look… here’s what it comes down to,” she said. “Getting the plane would bring a dream of my father’s to fruition. I am not playing the my-dead-dad-wanted-this card… I promise you that. But it would give my business a huge boost if it could work right.”
“I gathered that much at dinner,” I said. “I am offering you the chance to partner with me as a courtesy.”
“A courtesy? Are you shitting me?”
“Well, honestly, it would benefit me slightly, too. Having your lovely local business tagged on to my services could be great… not just for me, but for both of us.”
“It would,” Mac said. Saying it, she made it sound like the worse thing in the world. It sounded like she’d rather have a root canal from a drunk dentist rather than go into business with me.
“That’s a bad thing?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t even know you.”
“Exactly. This could work if you give it a try. And if it doesn’t… well then, at least you tried.”
“But you’d keep the plane, right?”
“Of course I would. I paid for it. But hell… who knows… maybe I’ll find out after a few months that this little business I have in mind is really nothing but a pipe dream. If that happens and I decide I can’t use the plane, I won’t put it up for sale. I’ll call you directly.”
She was quiet for a while, sipping on her coffee. Behind her, the phone rang. She sighed, looking to the phone.
“So how do we do this?” she asked. “Do we sign papers or something?”
“I’ll write something up,” I said.
She nodded, an act that she managed to make look violent. She then headed for the still-ringing phone, now on its third ring. “Fine,” she said.
“I’ll bring it to y
ou when it’s d—,”
She didn’t even let me finish. She answered the phone, cutting me off.
I wanted to stay there until she was done with her phone and rail into her. I wanted to let her know that it was hard to believe that she wasn’t a bitch by nature. I wanted to tell her to forget about it…forget the partnership and the plane.
But I said none of those things. I couldn’t place what it was, but there was something about her demeanor that made me think that she was… I don’t know… hurting, maybe. It was hard to put a word to it.
So instead of staying to prolong the argument, I remembered the few glimmers of the nice woman I had seen at dinner the other night. That woman had apparently not come into work today, sending in this grump and stern version of mac, instead.
I left the store reluctantly. I didn’t look back, because I didn’t want her to think that I was fazed.
I hopped back on my bike and pedaled back up Moose Hill where I thought I might flip on the TV again to see what harebrained stories were being concocted about Devlin Stone and his present whereabouts.
11—Mac
It had been two days since Jack had come by The Pine Way, ruining my day by visiting first thing in the morning. As promised, he had written up a contract. I
’ll give him credit for one thing—he knows when he’s not wanted. He didn’t bring the contract by the store in person; he’d opted on e-mail it to me instead.
I read over it and read over it and read over it again. And here I was, two days later, re-reading it. I didn’t understand why I kept looking at it. I knew I was going to sign the damn thing. It made sense. It was a no-brainer. But, if I was being honest with myself, I was being a bit spoiled. I kept trying to tell myself that I wanted to do this for my father, but my father would have been very disappointed in the way I was acting.
I held my pen over the signature line but just couldn’t sign my name. Not yet.
I went to the fridge and grabbed a beer. Red wine was usually my drink of choice but when I wanted to get drunk, I went for beer. And tonight, I wanted to get drunk. I had wanted to get drunk ever since Mr. Tanner had told me that he had sold the plane to someone else. Maybe, I thought, it will be easier to sign Jack’s contract if I’m three sheets to the wind.
The phrase three sheets to the wind had never made sense to me. It had been one of my father’s goofy little sayings. He’d used it a lot whenever someone was drunk (often, when he was drunk later on in my life).
With a sigh, I shoved thoughts of dad out of my head. That, coupled with Jack’s contract and everything to do with the plane, did not make for a good night. Especially when there was a case of beer in my fridge, promising me that it could easily help me forget about all of that for a while.
I took my beer to the computer and opened up my novel-in-progress. There were times, when sitting behind the keyboard, that my brain just didn’t want to write. Sometimes it seemed to pretend that it couldn’t even remember what the book was about. But tonight was not one of those nights.
I found it easier to connect with my characters and their motivations. I got into what I guess was a zone of sorts. Best of all, I was getting closer to a pivotal scene that might involve some sex. I had already decided, from writing the first sentence, that all sex would be mostly left off of the page and left to the reader’s imagination. But as I wrote the book and got closer to that scene, it was almost like foreplay in a way. I found that I wanted to see what my main male character looked like naked. I wanted to find out what sort of a man he was like in the bedroom.
