by Hope Irving
Untangling my fingers from his, I kiss his forehead and leave the room as quietly as possible. For once, he’s too shocked to speak, move, or react.
A first.
“Thank you.” The flight attendant hands me the vodka I asked for in place of the standard champagne. I offer my biggest smile to the charming man as our fingers brush.
“Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
I nod in agreement, brazenly checking out the fit of Eric’s strict uniform.
Thank heavens for name tags!
All sorts of naughty thoughts invade my mind as I give the guy who must be in his late twenties a raunchy once-over. I can’t even blame it on the romance novels that fill my Kindle. Broad shoulders. Muscular body. Square jaw. I wonder if he does some modeling on the side. Yup, I have a dirty mind on my own, thank you very much.
You know what? Scratch that, I consider thinking about sex to be healthy, not dirty, even though it can sometimes end up being messy. So, I let my mind mull over the tone that he used when delivering his offer. Is he proposing more than what’s listed on the flight’s menu?
Nah, it can’t be!
Before I know it, I get my answer; he disappears without further notice.
Yeah, he’s just doing his job. Too bad!
Biting the corner of my bottom lip, I hand him the empty glass and resign myself to patiently wait for dinner to be served now that I ordered the fish. I booked the red-eye so that I could sleep on the plane and prevent jet lag.
“Is it your first time in New York?” the woman seated closest to me leans in to ask in a whisper. Her clothes are mostly loose, purple and green with a hippie feel, while mine are fitted, cream, and navy blue.
I explain that my mother is an American—still can’t use past tense when I mention her—and that her brother lives in New York, so I visit whenever I’m on sabbatical. From the intensity in her eyes, I can tell that she’s curious as to how a young woman like myself can afford to travel first-class.
Well, lady, that doesn’t only happen to twenty-something business moguls in my romance novels!
I’m well aware that my gruff voice and baby face don’t match and make it difficult to gauge my age. People usually think that I’m much younger and have a cold affecting my voice, so the astonishment that I read on her wrinkled face doesn’t surprise me. I would have reacted the same way if I were in her shoes. It’s one of the perks of being financially independent. On second thought, I’m technically supposed to inform Father of such things, including my whereabouts, but there’s always an exception to the rule.
“Hey, I’m Eileen, by the way.”
“Alie.” I shake her hand and take note of French-manicured nails; mine are also manicured, but I favor either bare or nearly black nail polish. Today it’s the latter.
It doesn’t take long before she gets chatty and I’m wondering how much she’s already had to drink. “I’m going to stay at my son’s in Greenwich Village. So, Michael, my son, is getting married on Valentine’s Day. He’s a fashion designer. He’ll be marrying a man. That’s what happens these days.”
“Yeah, some people meet their happily ever afters in the most unexpected ways these days, right?” That’s when I conjure up a modern fairytale in the form of an online love story between the French heiress of an upscale chain of outlet stores and a tormented American artist. It’s more fun if the hero is a brooding one, isn’t it? I alter a few details to spice things up. “So, here I am, crossing the pond to see if our online connection can become something else!”
“Ohhh…” She fans herself with the in-flight magazine. “That’s so romantic.” My mouth quirks up.
“I think so, too.”
Right, Eileen. Romantic is my middle name.
Romantic when I pretended to fall asleep while Tig waited for me to call him, and it took another week for us to get a hold of each other. Don’t they say that anticipation makes it better? Romantic when I coerced him into admitting that he uses his own hand while I’m saying raunchy things to him. Don’t they say that words have power? Romantic when I whispered to him as I got myself off listening to his hoarse voice. Don’t they say that sex is more than intercourse? Then, I need to take this to the next level. Here I am, leaving Paris’s relatively mild winter behind to battle a brutal New York one so I can see him in person, and he doesn’t even know it.
Yeah, without a doubt, Romantic is my middle name.
“Here you go.” A masculine voice tears me from my less than romantic thoughts.
I survey my surroundings and note that Eileen’s dinner was already served.
Damn, I’m a master at zoning out lately! I hope Eileen didn’t think that I was ignoring her.
“Your special meal.” The flight attendant doesn’t make eye contact when he asks what I’d like to drink.
“Plain water is fine, thank you.” Once again, our fingers brush. I’m not imagining things. It’s subtle, but it’s definitely there. The tip of my tongue travels across my lips.
“Bon appétit.” His French accent is pretty flawless.
“Merci.” Unsure of his skills in French, I continue in English. “I’m quite hungry.” I reply with a flirtatious grin, and his cheeks turn pink. Oblivious to our little game, Eileen follows suit and wishes me a good appetite in French; her accent is much stronger.
We continue our discussion about travel habits, family ties, and airline services throughout dinner. She’s a lot of fun and quite a talker, and from time to time, my mind drifts away between bites.
Soon enough, it strikes me that Eileen’s fast-paced words have ceased. I tilt my head to find that she’s dozed off and chuckle; must be the wine that she had all throughout dinner. The trays are mostly tucked away. The passengers are mostly asleep. The aircraft is mostly dark.
Three men take residence inside my head.
My meddling father. I escaped before he had the chance to place me in the arms of someone who I’d call a business deal. After the latest argument with Father, I realized that it was time. The man simply has no boundaries as far as my personal life is concerned; I had to teach him a lesson. Against all odds, I bought a one-way ticket to New York City on a whim. There, I can carry on with my online job and escape my father’s judgment that becomes more suffocating by the day.
I messaged Greer, my twenty-five-year-old cousin, to let her know that I’d be around and made her promise to tell Uncle Phil that I was on a business trip—not far from the truth since my story will land on my blog—rather than fleeing Father. I’ll be free to decide where to stay, either with them or at a hotel, depending on my mood. There’s no chance that he’ll come after me. After all, I’m a big girl! I sigh, registering how much I needed this break. The cancer took a toll on my health and my mental state.
The flight attendant. Busy discarding the last few meals, Eric moves quietly through the cabin, and I can’t help but wonder whether he’s this reserved outside of work. I guess I’ll never know since I won’t be joining the mile-high club; my immediate pleasure isn’t worth the risk of getting him fired if we get caught. Fleeting glances. Knowing smiles. Nothing more. I don’t know the first thing about him, but he seems like a genuinely nice guy. I sigh, enjoying the view—not the one outside the window. My previous anger is long gone. My positive energy is back. My curiosity is piqued. I stretch in the makeshift bed, and my eyes follow Eric’s little dance for a while, letting it lull me to sleep. A peaceful one, which hasn’t happened in months. I dream of the one man who’s been occupying most of my thoughts for about six months now.
My favorite tattoo artist. He’s so ready. Ready to give in. Ready to meet in the flesh. Ready to try to use me… Guess what, I’ll be the master puppeteer. Part two of my mission can finally begin.
Real life.
Chapter Eleven
Mercy
Tig
“What the hell took you so long?” Scooting his bulky body towards the wall to make room on the booth’s leather bench, Lucas
stares alternatingly between the half-empty pitcher and me. We agreed to a later than usual dinner to make more time for our Sunday ritual.
Ignoring his drunken question, I slide in, snatch one of the glasses that’re stacked up to my right, and start to pour. “Is it me, or does it smell different in here?” The glass almost hits my lips when the wafting scent of beer registers.
My friend opens his big mouth to speak at the very moment when what I’m about to do finally hits me. “Don’t worry, man. I’ve got you covered.” As fast as I plunk the full glass down, Lucas snags and chugs it without further ado. He’ll apparently be drinking for two now that Marco texted me to let me know that that he’s bailing on us, yet again; who am I to blame my cousin for choosing a woman over the bunch of losers that we are?
“Easy, man,” I suggest, bumping his shoulder to get his attention.
That’s when Troy magically appears at the end of the table, where he remains with a huge smile on his face, proudly waving his index finger in a circular motion. “Did you notice the new and improved ventilation system?”
“Wow, talk about mind reading!” I turn to Lucas as if to say, I told you so, then back to Troy. “I was just telling Lucas about it. It’s much…” I worry the left corner of my lip, quickly trying to find a word that isn’t disparaging about the former smell of my favorite bar. “Better.” I know that it sounds more like a question.
“Listen, you don’t have to be nice. For some reason, this place has become popular and—”
“Oh, look, Modest Troy is back. Some reason… Stop it! You guys have had cool vibes from the start. And now, with the new ventilation system and remodel, it’s going to be huge!”
The proud owner bounces from one foot to the other. “Thanks, Tig. But frankly, we were cramming too many people for the size of the place… It was long overdue. It didn’t smell like a locker room, but it was close enough!” He winces. “We had to do something; that’s why we had to close.”
I nod knowingly, even if I’ve been too busy fucking random women these past few days to drop by the bar and notice the chained doors.
“Here.” With an apologetic grin on his face, he hands me my non-alcoholic beverage of choice, shrugging as I reach for it and take a gulp. “Sorry it took me so long, man.”
“Are you kidding me? I don’t deserve the special treatment that you always give me, Troy.” Seltzer mixed with the smell of the nearby pitcher bodes well for me.
His eyes stare at the floor for a second, then focus on me. He winks playfully. “Tell you what, if you really want to make up for it… which is completely unnecessary, by the way…do me an easy favor: give me and Mike matching tats on our left shoulder blades that say ‘I’m his.’ No pressure, obviously. Just an option…”
“That’s if Magic Mike doesn’t chicken out.” Lucas lets out a bark of laughter after his retort. Troy and I eye him, and he eventually looks up. “What?” We remain muted and observe one another. “Doesn’t Mike look a lot like Channing Tatum now that his hair’s short?”
Troy moans in agreement. “Now that you mention it.”
“I can’t believe that love’s blinded you. Your man is hot, Troy!” Lucas outrageously lifts his eyebrows up and down several times. Is that meant to be suggestive? Whatever!
“Thanks, Lucas.” The dim light doesn’t hide the blush spreading across Troy’s face. He’s obviously taken aback by Lucas’s comment but recovers quickly.
“Not that you’re not, but you know what I mean, right?”
Troy chortles, both hands on the tabletop now, and he leans into our space to answer between clenched teeth. “Yeah, Lucas. If you were gay or bi, you’d pick him over me.” His snicker grows louder. “I get that.”
I fidget in my seat, making a squeaking noise that annoys me, but not as much as this awkward conversation. Why can’t people keep what goes on in their bedroom—or anywhere else—private? Am I broadcasting my exploits or the fact that I’ve resorted to using my hand every time that Alie and I have chatted recently? I think not.
“You asshole!” My gym buddy lifts from the seat to smack Troy, whose laughter hasn’t subsided.
“I’m not sharing, though… Nah, strike that; I’d be okay with a threesome.” Now Troy’s the one with suggestive body language, darting the tip of his tongue out to wet his lips.
“Ohhh, now you’re talking, baby.” Lucas’s gaze switches to intense, the way it does when he sniffs out his prey, and he caresses the top of Troy’s hand. What the hell is wrong with these guys tonight? Is everyone as horny as I am?
“Yo, Tig!” Lucas slams his fist on the table to get my attention. “You see the resemblance, too, right?”
I shrug and rub the back of my neck to cover my discomfort with the ludicrous topic. “I guess, but I’m not really equip—”
“If you’re about to tell me that you can’t judge the resemblance between Mike and Channing—or say that either of them is really hot—because you’re straight, I’m gonna punch you in the face. You never struck me as uptight and retrograde!”
I flip him the bird and speak my mind at last. “What’s the point of this conversation anyway? Should I remind you that we were chatting about Troy and Mike’s matching tattoos, which is my area of expertise, not checking them out and deciding who we’d be down to bang, simply because they’re gay.”
“I think we struck a nerve,” Lucas sighs. “And now we’re aware that Tig’s a bigot.” The fucker high-fives Troy, and they smirk at my expense. I don’t bother answering either of them; it’s not worth the hassle. “Okay, then… back to the original topic. So, yeah, I’m not sure that’s ever gonna happen. Your man once confided that he’s afraid of needles, so I don’t see him getting inked anytime soon.”
Troy’s face has regained its sincerity, and hope flashes in his eyes. “Who knows? With the right kind of persuasion, he might give in. This one would be small, harmless.”
I growl at Troy’s assumption. “Sorry to disappoint, Troy, but a tattoo is never harmless. Also, don’t forget that it’s going to be there forever.”
“Don’t you always say that there’s no such thing as forever?” Clueless Lucas doesn’t know anything about my history. He sees me as single, brooding, and depraved, but he’s right. I do say that a lot, and I mean it. Isn’t it ironic that my profession is to provide the opposite? A tat is forever, apart from rare instances where people go through a painful and complicated process to get rid of it, which isn’t 100% effective. Lucas shifts in his seat and doesn’t wait for an answer. “Anyway…” he starts, tossing back most of his beer, “what’s with the matching tats?”
Poor Troy. Embarrassment is written all over his face now. This time, it’s my turn to help a friend. “There’s always a story behind a tattoo, but it doesn’t have to be revealed.”
“Same with piercings, I guess.” We all swivel our heads to see that Claire’s right behind Troy. “Right, Tig?” Her snort echoes in the back of the bar as her left hand grips Troy’s shoulder.
“Exactly.” My voice drops deeper to make myself heard and silently warn my friend, who actually performed said piercing, to keep her trap shut as she sits down opposite Lucas and gets busy filling a glass with beer. Nursing her alcohol, she sings along with the classic rock song that’s blasting. My mind must be twisted because I’m convinced that the new ventilation system improved the quality of the speaker.
“I thought you were anti-piercing. What’ve you done now?”
I elbow Lucas for pointing out the obvious. I was; Delia’s death reinforced my beliefs. But, out of the blue, I chose one of the most painful options.
“Right…” The bartender turns his attention to the crowd that’s multiplied during this pointless conversation. “I should go back behind the bar and help the newbie to get settled now that there’s more people. We wouldn’t want to throw Lucy in the deep end on her first week, would we?” And with that, he strides back to his usual spot while the three of us are, once again, left waiting for
Leroy to show up. I watch Claire with unabashed envy; she’s already on her third drink. I miss alcohol. The comfort. The warmth. The buzz.
“So… you’re pierced now?” Lucas presses, scrutinizing my face. Seeing nothing new there, he takes a wild guess, his eyes on Claire. “Tongue? Nipple?” What’s gotten into him today? The fucker’s acting like his testosterone is screaming for him to get laid. I guess all of us use sex to unwind, and we definitely need it.
The piercing expert titters at Lucas’s question and makes a big production of mimicking a zipper motion in front of her cherry-red lips.
“Get off my dick, Lucas, would you?” My spiteful comeback is a mix of resentment, spurred by his maddening attitude, and jealousy—because I’m sober and they’re not. Whatever it is, I shiver from the irrepressible need to split because I’ve had all I can take of this senseless drunken conversation. Ditching them wouldn’t be fair, though, since I agreed to spend tonight with these clowns! I’d love to come up with a perfect excuse, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon.
“Oh, a Prince Albert, then?”
Claire clears her throat at his suggestion.
That’s it… “Fuck off!” Oh, that felt good!
