by Gina LaManna
TSA as a whole was hesitant to provide any interference or involvement on their part, mostly because all of the four travelers had made their ticket reservations months in advance and frequently traveled to and from MSP and LAS. There were no signs of foul play, none of their posse had any weapons on them, and when questioned individually, Kiki, Joey, Leo and Viv had all vehemently expressed their desire to travel to Vegas. With no signs of trouble and no warrants for any of them, we were out of luck.
On the phone with one of the agents, I pleaded with them to ask again. I expressed the fact that Kiki was most likely being held against her will. TSA half-assedly complied, but after questioning Kiki once more, they told me that in fact, Kiki showed up on her own, twenty minutes after the other three passengers. Surely if she was being held against her will, she could have easily run away while on her own.
I sighed and hung up. They had a point. What was Kiki doing? And why hadn’t she escaped when she had the chance?
I rubbed my head while Meg applied a fresh coat of lipstick and Anthony drove with his arms straight and lips even straighter in line.
“Yes?” Anthony barked into the phone. He had managed to dispatch a few of his men to the airport in order to intercept our traveling friends. “What happened, did you find them?”
“We found them, sir.”
“And?”
I cringed. The man on the other end of the line sounded anything but confident in his report back to his boss.
“We...couldn’t do anything.”
“What do you mean...you couldn’t do anything?”
“I, uh—we approached the targets, but as soon as we made contact with the one dressed as a priest, swarms of people surrounded him.” The man cleared his throat. “They thought I was harassing a religious figure, and short of fighting them all off...”
Anthony didn’t speak for a moment. He notched the speed of the car up into triple digits.
“They were an angry mob, sir. I can send men back, but they haven’t left the safety of the crowd. A nun is praying with him right now. What would you like us to do?”
Anthony cleared his throat.
The image of Leo on his knees, hands clasped in prayer, brushing shoulders with a nun was a strange one at best. Meg didn’t even bother to hide her snort at the image.
I glanced out the window. It wasn’t like Anthony’s men at the airport had any sort of identification on them whatsoever, let alone a legitimate law enforcement badge they could flash in order to do business quietly.
Feeling as if all of our other options had been exhausted, I closed my eyes for a moment to clear my mind. I was trying not to feel depressed. It’d been a tough weekend, let alone day, and all I wanted was to sleep. And to ask Anthony what the heck he meant by all of his little touches and looks when I was semi-clothed. Surely he knew nothing could happen between us, right? Or could it?
When I got up the energy to peel my eyelids open, I took a peek into the backseat and made eye contact with a very pained-looking Alfonso. All I could see of the gangly kid’s frame was his shock of red hair. His body disappeared between Meg and Clay, who sandwiched him on either side. He was supposed to have stayed with his parents, but I didn’t have time to argue with him when he’d jumped in the car and begged to help.
The combination of all three cuddling in the back reminded me of a s’more gone wrong, where the middle was made from carrots and the outsides from two fluffy marshmallows.
“Cozy?” I asked.
I could hear Alfonso’s teeth grinding from my place in the passenger seat beside Anthony.
“Don’t worry.” I patted his knobby little knee. “We’ve only got six minutes left at the rate we’re going.”
The rate we were going was incredibly quick. So fast, I wondered if Anthony hadn’t trained as a stunt driver in some previous career. He was currently racing down residential streets, barely easing his speed from that of his flight on the freeway, yapping instructions to his men on the phone, and casting suspicious glances in the rearview mirror all at once.
Wheeling around the curves at the airport, Anthony came to a stop in front of the Delta sign. He leapt out, instructing everyone else to do the same. I got my feet on the ground and noticed a few men dressed in dark suits, probably Carlos’s men following Anthony’s instructions and waiting at the curb.
The Boss Man himself tossed the keys to one particularly embarrassed-looking guard, probably the same guy who’d tried to kidnap Leo the Priest. Anthony shot him a gaze and exchanged a few Italian words that were probably instructions. Then, Anthony took off towards the entrance. The rest of our motley crew hustled behind, some of us more gracefully than others.
“What do we do with them?” I pointed to the stragglers trailing behind us: Meg, Clay and Alfonso.
“I don’t much care,” Anthony growled.
He whizzed through security without as much as a glance back. He said a few words to the TSA agent, pointed his fingers behind him in our group’s general direction, and we all followed without question. I very nearly tiptoed past, hoping I wouldn’t be the one to get stopped. I wanted to be in on this action after everything I’d been through.
We sprinted down the newly reconstructed terminal. I very badly wanted to pause and examine all of the new restaurants and snack places, the coffee shops where iPads—free for patrons to use—lined each table, where margaritas and beers called my name loudly. Aside from these additions, I was fairly certain the only change they’d made was to lengthen the terminal by about six miles.
But I didn’t stop moving my legs, and neither did Clay, Meg, or Alfonso. We made for an odd looking group of five trundling to terminal G. Let’s just say people moved out of our way quickly, and we were able to jog the moving walkway without bumping into relaxed dads pushing strollers with whining babies during flight delays.
By the time we passed the last group of Asian tourists, probably here to shop at the Mall of America with cameras tick-tocking in front of their necks, we’d probably run a half marathon at least. Well, combined between the five of us, maybe. I bent over, heaving, until I felt a hand on my ass.
I looked up and saw Anthony, his hand still firmly cupping my butt cheek.
“Excuse me?” I said. “Wheezing here.”
“We need to move. Next gate.” He gave me a light shove, or a spank, and I skedaddled right on up to gate G32, the furthest gate from the entrance possible in the MSP airport.
“Oh, shit.” I hung my head, wringing my hands together. We’d made it. Finally. Now, to get on that plane...
“Score, we’re here!” said Meg with a fist pump.
“Fuck yeah,” said Alfonso.
“Watch your mouth,” said Clay.
Anthony’s mouth was grim as he approached the front desk. “Is there any more room on the plane? I’ll pay big...”
We all watched, like a movie was playing before us in slow motion, as the plane Anthony spoke of pulled away from the jetway and took off down the runway. It was in the air before Meg had finished her fist pumping dance.
“We’re going to Vegas!” she shouted dancing in a circle.
“Well, that didn’t quite work out,” I said, taking a nice, slow inhale. “All right, troops. Looks like Vegas is going to wait for a few hours.”
I felt the loss of the plane like I’d feel a hole from a missing tooth. Something was there, and now it wasn’t. And I was sad. There was pain. I was confused. But when I looked around, I felt three sets of eyes on me, while Anthony stared silently out the window.
I forced a smile. “Let’s eat! We’ve got time to take care of some business. We already booked flights for the next plane to Vegas, and we’re boarding in forty minutes. Don’t be late.”
Anthony took out his phone and made a few calls, jabbering instructions in Italian to a few friends of the Family.
“You got men in Vegas?” I asked as he snapped the phone shut.
“They’re going to discreetly try and head Joey and c
rew off at the airport,” Anthony said. “If that doesn’t work, my people will let me know which hotel they check into. Our Vegas “friends” will gladly provide them a complimentary room at any casino of their choosing.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Interesting. Why the free room? So we can get a duplicate key easier? I thought you had magical powers to get through locked doors.”
Anthony’s cheeks twitched with a flicker of grim satisfaction. “Because it’s a room they’ll be able to get into, but not one they’ll be able to leave.”
“Yikes,” I said. “Sounds kinky.”
Anthony rolled his eyes and marched off—probably in search of his best buddy named silence.
Chapter 11
EXACTLY THIRTY-NINE minutes later, we were first in line to board the aircraft. The stewardess had requested a thorough check of our handbags, though as far as she knew, they’d been subjected to all of the normal security measures necessary to get through the initial screening.
Upon finding nothing more terrorizing than Meg’s nail clippers swinging from her belt and a ballpoint pen in Alfonso’s pocket, they let us wait in line in peace.
For about five minutes.
Then, a member of Homeland Security approached us, doubled checked our passports and driver’s licenses (except for Alfonso, who passed as a child), and swabbed our palms.
“What are you looking for?” I asked as the uniformed man inserted the swab into a little machine and stared at it intently for a few moments.
It beeped, and he looked disappointed. He whirled around to face me. “Do you think this is a game?”
“Sorry, just curious,” I said.
We all handed over our palms for a swabbing. I had a suspicion the “random” check was incredibly personal, as all five of our group were tested, and not a single other person in the entire terminal.
Our group could’ve triggered special attention. After all, we were an odd combination of people flying to Vegas together, particularly after all of the kidnapping phone calls the airline had received earlier in the day. Or it could have been the fact that Clay was hacking away at his laptop as if the world was about to implode. Another option could have been Meg, who looked like Hagrid on a wild hair day. Her camouflage jacket made her stick out like a sore thumb, her many pockets jangling with all sorts of treats, utensils, and gadgets she couldn’t live without.
Or perhaps the most obvious reason was Anthony, who appeared to be a deadly cross between an Armani ad and an assassin. With as much time as we spent together, I still wasn’t sure I could rule either option out. Well, maybe the Armani model part—he’d probably shoot anyone who told him to strip to his underwear and pose for a camera with a pout on his lips.
Surprisingly, he endured all of the examinations and security tests without so much as a word of objection, except when a male TSA agent with questionable intentions tried to pat down his crotch. With a sharp lash of Anthony’s tongue, the poor guy backed off quickly and sprinted in the opposite direction, though not without a parting wink and smack of the lips—once he was safely behind glass doors, of course.
After the machine beeped with the last palm-swabbed tablet, we boarded the plane. With only small carry-on items, we had no need to store anything on the rack above our heads. We’d managed to book two sets of two seats together and one single.
Anthony volunteered to take the single, but when he found out it was next to a brand new mother and father of baby twin girls, he grunted and said he’d take the window seat with Alfonso. I sat next to the new family while Meg and Clay took the two grouped together near the back.
“I’ll sit real close to Anthony,” Meg offered.
Anthony grunted. “I’m sitting next to the kid.”
Oh, now Anthony didn’t mind helping to guard the kid, I thought sarcastically. Now that there was no possible way Alfonso could escape from a metal trap a million miles in the air. Plus, the child wasn’t even the bad guy after all. Kind of an angsty teenager, but not a bad person.
I opened my mouth to say so, but closed it at the first sign of Anthony’s glare.
“Fine then,” Meg said. “Come on Clay-dawg, we’ll take the back.”
I waved at Clay’s pink cheeks and flinched as Meg swung an accidental elbow and popped an unsuspecting businessman’s headphones right off his head. Amidst a spattering of “sorry” and “excuse yourself,” the two graceful elephants made it to their seats without too many more serious injuries.
Anthony and Alfonso sat next to each other like an extremely awkward father/son duo going on a vacation that had been forced upon them after months of nagging. Alfonso leaned over Anthony to peer out the window and Anthony put his pointer finger directly on the center of the kid’s forehead and pushed him backwards.
Alfonso crossed his arms and pushed back his shock of red hair, glaring at the clouds outside as the plane took off. I was a row in front of them, thankfully on an aisle seat. I couldn’t stop glancing at those two bundles of pink skin next to me.
“What are their names?” I asked.
“Marie and Liv,” the mom said.
“Even though I’m going to call her Olivia,” the dad said, a cheese ball grin gracing his face. “I think it’s beautiful.”
The mother lightly slapped his arm and winked at me, as if we shared a secret. “But she’ll want to be called Liv, of course. All little girls love having nicknames.”
“Right.” I nodded, overwhelmed by the response to my measly little, closed-ended question.
What I wanted to say just then was: No, not all little girls want nicknames. Especially if they have mean friends, and a name easily made fun of.
Like the one time I’d cricked my neck in a car accident, thanks to Meg insisting we take a joyride in my mother’s car at the age of twelve. I had to wear the neck cast to school for a week, and the stupid thing became known as the Lace Brace. Or the time I’d spilled water all over my white T-shirt with nothing to wear for the rest of the day—except a wet white T-shirt. That year I’d earned the name Racy Lacey.
“Do you have children?” the mother asked sweetly.
What I should have said was a simple no. Instead, what I did say was, “Do I look like I have children?”
With no good answer to that question, the mother looked awkwardly at her husband.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I guess I’m just a little sensitive. All my friends are married with kids already, and I’m coming from a wedding that probably won’t really work out. It’s just confusing.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” The mom handed off Marie or Liv, I’m not sure how she kept track of who was who, and she leaned over and enveloped me in a cloud of perfume with the bonus of a hug. “Come here, let it out, it’s okay.”
I patted her on the back, embarrassed to admit that the hug felt nice. It had just been one of those days. I straightened up to thank her for making me feel better, but she was already speaking.
“It’s okay, we got started late ourselves. We’ve only been married for a year. Our parents have been bothering us for grandkids forever. I mean, then again, we have been dating for nearly a decade.” She giggled and cuddled up to her husband, his arms completely full, in a sickeningly cute fashion.
“Oh, wow.” I smiled politely. “I would’ve never guessed. You guys seem so young.”
“No, no, don’t even start. You’re a dear.” The girl rested her hand on my wrist, where I noticed a fat, sparkling diamond. She whispered conspiratorially, “We’re twenty-five already, can you believe it? My birthday was last week. Life just goes by so fast.”
“I need to use the bathroom.” I stood up, regardless of the red lit seatbelt sign.
I scurried back a few rows to where Anthony and Alfonso sat like two stone statues, one gigantic and one particularly small and skinny.
“’Scuse me,” I said as I leaned over an older women attempting to play solitaire on her Blackberry.
“Psstt.” I snapped my fingers
at Anthony. “You need to change seats with me. I can’t take it anymore.”
“They’re not crying,” he said.
“That’s not the problem,” I said.
“What is it, then?”
“Excuse me, here,” the woman on the edge said. “Can I help you with something?”
“Alfonso, change seats with me. You’re now sitting by the perfect family two rows up. Move it.” I backed up so the woman could stand and let Alfonso out.
The kid looked quite relieved to be escaping the confines of his middle seat. I could hear his happy sigh even as I squeezed in and took a huffy seat next to Anthony. We each looked at each other, neither of our stares being all too friendly, and then I looked away and crossed my arms.
It was a solid ten minutes before either one of us spoke. During that time, the woman next to us had kept us under her hawk-eyed gaze as if waiting for an argument to explode right there on Flight 1665.
“What?” I asked finally, as Anthony’s eyes roved my face. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I spat. “Nothing at all.”
I hesitated. “I’m just sitting on a plane with a perfect family, with a perfectly thin woman with a honking wedding ring and two beautiful children, and you know what? She probably has a friggin’ Master’s degree, all at the ripe old age of twenty-five. And guess what else? I’m twenty-eight.”
Anthony cleared his throat.
“Come on,” I said. “What does it matter if I lie about my age? Even so, at twenty-eight (ish), I still don’t have a degree, and I definitely don’t have a child. My resume lists...” I glanced at the woman next to me, and lowered my voice, “Stripping and Mafia work. Plus, I have zip, zero, zilch prospects for any sort of a normal romantic relationship.”
Anthony raised his eyebrows.
“I said normal,” I reiterated.
The woman next to me was gawking at the statement.
