Obey (The Protocol, #2)

by Lasairiona Lewis

For all the good girls; the ones who went to school every day, followed all the rules, listened to their parents; the ones who waited to have sex, who stayed in unhappy relationships because they felt they ‘should,’ when all they really wanted to do was get on their knees and ttdlagg...

We all know how it goes. When the tall, dark, built like a brick house man gets on the plane to Chicago and there’s an empty, extra leg-room seat next to the bright-haired, bubbly pixie, they’re destined to fall in love and get married.

So, when the giant brooding bastard—who looks like he should be a bronze statue in a museum—boards my plane and has to hunch his shoulders to make himself small to fit in the cabin, I’m already picking out my dress and cancelling my connecting flight.

Tipping my head back, I thank past Talia for splurging for the extra legroom. Though I kinda wish she’d have made me keep my waxing appointment. Can’t sit next to the man of my dreams with prickly legs, and I certainly can’t join the mile high club with an unruly bush.

And right now, I want to be a new-and-improved Talia who thinks words like “bastard” —even if it makes my whole body cringe—and who thinks about doing naughty things with strangers on a plane.

I have my bestest, peopliest smile ready to go. There’s no way this cantankerous hulk of a man will be able to resist me.

This is it, the moment I meet the man of my dreams. Harry-the-cheater will be nothing but a blip on my rearview mirror once this man starts talking to me and falls head-over-heels for the tiny bundle of joy from Louisville. There’s snow coming down out the window. The setting is perfect. I’m ready.

It’s a new thing. As in, freshly done this morning. When my formerly honey-blonde, waist length locks tumbled onto the floor of the hairdresser’s as she worked her magic giving me an undercut and colored it teal, I admit, I questioned my sanity.

But, having just found out my fiancé, my high school sweetheart, the boy I lost my virginity to, had grown up into a lying cheating scumbag... Well, it’s not Weird Barbie by any means, but let’s just say it wasn’t a carefully calculated haircut.

I smother a giggle. My parents are going to absolutely poop their pants when they see it. Their rule abiding, Sunday school attending, straight A-student girl has never as much as colored outside the lines. And now she has a bright blue-green, Mohawk thing. I’m feeling Scarlett Johannsson right now. I imagine when I look in the mirror, though, it’ll be quick to correct me.

This is... oh fudge. This is bad. This is really, really bad.

A tightness blooms in my chest, and my breath stutters as it tries to fill my lungs. Maybe he didn’t mean to cheat? Maybe he tripped over something and his... hi...

A low rumble rattles inside me as I try to rationalize his infidelity. Aside from the first time, the fateful time when I lost my V-card to him in high school, we haven’t done it again since....

When our parents sat us down and told us our act of sin, our “crime against God” had earned us an eternity together, I almost laughed. But they were deadly serious. Then, after returning from our “True Love Waits” church camp weekend, they insisted our punishment, our penance to our maker, should be no more s-e-x before mar...

He just agreed. Ha! I guess he agreed to their faces. Because from how acquainted he seemed with a woman I’ve never seen before, in what was supposed to become our marital home once I graduated college ...

Oh geez, maybe it was their first time, and he’s a little... deviant. My face and chest are hot and undoubtedly turning a dark shade of red as t...

I’m not completely clueless. I have a growing collection of spicy books on my Kindle app that I read when I’m alone. I wanted to try to learn how to do things, and anticipate my future husband’s needs in the bedroom. I even made a bucket list of things we could try together once we’re married that’s tucked inside ...

Right? Even his name makes him sound like a complete butt face. He’s every bit as pretentious as he sounds, too.

The signs were all there. I glossed them over to appease my parents. I caused them great shame by sleeping with Harry. I confided in my older brother, Isaac, who squealed to our parents, and as my penance to them, never mind God, I followed their rules to the letter, as my way of saying sorry.

Oof. I need liquor. And I don’t even drink all that much.

Despite it being home, Kentucky isn’t where I yearn to be, and it isn’t where I want to return to. I’m not sure why. There’s something about experiencing each season in all its intended glory that sets my soul on fire here in Minnesota.

I most definitely need a drink. Considering the fact I stepped out of the hairdressers this morning and fell on my face on the sidewalk, then got stuck in traffic due to an accident and had to run through the airport in a wholly undignified manner, I feel like I’ve earned myself a special treat. Maybe it’ll distract me from my skinned and still pulsing palms.

Steeling my spine, I drop my shoulders. If this imposing, greasy, rude man isn’t going to move his sticky-outy knees for me to pass, then I’ll just climb over him. I did gymnastics in high school, and I do yoga every morning. I’ve got this.

Picking my leg up with the grace of a gazelle, I step widely over him, half expecting applause from the surrounding passengers when my other foot makes it safely across into the aisle, too. Mildly surprised I didn’t fall into his lap, I reach above his head to pop the handle of the luggage bin. He’s put his bag in front of mine, and when I try to move it, well, let’s just say I’m barely over five feet tall and not wearing heels.

“Ma’am?” The flight attendant’s voice startles me from behind, I shriek, lean forward a smidge too far, and before I know what’s hit me, I’m falling for the second time today. Only this time, it’s right into Mr. Crankypants’s lap. Strong, warm arms wrap around me, picking me up like I weigh nothing, and plop me back onto my feet between his legs.

“Thank you.” My voice is barely a whisper. Heat consumes my entire body, and I don’t know where to look. I can’t look at my seat buddy. The vibes rolling off of him are less ‘hey, no problem, it’s all good, these things happen,’ and more ‘why did I give up my seat for that family?’

Sure, I fell on my face, twice. Sure, I have sore hands and hurt pride. And sure, I’m seated next to a man who could probably snap me in half if he chose to. But I have a mini bottle of wine, blue hair, and I’m heading home to Louisville. Huh. There’s that twinge again.

She’s got to be fucking kidding me, right?

When the blue-haired pain in my ass repeats her question, I wonder which part of my fuck off and leave me alone face let me down. Usually my R.B.F doesn’t let me down with strangers. Resting bastard face. Works every time. Usually. Except right now.

Right now, the bubbly Half-Pint in the seat to my left stares up at me with wide eyes and up-turned palms covered in scratches and scrapes, holding out the bottle of liquor. Her pale, white skin is accentuated by various shades of blue, her bright b...

I’m regretting my decision to let that family sit together. I want my seat back. I want my peace and quiet back.

Is this woman really telling me about her grandparents? The fuck?

As a mechanic, I’m surrounded by people all day every day. Not just by my team in the garage, but I have to interact with clients, too. I get by. I mean, peo...

Yet I’ve never met someone who launches into their family history at the drop of a hat. I don’t even know this woman’s name, but her mamaw makes the best peach cobbler in the entire world. Her brother is married to a rodeo cowgirl who just broke her leg getti...

My only hope at this stage is that consuming two drinks at speed will make her fall the fuck asleep so she shuts the hell up, and I can go back to reading my book.

She’s been talking at me for so long I have no idea what the hell happened on the last page. Or even in the last chapter. My watch tells me it hasn’t been days or hours. In fact, this elfish hurricane has been in my life for less than an hour.

She seems to have forgotten I’m sitting next to her. She’s muttering about what a cheating dillweed this guy was and how she didn’t expect to be single on her visit back to her grandparents. The ice wall around my heart thaws. Just a little. There’s nothing worse than an asshole who steps out on his woman.

Digging into my back pocket, I pull out my handkerchief and offer it to the now sniffing bundle of palpable sadness. She stares at the piece of cloth in my hand, then my face, then the handkerchief, then my face. I wiggle the fabric a little. If she doesn’t take it soon my momentary lapse in judgment is going to expire. Her button nose wrinkles, and her shoulders shake. Is she... laughing at me?

“You’re quite the contradiction, Mr. Grumpypan...

Mr. Grumpypants? Shaking my head, I can’t help but roll my eyes. Again. I’m a fit guy, but my eyeballs haven’t had this level of workout in a ...

“My grandfather used to carry handkerchiefs. He said it was the key to a long and successful marriage.” “That’s a lot of responsibility for such a small square of material.”

Half-Pint is praying for everyone in the storm, she’s asking God to keep everyone safe and return them all to their families. She pauses, cracks the eye closest to me, and adds “even Mr. Grumpypants. Amen.”

Another gasp. “Was that a...?” She points at my face. “Smile?” Shaking my head, I cuss internally. “I think it was.” She beams like she’s won the lottery and doesn’t have to pay tax.

My phone pings with any number of laughing emojis in response to my request to get picked up. I’m fucked.

That said, if anyone could chase away a murderer it’d be this woman. She’d talk at them until they curled into a ball on the floor.

“Come on, Mr. Grumpypants. Let’s go find Bessie and get out of here.” Who the fuck is Bessie?

Turns out, Bessie is a two hundred year old, piece of crap Camry. There’s rust on the doors, the trunk doesn’t close all the way—so much so, it’s tied closed with a piece of rope—and at least two of her tires are damn near bald. I dread to think of what Bessie looks like under the hood.

Raking my hands through my hair, I’m struggling not to look a gift horse in the mouth. But this gift horse is asthmatic, on life support, and could crap out at any moment. “What the fuck is this?” Apparently, I’m not only looking a gift horse in the mouth, I’m giving it a verbal smack for good measure.

She leans toward the car, dusting snow off the hood. “Don’t listen to the grumpy man, Bessie. You’re a beautiful, strong, and capable machine, and we really need for...

“Bessie knows you’re judging her.” Good. She fucking should. This car should have been sent to car heaven years ago. It’s probably older than this chick’s mamaw who makes peach cobbler. Almost on cue, my stomach gives a roar. First stop, food. Otherwise neither of us will make it to where we’re supposed to be. Mercifully, Bessie doesn’t need any foreplay to get her going. She starts first time, and we inch our way out of the airport.