The Layover

by Lacie Waldon

An arm shoots around my waist, dragging me into a cocoon of hot skin and muscles. I exhale my relief and melt into him. “I’m sorry about Rocky,” I whisper. “It’s okay.” Alexander’s voice is husky with sleep. He presses a kiss against my bare shoulder.

“Captain Ballinger? Seriously?” “He’s so stern. It makes me want a spanking.” This time, I don’t hold back my gag. “But he’s married!”

“I think he has fifty pounds on you,” Jack says, “and you have about that many years on him. What are you doing stealing car batteries anyway?” “I warned him to put the muffler back on. What did he expect? I couldn’t hear myself think through all that noise. I don’t suppose you took that tire iron from him and put it to good use.” “You mean, did I bludgeon a man with a metal pipe and then come looking for a tasty sandwich?” R.J. throws his hands out like he’s waiting for an answer. “No, Dad.” Jack sighs. “I didn’t.” “So, what? My house is on fire now?” Jack shakes his head. “We came to an agreement. I gave his battery back, added fifty bucks for a new muffler, and explained to him that I used to work on cars and know at least five guys who could crush that metal trash heap into a cube that would fit in my trunk, no questions asked.” “Fifty bucks?” R.J. mutters. “Sucker.” “How did you know where his battery was?” I ask, licking a bit of chocolate off my thumb. “Oh, good,” Jack says flatly. “You’re a part of this conversation.”

“And yet you’re not answering my question,” I say. R.J. smiles. “Yeah, answer my good friend Ava’s question.” Jack’s eyes narrow as he takes the two of us in. I’m not sure if he’s only just realizing his dad and I have been talking for a while or if he’s surprised to discover his dad likes me. Either way, I suspect he doesn’t approve. But I can’t be certain because he only shrugs and lifts a hand to R.J.’s shoulder. “Oh, Juan José Padilla here set it up in the front window. He had to wave that red cape. Taunt the bull.” “Who the hell is Juan Padilla?” R.J. asks. “A famous matador,” I say absently, my eyes narrowing on Jack’s hand. “But if you resolved everything so peacefully, why are your knuckles scraped up?” Jack stiffens and his hand drops back to his side. Something that looks like betrayal sweeps across his face. Before I can make sense of it, it’s replaced by a studied nonchalance that’s a little too tight at the edges to be believable. “The guy didn’t exactly show up looking for a conversation,” Jack says. “Now we’re talking!” R.J.’s eyes light up. “There was a fight? How bad off did you leave him? Did you break his nose? Knock a couple of teeth out of that loud mouth of his? I told him he was in for a world of pain. I just wish I could’ve been the one to deliver it myself.” I ignore R.J., focused instead on the way Jack’s lips press together. With every word R.J. says, they grow a little whiter at the edges, like Jack is focusing his entire being on keeping them s...

“I should go. I have a hot shower and tiny toiletries waiting for me.” I cringe as I hear the words come out of my mouth. Nobody was asking for details. “That’s adorable,” Jack says. “Do those tiny toiletries make you feel normal-sized?”

“You go in,” Gen says, opening the lav door to make sure it’s empty. “Pilot Paul is staying put, and Captain Sexy Scowl is coming out.”

“What are your favorite kinds of movies?” Jack keeps lobbing these stupid questions at me. It’s like I’ve been roped into a game of verbal tennis. “Ones where the unlikeable coworker gets shipped off to a different country.” The rum has sucked the venom out of my tone. My answers are a half-hearted effort at this point. My eyes drift to half-mast. If I concentrate, I can almost hear the roar of the sea over the music. “I didn’t realize that was a genre,” Jack says wryly.

“Well, hello,” I heard behind me. And that was the first time I laid eyes on Jack Stone. I wish I could say I was unaffected by his shockingly blue eyes and that dark mess of hair, but I wasn’t. Jack smiled a devil-may-care smile, and not for a moment did I consider trying to dampen the grin that sprang up on my face in response. Silly, stupid me. “You look thirsty,” he said. “Can I get you a drink?” “I’m actually looking for my boyfriend.” The words took more effort to get out than they should have. “What a coincidence. I’m looking for my girlfriend. I think you might be her.” Our eyes locked, and we both began to laugh. “Sorry,” he said. “It was too good an opportunity. I couldn’t resist.”

Jack’s voice breaks through the speaker, and the man’s head jerks up like he’s being spoken to by a higher power. “We do need all passengers seated at this time,” Jack says in a smooth yet commanding voice that reminds me of the pilot he used to be. “And by ‘all passengers,’ I am referring specifically to you in the back. Everyone, please turn around and direct the lost man forward so he can find his way to his seat.”

“She’s weird,” the guy says. “That could be entertaining.” “She’s drunk,” a low voice says. “Ignore her.” I spin around and find Jack behind me once again.

“He cheated on you?” Celeste’s free hand goes to her hip. “Yes,” I say. “No,” Jack says at the same time. He looks at me, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “Well,” I amend, “he tried to cover for the guy who was cheating on me. Isn’t that the same thing?” “Yes,” the guy says, just as Celeste says, “No.” They turn to each other. “Seriously, Celeste? You’re siding with Abercrombie on this one? If I helped some guy cheat on one of your friends, you’d set me on fire.” “It’s Jack, actually,” Jack says. “And I did no such thing.” “He did,” I say. “He tried to stall me in a hotel bar so I wouldn’t go to my boyfriend’s room and catch him with another flight attendant.” “I did not!” This might be the first time in our brief acquaintance that I’ve seen Jack look completely stunned. Dreadlocks lets out a low whistle. “All right, let’s go.” “What?” I’m pretty sure all three of us ask the question in unison. “I’m Eddie,” he says, lifting his cigarette to his brow and flicking it out like a salute, “and I’ll be your tour guide for the evening. It sounds like we’ll have a lot to discuss.” “Bye, Jack.” I wave at him. “Oh, Abercrombie’s coming, too,” Celeste says, starting down the path. “Damn right.” Jack stalks past me. “Abercrombie wouldn’t miss this for the world.” I glare after him and take a long chug of my drink before giving in and stumbling after them.

“Because I don’t really know you guys,” I say, “I feel the need to formally state that there is zero chance of this turning into an orgy.”

Celeste splashes at him, and Eddie bends over the guitar, covering it with his body. “Careful,” he says. “I made seven dollars playing this thing on the beach the other night. If you ruin it, you’ll have to come up with a new retirement plan for us.”

“My baby needs another small one!” The woman with the fanny pack bellows the words into the crowd. She waves the lone kids’ flipper in her hand, hitting an elderly man in the back. She doesn’t seem to even consider apologizing. She’s furious no one understands the gravity of her situation. She’s raising a prince with not one but two feet, and he has the right to be dual-flippered now! The tiny baby prince—who looks to be at least six years old—picks up a large flipper and shoves his arm into it. He swings it wide and slams it into her knee. “Get in there!” Fanny Pack yells the words at another small child, a girl a couple of years older than the prince, and points the flipper toward the pile. The scraggly haired girl shrieks out a war cry and dives in. Literally. She hurls her body on the pile of plastic, bony arms and legs spread wide, attempting to cover it from the rest of the scavengers. Laughter bursts from my throat, and I slap my hand over my mouth, but it’s too late. Fanny Pack hears and turns to me with a glare. I look to Jack for protection, but he’s turned toward the sea in an attempt to hide his own laughter. I avert my eyes, playing possum, but Fanny Pack and I both know I’ve been caught. For the next ten minutes, I try to mind my own business, but I’m riveted by their family. Now Fanny Pack is trying to take pictures. “Look at the camera,” she orders the two kids and their miserable-looking dad. The kids slap their finned feet loudly against the boat floor. “...

“Can you just say something?” The words explode from his mouth like a volcanic eruption. “You’re killing me here.”

“Gen,” I say, “can you please go back in the bathroom?” “Lawyers,” she grumbles. “Now that’s an easy job to get. I bet you just check your soul at the door and they welcome you in, slapping an ‘Asshole’ name tag on your fancy suit so people know what to call you while you’re screwing them over.” “Gen!”

I keep expecting Gen to catch on and come help, but she’s still doing some bizarrely complicated briefing up at the exit row. Instead of settling for verbal affirmation that the passengers are willing to assist in an emergency evacuation, she seems to be making them prove they can open the door. One by one, they wiggle around each other to mime pulling the plastic cap off the handle and pulling it down. It’s like a game of Twister no one volunteered to play. In spite of myself—and the fact that I’ve seat-jumped myself all the way up to row thirteen—I laugh at the absurdity.