Cocksure Ace

by Webster, K.

  Yeah, adiós, asshole.

  Camilo

  Infuriating woman.

  I’m rankled at the way she spoke to me and I can’t shake it.

  Of course Carter fucking notices. He notices everything.

  “She got to you,” he says in awe. “That’s a first.”

  Letting out a snort, I ignore him as we begin our flight pre-check. The Embraer Legacy 650 is a luxurious super midsize jet with a bitchin’ tech savvy cockpit. I love this damn plane.

  “She didn’t get to me,” I grumble. “She annoyed the fuck out of me.”

  “No,” Carter says, glancing my way, “Lawton annoys the fuck out of you. Viper girl embarrassed you. It pissed you off. Admit it, hotshot.”

  “I can’t stand people like her. They walk around like their shit doesn’t stink. We’re nothing but lowly people to service them and do their bidding.”

  “But you thought she was hot.”

  I glower at him. “In a snotty bitch kinda way, yeah.”

  “All it takes is one hit.”

  “What?”

  “One hit?”

  “One hit of what?”

  “One hit from a complicated girl unlike the rest.”

  “And then what?” I challenge. “People like me don’t fuck people like her.”

  “No, but guys like us get brought to our knees by girls like her.” He flashes me a crooked grin. “Ask Kendall. The rest is history.”

  “I’m not getting on my knees for her.”

  “They usually prefer just one knee.”

  “Fuck off,” I grumble.

  Our banter quiets as Lawton peeks his head inside the cockpit.

  “Oh my gawwwd,” he drawls out, waggling his perfectly sculpted brows. “Hottie alert.”

  Lawton swings not just both ways, he swings every which way.

  “The snob?” I ask at the same time Carter says, “Doris?”

  Lawton lets out a cackle. “No to either.” He leans in to whisper. “The Damian Birch is here.”

  “He has nice pink pants,” Carter offers.

  “Who’s Damian Birch?”

  Lawton’s eyes roll so hard I’m afraid he might lose them in that big head of his. “You’re such a fuddy duddy, CZ. Damian’s on that interior design show, but it’s for boats. Anyway, not him. His assistant. He’s dreamy.”

  Carter laughs. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Oh, honey,” Lawton purrs, “I sure will.” He pats him on the head and then bounds off.

  I glance out of the open cockpit into the cabin. Damian—proudly strutting around in his pink pants—fusses over his assistant. The kid is young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, and looks way in over his head working for the Damian Birch.

  The old couple is sitting side by side in a pair of cream leather seats as the old man helps his wife buckle in. Lawton is now assisting a leggy woman with her luggage. My eyes, though, zero in on her.

  Where everyone else is smiling and enjoying themselves, she’s glaring out the window, her pouty pink lips pressed in a firm line. She sits board straight in her seat, her legs crossed and tucked neatly under her seat as she angles herself toward the window. Everything about her is closed off to those around her. Her silky brown hair is smooth and utterly perfect. It makes me want to walk by her and run my fingers through it, messing it up.

  “Just. One. Hit.” Carter playfully nudges me.

  I steal one lingering glance at her before turning around to ready us for takeoff. As the engines fire to life, all irritation and anxiety fade away. In these private jets, you can feel every vibration, making your nerve endings come alive. Sure, commercial has its perks, like not having to deal with the people in the cabin, but private is my preference.

  The next few minutes are ones of utter focus as Carter and I navigate the bird into the open skies. As soon as we reach our elevation and we’re cruising along at five hundred miles per hour, Carter starts humming.

  Fly Like An Eagle.

  Nothing like the Steve Miller Band to help me shake away my grumpy ass mood.

  Soon, I join in and offer the “doo-doo-doo-doos” for him, both of us nodding our heads. Once we’re stable, he unbuckles and pats me on the shoulder before stepping out of the cockpit. His voice is friendly and chipper as he greets the passengers, tells them about our estimated travel time, and sings his usual The Beatles tune. I’m relaxed and happy again. In the sky, I’m literally on top of the world and it’s freeing.

  “Do you have Hennessy?”

  Her.

  Her voice cuts through my haze and thumps me in the head.

  “Lawton will show you the selection of on-board cocktails and drinks we offer,” Carter says. “Though I hear tequila will loosen you up if you’re tense.”

  I smirk, knowing already she thinks she’s too good for a shot of tequila.

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  Fucking Carter.

  Meddlesome bastard.

  “Sheridan Reid,” she says in a regal tone that indicates we should all know who the hell she is.

  “The Sheridan Reid?” Carter taunts.

  I can hear the Damian Birch hissing at his assistant to hurry and Google her. I’m a little curious as well.

  “That’s me,” she grumbles.

  “Well, funky flyers,” Carter says, “I was going to regale you with ‘Rocket Man’ by Elton John since that’s CZ’s favorite, but we have the Sheridan Reid on our flight and you know what that means?”

  “Oh God,” I mutter.

  Carter laughs, overhearing me. “No, God’s busy elsewhere, buddy. More like…Oh Sherrie,” he croons the last part.

  As he starts launching into Steve Perry’s “Oh Sherrie,” I shake my head and turn around to watch this shitshow.

  “It’s Sheridan,” the Sheridan Reid barks out, her neck blazing crimson. “No nicknames. Not short for anything. Just Sheridan.”

  No one listens.

  And something tells me she’s a whole lot more than just Sheridan.

  Damian starts singing along, snapping his fingers in the air above him and dramatically jolting back and forth in his seat. His assistant looks as though he’s about to puke.

  “I know this song,” the old lady says, smiling at her husband.

  “This is one of your favorites, Doris.” The man looks at her as if she hangs the moon.

  The leggy knockout joins in on the singalong, but she doesn’t know the words. Girl tries anyway. And Lawton, he’s trying to show off some ridiculously porny moves in the aisle as he gyrates his way toward Carter. Carter laughs and can barely keep singing.

  I’m flying with a bunch of idiots.

  And a princess having a meltdown.

  The Sheridan Reid is so red-faced she looks like her head might burst. It’s comical until I notice the slight tremble in her hand. One barely noticeable wobble of her bottom lip. Something about that small display of vulnerability hiding beneath her tough exterior has me feeling bad for her.

  “Stop showing off, Tripp, and get your ass back in here,” I bark out and offer a loud whistle too.

  He chuckles but in the next instant, he’s back in his seat. “Got her name for you.”

  “Thanks for that. But I don’t care,” I remind him.

  “I think you do.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Maybe a little. Like just a tiny bit.”

  “Nothing. You know my heart beats for one woman.”

  “Such a fucking momma’s boy.”

  I laugh and swat at him. “You’re a dick.”

  “A dick who got the one’s name for you.”

  “She’s not the one. Jesus, man.”

  Our playful banter is cut short when we receive communication from dispatch. Possible navigation change to avoid Rodrigo’s trajectory. We spend the next three hours focused on the quickly changing weather situation.

  “We can’t reroute to Mexico City,” Carter says. “It’s full. We don’t have enough fuel to wait our turn.�
��

  I knew it.

  I fucking knew it.

  Having lived on the Pacific coast my entire life, you get a feel for weather patterns, especially hurricanes. Even Mamá wasn’t worried, assuming it’d make a wide arc, bypassing Mexico, but Rodrigo felt like coming home.

  “Tahueca has an airstrip. Not big enough for commercial airliners, but it’s a place to touch down and refuel.”

  Carter gives me a knowing smirk.

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Not saying anything, mijo.”

  “I hate you,” I grumble.

  “Nah,” he argues with a laugh. “You love when we’re scheduled to fly together. I’m your favorite. Admit it, CZ.”

  Smug bastard is right.

  We cut out the playfulness to iron out the flight changes. That’s the thing with Carter. We’re in tune enough that we can joke one minute and handle shit in a serious, professional manner the next.

  “I do not look forward to this announcement,” he mutters.

  “You’re a crowd pleaser, Tripp,” I taunt. “Do the honors. I sure as hell won’t. That woman out there hates me.”

  “You could always announce it in Spanish. Maybe they’ll be too confused to care.”

  I snort. “Fuck no. This is all you, buddy.” I flash him a pitiful look and shrug. “No hablo inglés.” I don’t speak English.

  “You’re a real asshole, Camilo Zaragoza,” he says, shaking his head. “You know that?”

  “Mamá cree que soy maravilloso.” Mamá thinks I’m wonderful.

  “She’s the only one,” he argues. Then, with a heavy sigh, he grabs the speaker, too chicken shit to face them. “This is your captain speaking…”

  Sheridan

  I sit up, dazed, my eyes darting around the small jet cabin as I take a moment to realize where I’m at. Headed for David and Daddy. Breathe. My heart continues to race, though. So often I wake in a panic. As though the time ticks faster in those waking hours—something I can’t control. Not enough time to do everything.

  Momma didn’t have time.

  It fell through her grasp all too quickly.

  “Miss Reid,” Lawton, the steward, says, squatting beside my chair. “Please fasten your seatbelt and prepare for landing.”

  I frown as I buckle my belt. “We’re already there.”

  He grimaces. “Not quite.”

  “Not quite?” I demand.

  “If you’ll please excuse me, I need to make sure the other passengers are ready,” he says, rising to his feet and scurrying away.

  “Wait! Why are we stopping? Where are we going?”

  He ignores me and I see red.

  “Tahueca, Mexico,” the beautiful woman says from nearby. She smiles at me. “Rodrigo has changed course.”

  “Mexico?” I croak out. “We can’t be going to Mexico. I have to get to Costa Rica for my father’s wedding, lady!”

  She recoils at my tone and I feel like crap. It’s not her fault. “Estefania,” she says softly. “I am sorry, Sherrie.”

  “Sheridan,” I snap, making her wince. My eyes sting and I swallow the big ball of emotion in my throat. “For how long?”

  “The captain did not say,” Estefania says.

  I’m fuming as we descend. The loss of control over the situation quickly morphs from despair to anger. At least anger gets me answers. I glare out the window. On one side is the Pacific Ocean, beautiful and blue. Trees line the beachy coast. It’s beautiful, but I’m at the wrong paradise. Worse yet, there’s not a cloud in the sky.

  The moment I land, I’m calling Daddy and getting my flight changed. I’ve been off balance since I stepped into LAX and met up with all these people. I’m in the twilight zone, not reality. Once I reroute, things will go back to normal.

  I close my eyes, imagining the resort Daddy rented out for his wedding. It’s the nicest one in Costa Rica. It’ll be wonderful to unwind in the presence of family and friends. To take a week off of my busy work schedule and just be.

  It’s almost laughable.

  Just being.

  I haven’t done that in so long, I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like.

  Seagulls. Warm breeze. Momma’s humming.

  I’m thrust back to the summer before she died. When Daddy took us to the beach for the day. We didn’t have a penny to our names. The hospital made sure of that. It felt like saying goodbye. Rather than letting it consume us, we enjoyed the day the three of us. We didn’t worry about Momma’s illness or bills or the fact time was running out.

  We took the day to just be.

  A hot tear races down my cheek and I hastily swipe it away. I don’t cry. Not anymore. Not since we buried Momma all those years ago. Daddy and I had to toughen up. He threw his energy into his work and pulled us out of the hole we were in. And rather than leaving me in despair all alone, he did it with me. Anytime I wasn’t in school, I was jetting across the country to meet clients with Daddy, sitting in his office working on homework while he worked, or having dinner with him and David as they made plans. From the get-go, I was a part of RT Corp. I never left.

  When we roughly touch down, I pop my eyes back open. Trees whiz past us and I wonder if I’ll be able to catch a new flight quickly. As the plane slows, I frown. No buildings. No other planes. Where the hell are we?

  “Tripp,” Lawton calls out, “you’re losing your touch and I almost lost my cookies with that landing.”

  The captain’s laughter travels into the cabin and grates on my nerves. Really damn funny. All of this is some huge game to them. Unprofessional. This company will hear all about my flight. I’ll leave my one-star review with pride.

  “Don’t worry, Sherrie,” the old lady named Doris says. “I’m hungry too. We’ll make sure you get fed, honey.”

  I grit my teeth. “Sheridan.”

  “That’s what I said, honey.”

  I’m not Sherrie or honey or whatever the hell these people want to call me.

  I’m Sheridan Reid.

  The bitch who’s about to go nuclear.

  As soon as Lawton opens the side door of the plane, I unbuckle, grab my luggage, and storm over to him. His eyes widen as I near. He stumbles over his words, but as soon as the stairs have fully unfolded and are touching the ground, I stomp past him. The stairs are steep, so I have to carefully maneuver my black Valentino Garavani leather booties so I don’t fall. My eyes are trained on my feet. As soon as my shoes hit the asphalt, I lift my gaze.

  Trees.

  Trees.

  More damn trees.

  I swivel around to look back at the plane. Behind the plane is a small hangar. No. This is definitely a dream. I’m still flying on the way to Costa Rica and I’m asleep. I pinch myself hard enough it’ll bruise.

  Still here.

  Something comes barreling down the asphalt, snarling and big. A flash of light brown. Oh my God. I’m going to die. In this stupid not-dream. I turn to face the creature, but it’s moving too fast. Straight for me.

  “Get away from me,” I screech, holding a hand out in front of me.

  The thing ignores me and pounces. I’m going to be mauled to death by a lion. I’m tackled to the asphalt and my head hits hard, causing stars to swirl around me. Something wet drags up my face. It’s licking me. The thing is licking me.

  It’s then I lose it. I start to cry. Full-bodied sobs as this—I think it’s a dog—thing licks away my tears. It’s heavy and it stinks, but I don’t have the strength to push it away.

  “Oh. Em. Geeeeeee!” Damian screams. “It’s eating her! Help! Handsome, pilots, help!”

  “Toro,” he calls out. “Toro, ven con papá”

  Toro—the huge creature—launches toward CZ, otherwise known as the obnoxious co-pilot. They have a jolly reunion while I sit up and blink away my daze. Everyone is piling out of the plane and stretching, smiles on their faces like we didn’t just get dumped in the middle of freaking nowhere.

  “Are you okay, Sherrie-dan?” Estefania asks, pranc
ing over to me in her too-high heels that make her legs look impossibly long.

  “I hit my head,” I grumble. “I’ll be fine.”

  Damian—whom I pegged to be a diva—isn’t unnerved. Instead, he’s preening for the camera that Kyle is holding up for him. “Followers, as soon as we catch a signal, we’ll upload this video from”—he waves his hand in the air—“wherever this is and it is exquisite! I cannot wait to live stream you all and give you a tour! Perhaps we’ll check out the marina! Might find us a fixer-upper!”

  Estefania helps me to my feet, a smile on her pretty face, until I jerk my arm from her grip. God, I’m such a bitch. This woman has been nothing but nice to me and I’m unfairly taking it out on her.

  No, this is his fault.

  I pull out my phone and am not surprised to find I have no service. It simply adds to the mountain of terrible things. I toss it back in my bag with a growl of frustration.

  Abandoning Estefania and my luggage, I storm over to CZ. When he sees me rushing him, he stands up and lifts a challenging brow. The moment I reach him, I shove him with both hands. Of course he’s solid under that pilot’s uniform and doesn’t budge an inch.

  “You’ve done this on purpose,” I accuse, my voice rising several octaves. “You think you can play these games with me?”

  He smirks. “What games would those be?”

  “These!” I cry out, throwing my hands up in the air. “Landing us in the middle of nowhere because of a freaking non-existent hurricane because you’re on some stupid power trip!”

  “It was the captain’s call to land, not mine.”

  “Where the hell is he?” I growl, not taking my eyes off CZ.

  “Waiting for Alejandro.”

  “Who’s Alejandro?”

  “He owns this airstrip.”

  “Good,” I fire back at him. “I’m going to talk to him too. I’ll catch the next flight out of here. Away from you.”

  CZ laughs, rich and deep. I hate the sound. “There are no other flights, abejita. You’re stuck here with me.” He reaches down to pet the dog. “Right, Toro? She’s a little bee with no wings.”

  Toro barks and smiles at me. Wait. Is that dog actually smiling at me? His tongue hangs out of his mouth and he stares at me with big brown eyes.