by Kat T. Masen
The Layover
A Dark Love Series Short Story
Kat T. Masen
The Layover
Kat. T. Masen
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, real people, and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations or places is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. This book is intended for the purchaser of this book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the Author. All songs, song titles, and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
Disclaimer: The material in this book contains graphic language and sexual content and is intended for mature audiences, ages 18 and older.
Editing by Lauren McKellar
Formatting by Swish Design & Editing
Cover design by OPIUM HOUSE Creatives
Cover image Copyright 2018
First Edition
Copyright © 2018 Kat T. Masen
All rights reserved.
A Note to the Reader
I genuinely believe that everything happens for a reason. Sometimes, we don’t know it at the time—thrown through the wringer to come out on the other end and question why someone in the universe was hell-bent on making our life miserable.
If you’re lucky, your stars just align.
If you’ve had a chance to read Chasing Fate aka Noah Mason, you’re probably happy he got his happily ever after. He deserved to find love, right?
But then again, someone in the universe was also hell-bent on screwing that up. That someone just happens to be me. Yes, me, your trusty author. The author who promises you a HEA.
Then again, we know that life isn’t always a bed of roses – sorry, Bon Jovi. Do you remember the episode of friends when Ross cheated on Rachel, but technically they were on a break? I know… it killed all of us. If only Mark weren’t at Rachel’s apartment, and if only Ross hadn’t jumped to the conclusion that something was going on.
So to prepare yourself for The Layover. I remind you, in my sweetest and sincerest tone, just one thing, one simple action can change your path.
And all it can take… is one night.
1
“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Olivia Hawkins, and I’m your chief flight attendant. On behalf of Captain Harrison and the entire crew, welcome aboard flight seven-eight-three non-stop service from Los Angeles to Chicago. Our flight time will be four hours and five minutes.”
Raising my watch and quickly glancing at the time, I’m mindful of the quick turnaround to get all passengers on board with only a few minutes until the doors closed.
“At this time, make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright positions, and that your seat belt is correctly fastened. Please ensure portable electronic devices are set to ‘airplane’ mode until an announcement is made upon arrival. Thank you.”
I place the PA handset in its cradle, then move through the aisle to assist an elderly lady and her husband to their seat. The husband is kind enough to allow his wife a window seat, briefly explaining that this is their first trip to Chicago to visit their great-grandchildren. I smile politely, engaging in conversation yet settling them in quickly so I can continue assisting other passengers.
It is the holiday season, and as much as the season brings me joy with the beautiful decorations, singing of carols, and falling of snow, it means that every flight is full. People travel all over the country in a mad rush to join their loved ones and celebrate the festive season. For us flight attendants, it means one thing and one thing only—back-to-back shifts.
It is just past midday and already, I have flown from San Francisco to Phoenix, then Phoenix to LA. I am used to it, though—grueling hours and sleep whenever I can catch it. Gone are the days of climbing into bed at a reasonable time and snoozing until noon. Even on my rare days off, my body clock refuses to let me unwind.
“Livvy, hello?” The voice cracks my strayed thoughts. Stella is standing in front of me with a life jacket and belt in hand. “Everything okay?”
“Holiday season,” I confess with a hint of sadness. “Just busy but lonely.”
“Why don’t you come back to my place for Christmas? You’ve only got one shift tomorrow, right? We can eat late and drink eggnog until we’re in a massive food coma. Plus, the kids would love to see you.”
Her big brown eyes wait in anticipation for my answer. I’ve always envied her skin—a beautiful ebony color, and completely flawless. She has two dimples that sit near the corners of her mouth, a trait that passengers often point out in admiration.
I smile at the thought of spending the holidays with her family. Stella is a gutsy woman. She knows what she wants, and she goes for it. It’s how she met her husband, Robbie. He is such a sweetheart, and he worships the ground she walks on. He takes the kids to school each morning and picks them up plus manages his own business. He cooks for the family and when Stella comes home, she walks into a spotless house with dinner on the stove and a glass of red waiting.
What do I walk into?
A boyfriend who quit his last job because he had a tiff with a co-worker. He sits on his ass all day long without lifting a finger. Dinner on the stove would be a miracle. I’m lucky to get a half-eaten cold pizza sitting in a box. “I’ll think about it. I’m not sure if Adam wanted to do something.”
Stella narrows her eyes, appearing unimpressed by the mention of his name. “C’mon, Adam doing something that isn’t self-centered?” She places her hand on my arm, putting on her motherly hat as she often does. “When are you going to offload the excess baggage?”
I’m unable to contain my laughter at the airline humor that we often use. “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Leaving Stella to assist a lady in row one, I open my small mirror to check on my makeup. Pulling out my lipstick, I twist the base and carefully glide it on, enjoying the new shade I purchased—Red Vixen.
My hair still remains intact, captured in a tight bun and away from my face. I recently dyed it a deep red and cut it to sit just past my shoulders, though I rarely wear it out anymore. I tighten my purple scarf around my neck, check the buttons on my white blouse are secured to avoid my breasts making an embarrassing appearance, then quickly tuck my mirror away in my purse.
All passengers have boarded. Both Stella and I are working in business class today. Sometimes it is great; people request a drink then leave us alone. Then there are other times when I could wring people’s necks for being so high-maintenance.
The ground workers close the remaining door at the same time as I make another announcement.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the Fasten Seat Belt sign. If you haven’t already done so, please stow your carry-on luggage underneath the seat in front of you or in an overhead bin. Please take your seat and fasten your seat belt. Make sure your seat and folding trays are in their full upright positions.”
Following procedure and completing the safety demonstration, I place the items back in the cavity and walk through the cabin to check all seat belts are fastened. Looking left to right, I see passengers are busy on their devices or already asleep. A woman in row three requests an additional pillow for her troubled neck. She’s draped in gold necklaces, and I’m desperate to tell her that maybe her jewelry—which rivals Mr. T’s—is the problem.
As I approac
h row four, I notice a passenger struggling with his seat belt. “Are you okay, sir?”
“This belt is not extending. You would think that seat belts would be checked regularly to avoid us plummeting to our own death. I guess this is what happens when you book a cheap airline?”
I ignore his distasteful comment. It isn’t the first or last time I will hear such negative comments about my carrier. It is the nature of the industry. People love to complain.
“Let me assist you.” I lean forward, careful not to touch him, and pull the strap through the buckle to extend the belt. I almost have it, until I’m hit in the backside by another passenger.
I fall directly into seat belt guy’s lap. The palm of my hand grazes against his charcoal dress pants, landing hand-down on his crotch.
“I’m sorry, miss,” the other passenger, apologizes.
My body freezes. Heat creeps across my cheeks. The passenger in 4A seems well-endowed.
“I’m so sorry, sir.” I distance my hand quickly and compose myself, only to be met by these deep hazel eyes. The shade is light, and something about them rings familiar. I have this unknown feeling, like I’ve questioned this color once before.
I didn’t pay attention to his face earlier, not noticing that he is extremely attractive. The kinda guy who would make it as a model on the cover of a magazine. He oozes masculinity, with a striking jawline and rugged stubble. The supreme confidence he carries mirrors the smug expression that remains on his face while I awkwardly check him out.
“Again, I’m sorry.” I straighten my posture in an effort to curb my embarrassment. “I trust the seat belt is now, um, suited to your size.” I cringe at my choice of words. “I mean, body.”
Double cringe.
“Thank you, Miss …” He searches my nametag. “Miss Olivia.”
“You can call me Olivia. Or Livvy. Actually, you don’t need to call me at all.” I’m a rambling mess, grimacing as I think of ways to disappear into thin air. I pride myself on excellent customer service, but this is just plain awful.
“Olivia. A pretty name for a very pretty woman.”
“Uh, thank you. I must carry on. Please press the button should you require any assistance.”
He smirks, wide. It consumes his face as he leans back into his chair before placing his headphones on and directing his attention to the window.
It gives me the much-needed getaway, moving on with my seat belt check until the captain requests we take our seats. When I am seated and strapped for takeoff, I mull over my embarrassing encounter. Jesus Christ … you’re a mess, Olivia.
I narrow it down to exhaustion. Then, I’m mentally arguing with myself that I drank a double-shot espresso only an hour ago. It could be my cycle. I’m sure I’m due soon, maybe a week or two. That could be it.
No ... dig deeper.
Okay, it is the lack of sex in my life. Adam is—putting it politely—less excited these days. He gets more turned on by unlocking a new level on the game he is playing than my naked body. It could be all my fault. It’s not like he’s exactly created fireworks for me either.
But this guy is so … large.
Six months of no sex and all I can think about is dick.
This is going to be one hell of a long flight.
2
The second the seat belt sign comes off I quickly walk past 4A, my eyes focused on the back of the plane. This aircraft isn’t huge; only four of us are on duty today.
Giovanni is busy preparing the meal service and chatting away animatedly about the latest episode of The Bachelor. He is always fun to work with. He’s in his late forties, a Greek descendant with so much hair on his chest which he swears keeps the laser industry alive.
He is also the biggest flirt in the history of flirts—men being his preference. He is over-the-top and dramatic, and has an obsession with David Hasselhoff, but the passengers just love him.
“Okay, can someone please swap with me?” I beg, pulling Giovanni and Kelly aside in the cabin area.
Giovanni raises his perfectly shaped eyebrows, ignoring my plea and pulling out the trolleys. “Uh-uh, have you seen the back three rows? It’s an Olympic rowing team. Rowing.”
Kelly gazes with curiosity. “Rowing? Isn’t that an old-man sport?”
“Oh honey, have you seen their form? Their arm work is fantastic. Imagine swapping the oars for dick.” He stares at the roof, lost in one of his usual fantasies that involved several men. “Now wouldn’t that be something?”
We keep our laughter low, careful not to disrupt passengers who have already fallen asleep. Kelly and Giovanni carry on with their tasks, neither one of them assisting me with my dilemma. I contemplate telling them why I can’t work in business today, but decide against it. Giovanni also considers himself a relationship counselor. He would over-analyze my ‘accidental’ grab and spend the whole flight breaking down my feelings, and how sexual deprivation could be detrimental to my health.
After trying to convince them one more time, I give up and reluctantly make my way back to help Stella.
Business class has its pros and cons, like the passengers demanding everything served on a silver platter—sometimes literally. God, at times I want to shove their silver spoons in their mouths and tell them to shut the hell up. Especially the men in row two today—a bunch of oldies who have zero class when it comes to women.
“How about a drink for you, darlin’?” The man at the window asks in a heavy southern accent. He would be about my dad’s age, with an aged forehead and grey hair that was styled in the seventies. The shirt he wears is colored maroon and barely buttons up against his wide frame.
“I appreciate the offer, sir. We don’t drink while at work but please, enjoy yours.”
The second man, slightly older also with a bulging belly hanging over his seat belt, asks a similar—though highly inappropriate—question. “How ’bout a drink afterward? I’ve got a penthouse suite at the Hilton. Champagne for a sexy woman like yourself.”
I glance at the gold bands nestled on both their fingers, handing the first man his scotch and serviette. “The offer would be silly of me to take, considering your wives must be waiting at home for you.”
My lips curve upwards into a fake smile, exaggerating my expression to prove a point. They may think I am some dumb hostess, but I’m no gold-digging whore.
“Way to go Livvy,” Stella whispers with a grin, unleashing the brake on the cart to allow us to roll backward. “Darlin’, how about you ride me like the dirty cowgirl you are?”
Her amusing accent makes it difficult not to laugh at the situation. I’m glad we moved on. Something about those men makes my skin crawl.
Row three is much better. A couple who keep to themselves ask for a beer and wine. They are cute, holding hands as they joke about their impending wedding.
“Congratulations,” I tell them, watching as they giggle like lovesick fools. “When’s the big day?”
“Tomorrow,” the guy responds, kissing her hand. “Long overdue. We’ve been dating since senior year of college.”
“And you stayed together the whole time?” Stella questions, keeping her judgmental tone aside. “That’s amazing. It takes a lot of work to stay strong for so long.”
“I guess some things are meant to be.” The woman flashes her gorgeous princess-cut ring.
I envy them. Have I been wasting my life? I think back to my high school and college boyfriends. There was no one I saw a future with. I have this knack for picking the wrong guys—time wasters and dropkicks with no future.
Stella clears her throat, talking to me with her eyes. We’re at 4A … oh, great. Here goes nothing.
“Good evening, sir.” I struggle to make eye contact, but do so with much embarrassment. “May I offer you a drink?”
“I’ll take the hardest stuff you have.”
What the hell does that mean?
Stella is quick to respond, “Cognac?”
“Sure.” He continues to gaze at me, s
traight and barely readable. “Should I offer to invite you to my penthouse too, or is that an automatic no?”
His question takes a moment to register, then I realize he’s trying to lighten the mood. A part of me wants to challenge him—cocky bastard—for playing on the obvious.
“As tempting as that may be, I’ll pass.” I feel a pang the moment I say it, a slight regret, because maybe he could take me back and give me fireworks.
Would you listen to yourself? Stop this mad thinking right now. You’re in a relationship, and this man’s ridiculously good looks are swaying your normally rational thinking. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”
He pauses while Stella busies herself with the next row. He has this odd stare; it lingers along with this mysterious shadow that hovers over him, wanting me to learn more about this stranger. Yet those eyes … what the hell is it about them?
It's only because you felt his pants.
“Nuts.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nuts?” he asks again, lips pursed, keeping his expression serious. “Do you have any nuts?”
I lean down and pull the tray out, removing a packet of nuts. “Plain or salted?”
“Hmm, salted nuts sound nice, don’t they?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer, almost choking on the reply. “Not the biggest fan of nuts.”
“Really? You? I would picture you for a nuts woman.”
I laugh. “I’m not sure what to say to that.”
Stella calls my name, forcing me to say goodbye to Mr. … I must check out his name.
We serve the remaining passengers and once everyone is settled, I hang around the galley, looking to unwind.
I enjoyed that mild banter, flirting, or whatever happened back there. It reminded me of the good ol’ single days. When college boys would make you laugh and all you did was go to parties and play drinking games.