Eva turns toward Noah when he holds his hand out, telling her goodbye. She waves to him, her raven curls blowing in the breeze as he carefully drives through the security gate. Eva's head whips to the left then to the right like she's looking for someone else to join us, which makes the corner of my mouth turn up.
"What's so funny?" she asks, approaching me while holding her hair back with her hand.
"You," I say, tightening the strap holding the last bag before slamming the cargo hold shut. Then I stride by her, unlocking the door to the cockpit and hopping right up into the pilot's seat.
"Hold on!" Eva exclaims. "Please tell me you're not thinking of flying this plane."
I smirk down at her. "It's my plane. Why not?"
She eyes me warily, hugging her arms to her chest.
"We haven't got all day, Eva. Get in," I command, hoping she's not going to try to stop me.
I need this right now. Not acupuncture, not candles, not watching fish for hours on end—I need to escape this goddamned city in order to feel alive again. I need something to get me fired up and feeling good in place of the coke I can't stop thinking about.
Besides, I have to show her that I'm capable of handling things. It's the first step toward rebuilding my shattered confidence. I need to believe I can get out there and do things again.
For me, mobility equals freedom. To feel like I can go anywhere at any time. I have one rule: Never get stuck in a bad situation. It's something I learned at an early age. It's what fueled my passion for aviation—really for any form of transportation, from motorcycles to ATVs to powerboats. Something she's going to discover for herself once we land on the island.
I'm a person who has to constantly be on the go. It's the rhythm my body's grown accustomed to. I crisscross the country, playing in over a dozen cities during the course of a season. Sitting in the Roosevelt Building, twiddling my thumbs, staring at the walls wasn't going to cut it. Boredom and idleness make a dangerous combination for me, especially in a place like New York.
"Are you sure you're up to it?" she asks, ignoring my invitation and keeping her feet firmly on solid ground.
I settle the headphones over my head. "Trust me. Nothing will make me feel better."
She's afraid. I can see it in her eyes. If she gets in, she'll be entrusting me with her life. I feel good enough to fly though. Otherwise, I wouldn't have stepped foot in the cockpit. I'd never put her in danger, but does she believe that? It's another one of my tests. If she expects me to place my life in her hands, then I need her to feel comfortable enough to do the same with me.
She sighs before walking in front of the plane and opening the passenger door. She hoists herself up next to me before closing it shut, and I can't keep a smile from creeping across my face.
"So, you're not going to keep babying me?" I tease her before slipping a matching pair of headphones onto her ears.
She adjusts the microphone next to her mouth. "Only if you keep talking all the way to the island."
"And just what are we going to talk about?" I start the dual engines and confirm with the tower that I have the all clear to begin taxiing down the runway.
I hope that the noise from the engines is enough to distract her from continuing our conversation, but she finds the button on her mic and I immediately hear her voice in my ear.
"Drake, if you're going to reexamine your mistakes, then I need to know your whole history," she says, tightly gripping her seat belt in both hands.
She's scared out of her mind, but she's still determined to focus on me. I can't help but admire her tenacity. She's tougher than even the biggest, ballsiest ballplayers I know.
I switch back over to air traffic control. "Teterboro Tower, DSA is ready for takeoff, request back-track."
The reply comes. "DSA, back-track approved. Cleared takeoff runway nineteen."
"Cleared takeoff runway nineteen, DSA." I turn the plane, my heart racing, anticipating the rush I'm about to experience along with her.
I apply full throttle and aim us steadily at the horizon. Eva gives me an anxious frown as we rocket forward. While witnessing her bravely push past her fear, I let out a battle cry, long and loud, once the wheels have left the ground, a wave of exhilaration hitting me.
"Oh my God!" she cries out, shutting her eyes tight.
"C'mon. This is a view you don't want to miss," I encourage her as she goes stock-still beside me.
I concentrate on my instrument panel, but when I gaze over at her again, she's looking down at the earth as it recedes below us.
"Like it?" I ask.
She releases a shaky hiccup of a laugh, still clutching the seat belt while emphatically nodding her head. "I think…I think…I love it!"
I swallow past the lump in my throat. She's so sure, so honest in her emotions. She just feels what she feels, and that's it. I've always been so caught up in running away from my problems, but she's showing me what a true sense of freedom really looks like, something I've never experienced before, no matter how many times I've been up in the air.
It makes me want to tell her things, things I've never told anyone else before.
"You're the first person to ever sit in that seat," I admit, watching her face change from joy to something bordering on concern.
"Then why did you get your pilot's license, then?" Her soothing voice comes through the headphones, making me want to tell her every damn secret I have, regardless of the consequences.
If she wants me to make a full account of my past wrongs, then I have to start at the beginning, even if she ends up despising me by the time I'm done.
I level off at our cruising altitude before taking a deep breath. Once it's out there, there's no taking it back. I'm going to have to own up to what I did…but maybe it's time.
"I got my pilot's license to run drugs for my family," I blurt out before I can second-guess myself.
That has to have shocked her, but she just lowers her eyes, playing it cool. I can only imagine what she must think of me now. I used to smuggle cocaine that fed the habit of crackheads just like her birth mother. And that's only the tip of the iceberg.
"Go on." Her voice is steady, but she shifts in her seat so she's gazing straight ahead and not at me.
It's okay if she can't meet my eyes. It'll be easier to say this stuff through the headphones. Right now, I can't bring myself to look at her, either.
"I come from the hills of Appalachia."
"But you don't have an accent."
"I've learned how to disguise it, among other things." I adjust our heading slightly, casting an eye over the gauges. "But make no mistake, when I was younger, I was as hillbilly as they come. My first job was shoveling coal out of the back of a truck."
"But I thought you can't stand being dirty?" she questions, already knowing enough about me to know how much I must've hated that job.
"I didn't have a choice. My folks found an honest living hard to come by and even harder to hold on to. When I was little, we moved around a lot. I lost track of how many states I called home—Tennessee, North Carolina, Alabama, West Virginia."
I scan the ground below, watching the nose of the plane cut through the wispy traces of clouds, cutting through all my bullshit. I flex my jaw, uneasy about having to say this but knowing that it needs to be said.
"They ventured into selling weed when I was ten and finally set up shop in Kentucky. They were so good at it that it didn't take them long to venture into the hard stuff. Our homestead became a transportation hub of sorts for narcotics. We'd store shipments of drugs for different groups—biker gangs, Dixie mafia—then move them through our network of dealers. Only Daddy developed a taste for sampling the product, and Mama couldn't have that. So she took over running the show and he was too high to notice."
"Is that why you started using at such a young age?" she asks softly.
I've always liked antagonizing women because I don't know how else to talk to them. I never had a mother's loving touch. My mama di
dn't have time for affection. But Eva's getting it out of me little by little because she's not coming at me in an aggressive way. She's allowing me to take things at my own pace, so I keep going.
"I'd hustle all night then go to school the next day and play in a game. I was always tired. I needed something to keep me going." I stare glumly out the windshield, fully aware that I'm making excuses for the choices I made.
"But you got out!" Eva exclaims, attempting to lift my spirits. "Not only that, you made it big."
"Yeah, with strings attached," I grumble.
"What do you mean?"
"I think that's enough sharing for one day," I reply, needing to stop it right there.
She finally looks my way, shooting me a puzzled glance. She has more than enough to chew on for now. Of course there's more, but it's the type of information that could get her into some serious trouble once she finds out about it, and I don't feel like divulging anything more, so she'd better not push me on it.
She got me to crack open the window to my soul, and I really don't want to slam it down on her fingers just yet.
Chapter Twelve
Eva
"Well, how about I keep talking, then?" I ask Drake.
I don't want to pressure him, but I can't just leave it there. I stare at his rigid profile, and for a moment, he doesn't even move. When he finally gives me the slightest of nods, the tension doesn't leave his body. He grips the control wheel, his back ramrod straight.
So I decide to get right to the heart of the matter. "Me and you, we're the same, you know."
He turns to glare at me, his eyes filled with the self-loathing I've come to expect. "How can you even say that?"
"Because it's true. My mother was an addict. Your father was an addict. We both share a genetic tendency toward addiction that we have to fight against every day of our lives."
"But you never used," he says firmly, like it would kill him for me to deny what he holds to be an undeniable truth, because, in his mind it's what defines us, separates us.
But that's not the point. Most addicts aren't introduced to drugs by some stranger. It's usually by someone they know, someone they trust. It's not like he screwed up and I didn't. I've seen enough of life to know that addiction doesn't work that way. It preys on those who are most susceptible to its false promises of happiness and escape at the moments when they're the most vulnerable and alone. They believe that, by inhaling some white powder or injecting a line, they'll feel good again. They all think they're strong enough to resist its allure. They're only doing it this one time. Then they'll be okay because that's all they need to get by. They swear to themselves that they'll never touch it again—until they do.
If nothing else, I need to make him understand how wrong he is about making himself into some kind of bad guy just because he's an addict.
"I was rescued from it. You had to pull yourself out," I argue heatedly. "I didn't fall victim to it because I had support. I had an adopted father who cared about me, who knew what to look out for to keep me safe. And it sounds like you didn't have anyone."
He takes a shuddering breath, and I reach for his arm.
"Don't, Eva," he says, shrugging me off.
"You need to talk about it," I plead with him. "Don't shut me out. Not now."
He chews on his bottom lip, thinking it over. He's so close to a major breakthrough. I just have to hold on and be patient with him. I can't scare him off now. I have to let him speak when he's ready.
When he finally starts again, his voice is low and rough, and I'm barely able to hear him through the headphones. "My daddy was a goddamned fool."
I cringe at the lack of empathy in his tone.
"When I was thirteen, he had a heart attack right outside our front door. Mama didn't even call for help because she didn't want the cops anywhere near us. I watched him die right in front of me, gasping for breath, clutching at his chest. Afterwards, I heard Mama say it was brought on by an overdose after he broke into the drawer under the glass-top table where she kept the stuff." He pauses, needing a minute. "After he died, that's when I started using, because I wanted out too. No one snorted the coke up my nose. I chose to get high because I wanted to. I wanted to escape all the misery just like he did, and that was the only way I knew how. I knew what it would do to me, but I didn't care."
That is some heavy baggage for him to have been carrying around all of these years. No wonder he's always extremely tense. I can't imagine the amount of strength he must've tapped into to create this arrogant, aloof persona of himself—or how he was able to maintain it for so long. Because he's not like that at all. All I see before me is that young, scared thirteen-year-old boy still hurting beneath the surface.
"Drake," I whisper, placing my hand atop his.
He flinches, but he doesn't push me away this time.
"Listen to me, okay? We're not that different, you and I. We're not." I squeeze his hand, gently running my thumb over his fingers. "It could have been either one of us who went down that road. It was just a matter of circumstance."
He grunts like he doesn't believe me, but I keep going.
"Until that night at Kings Stadium, you were doing it all on your own, holding yourself together with nothing but your sheer stubbornness to hold on to your pride and not give in. But you're not alone anymore. You've got me now."
I feel the vibration of the twin engines through his hand, the rotating power that's keeping us aloft, and even though I'm scared of heights, knowing I'm with him makes me feel safe. I want him to experience that same kind of safety with me. He's come so far these last few weeks, and there's no way I'm going to let him down now.
Until he eases his iron grip on the wheel, I intend to keep my hand right where it is, right where he can reach it—if he wants to.
I close my eyes against the sun and feel the sharp glare against the back of my eyes. I recline in my seat and give myself over to it, because up in the air, there's nothing but warmth and light…and him. For a tiny moment in time, everything feels right.
I smile in my sleep when I feel a hot, sultry breeze next to my ear. A ragged murmur of approval greets me when I lean into it and roll onto my side. My entire earlobe is soon enveloped by something moist and soft, and I gasp, curling my toes, because it feels so good that I don't ever want it to stop.
But it's not long before it gives way to a low, rumbling whisper. "Welcome to paradise, Eva."
I blink my eyes and see Drake stretched out beside me, his lips parted and even with mine.
His warm breath dances across my face, and I get lost in his eyes, drowning in their stormy, blue depths. He's not touching me, but he's so close that it feels like he is. There's no way I can look away even if I tried. Because right now, all I want him to do is take me in his arms and kiss me long and hard.
Instead, he fingers the ends of my curls, watching me while he does so. I shiver when he lets my hair go and enticingly touches my shoulder with the tip of his finger. His eyes are trained on my face as he slowly, languidly runs his finger down the entire length of my arm, giving me goose bumps. By the time he reaches my elbow, I'm biting my lip to keep from moaning aloud.
Yet, somehow, I manage to remain completely still, not knowing where this is going. He watches my breasts rise and fall with a satisfied smile on his face, the struggle to force air into my lungs giving me away. Slowly, he moves his hand to my stomach, pushing my shirt up and rubbing a series of small circles over my body. I bend my knees when he starts to hum, the rhythm of his deep, soothing voice lulling me into a state of total surrender. I nearly lose it when he spreads his fingers wide, letting them graze a bit farther down.
"Drake…" I groan, shifting when his fingertips begin to stroke me ever so lightly.
He chuckles when I tilt my head back and close my eyes. Before I know it, he's bending over me, his mouth tracing the bottom of my rib cage, kissing me softly. The feeling of his lips on my skin is overwhelming, but then he increases the pressure, playfull
y dipping his tongue in and out of my belly button.
Little does he know, it's always been a ticklish spot of mine, and I can't resist giggling at the sensation. He stops, resting his bristled cheek on the swell of my hip, looking up at me, and I feel that slow, dull ache turn into a pleasurable throb when he says, "You're even more beautiful when you laugh…if that's even possible."
Yet the next thing I know, Drake's voice is behind me, coming from somewhere over my shoulder.
"C'mon, sleepy head. Time to wake up."
I blink confusedly, my cheek numb from being pressed against the cold glass of the windowpane.
You've got to be kidding me. That was all just a dream?
I take a minute to steady my beating heart, throwing him a cautious glance. If he only knew what I was imagining him doing to me just now.
But when I stare over at him, I forget all about my embarrassment because I'm so proud of what I see.
He looks in control while flying the plane, his body language exuding confidence, even if his conflicted heart hasn't caught up with him yet. I haven't seen him this sure of himself since he went through detox. But the transformation he's undergoing isn't so much a process of bringing back the old, cocky side of his personality. Rather, it's getting him to realize his true resiliency. I want him to view himself as a survivor who doesn't need to rely on anything but his inner strength and determination to get by.
He's a champion. He knows what it takes to win when the stakes are high, and that's what's going to pull him through this.
As we sail through a puffy, white cloud, I can't help but gasp. It seems so close that I can almost touch it. I turn to him, and the sun lights his face up with a rich, amber glow like he's finally headed in the right direction. But in order to get to where I envision him being, he needs to know he's not alone in this fight. I plan on doing everything in my power to help him become the self-assured man I know he can be.
"You aren't going to want to miss this," he says while I scramble to readjust my headset.
Inside Game Page 8