Never Choose Flight (A Fighter Romance Novel)

by Danielle Forte

  Copyright 2014 Danielle Forte - All Rights Reserved

  Published by Danielle Forte

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters are products of the author's imagination and any resemblance to your actual life is awesome, and purely co-incidental.

  Danielle Forte

  author.danielle.forte@gmail.com

  Dedicated to my husband Sean,

  and to all my friends who encouraged me

  to follow my dreams.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

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  Chapter 1

  “Now boarding Gate Thirty Two, New York to Los Angeles,” said a crackly voice.

  That was me. My flight home. And I didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary to happen. I’d taken this same flight many times before. Usually I just slept, or read a book. And I had no reason to believe that it would be any different. The plan was to sleep though - I’d had a long trip.

  When I’d gotten to my parent’s house, in New York, at the start of the trip, things went south almost immediately. We sat down for a dinner, our first dinner together in at least a year, and the first thing my mom said was, “So Jessica, have you found yourself a nice man yet?”

  Just like that she said it. She knew the answer. She knew how bad I was at ‘nice men’. Or men of any sort, to be honest. “Not yet, mom,” I said.

  She shook her head. Dad just ate his food and stared off into the distance. He always tried to stay out of these conversations. “Well are you a lesbian then?”

  “No mom, I’m not a lesbian.” I tried to keep my mouth shut from saying anything more. Every trip for the last five years had started like this, started the exact same way. But it always faded eventually.

  I kind of understood where she was coming from. I am thirty five years old. That isn’t old, exactly, but it’s a bit weird that I’m not in a steady relationship. Most of my friends are married. And the biological clock is definitely ticking - if I ever want to have kids then I better find someone quick. But I just haven’t found that guy yet. Haven’t found the one. I don’t even really believe in The One, or true love anymore.

  “So what is it then?” she asked, voice as shrill as ever.

  “It’s work,” I lied. “Work takes up so much of my time. I’m always tired afterwards. I never have the motivation to go out looking for dates or anything.”

  The real answer - the one I never tell anyone - is that I’m plump. Not, like, obese. But a bit overweight. I have more curves than most women. A round face. It probably does come from my boring-as-hell job though, sitting at a desk all day. But still. Even if I did manage to meet The One, I don’t think he’d even consider dating a girl like me.

  “Well that’s good,” said Dad. “At least you’re working hard.”

  Mom just shook her head. And for the whole rest of the trip, she kept bringing it up. Constantly. Like she was worried that I would forget how lonely I was. By the time I was standing in that airport, I had definitely had enough of my parents for a year or two.

  I waited in line, showed the person my boarding pass, and then got onto the plane. I rolled my carry-on down the aisle, to the back where my seat was, and then looked up. I am short. I’ll admit it. And lifting my little bag all the way up into the overhead compartment was always a challenge.

  “Let me get that for you,” said a voice from behind.

  I spun around and saw a tall man. He was wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. You see that kind of thing often in the airport - comfort travellers. He scooped up my bag and lifted it with one hand, placing it delicately where it was supposed to go. He placed his own duffle bag next to it.

  “I’m K4,” he said.

  I was about to say, “I’m Jessica and your name is weird,” but then I realized what he was talking about. “I’m K3,” I said.

  He sat in the window seat, and I sat down in the aisle seat. His broad shoulders spilled over into my space a bit, but I didn’t mind too much. I looked over at him with a smile, and said, “Thanks for getting my bag.”

  “Not a problem,” he said, with a bit of a smile himself. “So what brings you onto this flight?”

  I glanced back at him. Men never tried to make conversation with me. When I looked back I caught myself staring for a bit too long. He had a rugged look to him. A bit of stubble. A scar on his face here and there. But I could still make out some perfect cheekbones. A noticeable jaw-line. And even in that hoodie, I could tell that he was ripped underneath.

  “Uh,” I said, searching for words. “Family. I was visiting family. Now I’m going back home.”

  “Rough trip?” he asked.

  How had he known? I ran my hand through my hair, suspecting that it had given me away. My hair always gets wilder when I’m stressed. “Yeah,” I said. “You?”

  “Not too rough.”

  I laughed. “I meant what brings you to this flight.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Work.”

  I looked at him again. He had those piercing eyes that you normally only see in movies. I looked away. I wanted to ask what kind of work he did. Most of the people who travel for work do so in suits. And honestly - if I ran into this guy on the streets of LA - I would not consider him to be the kind of guy who worked. At least not in a normal job.

  So to avoid the conversation about cocaine hidden on his person, or whatever his job was, I promptly shut myself up.

  We sat there in silence while the plane took off. Everything was normal. I was just sitting next to an incredibly handsome man. That was all. I tried to stay calm. But he kept looking at me.

  Maybe he was from some other culture, I thought. A culture where people always look at each other. But he didn’t have an accent or anything. So why was he looking at me.

  A couple of times I looked back at him. We’d make eye contact for a second, but then I had to look away. A little awkward laugh, a little fiddling with my hair, and then I’d pretend I couldn’t tell he was still looking at me. Starting at me.

  “I’m Malcolm,” he said, once we were at cruising altitude.

  “Jessica,” I said.

  “So what do you do, Jessica?” he asked.

  I had been completely zoned out, so it took me a second to respond. “Uh, paper. I sell paper.”

  He stared. “You… sell paper?”

  “Yep.”

  “To who?”

  “Offices, mostly. Legal offices need a lot of it. The administration part of any business needs it, really. Paper is where business happens,” I said, rattling off one of the pitch-lines I use a lot at work. Like an instinct I grabbed my purse and pulled out my business card. I handed it to him. Gave him my number.

  “You sell paper,” he repeated, looking down at my card. “I can’t imagine that’s terribly exciting.”

  “It’s not,” I said. And I was all ready to leave it at that. I don’t have an interesting job. That’s just something that I live with.

  “Seriously,” he said. “So you spend all day just talking on the phone about paper, or what?”

  “Yeah, mostly,” I said. “Sometimes I send emails.”

  “Shouldn’t you send letters?”

 
I laughed. “Maybe. That would be better for business.”

  “But you can’t possibly actually care about that job, can you?”

  “It pays the bills,” I said.

  “Right. But you don’t worry at night about selling enough paper, do you?”

  I thought back. I had actually spent a night or two tossing and turning in bed, worried that I wouldn’t meet quotas. I laughed. “Sometimes I do,” I said.

  “That’s crazy,” he said. “Your job makes you crazy.”

  I laughed. Then I thought about it. The conversation had been nice. I thought we were kind of hitting it off. But then I realized that maybe he was making fun of me. Laugh at the fat girl with the shitty job. I stopped laughing.

  But then he said it. “I like a girl who’s a little bit crazy,” he said.

  I stared at him, and I couldn’t force the smile off of my face. I didn’t know what to say. He was hitting on me. Flirting with me. This incredibly handsome stranger.

  “Drinks or snacks?” said a nasally voice from the aisle.

  It was a young woman, hair tied back in a tight ponytail. Red lipstick. Cleavage out in the open for anyone to see. She looked down at us, waiting.

  “Could I get a water?” asked the handsome man.

  She nodded, with an extra big smile. “For you,” she said, “anything.”

  He just nodded while she poured the drink and handed it to him.

  “Could I get a coffee?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  She poured me a coffee and handed it to me. I wrapped my hands around the warm corrugated cup. “Anything else?” she asked, leaning in a bit. Staring at the handsome man. Clearly hoping that he’d return her advances.

  He didn’t say anything, he just looked out the window.

  “No thanks,” I said.

  “Fine.” She moved down the aisle to the next group, glaring at the handsome man for a moment.

  I looked over at him. “Can’t stand women like that,” he said once she was out of earshot.

  I tilted my head.

  “Strangers,” he said, “always hitting on me. It’s always the same type. The type I don’t want anything to do with.”

  I snorted a bit. “Poor you,” I said. “Too many women want to sleep with you. That must be tough.”

  “It’s never the ones I hope,” he said, giving me a look. Was it that look? Couldn’t be. No way.

  “So what do you do?” I asked, hoping to get the conversation going again.

  “You drink coffee?” he asked, ignoring what I said.

  “Uh, yes,” I said.

  “A lot?”

  I looked at him.

  “I saw you chug down a Venti before getting on the plane.”

  He had noticed me in the airport? “Yeah, I drink a lot of coffee. I practically fall asleep if I go for an hour or two without any.”

  “That’s not very good for you,” he said.

  “I need it,” I said. “For work, mostly. Sometimes you gotta do things that aren’t good for you.”

  He smirked and nodded a bit. I wanted to ask again what he was did for a living, but I didn’t have the guts.

  The coffee was weak. Just brown, bitter water. No caffeine. My eyelids started to get heavy. I put the cup down. My head started to get too heavy for my neck. And then I was asleep.

  * * *

  I felt a hand brushing my hair behind my ear. The thing I was resting on moved a bit. I bolted up in my seat. I’d fallen asleep. On his shoulder.

  I looked at him and quickly wiped each side of my mouth, hoping that I hadn’t drooled too much. He was smiling at me, though. Not angry or anything. “We’re coming in for landing,” he said.

  I shook my head, trying to wake myself up. Threw back the rest of my cup of coffee, rubbed my eyes, and then I was back to normal. Fully awake before the wheels screeched against the tarmac.

  Normally, after a conversation like this, I would just slink away from the man, convinced that he didn’t want anything to do with me. The idea of, like, trying to continue things after the plane landed was never in my head. And especially a man like this - the kind of man my mom would actually be disappointed I was dating - I had no reason to try and make things carry on. But I tried anyway.

  “So what are you doing now?” It was nine o’clock, february, so it was already dark. I immediately thought it was a dumb question, because he was probably just going home.

  “Catching a cab,” he said. “Going to work.”

  “I have a car,” I said. It was one of those thoughts that fell out of my mouth for everyone to hear.

  “Lucky you,” he said.

  “No, I mean I can give you a ride.”

  “You sure?” he asked. “I’m not headed towards a very nice neighbourhood.”

  “My life’s boring,” I said. “Let me break the monotonous pattern. Just by giving you a ride.”

  “Sure,” he said. “I’d love a ride. But you’re just going to drop me off and leave, got it?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  He helped me get my bag down, and then we walked to the lot where my car was parked.

  “So,” I asked, “Where to?”

  “Terminal Island,” he said, and then got into the passenger side of my car.

  “I never thought I’d be driving a stranger into a neighborhood like that,” I said.

  “Never say never,” he said.

  Chapter 2

  Terminal Island. I knew of the place. It was not known to be the best neighborhood around. There’s a big prison there. It’s part of a harbor, that plenty of drugs flow through. Gang violence. Homeless people. Generally not the kind of place I like to hang around.

  I started up the car and got onto the freeway, panicking on the inside all along. What did this man need to do at Terminal Island? Was he going to kill me or something? Because if so, that would be the place to do it. There is plenty of manufacturing down there, lots of noise, so no one would hear my screams. He could dump my body in the ocean. I looked over at him, and he seemed totally relaxed in my little car.

  “So,” I said. “Are you, um, a prison guard or something?”

  He laughed. That was not reassuring. “No,” he said, “I am not a prison guard. I don’t work at the prison.”

  He looked over at me, looking me up and down, and he could tell that I was a bit worried. “I just have something I need to do there. You can drop me off and drive away. That’s probably best.”

  “Is it dangerous?” I asked.

  “It’s not as bad a neighborhood as everyone seems to think.”

  “No,” I said. “I mean the thing you need to do.”

  “Oh,” he said. And then he paused. “Not for me, no.”

  “Is it dangerous for someone else, then?”

  “It’s kind of dangerous for exactly one guy,” he said. “But not me. Or you. But you really should just leave once I’m out of the car. Thanks a lot for offering to drive, by the way.”

  He seemed so nice, I thought. Friendly. Polite. What dangerous thing could he possibly be going to do? And why was it dangerous for someone else but not him?

  I pulled off the freeway and onto one of the long dark streets of Terminal Island. The roads were wide, so that huge trucks could drive down them. There were cranes and trains, moving those shipping containers around. He told me where to turn, and we wove deeper and deeper into the night.

  “There,” he said, pointing. It was a huge warehouse. There were several other cars parked outside. A few guys, some of them with girls, straggling around near the entrance which had one huge guy standing on either side. There were lights on inside, and I could practically hear the drunkenness from my car.

  “What’s going on?” I asked him, moving my hand onto his seat belt before he could unbuckle.

  “Just a normal Sunday night,” he said.

  “Come on,” I said. “Just tell me what you’re doing.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Would it be dan
gerous for me to know?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Then why won’t you tell me?”

  “It’s just…” he started. “It’s just that you seem like a perfectly nice woman. You’re well adjusted. You have a career. You go home to visit your family. Your life is exactly what most people want. Mine is not. I don’t want to spoil what you have going.”

  I stared at him. That wasn’t a good enough reason.

  “And I’m scared of you,” he added.

  “What?” I said.

  “I’m scared of you.”

  “Why on earth would you be scared of me?”

  “You’re the kind of girl I always hoped I’d meet. The kind of woman I think I’d like to get to know better. Maybe take out to dinner. But I can’t. I can’t do anything like that.”

  I was blushing. “Why not?”

  “Okay,” he said. “Right now. Right this minute. You need to drive away. Or else your whole life could be ruined. Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  He undid his seatbelt and stepped out of the car. He closed the door and started to walk away from me, towards the strangely lit-up warehouse.

  I watched him for a moment. I thought about what he’d said. My whole life being turned upside down. How he thought that my life was what a lot of people wanted. How he couldn’t have a woman like me in his life.

  I thought about my job. The endlessness of my work. I thought about how tired I was every night when I got home, even though it felt like I hadn’t done anything. I thought about how I needed to drink coffee all day just to keep from passing out.

  And I thought about what he might be doing. He didn’t need to drink coffee to stay awake. He was strong. He was happy. He seemed well adjusted. But there was something about him that I knew I had to be worried about. He straight up told me that we couldn’t be together. That I couldn’t become a part of my life. That he was scared of that happening.

  And I knew that if I just followed him into that building, I would find the answer to my question. Find out what he did.

  I didn’t want my life to stay the same. I wanted something to change. I wanted my whole life turned upside down.