Lucy blushed a little. “Yes, that’s the one.”
“So, do you think you might meet someone on the tour?”
“I think I could meet someone just about anywhere,” replied Lucy playfully.
This time the man blushed. “I guess so.”
“It’s hard meeting good people,” said Lucy.
“Tell me about it,” replied the man.
Lucy extended her hand. “My name is Lucy.”
The man took it. “Douglas. Pleased to meet you, Lucy.”
Lucy caught a glimmer of something in the lower periphery of her vision, something that caught the light, something metallic. She looked down and saw the ring on his right index finger. Shit.
Douglas took his hand back and detected a sudden change in Lucy’s demeanor, but he apparently wanted to keep the momentum going. “So, you’re from New York. Where abouts?”
Lucy’s enthusiam deflated. “Brooklyn.”
“Me too. Which part?”
This was awkward. “Greenpoint.”
“Bushwick,” replied Douglas.
Lucy was drinking her vodka and cranberry quickly—half to end the interaction sooner rather than later and half to blunt her disappointment. “Well, Douglas,” she said placing her empty glass on the bar and standing up, “you have a nice trip.”
Douglas was looking at his watch as his white gold wedding band glinted in the light of the terminal. “We still have twenty minutes until they begin boarding. What’s the rush? I’d like to hear more about your trip.”
Creep. Pig. Lucy mustered up her best polite smile. “I actually have some work I want to catch up on. It was nice meeting you.”
“What type of work do you do?” asked Douglas, not taking the hint.
Lucy looked him dead in the eye. “I’m a clinical psychologist.”
The smile faded from his face, and now Douglas appeared uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “Y-yes, w-well, you have a great trip, Lucy.”
Lucy smiled, shouldered her carry-on, and walked back over to the seating area of the terminal. She made sure she took a seat behind a wide pillar to block her view of the bar and vice versa. Her face burned hot with embarrassment.
When she told Douglas that she was a clinical psychologist, it was a lie…technically. In New York one could not call oneself that without first obtaining one’s license, but her little white lie had the intended effect. Men usually became uncomfortable around her when she revealed her trade. Perhaps it was a guilty conscience or fear that she might be analyzing them. Whatever the reason, her career was guy kryptonite.
Attention, passengers: we will begin boarding United 8840 to Florence, Italy by group in a few moments. Please have your boarding passes and photo identifications ready and wait until your group number is called.
Thank Christ. Lucy reached into her bag and produced her boarding pass and driver’s license. She was barking up the wrong tree with Douglas, but she was on her way to meeting a group of fellow singles in Italy. She only hoped that the flight was smooth and she wasn’t seated next to anyone obnoxious. Yes, she decided she’d keep to herself and save her social graces for the tour rather than flirt with anymore married men.
We are now boarding United Flight 8840 to Florence, Italy. We ask that passengers using wheelchairs and those in Group 3 to approach the gate. All other passengers, please wait until your group is called.
Lucy double-checked her boarding pass. She was in Group 2. She watched as two elderly individuals in wheelchairs, a man and a woman, were pushed up to the gate by their caretakers. After them, those in Group 3 boarded. As Lucy watched the passengers of all ages, genders, and sizes board the plane, she wondered if any of these fellow passengers were with her tour group.
We are now boarding for United Flight 8840 to Florence, Italy. We now ask that those passengers in Group 2 make their way to the gate. Please have your boarding passes and photo identifications ready. All other passengers, please wait until your group is called.
Lucy got up, boarding pass and driver’s license clutched in her left hand, and she shouldered her carry-on bag. She took her place on line and began to inch her way with the throng to the gate. This was it. Goodbye, New York. Goodbye, home. Goodbye, the familiar. Hello, adventure.
Lucy looked over her shoulder at the bar. Douglas was no longer there. Good. He must have been in Group 1. Lucy thanked God for small favors. She presented her documents and made her way through the gate. When she boarded the plane, she was greeted by a friendly flight attendant.
Lucy turned sideways, pointing her small bag ahead of her, and she slipped down the narrow center aisle as she looked down at her boarding pass for her seat number: 22E. She inched her way down the aisle until she found her seat. She unzipped her carry-on, pulled out her Kindle, and she closed her bag. Then, she popped it up in the overhead compartment.
She sat down and powered up her Kindle. It automatically cued up The Odd Tales of an Old Man by Edward P. Cardillo. She was looking forward to finishing it on the flight. Lucy watched as passengers boarded the plane. Then she saw him.
Doulglas was making his way down the aisle. Lucy half-hid behind the seat, watching him make his way down the plane. He was about to pass her row, so she looked down at her Kindle, hoping he would pass by without noticing her.
“Lucy!”
Double shit.
She looked up to find Douglas standing over her. She smiled politely.
“Looks like we’re going to have plenty of time to get to know each other,” he said triumphantly. He showed her his boarding pass. 22D. Great.
Lucy was starting to loathe adventure.
Chapter 6
Paul
Mark Woods
I fucking well knew I should’ve taken the plane, thought Paul Clarkson as he sat in his seat at the rear of the coach and gazed down the bus at his fellow passengers. The average age of the passengers aboard had to be sixty to sixty-five, and that was a conservative estimate at best. Paul was twenty-seven and severely unimpressed with the fact that he was now going to have to spend the next few hours of his life travelling half-way across Europe with a bunch of oldies.
What made it worse, Paul thought, was that there was probably a good chance that many of the elderly people on this coach were in a better physical condition than he was.
Paul had made the mistake of glancing in the restroom mirror at the bus station, shortly before the coach had been about to leave. He had been more than a little bit shocked at just how weary and dog-tired he had begun to look. All the years of constant drink and substance abuse he had partaken in were slowly catching up with him, Paul realised. Back home, he rarely bothered looking in a mirror anymore, hence why his reflection had come as such a big surprise.
His hair was now a messy, straggly ‘dirty’ blonde that closely resembled straw. It had always been blonde, but now it just looked damaged and unkempt after years of not being washed properly and very often neglected. His eyes, once a deep Sapphire blue, now looked dulled and nowhere near as bright as they once had been. What was more, around each one of these eyes, Paul had been more than a little disappointed to see he was starting to develop crow’s feet.
The only real bit of colour in his face came from his nose, and that was only down to the fact of how much alcohol he consumed each and every day and how much coke he had put up there over the years.
One thing was certain, he wouldn’t be doing that again in a hurry. When he would finally reach the hotel, the first thing he was going to do would be to cover up all the mirrors!
There were two reasons why he hadn’t gone by plane. The first and most important reason was that he simply couldn’t afford it.
Tired of his son’s wild and frantic lifestyle, full of mad parties, booze, women and drugs, Paul’s father had decided to take action and had cut off his trust fund. No trust fund meant no money. This was why Paul had been forced to take the coach.
Stupid old prick, Paul thought. Just because he doesn’
t know how to enjoy himself, he seems to feel he has the right to dictate to everyone else how they should live their lives. For as long as Paul could remember all his father had ever talked about was having a life plan, a set of goals by which you should plan your future.
What’s wrong with just wanting to party? Paul asked himself. Life was too short to be so serious all the time.
And that was the second reason Paul was travelling by coach. He knew that even if he had been able to afford it, the temptation to get into trouble if he’d flown would’ve been too great. For this week, at least, Paul was going to try going straight. He had a point to prove. That meant no booze, no drugs, and no random sex with strangers. Good luck with that last one, Paul thought.
If he’d flown, Paul knew he would’ve ended up going on a bender and getting drunk the way he always did when travelling in First Class. He knew he just wouldn’t have been able to stop himself. It would’ve have started with him just doing a couple of cheeky lines of coke in the toilet to take the edge off, and after that, who knew what might have happened ?
Unless Paul came back from this holiday showing a vast improvement in his behaviour, his dad was going to cut him off; possibly even disown him.
Fuck, this was going to end up being a boring holiday, he thought.
* * *
The last time he’d flown, a year ago, had been on a trip to the States to visit his mother. Marie Clarkson had divorced his father, the well renowned Edward Clarkson, over a decade ago but kept his name because she loved the status that it brought her.
Paul had not been long out of Rehab, he remembered, and was looking for a bit of excitement after spending far too long locked away ‘for his own good’. He’d drunk two thirds of a bottle of vodka before he had even boarded the plane, but had gotten away with it and managed to clear the security checks because by then, Paul had become adept at hiding his various addictions and was an expert at appearing sober when he was, in fact, anything but.
Paul had been on the plane no more than five minutes when he spotted this blonde bit sitting two rows down from his own seat. He recognised her from the Departure Lounge, knew she’d been having a few sneaky drinks herself when she thought no-one was looking, and could tell immediately that she was his type of girl.
No sooner had the plane taken off than he had moved down the aisle to sit in an empty seat beside her. “Going my way?” he’d asked her and flashed his winning smile. As per usual, it seemed to work. Before long, both of them had ended up in the Airplane toilet doing a couple of lines together.
Paul had kind of blacked out after that, but when he did awaken, it was to find him fucking the blonde from behind a few minutes later, casually renewing his membership into the Mile High Club. He‘d banged that bitch so hard, he barely noticed he’d smacked her face into the bulkhead, causing her nose to pretty much explode. Until the blood started pouring out, she didn’t realise either. Both of them had been as high as the proverbial kite.
“What the hell’s going on in there?” an irate Air Stewardess had demanded, banging on the door. Paul had sheepishly opened it and helped the blonde, whose name he still didn’t know, out the bathroom before again flashing his award winning smile.
“Would you believe she was having a nosebleed?” Paul had asked innocently, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “I’m a registered First Aider. I saw her from two rows down and thought I’d try and help...”
“I’m so sorry, sir,” the Air Stewardess replied, suddenly coming over all apologetic. “It’s just...we had reports of some strange noises being heard, and we have to investigate all disturbances. We’re not supposed to let anybody get up to any... ‘monkey business’...in the toilets, if you know what I mean.”
“Not really,” Paul had said, coming over all pretend bashful. “I mean, that is...do people really do that? I thought it was just like a myth or something...”
The blonde was gone, back to her seat. One of the other Stewardesses was helping to calm her down after she’d started hyperventilating or some shit. Paul didn’t know, and now that he’d had his way with her, he no longer cared.
The Air Stewardess he was currently talking to was much cuter anyway, Paul thought. Kim—or at least he thought that’s what her name was (he couldn’t read her badge as his eyes were struggling to focus)—appeared oblivious to the fact that both Paul and the blonde passenger had both emerged red-faced or to the fact that the toilet now stunk of sex. She was either stupid or dangerously naive, Paul thought. Either way, it was a combination he liked and thought he could take advantage of.
Much later, after the flight had landed, the pair of them had ended up back at her place.
Kim…or maybe it had been Kiera, he thought now, had a couple of days off and wasn’t due to fly until the end of the week, so Paul had stayed overnight. At her apartment, in a glitzy area of New York, they’d done coke, ecstasy, speed—so many drugs he forgot everything they’d taken now.
By that time, everything had started blurring into one. Paul remembered Kim (or was it Kiera) had introduced him to her girlfriend. Turned out she was bi-curious and currently living with another women as her lesbian flat-mate.
Paul had ended up in all manner of positions that night; at one point screwing the other woman while Kim/Kiera/whatever licked out her girlfriend’s pussy. It had been like a game of Musical Fuck-mates, and one of the best experiences of his life. In the morning, Paul had left to travel upstate and visit his mother. He’d never seen either of the girls again.
That was just how he rolled. Or at least, it used to be...
* * *
It had been an article about him in the paper that had triggered Paul’s most recent verbal assault from his father. “No more money until you sort yourself out and prove you can do something with your life other than piss it away!”
With immediate effect, Paul was to give up all of his drinking, whoring, gambling and continued substance abuse or there would be consequences that included no more trust fund and no more spending money. And not just for a little while either, but forever. Paul had been given Hobson’s choice: shape up, clean up, or face being disowned!
Ed Clarkson had found his son a brand new rehab centre for his most recent recovery. The last one had steadfastly refused to have Paul back after unacceptable behaviour that included deliberately and continually fouling the bed, then refusing point blank to clear it up or apologise. This wouldn’t have been so bad except Paul had started to encourage all the other residents to follow suit.
“You are what we call in the trade, a bad influence,” the Director of this Rehab facility had finally told him. “You have a selfish nature and no intention of trying to get better or curb your addiction. What’s more, you have no concerns for how your behaviour affects the other residents here.”
Paul could’ve argued, but thought that the Director had pretty much got his character nailed down to a tee, personally.
The Director frowned. “You show no remorse, and I really don’t think there’s any more we can do for you here.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you want me to leave?” Paul had asked and was quite rudely thrown on his ear for his efforts.
This time around, Paul had told his father, in no uncertain terms, where he could stick his fucking rehab. “I’ve undergone the process twice now, and both times it’s failed to make any kind of significant difference in my life. It’s time you faced it, Pop—this is just who I am.” His dad hated it when he called him that, demanding a certain level of respect at all times.
“We’ll see about that,” his father had told him. “Let’s see how much fun you still have when I decide to stop funding all your nasty, dirty habits.”
* * *
If Paul was honest, he didn’t really have an issue with rehab; it was more the fact that he didn’t really think he needed it. What was more, all that group therapy was a load of total bollocks. People sitting in a circle, feeling sorry for themselves and then comi
ng forward to proudly declare, “My name is (fill in the blank), and I am an addict!”
No, Paul always thought, you are a dick, a douche, a prick. What was so wrong about wanting to enjoy life and experiencing all the riches it had to offer? Of having a little fun...even if much of that fun was technically illegal? It was only society that brainwashed people into thinking it was wrong.
Just as Adam and Eve had been thrown out of the Garden of Eden for eating an apple, so Paul believed in indulging in whatever it was that took your fancy. In a world where people were starving every day from famine or killing themselves over stupid wars started by religious zealots, no longer sure themselves what it was they believed, did it really matter how many drugs you did or how much booze you drank? How many cheap whores you screwed?
“I don’t believe I am a fuck-up,” Paul had told his father most recently, “and I won’t sit in a room and pretend I am just to make you happy anymore. You want me to go clean, fine. I’ll prove to you I can go clean. I’ll sort my head out, but this time I want to do it my way!”
Reluctantly his father had eventually given in. If Paul could prove he could go clean, without the need of rehab, his father would restore his trust fund. But first he had to prove it!
If he had any idea Paul was only telling him what he thought his father wanted to hear, he didn’t show it.
Time, as they said, would tell...
* * *
There was only one thing about his life that Paul did dislike—sometimes it got a little lonely. He had friends, sure, but they were all hangers-on and soon disappeared when Daddy’s money ran out, only to reappear again miraculously next month when Paul was flush again.
Not that he particularly minded. It was just that sometimes it all just got a little bit boring being used as a cash cow all the time!
His friends were party animals, just like him; that’s why they all got on. The only difference was that they all had less money. They didn’t have a father who would bail them out when things got a little too rough and a girl suddenly decided that last night she hadn’t quite given consent after all.
Feral Hearts Page 6