The pilot circled for another low pass. “Apparently they changed the spark plugs in one of the engines, connected it to a battery, and it fired right up. And they’re coming back this summer to fly it out.”
The Kee Bird touched a powerful nerve, like hearing a song or smelling a scent that instantly returned me to the wonder of childhood. I couldn’t shake the image of it sitting there on the snow, a talisman from an age that seemed more exciting and romantic than my own. I wanted to see it fly, to hear its engines roar.
Janet had to put the book down just to think of it: to take a team out there, put up some tents, and start in on the old girl. After seventy years, it would need work. Some parts fixed, others replaced, but if she could hand-pick a few guys, a few good guys, and get herself an expense account—rig some ski-wheels on the landing gear…
It was impossible, she knew it was impossible, but she’d thought it, Hoffman had thought it; she couldn’t imagine anyone who’d so much as thrown a paper airplane could not think it. Clear a runway, tinker with the engine, gas her up, and just go. Fly the last of the Super fortresses.
Some unpoetic part of Janet’s soul pointed out how frustrating it would no doubt be, since she was used to the more precise, computerized airplane, some of which she had worked on. What kind of idiot would want to give that up for an oversized crop duster?
But there was something about that generation of planes: the P-38 Lightning, the P-51 Mustang, the F4U Corsair—all the hanging models of her childhood that she’d only seen fly in a stiff breeze. They had an elegance, an indomitable spirit, an endurance where the modern jet fighter so often seemed fragile and temperamental, fussy as hell when they weren’t ingratiatingly smooth and responsive and soulless.
But a bird like the B-29…that had hot blood in its veins. It was the difference between riding a horse and a motorcycle. The bike might not fight you, might not buck you, but it was a slave. A horse, you had to fight a bit, give a bit of slack to—you had to respect her and get her to respect you. And when you did? When you put yourself into the horse and let the horse into you?
Janet remembered visiting her uncle’s stable growing up, the first time he’d let her cut loose and bring Humphrey Bogart the Pony to a gallop. It’d felt like they were flying.
How could you only want to fly once?
Wendy finished late, stepping out of her partitioned office and into a half-lit world of janitors gossiping. She almost felt like apologizing to them as she stepped on the neat lines of the vacuumed carpet, into the elevator, and descended to the lobby, where the night watchman was waiting to monitor her journey down the walkway to the parking garage next door.
That actually required another elevator ride, as Wendy’s parking space was on the fifth floor, and she was just too damn tired to take the stairs like Michelle Obama would want her to. She could hear her bed calling to her, an exciting evening for the career woman on the go. First up, we actually get home, waking us up all over again since you can’t find a commute to go with your new posting. Then we wash up again so tomorrow morning you don’t look like something trying to kill Jamie Lee Curtis. Then we lie in bed and try to watch something boring enough to put us to sleep, but not so boring that we’ll turn it off and be alone with our thoughts. Thank God for network television.
Then Wendy froze, all of a sudden woken right the hell up, no shower or motorcycle ride required. Janet Lace was around the corner.
She looked absolutely stunning. A very dark blouse, slightly maroon, accentuated her figure, with the gray jacket of the day off to allow the lines of her body to become apparent in the loose fabric. Good. Hell with it. Wendy hated that jacket in retrospect for reducing Peak Janet Lace to Edited-for-TV Janet Lace.
But the skirt that went with it was nice—a crisply gray, woolen thing that straddled her knees, somehow thrilling in how it left the smooth motion of her thighs unobstructed but invisible as she walked virtually in place, pacing the length of her car doors. Her cell phone was in her hands. She looked at it once, like a bad hand of cards, then stopped and planted her fists on her hips and almost blurred with the energy inside her. Wendy had never seen someone that frustrated concealing it that hard.
She turned abruptly.
Wendy was a deer in the headlights. She was sure Janet had never seen someone this frustrated not concealing it at all.
“Ms. Cedar,” Janet greeted, forcing cordiality to a point where it was almost polite.
It was hot, even at night, the parking garage cut out the cooling breezes, letting the air stifle. You wouldn’t know it from looking at Janet, though. Her skin didn’t sweat, it glimmered, a dewy layer of perspiration that struggled to pull one hair out of place. If she strained her eyes, Wendy could see a droplet of sweat caressing the line of her jaw…
“Ms. Lace.” Wendy shoved her hands in her pockets. “What’s up?”
Great pick-up line, her inner Professor Snape said. And how will we seal the deal? Going for a high-five?
With her hands in her pockets, her backpack started sliding from her shoulders. Wendy moved hurriedly to steady it. Then—and even her inner Professor Snape sighed in disbelief—she gave an anxious smile.
Janet mirrored Wendy, shoving her phone into her pocket. Holy shit, her skirt even has pockets. “A flat tire. I must’ve punctured it on the way over and now it’s completely flat.”
Wendy automatically moved forward to look at it. “You call a tow truck?”
“I tried,” Janet said, putting an aggravated emphasis on the word. She clenched her fists so tightly for a beat that her black leather gloves squelched together.
Wendy looked at her, but her ire seemed entirely self-directed, not coming her way at all.
“I had researched a very highly reviewed towing service, one which operates at night, but in the four years since I saved their number to my phone, they have gone out of business. I can’t find another towing service that works at night, so it seems I’ll just have to call a taxi, leave my vehicle unattended all night long, and negotiate its rescue tomorrow morning, amidst all the other things I must attend to!” Janet followed all that with a deep breath, as if further frustrated by how she’d vented. She flashed Wendy a look that seemed both unintended and apologetic.
“I could wait with you, if you wanted. I mean, if you’re worried about leaving your car here.”
“Thank you, that won’t be necessary.” Janet’s lips pinched together slightly. Another bead of sweat touched the little bow of her lips, and she automatically licked it away.
Wendy felt as if she’d suddenly developed telescopic eyes just to see that.
“But if that’s what you want?”
“It is,” Wendy said. Sliding her backpack off and onto the ground, she regarded the car. Gave the flat tire a kick, just because how often did you literally get to kick a tire? She felt a slick of sweat between her shoulder blades, drawn by the lack of air conditioning. “Have you tried changing it?”
Janet scoffed, and again it seemed directly more inward than outward, as if she were more frustrated with herself than anything else. “Even if I knew how, this is a six thousand dollar ensemble and half my assets just ran off with a yoga instructor. I literally can’t afford to replace it.”
“Well, lucky for you, I dress like a hobo,” Wendy said, beaming a grin at her. “Pop the trunk.” Don’t smile! her inner Snape screamed. That wasn’t charming!
An eyebrow raised, Janet reached into her pocket and clicked a button on her key fob, resulting in her maimed car beeping and opening up its trunk. Trust Janet Lace to have everything she needed to change a tire, and in pristine condition. Hell, even as she tossed her jacket into the ample trunk space, it looked like Janet had enough to survive traveling back in time. A first-aid kit, road flares—was that a flare gun?
Don’t snoop, Cedar, she told herself, selecting the jack and a lug wrench that looked large enough to teach a Roman centurion a thing or two. “Hold this,” she said, handing the wrench to Janet,
whose eyebrows oozed shock from halfway to her hairline. Oh yeah, and tell her what to do, she’ll love that. She laid the jack on the ground by the tire and went to get the spare tire next.
But first, Wendy shrugged off her jacket. It’d been casual Friday at Savin Aerospace, and she’d dressed like it, wearing a fleece jacket zipped up over a black tank top. It was really only after she felt the air on her breasts that Wendy realized how low-cut the tank was. And her jeans weren’t exactly baggy. Hell, you could see her belly button. And now she thinks I’m a hooker. Great.
Janet offered her hand, taking the jacket from Wendy, and with her sleeves metaphorically rolled up, Wendy got the tire. She lugged it out of the trunk with a grunt of effort—oh so feminine—and rolled it to a stop beside the jacket. Then she wiped at her forehead with the back of her hand, realizing she’d started to sweat. Now let’s see if there’s some mud we can roll around in to really complete the look, shall we?
Wendy took the wrench from Janet, who immediately crossed her arms over her chest in abject disapproval. Yeah, I know, I know. She removed the cover from the wheel rim, then loosened the lug nuts in a star motion. She left the wrench by the cover on the ground as she inserted the jack.
“So I heard about your divorce,” Wendy said, her voice strained as she pumped the lever with all her might, raising the car in smooth degrees.
“Oh?” Janet asked, her arms tightened around herself.
“Yeah. I was real sorry to hear about that.”
“Really?” Janet asked, sounding even more Janet. “You’re sorry to hear that I’m single? You’d prefer I be in a loveless marriage?”
Wendy took her wrench to the lugs again, grunting as she twisted them off one by one, feeling about as ladylike as Stone Cold Steve Austin. “I’m sorry—” she strained, working on a particularly stubborn one. “That you’re going through a—” Wendy was interrupted by a noise deep in her chest as the lug nut gave. “Tough time.” She set the lug nut down on the parking garage’s concrete with a clink and started on the next one.
“I appreciate that,” Janet said formally.
Move on, move on, abandon conversation! “So, how ‘bout dem Yankees?” Wendy asked as she began prying the flat tire out, her biceps swelling in a way that would look great on Instagram, not so great when her crush could actually smell her.
“I don’t watch baseball. I prefer hockey.”
“What? Shut up, me too!”
“So why do you want me to shut up?”
Wendy paused as she reached for the spare. “It’s a…it’s a figure of…”
“I know, Wendy. I’m just playing with you. I’m not that old.”
Tell me about it. Janet looked like at some point in her thirties, she’d told the aging process ‘let’s not have any of that.’
Wendy shoved the new tire into place, now feeling her tank top clinging to her, waterlogged with sweat. Shouldn’t have taken the jacket off. She twisted the lug nuts back into place with her hands. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Janet raise the jacket to her nostrils. Definitely shouldn’t have taken the jacket off. Shit, did I wear deodorant today? Perfume? Scented shampoo? Spill some tea on me that smelled nice?
Wendy stood, swiping her hands on her jeans, leaving most attractive swaths of damp sweat and grease on them. Her hair was probably a mess too. Dark with sweat, completely disheveled—some of it was already hanging in her eyes. She took her jacket back from Janet, throwing it on, noticing that Janet crossed her arms as soon as her hands were free.
“So, uh, that’s how you change a tire,” Wendy said. She went to get the flat tire, although her eyes kept darting back to Janet as if she’d stop crossing her arms in disapproval. She did not. “Now you know, in case you drive over any more pikes…maces…morning stars…” Stop naming medieval weaponry.
“I could just call you,” Janet said. Brutal, brutal sarcasm.
Wendy tossed the flat tire into the trunk along with the jack and lug wrench. She gave a friendly nod to Janet, who nodded back to her with great tolerance, and nearly ran to her motorcycle. It was parked in the same damn row, so Janet got to watch as she straddled it like a Level 9000 Gay. Wendy put on her helmet and instantly went blind. Backwards. She took it off, turned it around, put it on again. When she started the Triumph, the engine roared like it was the fucking Batmobile. Cool at any other time, not so much while Janet was still staring at her with her arms crossed.
Probably worried I’ll try to mug her, driving around like I’m in a biker gang. Wendy ripped the throttle, and even if the tires squealed as she took off, it was worth it to get out of there as soon as possible. It didn’t take her long to realize she could’ve offered Janet a ride. Janet Lace, pressed into her back, arms around her waist, the wind in their hair…might’ve been slightly more romantic than watching Mrs. Arnold Schwarzenegger butch up.
Wendy Cedar: Master of Seduction. Classes at 7 and 10. Learn how to utterly repulse women without saying more than six syllables! And she was pretty sure she had forgotten to wear deodorant, too.
Janet waited until the motorcycle had screamed off into the night, the echoing throb of its engine lost in the distance, before she uncrossed her arms. Even that simple motion made her nipples feel as if they were shredding through her bra. Christ, they could’ve been about to fucking explode.
CHAPTER 6
Elizabeth took off her bra, then her high heels. It was quite a show, even in the dark. Even with her clothes still on.
“Please don’t tell me I’m still paying you,” Janet said as Elizabeth came into her office, heels in one hand, bra in the other.
“Clocked out five minutes ago.”
“Good. Brandy’s in the usual place.”
Elizabeth went to the liquor cabinet—a retired airline drink trolley from back when flying commercial was a luxury, not a curse. She brought out two sniffers and a bottle. “So do you need a reason to work late or is this just force of habit?”
“Someone, somewhere, who makes more than me thinks we have a security leak. Obviously, they don’t want to involve the authorities, so we’re going through e-mails.”
“You can do that?”
“It’s in their contracts.”
“Eh. Mind if I pay homage to our dark master?”
“Go right ahead.”
Elizabeth opened a file folder on one of Janet’s cabinets, revealing a pair of speakers and an iPod dock. She dropped her iPod in and the empty office was filled with Dio.
“You know men listen to this, right?” Janet asked.
“What?”
“Obviously, we’re not reviewing our own employees—that’s just asking for trouble—so I’m looking at Donnie’s department. Someone must’ve made a mistake. Since Wendy used to be on his team, I’ve gotten her e-mails. Blame HR for taking epochs to update anyone’s file.”
“The deuce you say!” Elizabeth rushed around Janet’s desk. “What’s she say about me?”
“I’m not looking for something like that.”
Elizabeth gasped. “C’mon. Does she think I’m pretty? You could be keeping me from my future wife.”
“Please go enjoy your drink,” Janet insisted stridently. “If you’re not working, at least try not to interfere with my duties.”
Elizabeth left Janet’s filled sniffer on the desk and retreated to a sofa along the wall, making herself comfortable, picking up her bra and putting it in her pocket. “No need to be a grump about it—wait a minute.”
Janet resoundingly minimized the window. “What am I thinking, obviously it can’t be Wendy, she was an intern, what does she know?”
“You’re a little too defensive,” Elizabeth opined, sipping away. “You like her!”
Janet looked away from her screen sharply. “Get serious. I don’t like anyone.”
“You have a crush! You’re all flustered, it’s adorable!”
“You’re right,” Janet agreed, after a moment. Then she resoundingly resumed typing. “I’ll just hav
e to transfer her.”
“Whoa, what? That’s kind of gross. Kicking someone to the curb because you think they’re hot and totally want to snuggle with them?”
Janet scowled at her. “It’s not as if I’m firing her. I’ll transfer her somewhere nice. It’ll be something of a promotion.”
“Oh, yes, promoting someone because you want to bang them, that’s much better.”
“And your suggestion?”
“Bang her. Not like you’d be the first executive to do it. Although you may be her first…” Elizabeth finger-gunned Janet, to which Janet enthusiastically did not consent.
“I’m sure a young woman as engaging and alluring as Wendy Cedar has far better prospects than—it doesn’t matter. I’ll find some way to deal with the situation. A realistic way.”
“Maybe you’ll be lucky and she’ll end up being the spy.”
“Ha!” Janet stopped laughing quickly. Then she reopened Wendy’s window. “Then again, that would resolve everything…”
“And now you’re dealing with your feelings by accusing others of espionage. Have you learned nothing from me?”
“‘Beer before liquor, never been sicker,’” Janet quoted, somewhat frantically paging through Wendy’s messages. The woman was infuriatingly business-like when it came to her correspondence on company time. She actually used her work e-mail for work, the freak.
“Let’s think about this rationally, though,” Elizabeth said, hopping up on one of Janet’s shorter filing cabinets and crossing her legs under her. “You’re you, Janet Lace, who has needed to get laid since before you legally could get laid.”
“That’s a very creepy thing to say,” Janet replied.
“And you were married for a bit, which at least presented the possibility of sex—mostly since single women are irresistibly attracted to marrieds.”
“I’ve never been attracted to a married person in my life.”
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