Lord knew she understood how to fake it. From orgasms to happiness, so faking confidence was easy.
She shoved her backpack up on her shoulder and straightened her spine. Donald moved in front of her to speak to the pilot. Monica hesitated until Tina nudged her shoulder.
“Ready?”
“Born ready.”
Tina snorted and turned toward Walt.
Monica forced her feet toward the chopper as if she was born to ride in the tin box with a single propeller on top and a tiny one in the back. How the hell did the thing actually fly? It didn’t have wings.
Donald’s back was to her as he spoke to someone. He twisted when she approached, revealing a man. His dark hair was too long, his jaw held more stubble than would be considered sexy. He wore a button-up silk shirt and khaki cargo shorts. And no shoes.
Monica took in his bare feet and forced her gaze back to the man’s face. Strong jaw with a firm set. No smile. His eyes were covered with dark glasses but they didn’t detract from the pure masculinity of the man. He had to stand at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist…
“Monica? Monica?”
She was checking out the man and not realizing someone spoke her name.
“Yeah?”
“This is your pilot. He thinks you should ride in front. Let Tina and Walt take the back.”
Her eyes skidded from Donald’s face to that of the barefoot stranger. “He’s the pilot?”
“One of the best on the island.”
The pilot dipped his head as if he were sizing her up. Then abruptly turned toward the helicopter.
“He’s barefoot,” she whispered. As if a lack of shoes meant he couldn’t fly the helicopter. If I take off my shoes, I’m still a nurse.
Donald didn’t hear her words. The pilot was already jumping into his seat and making the propeller above her head move.
She ducked and allowed Donald to push her toward the door. Behind her, Tina and Walt were climbing into the backseat.
Monica’s hands were sweaty and at the same time cold as she allowed herself to be pushed into the small, suffocating aircraft.
“You’ll be fine,” Donald yelled in her ear as the noise of the chopper made it impossible to hear normal conversation.
Monica nodded. Her nephew, Danny, would be laughing at her if he could see the panic in her eyes.
She forced herself into the passenger seat and ignored the sound of the door closing her in. Shoeless and sexy shoved headgear into her lap. Monica glanced his way as he switched levers and went through some sort of series of system checks before they took off.
Behind her, Tina and Walt were buckling into their seats.
Monica shifted to her right and found her belt. She secured it and fumbled with the headgear before the noise in the chopper overcame her.
Once the earmuffs were on, the noise lessened, giving her a moment of calm.
The chopper shifted, and Monica’s racing pulse lodged in her throat.
“You going to be sick?”
Soft and non-accusatory, Barefoot’s voice sounded in her ears.
Her heart was racing, but she’d yet to feel her stomach churn. “I’m OK.”
Far from OK, but maybe her voice would convince him otherwise.
Barefoot snorted. A full-on snort complete with a shake of his head. He reached over and pried her fingers off her backpack and placed them onto a large rod in the center of the chopper.
“Hold this,” he told her. “When I say up, push it forward. When I say down, pull it back.”
What? Shit. Was she some kind of copilot? “You can’t fly this thing on your own?”
“You’re shotgun, Blondie. And everyone licensed to fly is solo today.”
Monica’s stomach lodged near her thyroid. She glanced to the back of the chopper where Tina and Walt were giving her a smile.
“They can’t hear us,” Barefoot managed.
“Why not?”
Instead of answering, he gave a thumbs-up to someone out the window and grasped his controls with both hands.
He can’t really mean he needs me to help him fly this machine.
“Up.”
Monica shoved the stick forward with the command and ignored her brain telling her to get off the damn chopper and walk toward the needy.
The chopper lurched and within seconds, they were in the air. The tarmac disappeared with alarming speed. Those on the ground scrambled into the next chopper and Monica felt her already chilly insides grow even colder.
Barefoot’s hand left his controls and kept her hand on the stick between them. “Keep pushing it up,” he instructed.
“You can’t fly this thing on your own?”
Instead of answering, he moved his hand away and switched a lever on his side. Monica kept her hand shoved forward, as if it were a joystick on a video game and she was close to breaking her all-time record. This isn’t happening. The sky was streaming at her, the earth was slipping away, and she had her life in her hands. Walt’s and Tina’s, too. Not to mention Barefoot’s. Not that she cared about him. Who brought a passenger on board and expected them to help pilot the flight?
The sun blinded her as they made it into the sky but Monica’s death grip on the helicopter joystick didn’t falter.
“Keep looking toward the horizon,” Barefoot instructed.
“OK,” she told him. Did she have a choice?
The world whizzed past with thick trees below them.
“Don’t look down. I need your attention on the horizon.”
Monica swallowed her stomach back. Maybe that late-night sandwich wasn’t a great idea. Donald told them to eat and she’d forced herself to down a turkey and cheese and a bag of stale chips. Normally she loved salt and vinegar chips. Only now, they didn’t feel good so close to the surface.
Barefoot’s hand moved back to hers. She’d slacked off.
Monica gripped the joystick again and forced her eyes on the sky. Good thing the pilot was watching her.
The chopper sliced through the sky at a speed that defied nature.
“First time on a chopper?”
Monica swallowed.
“Yeah.” She dared a glance to her left. Barefoot was looking below them. Monica attempted a look down and gulped.
“The horizon, Blondie. Look out there.”
She swallowed. “It’s Monica.”
He chuckled and squeezed her hand still under his. “We’ll be landing soon.”
Thank God.
He squeezed her hand again as if he read her thoughts.
The chopper shook and pitched down a few feet.
“Just the morning wind. Ease back a little.” Barefoot moved the joystick with her until it was centered. Monica kept her hand as steady as she could, even when he moved his hand away.
At second glance, Barefoot appeared a little more together than at first glance. His shorts were tailored and his button-up shirt might seem like a typical island floral, but she knew Tommy Bahama silk when she saw it. His Ray-Ban sunglasses weren’t dime-store quality and he obviously knew how to fly his chopper.
Is it his helicopter?
“Is this your chopper?” she asked.
He glanced her way and his lips turned into a smile.
He didn’t answer.
Monica glanced behind her to see Walt and Tina staring at something below them. Without thinking, Monica glanced down as well. The trees of the Jamaican forest abruptly thinned out and large lakes appeared in the center of the landscape. Only on closer inspection they weren’t lakes… they were collections of ocean water brought in by the tsunami. In its wake were fallen trees and debris miles wide. Homes… or what Monica thought were homes, were nothing more than stacks of wood, branches, and garbage brought in by the surf.
She was miles above it.
“Oh, God.” Her stomach pitched.
“Pull back a little,” Barefoot instructed.
She did. At the same time, she forced her eyes on t
he sky. The ocean streamed out beyond the devastated shoreline.
Barefoot pitched the chopper to the right and Monica leaned into the craft as if her slight weight was going to make a difference in a proper landing.
“Down… slowly.”
Unlike the tarmac where they’d landed the first time, the spot in which Barefoot was planning on placing the chopper was a postage stamp of a yard. It reminded Monica of the yards behind the tract houses springing up all over Southern California.
Below them, someone waved an orange light.
Barefoot placed his hand over hers and pushed the lever back as the chopper slowly made its way to the ground.
As the skids came to rest on the ground, Monica released a shuddering breath. I made it. Without puking. The last part was the most impressive. Smelling up this small cabin wouldn’t bode well for future passengers.
Barefoot tapped her fingers before he pried them off the lever she’d gripped with all her life. “This is your stop,” he said with laughter in his voice.
“Right. Right.” She shook her head and unclenched her fist.
Under the sunglasses and headgear, Barefoot sent her a hundred-watt smile. Or maybe he was laughing at her. She forced her lips into a smile. “Ah, thanks for not killing me.”
Barefoot chuckled. “Be safe, Blondie. It’s a mess out there.”
Someone opened her door. The noise of the propellers along with the wind they created removed the smile from her face. Walt was standing there gesturing for her to exit the chopper. She placed a foot outside the craft and then remembered the headgear.
Barefoot’s attention was on her as she pulled the earphones off and gave a slight wave. She’d barely made it away from the aircraft and Barefoot was flying away.
Without a copilot.
Chapter Three
Trent accepted the bottle of water Reynard shoved in his hands and downed it in one continuous swallow. The beverage quenched his thirst but what he really needed was a bolt of caffeine. Maybe even a mainline IV full of the stuff. And food. Damn… when was the last time he’d eaten? Outside of a few protein bars and similar open-the-package-and-consume-the-food products, it had been almost two days.
He’d been asleep when the earthquake hit. Knocked his ass out of bed and had him ducking into the doorframe of his house. He knew the moment the shaking stopped that he was going to be one of the lucky ones. He’d overseen the construction of his home personally. Unlike most homes in the region, his was made with standards spelled out to pass US inspections even though he could have paid off the locals to have his needs met. Trent didn’t work that way. Not with a home he’d planned on living in for a time. He had planned on staying for a year, maybe longer, then using the home for holidays.
As it turned out he stayed longer than a year, and spent his holidays in the upper forty-eight.
“Have you eaten, mon?”
“I’m good,” Trent lied to Reynard. Reynard’s own home had partially crumbled during the quake. His children, all four of them, were at their school, which sat on higher ground. It too suffered major damage but the tsunami hadn’t washed it away. That was a blessing. Reynard’s wife, Kiki, had been home while Reynard himself had already gone to work.
Mrs. Kiffen hadn’t yet been found.
The weight of her absence sat behind Reynard’s eyes.
“Any word on Kiki?” Trent asked.
A swift shake of Reynard’s head gave Trent his answer.
“I’ll check the list of patients on my next run. Make sure the Americans are keeping an eye open for her.”
Reynard blinked several times. “My Kiki is a strong woman. We’ll find her.”
Trent squeezed the man’s hand as he shook it. He’d make sure the doctors and nurses he’d flown into the zone had Kiki’s description and name. She’d turn up… the question was, in what condition?
The sun lay directly overhead. Its rays blistered the tarmac under Trent’s feet.
He needed his shoes, some decent food, and a couple hours’ sleep. He removed his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes.
“The next group will be here in four hours. Go home… rest”, Reynard told him.
“There’s too much to do.” And there was. Between transporting the relief help from the airport to the zone, Trent flew medical supplies from one clinic to another. Military helicopters and medevacs were busy transporting the most critical off the island altogether. More help was on the way, but they weren’t coming fast enough.
“At least put on some shoes, mon. Cutting your feet now isn’t wise. The hospital is lacking antibiotics. The dead are going to fester in this heat… disease—”
“Got it.” He knew he couldn’t add to the burden. “Make sure she’s fueled. I’ll be back in an hour for another run.”
“Go. Eat.”
Trent walked off the tarmac, dodging those who rushed in all directions. Most of the islanders were dressed like him. Two-day-old clothes, dirt covered much of their legs and arms. Some were scraped and bruised. But those he dodged on the way to his Jeep were nothing like those on sea level.
After fishing the keys from his pocket, Trent shoved the 4x4 in gear and turned his car toward home. Thank God help had come. His fleet of four helicopters, all designed to entertain tourists on sightseeing rides over the island, had instantly become the only way to move around after the quake. So much for a quiet existence on a tropical island.
He thought of calling in, to make sure his brothers knew he was safe. Landlines were down everywhere and he’d left his cell at home… not that cells were working when he’d left there. They would worry. Trent knew he would if the shoe were on the other foot. He glanced at his bare feet.
Natives walked along the side of the road without their normal wave and smile. Trent didn’t find a smile on his face either. For once, the frown wasn’t placed there by his own life, but because of the plight of others. He turned onto his private drive, drove around several boulders that had tumbled onto the road after the quake, and proceeded to his roundabout drive.
Ginger, his two-year-old Irish setter, bounded off the steps of his porch and greeted him with two paws mid-chest.
“Hey, girl.” He found his lips pulling into a grin. “It’s good to see you, too.”
Ginger wagged her tail and barked three times in response.
Trent pushed her off with a pet and encouraged her to follow him.
He stepped over a broken ceramic vase the earthquake shook to the ground. He should probably clean up anything that could cause damage to Ginger before he left again. Trent tried the light in the bathroom, it didn’t turn on. Power was probably the least of the island’s concerns… at least for where his home sat. He considered firing up the generator, but thought better of it. He wouldn’t be there long. No need to waste the gas.
He finished in the bathroom and washed his face and hands. “At least the water is still on,” he said to himself.
The kitchen was a minefield of broken glass. Ginger trotted in beside him.
“Out!”
Ginger sat on her hindquarters, her tongue lolling to one side. Ten minutes later the kitchen was safe enough for the dog to enter. Trent topped off Ginger’s food bowl with kibble and filled up a cooking pot with more dog food. Luckily Ginger ate when she was hungry and didn’t mow down the whole lot in one sitting.
After eating two raw hot dogs and an apple, he moved into his bedroom. His cell phone sat in its dock, the blinking red light letting him know he had a message. There were five missed calls from Jason and two from Glen.
Trent rang Jason’s cell phone. His brother would be at the office, but he knew the call would go through. Trent lay out on top of his covers. Damn it felt good to put his feet up.
The phone rang twice before Jason picked up the call. His brother’s words were rushed. “Trent? Jesus, Trent, is it you?” Worry laced the question, making Trent feel all kinds of sick for not trying to call sooner.
“It’s me, Jase. I’m fine.”
“Dammit. We thought… we heard…” Jason took a deep breath and started over. “You scared the fuck out of us, Trent.”
“You’ve been here. My house isn’t on sea level. She handled the quake. I’ve been flying supplies and people. I haven’t been home since it hit.”
Trent imagined his brother looking out over the city in his three-piece suit and running his hand through his hair.
“The media footage shows total carnage. Is it as bad as it looks?”
The memory of bodies floated in Trent’s mind. “Worse.”
“Thank God you’re OK. Can I do anything?”
Ginger jumped up on his bed and set her head in his lap. “Call Glen. My phone has a charge, but I’m not sure for how long. Power’s out over much of the island.”
“We can be there in a few hours.”
Trent smiled. “I know… but hold that thought. What we need is doctors, nurses, and search and rescue. Not suit-wearing businessmen.”
Jason huffed into the phone at Trent’s dig. “What about another pilot?”
Their father had made sure each of the brothers had his pilot’s license before a driver’s license. “The birds are on the ground at night. The military is bringing in more power.”
“I feel helpless.”
“If you came here you’d feel worse.”
There was a pause on the phone. “You shouldn’t be there.”
Trent shook his head. He wasn’t about to go into that argument again. “I’ve got to go.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“I will. Don’t worry.” Trent ended the call and tossed the phone next to his side. He leaned against the headboard and closed his eyes. His brother’s life… his old life, wasn’t anything like existing in Jamaica.
Existing. Make that living, he corrected himself.
Thirty minutes later, he shook himself awake and forced himself off the bed. He took five minutes to shower and change clothes. This time he grabbed a pair of shoes and filled a sack with food and energy drinks before he headed back out.
Monica ran the back of her hand over her forehead to keep the sweat from dripping in her eyes. She’d stepped off Barefoot’s chopper and straight into hell.
Not Quite Enough (Not Quite series) Page 3