by Kim Karr
How well she knows me.
I read it.
Sinking into the seat in embarrassment, I die a little more with each passing item. The list comes complete with notes. I scoff as I read them and laugh a little, too. Maybe I even throw in an eye roll here and there. When I finish reading it, I question my ability to complete the entire thing, but in my heart I know each item is doable.
Especially after last night.
With enough courage.
And maybe with a whole lot of wine, I can accomplish most of the items.
The driver stops in front of the airport. As I get out and step into the chilly night air of May, I breathe it in and smile.
While I wait for the driver to unload my bags, I look down at my phone. This list is designed for me to prove to myself that I am smart, sexy, and able to do anything I put my mind to. It also has a whole lot of Maggie infused in it. Someone I used to be a lot more like until I lost sight of that girl somewhere between college and the real world.
Once I’ve given the driver a hefty tip, I check in and unload my luggage, and then I take a minute to sit down.
Moving is a big step. And I’m doing it. I’m really doing it.
With that, I read the list one more time.
Wear a bikini (out in public)
Have sex with someone you don’t know (it will feel better than you think)
Fuck on the beach (crabs won’t bite you)
Join the Mile High Club (it’s fun and exciting, and besides, you will never see the guy again. Come to think of it, it should be number one. Do it tonight. Here’s a little extra advice: Mark your target. Make eye contact. Give a small smile. A wink if need be. Then, when the plane is quiet, nod in the direction of the lavatory. The rest will take care of itself.)
Get drunk and let someone else worry how you’re going to get home (and not me—you know I’m not responsible)
Give a guy the best blow job of his life and make sure he knows it (here’s a tip: the harder you suck, and the more you moan, the more it will help convince him)
Get a vibrator (and use it)
Don’t plan your day for the next thirty days (I promise you will be plenty busy)
Take a nude selfie (and look at it whenever you doubt yourself)
Read an erotic romance novel in public (you might learn a thing or two, and there’s no need to be embarrassed)
Ten things to accomplish in a month.
How hard can it be?
Check them off the list, one by one.
No problem.
I’m good at that.
The song I sang last night comes to mind and I find myself singing it: “Clap along, if you feel like happiness is the truth.”
And I do.
I’ve so got this!
MAKAYLA
AIRPORT SECURITY HAS NEVER BEEN my friend.
My bare feet feel cold on the industrial tile as I shove my sandals into the bin and push it along the roller toward the X-ray machine. My carry-on bag goes next, which is small enough to hold only what I need on the plane. Before I push it through, I quickly remove my sweater and add that.
As I walk through the scanner, I’m surprised when the alarm goes off.
It’s my clothes.
Oh, Maggie! Why did I listen to you!
Wearing a sundress and a push-up bra isn’t only a mistake; it has to be a bad omen for the flight ahead. Either the zipper or the underwire has set the metal detector off.
Once a wand is moved up and down my body and the alarm still beeps, I’m given two choices:
I can go to a private room and strip out of my clothes, which means get naked in front of a stranger, or
2) I can concede to a full body search, which means a woman has to put her hands all over me.
Both choices suck.
Forced to pick, reluctantly I choose the latter.
Thank God, after that nightmare, I still have plenty of time blocked in my schedule to make a quick stop at the newsstand. Eager to get started on this list, maybe a little overeager, I buy an erotic romance novel, and then rush to the gate.
I hope I’m not too late.
Yes, I am one of those people. The ones who always arrive before everyone else and ask to board early. I do what I have to do to get on that plane. Upgrade. Stand in line way before the thirty-minute call. I’ve never pretended to be with child, but if I had to, I would.
It might be hard to understand, but flight organization is an absolute necessity for me. Whenever I fly, I have to be able to see outside, so I choose the window seat. I board early so I can tuck my carry-on bag in the overhead compartment directly above me. Once I’ve done that, I place my book and iPod in the seat pocket in front of me for easy access once we are in-flight. And then I buckle my seat belt before anyone sits next to me. Sometimes it’s hard to find the buckle when someone is next to you. The space can be cramped and crowded.
The routine is a comfort thing.
Makes the flight less nerve-wracking.
This time, none of that is a problem, though, because I did something I never do and splurged on a first-class seat from New York to California. I’ve saved enough money to make it through the summer without having to worry about not having a job. And if something comes along—all the better.
Within forty-five minutes of arriving at the gate, I’m on the plane and enjoying a glass of wine.
This is so great.
The thought of turbulence doesn’t even bother me. I’m in a much mellower mood than usual when the mass of people starts to flock by my row. Rather than panic, I sit back in the oversized cushion and relax.
In an attempt to appease Maggie and check off number four—you remember, the join the Mile High Club item—I take a quick gander around the plane. If I am being honest, after last night I’m feeling a little horny.
It has been a while.
Okay, so to use Maggie’s term, there is no target in sight. Empty seats are across the aisle. An old woman is behind me. An old man is kitty-corner from me. A man with a ring on his finger is a few rows back. And a couple that might have just gotten married is in front of me. No single men.
Looks like I’ll only be taking off, not getting off, high in the sky.
That is fine.
This stranger thing makes me a little nervous anyway. And that’s not being uptight, just cautious. What if he turns out to be a crazy person? You never know.
Anyway, right now things are looking really good. No people are passing by my row any longer, the flight attendant has poured me a second glass of wine, and I have tons of room. So instead of worrying about marking my target, I make use of the extra space. Gleefully, I pull down the tray table that belongs to the empty seat beside me and set my glass on it.
The door is going to be closing soon and no one has sat beside me yet.
How lucky am I?
Emptying my front pouch, I lay my iPod on the empty cushion, nab my new novel, and am more than ready for the long flight ahead of me.
Minutes later, I am so heavily immersed in the opening steamy sex scene of my new book that I think the low, deep voice I’m hearing belongs to the hero in the story.
The words, “Hey, sorry, but I think this is my seat,” aren’t what I’m reading, though.
My head jerks to the right and I look up.
A shiver runs down my spine, and like a movie put on pause and play at the same time, everything seems to be happening in slow motion.
I scream.
Loud and embarrassingly.
The book in my hand closes on its own and drops to the floor with a thump.
My heart stops. My breath stops. My mind, for that one moment, stops.
And all of this happens because a very tanned, beach-looking Adonis is standing in the aisle with one hand on the overhead compartment at a point high enough to lift his T-shirt and give me more than a glimpse of his lean body.
The sight of him, all long, muscled limbs and smooth, sun-kissed skin, kick-starts my he
art to life.
A sliver of moonlight filters through the small window and highlights the ridges of his ribs. The flatness of his stomach. The definition of his abs.
In my defense, his torso is at eye level.
And yet, I can’t stop myself from allowing my gaze to dip even lower. Shamefully, as he struggles with trying to stow his luggage overhead, I practically study the sexy lines that fade into the waistband of his black boxers. Which just so happen to be riding low on his hips. And as if that isn’t enough, I stare at the jut of his hip bones, and then my eyes widen when I see the faint trail of hair below his belly button on his otherwise hairless body.
The thud-thud of my fast-beating heart has to be heard throughout the plane. Oh, wait, I think that is the wind-like noise of the air conditioning. Then again it could be both.
Something glimmers and my eyes become fixated on the dull metal of his buckle. I wonder for a split second if his low-slung jeans would remain on his hips without that worn belt.
Licking my lips at the thought is done completely mindlessly.
Then again, jeans.
He’s wearing jeans.
And they are not just any jeans.
These jeans are worn, tattered, and torn—and they look incredible on him.
Seeing him struggling, the bubbly blond flight attendant rushes over to him. I can’t read her name tag. She looks like a Tiffany. I’ll go with that. “Sir, can I help you?” Tiffany asks with a flirty smile and a tone that makes me wonder if she isn’t looking to join the Mile High Club herself.
Before turning to look at her, he glances my way. Dropping his chin, he peers over his shades and raises one sexy-as-hell brow. “She called me ‘sir,’” he says with a smirk.
His words might cause my stomach to flutter, but it’s that wolfish grin that makes it feel like it’s going to take flight. I’m sure that look gives all women butterflies. No, I’m sure it does more than that, because right now I kind of feel all hot and bothered.
What the hell?
As if used to all the attention, there’s almost an air of arrogance about him as he twists and directs his attention to the flight attendant.
For a moment, I feel a sense of déjà vu.
Unable to place it, I shove it aside and try to retract my fangs. I don’t really have fangs. Just his movement toward her, though, makes me wish I did. I want to grab him and pull him back.
Crazy.
He surprises me when he declines her help. “Thanks, but I got this,” he tells her.
Once Tiffany saunters away, he continues to twist and turn in such a way that does nothing to hide how sexy he is. Hopelessly he tries to shove his bag into the overhead compartment. Not going to happen. Finally, giving up, he saunters toward the front. Wow. His body. It is amazing. Up there he finds a place for his oversized duffle bag, but it is more than a few rows ahead of us.
I hope he doesn’t forget it.
See, that’s why I board early.
The sound of the engines starting make it hard to hear and I can’t quite make out what he is saying to me when he returns. However, as I replay the movement of his lips over and over in my mind, I decide it sounds an awful lot like, “Do you like what you see?”
Caught red-handed, he knows I’ve been staring.
And he’s calling me out on it.
Who does that?
The slow motion of the movie I feel like I’ve been watching in my head hits real time. Suddenly, the beach-like God morphs into more of a beach bum, and still I think that in the most delicious way.
Cocky bastard!
Stunned by his arrogance, “Really? You’re serious?” is all I can manage.
That look, the cocky one, remains in place. “No, not really,” he responds. “I don’t like it that much,” he adds, and his mouth remains quirked.
Obnoxious prick!
Is he that full of himself that he’s looking for backhanded compliments, like I’m some floozy who’s going to stroke his ego and say, “Oh, what’s not to like?” or “You’re so hot, how can you say that?”
Whatever.
Done with him, I turn away.
“May I?” he says, his voice dipping low as if sharing a secret.
Swiveling my attention toward him, I notice he is still standing in the aisle. Annoyed, it takes me a moment to figure out what he’s doing.
He’s pointing to the lowered tray at his seat.
Red flushes like crimson flowers across my face as I rush to grab my wineglass and slam the tray table closed. Once that’s done, I reluctantly lift my gaze, and with his proximity, I can see his face so much better.
With a look of bemusement on it, he’s glancing down at me, and that face is just as breathtaking as the rest of him. Strong jaw. Sexy, sexy lips. Sharp, perfectly shaped nose. So masculine.
There’s a crackle over the speaker. “Folks, there’s a slight delay. We’re finishing up some last-minute paperwork, but should be underway shortly . . .” the pilot is telling us, and this beach God is talking again.
I can’t hear the pilot.
Is something wrong with the plane? Not to be rude, but why won’t this guy be quiet? The announcement might be important. By the time it’s done and I refocus on him, I have no idea what he is saying.
Right now, though, I have no time to worry about what is coming from his full moving lips. I don’t even try to decipher his words, because I am too busy preparing myself to combat my fury.
As if going to war, I purse my lips and narrow my eyes at the same time. I have always camouflaged awkward situations with anger, which is one of the reasons why people think I’m a bitch.
This time is no different.
And when I fire, I do so with full force. “If you wouldn’t have surprised me like that, I might have thought to clear your space. An ‘excuse me’ is all you needed to say.”
I’m loud. Too loud. Everyone is looking at me. And it comes out much snippier than I had intended.
That dark hair looks windblown but perfectly tousled, and it kind of pisses me off. He would have to have hair like that. This time when he speaks, I can actually hear him. “I did say that.” He laughs a little ruefully. “A couple of times, as a matter of fact,” he adds in a much nicer tone than I deserve.
Anger transforms into panic. “What exactly did you say?”
He points to my glass. “You mean when I asked you if that was for me?”
Okay, so it wasn’t do you like what you see.
My lip-reading skills need improvement.
This is bad.
Really bad.
Mortified, I’m desperately hoping he doesn’t find another seat. In fact, I do my best to ease out of this awkward situation. I give him what I hope is an endearing shrug instead of the wrath I had originally intended to bestow. Honestly, what I want to do right now is disappear into the crack between my seat and the window. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
Next time I get my eyes checked, I think I need to have my hearing checked, too. Do poor eyesight and bad hearing go hand in hand as you get older? I am almost twenty-five. I’d better find out.
Obviously opting to remain in his assigned seat and not move across the aisle to the empty ones, that hotter-than-sin body and beautifully groomed hair folds itself into the seat beside me, and as soon as that fine ass hits the cushion, he tilts his head my way.
The shiver that runs down my spine startles me. I can’t remember the last time my body reacted like this to a stranger. If I were forced to come up with that answer, I’d have to go with a very long time ago.
Those dark eyebrows rise so much that they arch like angel’s wings. “Don’t worry about it. You seem nervous.”
Honesty is best at this point. “Well, maybe a little.”
Again with the eyebrow raise, and can I just say, he can do that on repeat. It’s super sexy.
“Okay, so flying gives me a lot of anxiety,” I confess.
“Are you a white-knuckle gripper?”
/> White-knuckle gripper?
Isn’t that some sort of sex toy?
Shocked that he’d ask, I furrow my brows. “Beg your pardon?”
He guffaws, tilting his head with the force of it. “Do you grip the armrest for at least half the flight?”
Nothing dirty. I have to think about his question, though. “You know what? I’m not certain.”
“I want to know so I can make sure to keep my arm out of reach. Scratch marks aren’t really my thing.”
So dirty just might be what he is going for.
At that, I raise a brow back. This is going to be fun. I just need to shed my uptight skin. I don’t know this guy. He doesn’t know me. I’ll never see him again. With that, I find myself spouting at the mouth. “I hate flying because I’m scared of heights . . . or, more specifically, falling. I don’t like bungee jumps, being near ledges, or even looking down from a tall building. It sets my heart racing and gives me a little vertigo. And sometimes on bridges, I need to walk on the inside of the sidewalk and look down at the ground to get across.”
Now he looks sympathetic. “My sister is afraid to fly. Her solution is to pop a Xanax as soon as she boards. It usually holds her over until landing.”
“I thought about it,” I admit.
His eyes are still hidden by the dark frames of his Wayfarers, and I really want to see them.
“Can I get you something?” the blond flight attendant asks him. The way she looks at him, I’m surprised she doesn’t say, “Coffee, tea, or me?”
He glances toward her. “Yeah, sure. I’ll have a Corona with a lime and a couple bags of peanuts.”
She reaches in her pocket and hands him two bags of Planters. “Here you go. And I’ll be right back with that beer.”
She’s off in a jiffy, eager beaver that she is.
“Miss,” he calls.
She turns.
“Some chocolate, too, if you have any.”
Her responding nod is almost seductive.
“Thanks,” he tells her and shoves one of the bags in the pouch in front of him. The sexy stranger then rips open the other bag and pours some of the peanuts in his palm. “Here, have some of my nuts.”