KING: A Daddy's Best Friend Romance

by Jess Bentley

  The plane. How long have I been standing on the sidewalk outside the airport lost in thought? I have to set up my return flight. Now. Despite what I said to the cab driver, nobody really wants to camp out in the airport. They just don’t want to die in a cab, either.

  And if I am not careful, maybe King will end up figuring where I am.

  Do I want him to? Does part of me?

  I take my place in line, ready to exchange my ticket. The other thing I realize is that I have to admit that I’m not even one hundred per cent certain what day of the week it is. How embarrassing. I don’t have luggage, leaving it at my musty hotel.

  “Bonjour, ‘allo,” says a chic woman in a uniform, waving me over.

  “Hi there. My name is Jordan Burke,” I say.

  “Are you checking in for a flight?” she asks, eyes on her computer screen. I nod, because maybe. “Your passport?”

  I fish around in my bag, trying not to allow my hands to shake, trying not to let them be seen. “One moment,” I say. King hadn’t taken my ID, did he? I ran out so fast, I didn’t check. Stupid. But then my fingers close around it and I’m safe. I hand her the small, leathery book.

  “Uh, what day is it?”

  Her eyes narrow, almost imperceptibly. “It is Friday, Madame,” she says carefully, before returning to the computer. “When is your flight?”

  “The sixteenth,” I say.

  “Well then you are… a bit early,” she murmurs. “You should come back tomorrow.”

  “Is it possible to change to today?” My stomach twists in knots, but I need to face my fears. Kelsey could have easily done all this, no problem. She would have taken charge, never mind any sneering. Except nobody would have sneered at her. No matter, I have to finally learn to do things on my own. Unbidden, King’s face comes into my mind. To get away from him gives me courage, no matter how much my body wants him. How much my soul wants him.

  He will become a memory of the kind of life I never wanted. “I really would like to leave today.”

  “Most things are possible. But it will cost you,” she says. “Your booking doesn’t allow last-minute changes.”

  “Fine,” I say, despite tears threatening. I stared down at my hands, their familiar lines and planes grounding me somehow.

  “Ah, wait just one moment, I may have found you a solution,” she says, and gives me a wink. “If you go on the very same flight today, there is one seat left. I can arrange it so you are switched, no charge,” she says triumphantly.

  “Yes please,” I choke, a sob escaping my lips. “Please do that.” This’ll be over. And I can return to my life, be nearly normal, build my independence step by step instead of being thrown into a crazy life. No more over-the-top dresses, no more beautiful men with magical cocks—no more anything. Just normalcy.

  The rest of the experience is a blur. Quite literally. My eyes keep filling up with stupid, hot tears as I manage my way through the airport, locating the English on signs, being jostled by other travelers, trying to get comfortable in the sterile airport gate seats. But that’s nothing compared to the grief that is awakening in my body. It’s all I could do to stay present, to breathe, to try to respond to the calls for my flight. It’s only once I sit in the seat of the plane, in which I vowed to stay the entire time, that I am finally able to relax.

  I fasten the seat belt low over my hips and peer out the tiny window. This is probably the last time I'm going to see France, through this window. Workers run across the tarmac, back and forth with those orange tipped flashlights they carry. I see them dashing toward rolling luggage carts, holding their bulky headphones close to their ears.

  The dreary weather starts to become a little more dreary, and long raindrops slash the window from the outside. After a few more moments, the window is so covered in rain that the scene outside is warped and obscured, too dark to see.

  The man in the suit next to me leans over, his shoulder brushing unsubtly against my breast as he gestures with his chin at the outside world. I shrink back against my chair, relishing the idea that soon I'll be back in America where they have a slightly more generous notion of personal space.

  “Rain, yes?” he smirks, his eyes wandering over the outlines of my dress. I hope the flight attendant comes around soon and offers us those blankets, so I can cover up. “Do you suppose ees good luck? The rain?”

  “Um, yeah, luck,” I mutter, turning away.

  Personal space. I can't wait.

  I keep my eyes trained out the window, watching the starbursts of headlights bouncing around the raindrops as we roll toward the runway. In just minutes we are picking up speed, the giant tires whining against the concrete.

  And then gravity presses me back into my chair like a hand as the plane takes off. I hear the landing gear clunking into the space below as it retracts, and somehow this feels like an accomplishment. It is just one more phase of the journey. We really are underway.

  The man in the suit leans close to me again, though I'm trying not to acknowledge him in any way. His breath is oily and thick, sliding over my shoulder like a hand.

  “I think I know you, oui?” he breathes.

  I can't see him, but I imagine that he is just about to reach out and touch me. I'm not sure what I will do. There aren't any more seats on this flight, they told me so when I booked it. But I'm sure if I start screaming or trying to claw his eyeballs out, they will find somewhere to stow me.

  I raise a hand without looking, sort of hoping that I will bop him on the nose as I do so.

  “No, no. I don't know you,” I say, letting my voice get slightly louder at the end.

  “Oh, yes. But I think I do,” he continues. “Perhaps I saw you?? Does that seem —”

  “Miss?”

  It's a woman's voice, and I twist around in my seat immediately, grateful that help has come. Did she see us? Did she know that I needed her?

  The man in the suit settles back in his seat confirming that he was, indeed, way too damn close to me. What was he thinking? The French, I swear!

  “Yes?” I stammer.

  It is a flight attendant, and she grips the back of the seat in front of us as she leans forward. The plane is still ascending steeply and she has to hold herself at an angle to keep from tipping over. I assumed that flight attendants were generally strapped in like the rest of us during this kind of part of the journey, but I guess not.

  Then I see she's got something in her hand, and she is holding it out to me.

  “Miss?” she repeats. She blinks large, almond-shaped eyes and purses her lips suggestively as she glances at the man next to me. What is she doing? Is she also French? Is this some kind of conspiracy?

  But it's a card. A cream-colored card. She wants me to take it from her, and my heart leaps as I think that I know what it is.

  12

  Raleigh

  Traffic was wretched getting to De Gaulle airport. It didn't help that I'd spent way too much time watching Jordan sleep instead of getting ready to go. But I didn't want to leave her and trying to tear myself away from the warm sensation of her skin left me feeling somewhat bereft.

  Not only was the desire to be close to her overwhelmingly intense, the knowledge that I should want her this badly weighed heavily on my mind as well.

  But in any case, she was the one who said she was leaving. She wants to go to the States, and I do believe that's the right move. But it's also the right move for me to get there first and create a soft space for her to land. Well, isn't it?

  I'm being foolish, I tell myself. I'm acting like a fool. I'm letting myself get in way too deep. I'm acting like an overprotective boyfriend.

  Boyfriend. The word puts a foul taste in my mouth. Who has boyfriends? Boyfriends are for children.

  As the limo idles in semi-gridlocked traffic, I get my plans in order. Happily, Richard Branson coincidentally brought a Gulfstream that's gassed and ready to go at Charles de Gaulle. It only took me two phone calls to get a hold of him this time, and that'
s a relief. The Gulfstream will cut hours off the flight.

  But when we pull up to the Departures area, a taxicab stops in front of us, and she gets out. At first it's like I'm watching her from far away. I see her through the window emerging from the taxi, muttering to herself and scowling. The window is smeared with bleary drizzle that’s just started falling, but I can see her furrowed brow, the downturn of the corners of her mouth.

  And I realize I've done this to her. She's mad at me. I left. I run through the probable scenario through my mind. I imagine her waking up, finding the note that I had fretted over for long minutes like a highschool boy. What could I say to her, that she would accept, I wondered? But she'd been so determined, I convinced myself she wasn't really going to care. She was leaving anyway.

  And yet, what was I really thinking? Of course she would care. We had just been intimate. We had just slept in each other's arms all night, and then I left her there without even waking her up to say goodbye.

  Of course she's angry with me, and seeing it in real life is much worse than I imagined. But I don't leave the limo. I watch her for a few moments, letting it sink in. She's on her own, she's going back to the States, and she's angry.

  Sliding my cell phone from my pocket, I swipe the face to activate it. In a few seconds I get the concierge from the hotel back on the line.

  “Oui?”

  “Yes,” I murmur, keeping my voice low as though she can somehow hear me. “I’d like to book two first class flights to the United States. Can you make that arrangement for me?”

  “Bien sûr, Monsieur King,” the concierge answers, in a clipped, professional tone.

  Looks like I'll be flying commercial after all. Slipping sunglasses over my nose though the sky is gray and not too bright, I head into the airport and follow her at a safe distance. She stalks toward the ticketing counter with her hand digging around in her bag. While I hang back, she negotiates with the agent who tips her head in some kind of apology.

  She's trying to get a flight for today, I assume. That's going to be difficult feat to manage.

  But presumably, she does. In a few moments, the agent is handing her folded envelope with a courteous smile. Jordan takes it and heads off toward Customs after just a few moments of swinging her gaze uncertainly left and right. Somehow, she doesn't see me.

  Well, this is creepy, I scold myself. Am I really just going to follow her through the airport? Just watch her? Do that not just seem a little ironic?

  But I tell myself this is what she wants, and it is not my place to override that. If she needed my help, she probably would have asked me for it instead of declaring her intentions to leave last night.

  But if she accelerated her plans by a whole day, it must mean she is more upset than she is letting on. Perhaps she wanted me to ask her to stay?

  Brushing the thought away, I nod at the airport valet who approaches me.

  “M. King, I presume?”

  He checks my credentials, then hands me two first class tickets, no questions asked. This is one of the great perks of being a frequent traveler and I feel a small twinge of remorse. Jordan is not getting the red carpet treatment that she deserves, while I am. She's having to hoof it through the airport, get searched in customs, and get sneered at by few more French people on her way out of the country. I'm going to hop on the back of this airport golf cart and get chauffeured right to the gate.

  But this is my life. What am I going to do, apologize for it?

  I take the seat next to the window and watch the line of passengers slowly making their way through first class, back to coach. They’re in the other aisle, while I'm way over here in the last seat next to the window.

  “Champagne, monsieur?” the flight attendant asks me sweetly, bending over at the waist and flashing me a clear, unobstructed view down her neckline, between those tiny, European breasts, all the way to the concavity of her belly. My eyes bounce off of that area, somehow repelled automatically.

  Perhaps she notices my disinterest, because she straightens immediately. But I accept the champagne, tipping it to my lips immediately to conceal my expression and my face in case Jordan wants to look over.

  She's there again, standing in line, waiting for the other passengers to get their carry-on bags stowed in the overhead compartments and drop into their narrow, coach section seats.

  The man behind her keeps shuffling up way too close, then smirking to himself and nodding. I don't like the way he's looking at her. Not one little bit. She doesn't even seem to notice that he manufactures some kind of physical impairment that has him hulking over her, practically collapsing on top of her.

  As the plane begins to roll away from the gate and across the tarmac, I see the guy in the suit leering as he leans into the row, just beyond the blue curtain that separates first class from coach. He swings into the seat and I just know it. I just know that he's next to her. And I can tell from the look on his face exactly what he's planning.

  “Excuse me, miss?” I ask the stewardess as she walks by. She turns back to face me. Her expression far less friendly than it was before.

  “Oui?”

  I withdraw a business card and hold it out to her.

  “There is another passenger on this flight. Her name is Jordan Burke. Would you please give her this and ask her to join me? I reserved both these seats.”

  The stewardess grips the back of the seat as the plane begins to take off, her eyes flickering nervously over her shoulder.

  "I'm sorry, sir, but the plane will be taking off in just a moment. I cannot —"

  “You can,” I tell her simply. Of course she can. People only say “I can't” because they have been trained to do that.

  In any case, she seems to understand that I am not going to take no for an answer, and she plucks the card from my fingers, nodding curtly with her lips pursed.

  It doesn't take long. We’re only in the air for a minute or two when I feel her presence. Literally, I'm looking out the window, but I can feel her close to me.

  I turn in my seat expecting to finally get the scolding I so richly deserve. She's going to be angry with me for leaving, for being here now, and for summoning her out of her seat like I own her.

  But instead, she is smiling at me with gratitude or relief or something. A lock of hair falls in front of her face as the plane sways slightly, and she pushes it behind her ear.

  “I believe you were in the wrong seat, darling,” I hear myself say like some kind of character in an old movie.

  She smiles shyly and drops into the seat next to me. She's not angry? Whatever kind of luck this is, I'm happy to go along with it.

  “How did you know?” she breathes. “I mean… It's like I just wished for you, and all of a sudden the flight attendant was handing me your card…”

  She blinks, her eyes as wide and innocent as a child's.

  “How did I know?” I repeat, trying not to let on how confused I am.

  “Well, that guy, he was so creepy! Just hovering over me, trying to touch me, I think. You know what I mean?”

  Hovering… Yes, I can see how that would be creepy, I scold myself, painfully aware that what he was doing is not completely unlike what I have also been doing by following her through the airport and buying her a seat without her knowledge.

  “It's lucky that I saw you,” I tell her as she slides into the seat next to me.

  “Oh, I'm probably just overreacting,” she says confidentially, her eyes a little shadowed with embarrassment. “I know I'm probably just paranoid, but I always feel like people are watching me. It's totally crazy, right? I mean… I just never feel like I really get any personal space.”

  Tell her, I tell myself. Tell her now!

  I know that I can't keep the truth from her for much longer, but I need to find the right time. Then again, is there ever really going to be a right time?

  “I'm sure everyone feels that way sometimes,” I hear myself say and then instantly regret it. That was the perfect moment.
I curse my cowardice.

  “I'm sure you're right… Oh! What was that?”

  Her eyes widen, and her fingers automatically gripped the armrest. Instinctually, I slide my hand under hers and cup it in mine, closing the other hand over it protectively.

  “Some rain. Just a little turbulence. Everything is fine.”

  “It doesn't seem fine to me,” she murmurs as she eyes the champagne sloshing around in the glass.

  “Just put your seat back a little bit,” I instruct her, leaning over her to press the button and then pushing the seat back slightly. As the fabric of our shirts meet, the plane bounces slightly, and I almost fall into her.

  But the near connection is electric, and I know she feels it too by the way she draws her lower lip between her teeth.

  “Let me just get this blanket over you,” I tell her as I draw the fabric up to her shoulders.

  She nods gratefully and I let my hand slide down under the blanket, stroking her nipple through the fabric with the side my thumb, noting how it hardens instantly under my touch.

  “There now, Little Girl,” I breathe close to her ear, drawing in the delicious scent of her as she trembles slightly under my touch. “Is that better?”

  "Yes,” she whispers, her lips parted.

  My hand trails down, finding the hem of her dress and reaching underneath it. She's warm and wet between her thighs and I drag my fingers against her. Her thighs spread for me gently so I can reach into the satiny panties she's got on.

  “Oh, you're so wet for me, aren't you, Little Girl?”

  She hitches her breath. “We can't do this! I can't be quiet,” she whispers urgently.

  “You will be quiet,” I growl in her ear, shifting closer to her as I run my middle finger up and down her slick seam. “I don't want to hear a sound out of you, do you understand me?”