by SP Durnin
I wonder if he was dropped on his head as a child? Jake mused, watching Allen bank gently to the right as he lined up his decent towards where the writer stood.
Al came swooping in, flared just before he touched down, almost stalled midair, hit his releases, and dropped the last yard to land gently on his feet as his chute continued on. Jake took four quick steps to the left and watched the parachute drop over his Jeep as Allen stood there, sporting what could only be described as a shit-eating grin.
"This is why you always get to buy the beers when we hit a bar," Jake grumbled, as his friend skipped towards him giggling like a lunatic.
"Don't be a sissy. I wasn't even close to burning in," Allen replied as he shed his helmet and pulled off his goggles.
Allen Ryker was an inobtrusive looking guy with a constant smile who radiated—what he himself termed—competent goofiness. He was a few inches shorter than Jake and about thirty pounds lighter, due to the fact that his parents were diminutive in stature. Still, his forearms and wrists were rock hard from ripping apart whatever piece of machinery caught his fancy at the moment. Though skinny, Allen moved with confidence due to years of both ballet in various studios and kung-fu lessons with Jake. Truth be told, he only enjoyed ballet because it gave him a great sense of balance, which was helpful in the martial arts, and he got to all but grope some really hot women on a regular basis. Curly haired, bundle of energy described Allen perfectly. Always ready with a witty quip when the situation called for it. Jake and Allen had been friends since before either of them had been interested in the fairer sex.
Allen had never really found his niche as a kid, so he'd ended up in both concert band and the track team. He still ran every morning but treated it like meditation. Running gave him time to settle his thoughts, clear his mind, and let the body go on autopilot. He hated people who treated running like something that should be revered, too. That was just stupid. The gimps who could talk about when they ran, how they ran, where they ran, what they wore, books about running... He didn't go for those foofy shorts or the high-tech cross-trainers, either. Allen wore sweats and combat boots. His belief was if you ran in all that ultra-comfort garbage, if you really needed to flee from something, you wouldn't be able to because you weren't wearing your special shoes. If you were used to running in boots that felt like you had five-pound weights on the ends of your legs, you could pretty much run in anything.
"How's the Beast running?" Ryker asked as they removed his parachute from the Jeep. "Dad keeps asking when you're gonna bring her in for a tune-up."
Jake shrugged. "No problems really. He did too good of a job putting her together. As long it has gas and I change the oil every few months, it's like the thing is pretty much maintenance free. Unlike the last date you hooked me up with."
Allen rolled his eyes. "You're never gonna let me live that down, are you? Man, I told you she was a good time. I never said she was someone you'd want to settle down with! Hell, Nichole didn't even know how to spell commitment."
"Commitment, no. Committed, yes."
"Face it, my friend," Allen rolled the silk into a semi-tight mess, stuffing it back into his pack, "you're just not gonna find a nice girl in a bar. That animal doesn't exist there anymore than say, unicorns do."
"Well, that's not at all depressing," Jake replied, bringing the Beast to life.
"They're just like guys, bud." Allen raised his voice against the wind as Jake drove for the hangar. "They're all looking for the BBD."
"The what?"
"BBD. Bigger. Better. Deal," Allen said, snapping his fingers to emphasize each word.
Jake gave Ryker a disgusted look as he brought the Jeep to a stop in front of the jump hangar.
"I hate that text lingo crap."
"BRB!" Allen said, jumping from the vehicle as his friend cocked a hand as if to slap him.
Jake relaxed in the seat and leaned his head back, trying to think of a good argument against his friends comment. Sadly, he had to agree that probably ninety-seven percent of the population believed as Allen did.
He'd reasoned long ago that there were two types of males in the Homo sapiens species: Alpha and Beta. Just like in that Ringo Starr movie, Caveman. Alpha males were the ones who used to go out to kill the saber-toothed tigers, skin wooly mammoths, and basically kept their tribes together through fear, strength, and dominance. The Beta males were the ones who stayed behind with the rest of the tribe and discovered new ways of doing things. Ways that would make life better, easier for everyone. One of them probably discovered fire, learned how to use it, then brought it back to the tribe.
Where it was promptly taken away by an Alpha.
He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that women were attracted to the Alpha male type first, then settled for a Beta. Usually after realizing most of the Alphas were pussy-chasing, ass-clowns who wouldn't know what monogamy was if someone smacked them up-side the head with it and said, Look. This is monogamy. Alpha males tended to know what they wanted and when they wanted it, took it no matter who it hurt. Beta males knew what they wanted but, unlike the Alphas, wanted to obtain it without hurting someone else. Jake refused to take flack from assholes and was very protective when it came to people he cared about, like an Alpha. On the other hand, just because he was pretty good with all things violent, sure as hell didn't mean he liked it, which was a Beta trait.
With a few exceptions.
Anyone who raped children, beat or killed women, or flew planes into buildings to blow up lots of innocent people for religious reasons, in his opinion, didn't need to be on the same planet as the rest of humanity. He had no qualms about whipping the living shit out of bullies, either. The one time he'd had a run in with the law was when he'd beaten the tar out of two guys in college. They thought it'd be fun to date rape a German exchange student after she'd told one of the frat brothers Tequila didn't make him any more attractive. Jake had enjoyed every punch he'd thrown and the crunch of every one of their bones he'd broken.
He fished in the pocket of his battered leather jacket, grabbed his smokes and lit up with the Zippo he kept in the dash. Nicotine was Jake's one vice. He didn't do drugs. He didn't go out to the bars every weekend, get shit-faced, and start fights. He even recycled. He wasn't going to budge on his smokes however.
He inhaled a lung full of sweet nicotine, settled back again in the driver's seat, and shoved the mostly full pack back in his jacket pocket. As he did, he felt a scrap of paper and pulled it out.
It was the phone number of that girl from the pharmacy, Kat. He didn't know why she'd given it to him. Even in the asexual smock/uniform, Jake could tell she was—as Allen would put it—smoking hot. He wasn't a bumbling high-school teen or gangly college kid any more, but he also didn't have any illusions about his looks. He might be dubbed kind of handsome in the right kind of light... from across the room...but he was never going to be modeling underwear in fashion magazines. Hell, he wouldn't be modeling baseball hats. From the rear.
He smoked and stared at Kat's number, torn between the desire to see what would happen if they did go out and the gut-deep certainty anything between the two of them would end with hard feelings on one side or the other.
Jake was still trying to decide what to do ten minutes later, so he didn't see Allen come out of the jump hangar wearing his trademark Holy Jeans. They were Holy because they had holes in both knees and had gotten him laid more than a dump truck full of Spanish fly. Allen took one look at his friend and made a great show of tiptoeing around the Beast to gaze over his shoulder. His jaw dropped when he read the scrap and, with an enormous smile, snatched it out of Jake's hand.
Jake all but jumped out of his seat in surprise, almost making the question of whether or not to call Kat a moot point. His seat belt nearly gave him a vasectomy.
"And what's this?" Allen gazed at him with pride. Like a martial arts master whose student just performed the Five Deadly Fists Style flawlessly.
I'm doomed, Jake thought.
&
nbsp; "Tell me you have plans to meet this girl."
Jake scratched his cheek. "We already made plans to hang out tonight, man. Besides, I don't want to look…"
"Desperate? You are." Allen thrust the number at Jake like a fencing foil. "Call her. Now."
Jake hedged, mind moving at warp speed, trying to think of a way to avoid the horror that loomed before him.
Allen produced his cell phone and started dialing.
"What are you doing?" Jake struggled to release his seat belt.
Allen put the phone to Jake's ear. "It's ringing."
"Damn it, Al! If you don't…"
Kat picked up just as Jake got the first words out of his mouth.
"Ah...Hi there, Kat." He gave the smiling Allen a look that was half panic, half I'm going to kill you for this and took the evil cell phone. "It's Jake O'Connor. We met today at the pharmacy. You probably don't... Oh. You do? Yeah, that wasn't really... Well, thanks... Actually, I was wondering if your invite for tonight was still open... Eight...? Sounds good."
Jake had a flash of inspiration.
"Would it be alright if I bring a friend? He enjoys that type of music." Allen was shaking his hands emphatically, while mouthing the words, No, you idiot!
Jake's face fell. "Oh. Okay. Where's... Sure, I know it. Great fajitas... Alright. Well, we'll see you at eight then. Okay...Bye."
Allen took his phone from Jake's hand with a hard look.
"You moron! You almost screwed the pooch on that one." He stormed around the Beast to hop into the passenger seat.
"How so?" Jake asked as they pulled out, leaving Bolton Field's runways behind. "I thought you always said it was a good idea to have a wing-man when you were going out."
"To a club or a bar," Allen fumed, "not on a date."
"Well, lucky for me she has a friend who's going to be there too."
Allen's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, really? Damn, that means I'll have to change my shirt before we go. You have anything I can borrow?"
Jake caught his friend's goofy smile and laughed into the wind as the Jeep soared down the freeway on-ramp.
Chapter Three
Laurel was making herself a spearmint tea when her roommate finally finished with the bathroom. She'd long since resigned herself to Kat's marathon grooming sessions, but it continued to surprise her how long it could take the lovely woman to primp in that tiny space.
She'd been jealous at first that Kat never seemed to work at it and still looked like she'd just stepped out of a salon. Kat's mother's delicate features combined with her father's deep natural skin tone made makeup a choice, not a necessity. A few of those ultra-long primping sessions had dispelled that illusion though.
Kat had changed into a pair of black pants, which looked a lot like a pair of tights in Laurel's opinion and left little to the imagination. True to form, she was also wearing a cut off tee-shirt with Anime characters on the back and a logo emblazoned on its front that proclaimed Team Ninja! to the world. Said shirt also left little to speculate about and made it plain that Kat was going commando.
"You realize we're about to spend the evening surrounded by grown men who spend their Friday nights pretending to fling fireballs at each other?" Laurel said evenly.
"It's always the quiet ones." Kat gave her redheaded roomie the once over. "Were you planning on getting ready any time soon?"
Laurel succumbed, bypassing the impending argument, and headed for her bedroom. She pulled on a lace thong—a real one, not the kind with just the piece of dental floss up the back. If she ended up displaying it at any point, and she didn't think she would, at least it all matched. Then she pulled on the tightest pair of jeans she owned (they weren't that tight...Okay, maybe they were) and rooted through her closet until she settled for a leaf green, v-neck shirt with sleeves that came down to just above the tops of her elbows. It might show a little cleavage but hey, if this guy was an ass, he could spend the next week jerking it over something he'd never have. She opted for a strapless bra that didn't push-up as much as it accentuated. Laurel ran a brush through her hair, impotently cursing the damned stray lock that just wouldn't stay back, and looked at the results.
Not bad. Her hips were a little too slim and her boobs a little too big to consider her figure hourglass, but the mirror displayed a redhead that could break hearts with the best of 'em.
Screw it, she thought and strode back into the living room.
Kat didn't look pleased with her results. "You kind of forget something?"
"I don't have a belt to match," Laurel said.
Kat rolled her eyes and took on a martyred expression.
"Makeup," she said, pointing down the narrow hallway. "Bathroom."
Laurel slumped her shoulders. "Alright, but this guy should see what he's getting into. I don't do makeup often."
"I know. Sweet gods, do I know," Kat said, following her into the bathroom and opening the medicine cabinet. "Now sit and let Auntie Katherine work her magic."
Laurel sighed and sat down on the toilet. "So, what's this guy like?"
"Close your eyes," Kat said, grabbing a light-brown eye shadow from under the sink. "Like I said before, there's gravity to him. Not like he has to be the center of attention, but…"
"Heaven forbid. That would put the two of you at odds."
"No talking! And be nice or I'll make you look like Darryl Hanna in Blade Runner." Kat started applying shade to Laurel's lids. "I dunno. Call it woman's intuition."
Laurel thought about that for a minute.
"Is he cute?" she asked.
"Well! Little Miss Double Standard."
"I'm just asking!" Laurel protested.
"And I'm just messing with your head. Now, stop moving." Kat seemed happy with how the eye shadow looked and moved on to lipstick.
"Cute? No," She mused. "He's got that ruggedly handsome thing going on. Six foot, light blue eyes, kind of messy brown hair... I don't think he spends a lot of time working on his appearance. Just steps out of the shower, gives it the once over, and pulls on his pants."
"So, you've been thinking about how a guy you're setting me up with looks when he gets out of the shower?" Laurel asked. "Maybe this won't be so bad."
"Oh, I can picture that. Scrumptious, for sure," Kat said, remembering how Jake's shirt had strained across his back and shoulders. "You're busted, by the way."
Laurel opened one eye. "Huh?"
"I know what you're thinking."
"You do not."
Kat grinned. "Then why are you blushing?"
"I am not blushing."
"Are too."
"Am not!" Laurel felt heat on her face. "Okay. But it's your fault."
Kat laughed. "Don't blame me. Just because you have a dirty mind..."
Laurel kept her reply to herself if only because her roommate was partially right. She blamed it on a healthy love of fiction and, to be quite frank, a lack of any way to scratch the itch. She didn't hop in the sack with guys on a whim and had an aversion to one night stands that stretched back to her college days. Besides, it was hard to find a man. The world was full of guys, but men, the ones who wanted you for the things you had inside your head and not just in your pants? They were few and far between.
Ah well, she thought, there's always cold showers.
Five relatively painless minutes later, Laurel was allowed to view the results. She had to admit, she looked pretty good. Kat had applied subtle eye shadow that gave her an exotic aura, instead of the raccoon look so many women went for, then accentuated Laurel's lips with a light reddish-brown shade that didn't look glaringly out of place against her skin and healthy crop of freckles.
"Well?"
Laurel shook her head. "I bow to superior talent. I thought you were only supposed to use your powers for good?"
"I swear, when you meet this guy, you'll be thanking me." Kat laughed, tossed the lipstick back under the sink and held up her index finger. "Scratch that. You'll be thanking me tomorrow."
Laurel le
t that one go by and trotted back out into the living room for her guitar.
"Speaking of shallow," she began, to which Kat gave a mock bow, "what happens if... What's his name again? Jake? What if Jake's friend is a shithead?"
"I'll give him a fake phone number," Kat said. "Shitheads understand that. It's like a courtesy today. They preen over getting some hottie's number and when it turns out to be bogus, they tell their shithead friends how they just couldn't get along. Or how she wanted a commitment right off the bat and that would cramp their style. Or how she wasn't that good in the sack, blah-blah-blah.'
Laurel gave her a quizzical look, grabbed her keys, and made for the door. "That doesn't bother you?"
"Why should it? There are plenty of fish in the sea. Always another guy waiting to take his shot at the title." Kat grabbed her distressed leather jacket and wallet. She never carried a purse. Kat maintained that if guys could do it so could she. Laurel gave up trying to come up with a suitable comeback that didn't imply Kat was a slut.
"That's kind of slutty," Laurel said.
That got a grin out of her blue-haired roommate. "So says the Queen of Cleavage?"
Laurel stopped half-way out the door. "I knew it. Let me…"
"Don't you fucking dare," Kat said, pushing her out onto the stairwell and emphatically pulling the door shut. She dropped into a stance that said she meant business. "This is the best you've looked in five months!"
"Gee, thanks," Laurel said, shifting her guitar case to a more comfortable grip.
"If you even think about going back in to change that shirt, I'm going to kick you in your coochie."
Laurel started down the stairs, trying very hard not to think about how funny the word coochie was when someone said it out loud. "Seriously. What's your impression of this guy?"
"Roomie mine," Kat said, face serious, "I'll give it to you straight. If I were you: creative, a closet hottie, a little repressed…"
Laurel snorted and headed for her truck. It sat about fifty yards down the street because her landlord was too cheap to spring for a covered garage. Kat was silent until they reached it, earning a raised eyebrow from her roommate.