Pilot Error

by T. C. Ravenscraft

  Pilot Error

  By

  T.C. Ravenscraft

  Copyright © 2012 Sharon Wisdom & Michelle Agnew

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopy, mechanical, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission of the author. The only exception is a brief quote for review purposes.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, dialogue, places, businesses, organizations, events, and incidents portrayed are the product of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, organizations, businesses, or locales is coincidental.

  Published by Castle Key Publishing, LLC

  Cover © by Kathleen Tucker

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Mary Moffett and Katie Tucker for beta reading this manuscript.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  She couldn't believe he was dead. Even though she had stood at his memorial service that afternoon and listened to a stranger recite his eulogy, Micki Jacinto still could not accept that her friend, her 'little brother,' was really gone.

  Tears threatened, as they had all evening, so she gunned the throttle of her motorcycle in sheer defiance. She had held them back at the service; she could hold them back now. Big girls didn't cry, or so her father used to say.

  The dual cam Kawasaki 650 responded almost effortlessly, gliding through the 70mph mark with the same ease of a jet aircraft slipping past Mach 1. Glancing at the rising indicator gave Micki pause. She was not stupid, and would be the first to admit that speeding down a pitch-black highway was not likely to top her list of the smartest things she had ever done. Rain had left the concrete surface of the Seven Mile Bridge slick and unpredictable. One slip and her bike could hit the guardrail, catapulting her into the dark, unforgiving ocean. One slip and she could quickly find herself sucking up seawater.

  Just like Razor.

  No, don't think of him. Not now. Not here. Not like this.

  Reigning in her feelings, Micki flew on through the night, speed her only ally against grief. Nearing the end of the bridge at Knight's Key, she slowed to 45mph, but only because it was tourist season. Marathon, the small island town she called home, was presently accommodating a number of out-of-state drivers, most of whom were completely ignorant of the bumps and potholes that were hazardous to two wheels, especially in these conditions. Having moved from Australia to Florida years earlier, she had been in residence long enough to share her father's opinion of tourists; most couldn't drive their way out of a wet paper bag.

  A few stray drops of rain dotted the visor of her helmet, turning the lights of civilization into glittering stars. Another storm front was moving in from the southeast, breathing down her neck like the chill whisper of death itself. Micki hated summer storms, and had intended to be in the sanctuary of The Sandpiper Bar & Grill long before this. Time and caution had been forgotten in her need to 'let go' of the anguish and feel the wild freedom of the Florida Keys at night.

  Thunder grumbled as she downshifted and leaned into a turn off US-1. Having the guts to take a chance had paid off; she had out-raced the storm. Mindful of the slick roadway, she headed toward the beach at a sensible speed. That was more in keeping with the Micki Jacinto the world saw; sensible, confident, efficient. There was no one left in her life to reprimand the reckless streak that grief brought to the fore. Not any more. Not now that Razor was dead.

  Tears she had been fighting back for hours abruptly filled her eyes. Micki tried to deny them substance, throttling down to take the final turn onto a side street. She hadn't scoured them away with the wind and the night, as had been her intention. Instead, the upheaval of the afternoon was still with her, still chipping away at her control.

  Skidding around the chain-link fence that bordered The Sandpiper's parking lot, she headed down the main drive. She took a turn at the first row of cars on the right and began coasting. Her glide would take her neatly into her usual parking space on the other side of her ex-boyfriend's work truck, and things would be right again. In a moment she would be back in familiar territory, back in control, and everything would be as it should.

  Then it all went wrong. Instead of her empty welcoming space between the truck and the outer block wall of The Sandpiper's kitchen, there were two red lights, blurred by tears into fiery comets, attempting to occupy the spot.

  What the—?

  Swerving, Micki was forced to cut her turn short. Boxed in by the wall, the truck, and the interloper backing into her space, she went down with a showering of sparks. She and her bike skidded sideways across the wet asphalt, right into the block wall.

  "Hey!" a male voice shouted. "You okay?"

  Was she? The wind knocked out of her, Micki took stock of her situation. Nothing seemed broken but the bike was on top of her leg, pinning her to the ground, and there was a horrible smell of scorching leather. With a few choice words coming to mind, she tore off her gloves and reached to silence the revving engine. The throttle had stuck on impact and the exhaust pipe was trying to burn a hole through the leg of her protective leather pants.

  The peaceful sound of waves lapping the nearby beachfront reigned for the few seconds it took her to rise to her elbow, and then the man's voice came again. "Wait a minute. Just lie still."

  A tall figure rushed toward her, having flung open his car's door and left it swinging free. Dirk, her very ex-boyfriend, would have a fit if that thing so much as tapped his truck. Dazed, Micki struggled to get air back into her lungs and pull free of her bike. The stranger rushed over to her, all athletic power and grace, backlit by his car's interior light. He was a little older than her, mid-to-late thirties, dark-haired, attractive in an annoying sort of way, and... in her parking spot!

  "Here, let me help you, pal."

  Pal? Micki would have snorted if she'd had the breath, her grief and overwhelming sense of loss making her more belligerent than usual. The male chauvinist just assumed she was a guy since she was on a bike. Well, she had news for him; he assumed wrong. She didn't need his help, his or anyone else's. Especially not tonight.

  The tinted visor of her full-face helmet concealed her scowl as he grabbed the handlebars and heaved the bike off her with a laborious grunt. When its weight lifted, Micki crab-crawled away until her back rested against the tire of Dirk's truck. Drawing her first real breath in what seemed like minutes, she kept a wary eye on the man as he stood the bike on its kickstand.

  "Are you...?" He faltered, turning to catch sight of her pulling off her helmet and letting her braid of dark hair fall free. "...a woman!"

  Her glare was not nearly enough of a rebuke. "Was the last time I looked."

  She discarded her helmet on the gritty asphalt, where it teetered on its crown like a hard boiled egg. Using Dirk's truck as leverage, she rose to her feet, finding the maneuver a bit more difficult than expected. Nothing was broken, but her leg smarted. So did her arm. Micki clutched at a protesting muscle in her right shoulder and felt the abrasion of scuffed leather. Damn it, this was her favorite jacket!

  Full of patronizing male concern now, he came back to her side like a White Knight. "Are you sure you're okay?"
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  Sarcasm strengthened her Australian accent as she watched him approach. "Just fine, thanks."

  The guy kept on coming, like he was going to take her arm or something as equally condescending. Even on a good night, Micki was far from being a fainting damsel who needed rescuing. When the stranger was within reach she made sure she clarified that, stopping his advance by slamming both hands against his chest.

  "You idiot!" She wasn't sure what astonished him most—her actions or her words. "What the hell are you doing in my spot?"

  "Your spot? What do you mean, 'your spot?'" He regarded the contested parking space that his car still halfway occupied, its engine idling in testament to his hasty exit. "I don't see your name on it anywhere." The flirtatious smile he turned on her only intensified her urge to smack him. "What is your name, by the way?"

  "I always park here," Micki said defensively. It sounded a bit lame when she said it aloud, but she was in too deep to back out now. "Ask anybody in The Sandpiper. This is my spot. Always has been, always will be."

  Smile faltering, he flicked a nod toward the nearly empty parking lot. "It's not like they're packed. You can have your pick of nearly anywhere else."

  That was true, but it wasn't the point. Micki did the only thing she could think of; she went on the attack. "What kind of yahoo backs into a spot that's supposed to be driven into?"

  "Hey, you're the one who wasn't looking where she was going!" Congeniality be damned; it sounded like his own temper was starting to rise.

  "Yeah, well, you weren't the one who slid across the pavement." Micki indicated the scuffed leather that ran all the way down from her shoulder to her elbow. "Look at this. You ruined my jacket!" Turning, she stalked over to her motorcycle to examine the scratched metal. "Not to mention what you did to my bike."

  "Hey, look, I'm sorry! I didn't see you back there." Two steps brought him back within touching distance. He sure didn't sound sorry.

  "Just... forget it." She shot him a challenging stare. "And get out of my spot."

  "Listen, sweetheart, I don't know what your problem is—"

  "I'm not your sweetheart!"

  "—but I've had one hell of a day, and you're not making it any better. I was supposed to be here by one, but thanks to your rotten weather my plane didn't get on the ground until four, which was too late to... to do the things I came to do."

  He didn't need to tell her anything about the weather. The entire summer had been unseasonably wet. That lack of sunshine had sharply curtailed all the local businesses, hers included, but she wasn't about to stand there and listen to some Yankee landlubber whine about it.

  "Yeah, mate, sure." Her voice was laced with sarcasm. "I'm sorry you missed your parasailing lesson. Just move the car, okay? And we can both get on with things."

  "Fine." He threw both hands up in the air in an eloquent nonverbal statement. "Whatever. I've got better things to do than argue about it."

  Turning sharply, he stalked back to his rental car. Micki smiled in triumph, but his next words, thrown at her with a mocking gesture, stopped her cold.

  "The spot's yours, sweetheart, but only because I'm a sucker for a woman in black leather."

  Before she could find a retort to spit back, he was in the car and pulling it forward. The pig! The chauvinistic, slimy, despicable...

  Seething, Micki shoved her bike the few feet it took to claim her victory, but it still felt like she had lost. Where did he get off calling her 'sweetheart?' He'd done everything but pat her on the butt, and nobody did that to Micki Jacinto.

  Nobody.

  Furious, she kicked down the bike's stand and glared after the interloper as he parked farther down the second row. She should just march over there and let him have a piece of Jacinto Temper, which, thanks to the turmoil of the day, was running on overload.

  Reason prevailed even before she had taken the first step. She was a woman alone in a deserted parking lot and he outweighed her by fifty pounds. From her glimpse of his silhouette against the car's light, she was betting that all of that was solid muscle, too. This was not the time or place for confrontation. It'd be better to just let him think he had won, and not let on how much he'd gotten to her with his patronizing air. It wasn't the way she liked to do things, but she had learned the lessons instilled in her by her Air Force Colonel father very well—live to fight another day.

  Jaw set, Micki collected up her helmet but lingered at her bike. No way was she walking away and deserting it when that wacko was still out there. Who knew what he'd do?

  Scowling at her leather pants that were also scuffed and gritty from the slide across wet asphalt, she huffed a sigh of exasperation. The new ratty look was something she would have to live with, but that's why she wore the leathers, as protection against spills. Being prepared was half the battle; that was another valued lesson from dear old dad.

  She tossed her gloves into her helmet and took them with her to the bar and grill's front entrance. One last glance at her opponent revealed that he too had left his car. He seemed as determined to avoid her as she was him, and was busy setting an even stride past the closed outdoor tiki bar toward the beach. Oblivious to her scrutiny, he left the sure footing of the boardwalk for loose sand, and then kept going until he reached the ocean's edge.

  Micki paused at the juncture where the pavement turned either up to the bar or down to the boardwalk and the beach. Helmet under one arm, she shoved her free hand hard into her jacket pocket. What was the deal with that guy? All the beaches in the Florida Keys and he had to pick her spot to oust her from so he could walk in the sand?

  Something inexplicable about him held her there, watching. Silhouetted against lightning torn storm clouds moving in, he stared out at the gathering squall, mimicking her with his hands shoved deep into his own pockets. Micki felt an unexpected pang of doubt. He looked as if he had completely forgotten her and their brief altercation. Something larger claimed his attention, something that might be grief akin to hers.

  Micki frowned unwillingly. Maybe she'd made a mistake. It looked like she wasn't the only one with problems. Maybe she should go down and apologize. After all, if he wasn't from around here, then he couldn't know that parking place was traditionally reserved for her. Now that she'd cooled down a little, she could admit that. Maybe—

  "Hey, Micki! What're you doing out here?"

  Startled, she turned to see Dirk standing on the bar's front step, lit by the light above the main doors. He was a tall man, fortyish, with grey just beginning to show at his temples, handsome in a coarse sort of way. And her ex. Tonight, of all nights, she needed to remember that.

  "I thought I heard your bike," Dirk said. Smile fading, he followed her lead and looked toward the beach. "What's so interesting?"

  "Nothing." She tore her gaze from the silhouette on the sand. "I'm just coming in."

  With that, she left the outsider to his thoughts. Dirk hovered at the door, watching her expectantly, and for some reason Micki was unwilling to tell him about what had just happened. He slipped his arm around her shoulders as she drew close and gave her a friendly squeeze, a move that only aggravated her sore spot.

  Dirk didn't notice her grimace, but he did feel the grazed leather of her jacket. "Hey, what happened here?" he asked, lightly running his fingers over the abrasion. He dropped his arm from her shoulders to open the door, adopting an expression of real concern.

  "Nothing," Micki said, not meeting Dirk's eyes as she moved past him into the club. "It's no big deal."

  ***

  Clientele at The Sandpiper was light for a Thursday evening. Micki had expected it from the lack of cars in the parking lot, but it still disappointed her as she walked in. Being as casual as possible, she scanned the few patrons seated at tables overlooking the tiki bar and the shadowy beach, searching for new faces. Tourist Territory, as she and the guys referred to it, was noticeably empty.

  It looked as if the rainy weather was still keeping all but the diehard vacationers home, and
as the owner and operator of a one plane/one pilot scenic flight business, she depended on the influx of tourists to survive. In the past two weeks she'd only had three decent flying days, and one of those had just been a routine package run up to Miami. Her real meal ticket, the thing she depended on to put food on her table and keep her business aloft, was the tourist trade... and she had already taken every one of these tourists for their scenic tour of the Keys.

  Dirk, who had followed her in, interrupted her morose thoughts. "Where were you? I stopped by your trailer after the memorial service but your bike was already gone."

  "I needed some air." Micki still avoided his eyes. If anyone could tell she'd gone home after the service for a good long cry, then it would be him. Since showing up at The Sandpiper with red-rimmed eyes didn't fit the tough image she had spent years cultivating, she'd gone for her long, head-clearing bike ride first.

  Dirk grunted, letting the topic slide in favor of the bar. "I was just getting us another round." He nodded toward the counter where a tray with four empty glasses rested.

  Micki felt a sudden stab of grief. Four, not five.

  Dirk's hand again found its way to her shoulder. It was the type of familiarity that these days he attempted only when he thought he could get away with it, like tonight. "What can I get you, Mick?"

  Ignoring the faint undertone of concern, Micki took a step forward so that his hand slid away. "Scotch, thanks." Then, so it didn't seem as if she was accepting his offer to buy her a drink, she added, "I'll get the next round, okay?"

  "Sure. Go on back, everyone's already there."

  Nodding, Micki made her way toward a secluded table in back, where she was expected. She had made the journey dozens of times over the years, moving to that table to pass the hours with the circle of friends she considered her buddies and her peers.

  Two of the three men seated there were also pilots. She had found this companionable flier's niche shortly after coming to the Keys, at the same time discovering that being a woman trying to fit in with a bunch of arrogant flyboys was definitely a liability. Micki had fought twice as hard and flown twice as good, just to prove herself their equal. Most of the time, they treated her as 'one of the guys.' Occasionally, they still reminded her that she was an attractive woman, usually after one too many drinks, or when they weren't dragging around a couple of Barbie beach babes on their arms.