by Jay McLean
“Look, Mr.—“
“Please call me Spider,” I said.
Her brows shot straight up, her eyes on the black widow tat on my neck.
“Er, Spider, I’m sorry about your girlfriend. She sounds like a bad person, but—“
“If I’d have known what she was going to do, I never would have come here.”
Bette seemed intrigued if her wide eyes were anything to go by. I guess, people love hearing about other people’s misery. “You see, she thought I’d gone out with some friends, but I forgot my wallet, and when I came back in the hotel room—that I paid for by the way—she was doing the double-backed monster with him, the guy who worked the front desk.”
She looked at me, a wrinkle on her brow. “Double ba—“
I held a hand up. “So yeah, you taking my guitar from me is the icing on the cake. It’ll kill me. I’m already depressed, so I don’t really see that it matters anyway. My life is over. I’m going back to New York and die alone. Without love or my guitar.”
I dabbed at my eyes with a napkin from the bar I'd tucked in my pocket last night. I peeked at Bette, hiding the smile when I saw the uncertainty on her face.
But don’t get ahead of yourself. She’d probably been working here for like a thousand years, and I wasn’t the first sad story she’d heard.
Bette moved from foot to foot, her eyes weighing me, perhaps checking for sincerity.
I sniffed, and I saw the moment she softened.
She sighed. “We do have an area back behind the seats. Maybe there’s room.”
“You have the power to do that?” I asked, adding a hint of wonder to my voice. Bam.
She blushed. Two secs later she was calling up someone, checking to see if they had a place for my guitar. Sweeeet.
Something hard poked me in the back.
“What the—“ I turned.
A pair of glittering green eyes met mine, set behind a pair of horn-rimmed, black glasses with little jewels on the sides. She was clutching her bed pillow of all things. Jumbo-sized.
“You’re holding up the line”—she waved at the empty space behind her—“to find room for your guitar when you should have checked it already. Real nice. Thanks.”
The sarcastic girl appeared to be in her early twenties. Her dark brown hair had been pulled up in a bun, but was now losing strands fast. With her grey skirt, white button-up shirt and string of pearls, she looked like a librarian having a bad day. She even wore a matching cardigan. Not my cup of tea at all. Nope. I liked my girls, first of all, pretty, and she wasn’t.
She wasn’t done. “Just because you’re in a band, doesn’t mean you get to act like a rock star.”
Did she know me? I did a mental double check. Was it possible I’d been with her? Was she one of the half-blitzed college chicks who roamed the bar circuit of Austin.
“Do I know you?”
She opened her mouth, closed it, and then huffed out, “I saw you at The Dark Room this weekend. Vital Rejects?”
I softened a little. The Dark Room was one of our best bars. Again, I tried to recall if we’d had a thing. Her breasts were spectacular, though, so no way would I have forgotten those.
“Did you enjoy us?” I said it silkily.
“No. I prefer classical music.”
Ah. A symphony chick. I automatically pegged her as spending her weekends at the museum or antiquing in the countryside. Snooze.
Before I could retort, Bette broke in. “You can carry-on the guitar. There’s a stewardess on board named Debbie who’ll be looking for you.”
I gave my back to the girl in a way that said, You are dismissed. Cherrio.
Bette scanned my ticket, and I sauntered off, my thoughts on New York where I was supposed to see my father for the first time in six months. On top of seeing him, I had to meet his new flavor, some woman named Penelope Farnsworth. With a name like that, I pictured some up-tight society type, who probably had roots stemming all the way back from the Mayflower. Would she be as young as his last girlfriend?
I walked down the jet-way and stopped at the entrance to the plane.
Well, hello, beautiful.
“Debbie?” I murmured, my lips tipping up at the buxom red-head.
She returned the favor, her eyes taking in my mesh shirt and tats. I had the black widow on my neck, the dandelion on my arm, and a horned devil right between my legs, his little pitch fork pointing straight to my…
“You must be the owner of the guitar,” she said, eyes on my hair.
I touched it self-consciously. It was cobalt blue this month, swept back in a gelled pompadour style. Girls went nuts over it. I don’t know why. Maybe because my eclectic look seemed dangerous? Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those freaks always taking selfies of themselves—you know the ones I mean. But I do know the effect I have on women. They love me. Meh.
I passed over the guitar, making sure our hands brush.
She smiled. “I’ll stow this for you in the back.”
“Thank you, love.”
She giggled. “Adore your accent. You in a band?”
Why are women so fascinated by musicians? Maybe it’s because deep down they want a bad-ass song written about them, even better if their name is in the title. Like Steve Perry’s Oh, Sherrie or Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline. No thanks. If I wrote a song with a chick’s name, it would be more like The Rolling Stones’s Angie, which was a ballad about the end of a relationship.
I don’t write love songs, and I don’t do girlfriends.
I’ve tried but have never been able to sustain a relationship. Too much baggage in my past. Nah. I settled for one or two-nighters, sometimes a three week fling if I was having a good month. But it never took them long to figure out I sucked at long-term.
I nodded at Debbie. “Yeah. Vital Rejects. We opened for Bruno Mars at the Dallas Music Fest.” Kinda of stretching it there. Big time. Sure, we’d met Bruno, but no way had we come close to a time slot near him. He’d played the seven o’clock show, and we had two in the afternoon. Sparsely attended, but hey, we were there.
She smiled. “I like Britney Spears and Taylor Swift.”
Oh. I didn’t know what to say about that. I let her music taste slide.
“You get a break on here?” I asked.
“I can’t fraternize with the passengers,” she said, but her eyes said, I want you.
“I may need assistance.” I ran my eyes over her curves.
“I’ll be sure to check on you quite often,” she said, close enough that I could smell the peppermint of her gum. “I love getting to know the passengers.”
Oh, yeah. I read between those lines.
“Good grief. Please move over. You’re blocking the way,” came an annoyed voiced. Of course. The girl from the gate.
She weaseled past me, acting like she didn’t have the room, when it was obvious plenty of people had gotten by before her. Maybe if she wasn’t carrying that giant pillow.
I told Debbie we’d chat later and slid in a few people behind cranky girl, noticing her ass was exactly heart-shaped beneath her grey skirt. And perhaps she’d purchased it a size too small.
My phone pinged. It was Sebastian, checking to make sure I’d made it. We’d had a late set, and had parted ways about midnight, him with a blonde, me with a brunette? Or had it been the other way around? I shook my head. Maybe I needed to slow down with the girls.
Whoever she was, it must not have been memorable.
I tapped out a reply and moved toward my aisle seat in first class. But someone was already there, pulling out her kindle.
I don’t think so.
“You’re in my seat,” I said.
She glanced up and took off her nerd glasses, which were attached by a chain. I couldn’t stop my eye roll. She acted like she was eighty. “I’m supposed to have the window seat, but I have a nervous blad—“
“You can crawl over me anytime you want.” My eyes positively gleamed at the prospect. She might not be
up to my usual standards, but I’d love for something to keep me occupied on this dreary flight. And normally, I would’ve given up the aisle seat for a girl, but she’d been rude to me. Twice.
She huffed and turned pink, and I got a twinge of guilt at my brusque words. I was jonsing for a cig big time. Maybe I was a tad mean.
I stowed my duffle in the over-head while she snapped out and moved over to the window. Her blanket fell in the floor, and as I picked it up to hand it over to her—because I can be a gentleman if I want—I caught a gander at what was on her kindle. How to Make a Man Fall in Love with You: 10 Foolproof Rules.
I coughed to cover up my laugh, sneaking a glance over at her. Why this book? I mean, granted she came across as stuffier than my Gram, but she did have a nice rack, if the strained buttons on her white shirt were anything to go by. My eyes narrowed. And wasn’t that a pop of red underneath her shirt? Why, yes it was. I grinned.
Plain on the outside, but wild inside. Miss Priss liked sexy undergarments.
Maybe my lucky day was right beside me the entire time. We’d be sitting or lying side-by-side for three hours. I shifted, adjusting myself at the thought of unwrapping her.
Chapter TWO: TAFFY
“Flying is not natural. You’re in a metal tube at thirty thousand feet, give or take, hurtling through the air. All it takes is one bird in the engine, and you’re dead. It’s not right, I tell you.” –Taffy
I sat down in the aisle seat and popped a Xanax, thanking the stars for Marge who’d doled it out this morning before I left the hotel. With my fear of flying, medication was a necessary evil. Necessary because I had to get back to New York and NYU. Spring break was over. Thank you. It had only been the worst trip ever. I should have just stayed home, holed up in my tiny apartment.
Blue-haired guy from the boarding area stalked toward me, looking disgustingly hot. I mentally slapped myself. Huh. As if. His brown eyes locked with mine, making my stomach flutter. I told those butterflies to settle down. With the black skinny jeans, motorcycle boots, and grey leather jacket, he had bad boy written all over him.
Shizzle. If he was my seat mate, I’d die.
I recalled how I’d noticed him in the boarding area checking out all the pretty girls.
Guys never looked at me like that.
Just ask Nico, the man I’m in love with. We’d met in a sculpting class and had developed a tentative relationship. Tentative as in he was always holding back. Tall and moody—in a sexy artist kind of way—he was only interested in statuesque blondes with boobs. Complete opposite from me. I’m petite, dark-haired, and a B cup on a good day. Although with this new bra, I’d decided my boobs were definitely bigger. I pressed my arms together, liking the cleavage. Ah, the wonders of Victoria’s Secret.
Blue-haired guy glowered down at me. Oops. I dropped my arms, hoping he hadn’t seen me checking out my own tits.
“You’re in my seat,” he said haughtily, arching a brow, calling attention to the ring there. Silver, it glinted in the morning sun coming in through the plane window.
I cleared my throat. “I’m supposed to have the window seat, but I have a nervous blad—“
He shook his head. “You can crawl over me anytime you want.”
Oh. I heard a suggestive note. And didn’t that just make me tingle.
Whatevs.
I yanked on my blanket and shuffled over, giving up. Maybe if the Xanax would kick in, I could close my eyes and sleep.
Blue handed me my kindle, and my already pink cheeks reddened at the realization that he might have seen what I’d downloaded. I tucked it in my purse and crossed my ankles. Playing it cool.
He settled in, buckling up, his long fingers calloused on the ends from playing guitar. Yeah, I’d seen him at the bar next to the hotel where Marge and I had spent the last week.
Originally she’d been supposed to come with her roommate, but when she’d come down with a bad case of food poisoning, Marge had talked me into it last minute. I wasn’t her first choice. Never would be. Heck, she called me the Ice Queen behind my back. But, since my other option was spending the week with my mom, I’d chosen Austin with Marge.
So, she’d medicated me with one of her magical pills, and we’d flown over to relax and unwind. Well, I had. Marge had flown over to stay drunk and get laid. She’d been with this lovely piece of humanity sitting next to me our first night. Spider he’d called himself. Some creepy arachnid with fangs that injected venom. Niiccce.
Marge had danced smack dab in front of him for two hours our first night out, flashing her bra, grinding on the stage where he performed. I wished I could have said she’d had too many cocktails, but she hadn’t. She wasn’t a nice girl.
I’d sat in the corner with my red wine and watched. Blue had the fingers of a maestro, and the lead singer’s voice had been raspy and sexy. Had his name been Sebastian? Blonde and tall, his presence had been sizzling, and their punk, hard rock sound had been good, too, although I’d never admit that to Blue.
Anyway, I’d soon tired of watching Marge make a fool of herself and had checked Facebook to see what Nico was doing. According to his status, he was doing some girl from his Lit class.
And that had sunk me into a depression. Why did no one ever choose me?
Blue moved around, taking off his jacket and stretching out his long legs. Wiry and muscular, he was everything I went for but shouldn’t. His scent assailed me, smoke and spice, and I blinked at the shivers it sent over me, making all the hairs on my arms rise in unison. I’m not into smokers at all, but I recalled him standing outside the bar, one dangling from his lips as he leaned against the building and contemplated the people who entered The Dark Room. He’d had an air about him that reeked of danger, his heavy-lidded eyes promising a night of wild and perhaps rough sex. I stopped. Dramatic, much? I needed a grip. Oh, or maybe a drink. I eyed the flight attendants, wondering when I could order a wine. At least I had the fake ID. I know, I know. I shouldn’t be drinking while taking pills, but it’s the only thing that gets me through the flight. Little side note here: my dad died in a plane crash. Yeah.
He took out his phone, and my eyes went back to him, remembering how Marge had ended up going for a walk with him in-between his sets. According to her, they’d found an empty construction site a block over. I didn’t ask for deets, but she’d insisted on telling me. Apparently, Spider gave her two orgasms and was hung like a horse and not an arachnid.
I pitied her, really, the way she put herself out there, sleeping around with guys she barely knew.
Maybe I was jealous a tiny bit.
Maybe I wanted my own night with a stranger.
However, I wasn’t envious of how he’d dissed her afterwards. She’d talked about him for three days after their encounter, but he’d never hooked up with her again although she’d tried…hanging out at the bar where they played, stalking him between sets. But, he’d been stealthy. I had a feeling, he’d played this game a lot longer than Marge had.
“You got a name?” he asked, his voice was low and deep.
“Taffy.” Not true, but I felt ornery. And I hated my stupid name. It was prissy and pretentious.
He arched a brow. “Really?”
I nodded. “Something wrong with that name, Spider?”
He shrugged nonchalantly, and it looked smooth and effortless. Totally European.
“I like Taffy. Especially when it gets stuck on my teeth, and I have to suck it out.” He opened his mouth, his tongue curling up and making a slurping noise against his white teeth. I pictured him wrapping those lips around my...
I shook myself, putting the brakes on that thought.
But still.
He. Looked. Good.
I blamed the Xanax. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he was man candy. But he’d been with Marge. Just, no. Right?
His eyes went heavy on me, making me blink. I straightened up.
Well. It was like he’d known exactly what gutter my mind had been in. Or maybe that’s hi
s I gotta go to the bathroom look? Who knows? I can’t read men.
Hence the self-help book.
Chapter THREE: SPIDER
“Spider Rule #1: Never choose the sweet ones.” --Spider
Taffy—if that was her real name—was checking me out. And she liked what she saw if her soft expression was anything to go by. Hmmm, quite a switch from earlier. But, I sometimes have that effect on people. I can come across as brash, but once I’m your friend, I’ll go to the ends of the world for you. Unless you break my heart, and then I won’t do jack for you.
I wanted to experiment, so I shifted closer to her. Her eyes flared wide, but she didn’t move away. So easy. “Taffy?” I said softly, resting my hand a hair’s breadth from hers.
“Yes?” she breathed, and I inhaled her scent, musky and exotic, nothing like her outward appearance. And there it was. My cock got hard.
“You know, if you want to learn how to make a man fall in love with you, you can practice those rules on me.”
Her mouth gaped at me, closing and opening like a fish. “Whaaat?”
I grinned and shrugged. “Saw your book.”
With a red face, she pulled back, wearing a hurt look. But why? It had been a joke, a way to flirt really. Most girls I know would have laughed and given me a hard time back. Bugger. I opened my mouth to apologize, but why should I? She’d been rude to me at the gate.
I decided she was too prickly and let it go. My eyes found Debbie, and I waved. She waved back, a look of promise on her face. Debbie was decidedly easier. My type.
The plane took off, and by the time we got to twenty thousand feet, Taffy had had two glasses of wine, and although she still hadn’t spoken directly to me, I could tell her body had relaxed. I couldn’t help but wonder if wine made her horny like it did me.
I waited fifteen more minutes to let the alcohol kick in and then I did something that surprised me.
“About before. I’m sorry. My mouth has no filter most days. I blame it on the guys I hang out with. And if you want the aisle seat you can have it.” See, I can be nice.