by Tara Oakes
I’m tall enough to see over her high ponytail as it bounces with each of her steps. She’s busy concentrating on the path, careful not to crash into knees, elbows, and shoulders as we pass person after person lining the aisle seats.
“That was called work.” I lower my chin to her ear. I can see the tiny wisps of loose hair around her ear flutter as my breathy words pass.
Daphne shoots me a nasty scowled look over her shoulder. “Work?”
Thud!
She causes a pile-up as person after person in line behind us crashes forward, nearly toppling us over.
“Sorry! So, so, sorry!” She apologizes frantically to the man she’s just barraged into. He holds his hands up to protect himself and ward her away when she moves to help pick up the spilled bag from his hands.
The man looks terrified as if she’s about to plow into him again.
“Excuse her,” I mediate their exchange. “She’s in a rush today. Crashing into everything.”
The mustached man smiles awkwardly at me before shifting his eyes back to Daphne, cautiously stepping aside. I laugh to myself, but she hears me, throwing her eyes over her shoulder to silently chastise me.
“What?” I ask defensively. “It’s true.”
Her head shakes, with her flirty little ponytail waving at me like a pointing finger back and forth. “We’re over here.”
My hand grips her shoulder and helps to guide her to the two very narrow seats to our left.
“Excuse me, Colt, would you sign my ticket? For my daughter?”
“Colt, I’m your biggest fan. I’ve seen every movie.”
“Are you still dating Audrey, Colt? Did she really cheat on you?”
I haven’t fully taken my seat yet before the first of a long line of fans shoves their tickets to me. I smile politely, just like Andrea, my personal public relations liaison has instructed me to do countless times before. It doesn’t matter that these people are invading my personal space. It doesn’t matter that they’re asking incredibly inappropriate personal questions that are none of their business.
All that matters is that they get their picture, get their autograph, get their smile and their story to go home and tell all of their friends. I pat my pockets looking for a pen, because true to form, these people want autographs but offer no pens of their own.
Click.
A shiny, silver pen appears before me, held in fragile little fingers with dark painted nails. Daphne doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge the crazy scene that’s unfolding, she merely holds out her pen and clears her throat to bring more attention to it as if she’s tired of holding it.
I take it just as it threatens to drop from her fingertips and quickly scribble my large initials on each and every ticket shoved before me. Just as one disappears, another one arrives, with an apparently endless demand.
“Colt, can I take a picture?”
“Colt, is this your new girlfriend?”
I sign what appears to be the last ticket. “No pictures, please. Daphne’s not used to all the fuss.”
I can see from my periphery as Daphne angles her chin like she’s heard me, even though she’s pretending not to. It doesn’t matter how I’ve answered, there’s a bright sparkle of a flash right in front of us.
I grumble lowly, pissed that my wishes are blatantly ignored so brazenly. It’s not like this is an average fan who sneaks a picture and then runs. No, this person is actually going to be sitting near me for the next five hours, not caring that they’ve disregarded my wishes so openly.
“Please take your seat,” a slightly disheveled, tired-looking flight attendant with glaring eyes holds out her arm to block the women in the aisle from leaning into my space. I’m used to having my wishes ignored, but clearly, this flight attendant isn’t. “I said! Please take your seat otherwise we will not be able to take off!”
Having a celebrity on your plane is exciting, sure, but these people decide it’s not worth having the flight delayed even longer as they disperse to take the empty seats nearby.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I make sure to make eye contact with the flight attendant and show my appreciation.
She nods and continues along, closing the overhead bins as she makes the rounds to prepare the plane for lift-off. The fans may have taken their seats, but they continue to glance over to me and whisper to each other. I turn from them, angling my body to face away from the spectators.
“Thanks for the pen,” I offer my companion the sleek writing utensil back.
She waves her hand, “Keep it. You’ll probably need it again.”
I laugh to myself. She has no idea. Once it hits the news that I’m flying to New York, there’ll be a crowd waiting when I land. Doesn’t matter the time of day, or night. They’ll be there. They always are.
Daphne absentmindedly reaches for the magazine folded in her bag and flips through a handful of the pages before all motion suddenly stops. I can hear her inhale sharply and then quickly crumple the glossy magazine back into the depths of her bag.
She doesn’t push it in far enough and the cover is just visible, peaking out.
I can’t help but laugh as I nonchalantly read the title. Sparkle magazine. It’s the sexiest man of the year issue. Nearly choking, I ask her. “What’s wrong? Didn’t like the pictures?”
I have a six page spread, mostly shirtless, smack in the middle of the monthly magazine to celebrate the title they’d given me.
She moves to answer, parting her lips to speak, but is interrupted by the gentle chiming of high notes through the built-in speakers above alerting us that we’re about to head down the runway. Whatever blushing my pictorial caused her is now gone, replaced with white blanching.
“Shh!” She hisses. “Don’t talk.”
I narrow my eyes and watch as she squeezes her eyes tightly, perfectly timed with the plane picking up speed. Her chest begins moving quickly and I can’t help but stare at her neckline, at the delicate skin grazing the edge of her top with every brisk breath that she takes.
I swallow fast and hard as I straighten my shoulders, leaning back an inch or so to see down the shadowed ravine in between her breasts. My lips feel like they’ll crack and I can’t fight the urge to lick them. My lips, not her tits. Although… I want to lick them, too.
“You okay?” I notice the pained expression on her face as tiny wrinkles appear where there were none before.
The force from our intense speed pushes us back and pins us to our seats while the engine’s high-pitched whirling grows louder. Daphne, the little speed demon reaches and grabs hold of my hand as if it’s the only thing keeping her from falling off a cliff. She holds tightly, really tightly, and I can feel the little curves of her fingernails digging into my flesh.
That split second when you feel the wheels leaving the ground is an odd one for most people. Most people who aren’t already panicking. For those that are, it’s gotta be one helluva sensation. Judging by the look of Daphne, it’s not one I want to experience.
I spend more time on planes than anyone else I know, whether it’s jetting off to a film set, premieres like tonight, or for press. It’s never bothered me, not in the slightest. One look at the gorgeous girl with her eyes clenched shut, her hand gripping mine in a deadly grasp and her body still as stone and it’s no secret she’s scared shitless right now.
Her lips catch my attention and I stare at them, reading their silent mumbles. It doesn’t take me long before I figure out that she’s quietly reciting a Hail Mary. All my years spent in Catholic school when I was a kid are good for something right now. A thought rips through my head like a lightning bolt on a dark night.
I wonder if she, if Daphne, was a little Catholic school girl, with her short little dark plaid skirt showing off hints of her forbidden thighs, a tight white shirt stretching to—
Crap! That hurts!
Daphne’s nails are nearly drawing blood. Can she read my thoughts, does she somehow know how I’m thinking of her in nothing more
than scraps of fabric the likes of which every hot blooded male has fantasies of?
The plane tilts further to our left as we change course and her grip reacts with it. She’s just freaking out some more. At least my thoughts are safe.
My stomach drops the smallest bit as the large plane settles, reaching cruising altitude and leveling off. Her grip relaxes, but doesn’t release me. I don’t know why, but I find myself wishing that she wouldn’t.
I see a bright flash from the edge of the seat across the aisle and whip my head around in just enough time to see the person tuck their phone back into their pocket, ignoring me even though I’ve practically caught them stealing a picture. Daphne hasn’t noticed, is probably too concentrated on the deep breathing she’s doing. My eyes dart down to the interlaced fingers between us and I start to picture the headlines.
COLT AND HIS NEW SECRET GIRLFRIEND CATCH THE RED EYE TO SNEAK OFF TOGETHER.
DOES COLT HAVE A NEW LEADING LADY IN HIS LIFE?
COLT AND NEW GIRLFRIEND DO GOOD DEED TO ARMY VET WHILE JETTING OFF TOGETHER.
Shit.
That’s not exactly the kind of publicity I’m looking for.
I test what’s left of her grip by twitching my hand. Still strong. There’s no way I’ll be able to pull back without blatantly whipping my hand back from hers.
“Um, we’re good. High in the sky. Perfectly safe…” I speak low.
Daphne’s eyes open wide. “Hmm?”
Her color begins to return. Her deep blue eyes find mine and we hold the stare for a moment. I watch as her eyes change, morphing while going through a multitude of emotions. Fear, obviously of flying, relief that we’re now cruising uneventfully through the midnight sky, and finally embarrassment when she realizes that she’s still holding onto me.
Her hand awkwardly frees mine and moves to sit in her lap. “Sorry. I—I hate taking off.”
I can see her begin to relax, and decide to help ease the tone a little. “Really? Hadn’t noticed.”
She smiles and I can see just a hint of pearly white through her plump lips.
“Seriously though, if you hate flying so much, why are you?” I’m curious.
Her eyebrows rise and fall quickly as she ponders the question. “I try not to let it hold me back. It’s not so bad, really. I’m fine once we’re in the air. And besides, I thought I had a pretty good reason to suck it up. Turns out, I would have been better off staying at home and not going to L.A.”
Overhead the lighted display changes, indicating we can now unfasten our seatbelts and recline our seats. Don’t need to tell me twice. I search for the small circular button on my armrest and push.
“Ah, fuck.” I try the button once more.
“What?” Daphne searches between us to where my hand is playing with the armrest.
I exhale deeply, frustrated. “My seat’s broken. It won’t recline back.”
I’m practically punching the small flimsy button. Her laughter causes me to pause. “What?”
She shakes her head at me. “Your seat’s not broken. You are reclined back. That’s as far as it goes. You’re in coach, remember?”
Not believing this half an inch of extra room could be all that I’m allowed, I inspect my seat as well as those around me. “You can’t be serious?”
When I finally give up and accept the fact that I’m given no more room than a fucking sardine, I drop my head back against the stiff cushion.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never flown coach before” her voice is wobbling, fighting to hold back laughter.
My eyes close as I resign myself to the amount of discomfort I’ll be enduring in this sorry excuse of a seat for the next four and a half hours. “So many years ago, that I’d forgotten what it was like. You? You had a first class ticket, so this must be new for you, too.”
“I always fly coach. I didn’t pay for the first class ticket. It was given to me to come out here for a job interview. Waste of time.” There’s a layered depth to the last of her words.
Shifting to try and get as comfortable as I can in this torture device of a chair, I angle myself to face her. She’s playing with the corner of one of her fingernails.
“I take it you didn’t get the job then?” I watch her as I say my words.
She rolls her eyes. “That’s an understatement.” A moment passes before she elaborates. “I didn’t get the job, and I had my life’s work bashed to pieces by one of the biggest names in fashion today.”
She’s a designer. Of course! I thought she was some kind of an artist or a painter judging from the drawings I’d helped her pick off the ground hours ago in the airport. They must have been her design sketches.
“Ouch,” I empathize. “Good thing there are other designers out there that you can interview with.”
Daphne, the designer, scrunches her eyes tight and lifts her small hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. “No. It’s not that easy. When you get passed up by Katharine Harding, there aren’t very many doors left open.”
“Katharine?” I repeat the name. “Katharine Harding?”
She watches me suspiciously. “Do you know her?”
I nearly wake the person sitting behind me with my loud laughter. “Sweetheart, if you avoided working for Katharine Harding, then consider yourself lucky. She’s a bitch. I’ve worn her designs a few times for award shows and it was a nightmare. I saw first hand how she treats her employees.” I shake my head, “Half of the people get chewed up and spit out and the other half wind up getting their designs stolen and called a Katharine Harding Original in her next collection.”
She’s looking at me like a six-year old kid who just found out Santa Clause doesn’t exist.
“It’s true. You dodged a bullet.” I reassure her. I don’t need to go into any further detail about how I know all this. Besides, what am I supposed to say? I fucked a couple of her girls over the years and heard firsthand how they were backstabbed by the fashion icon?
I can just picture Daphne’s face if I were to tell her about the nameless girls on Katharine’s staff that I’d made my way through. And that doesn’t even take into account the models that work for her. There must have been six or seven of those girls that had slithered out of my bed with huge grins on their faces the next morning.
Nah, it’s best that I keep those things to myself.
The tabloids get wind of my dating life from time to time and my PR team has their hands full keeping most of those girls from talking. What can I say? Who wouldn’t take the opportunity to spend time with the beautiful women that throw themselves at me?
“You’re not just saying this to make me feel better?” She’s wary.
I bite the inside corner of my lip and playfully angle my eyes upward. “No. Do you feel better?”
She thinks on it. “Yeah. I do.”
I smile. “Good. Now, tell me. What do people do in coach? There’s no TV, no Wi-Fi…”
Daphne mockingly covers her mouth and gasps. “Oh, no! No Wi-Fi!” She’s making fun of me, and having a good old time doing it, too. “You won’t be able to tweet, or post a selfie, or check your Facebook, or check in on your millions of fans. What will become of civilization?”
I can’t help but smile through the scowl I’m forcing myself to wear. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t do any of those things. I pay people to do those things for me.”
She acts as if I’ve just solved world hunger. “Of course! Because that’s what normal people do, right? We pay people to tweet little pictures of cats who say funny things for us so that thousands of people can comment on it.”
“Alright, alright. You’ve had your fun. But it’s so much more involved than you could know.” I lay the bait.
I don’t know her very well yet, but I can already tell that she’s a spitfire, and she doesn’t like to be underestimated. “Oh, really? Then please, by all means… enlighten me.”
“Beverage?” Our private conversation is infiltrated by the flight attendant who’s parked her blue c
art in the aisle next to my seat.
“Why not?” I answer. “I’ll take one of everything that has alcohol in it. Maybe it’ll help me forget how uncomfortable this seat is.”
The woman standing above me looks nervous in a shy kind of way. “Um, actually, we have an airline policy. Two drink maximum per person per flight.”
Oh. That won’t do.
“I’ll take two then. And two for the lady here.” I gesture to Daphne.
The flight attendant nods over my head to the beneficiary of my generosity. “Forty four dollars, please.”
Wow. Not only do I have to endure a hard as rock seat with no legroom, but my drinks are being rationed and they’re price gauging me on them, too. Coach sucks. I make a mental note to never do this again.
“Of course.” I awkwardly reach into my pocket with the limited amount of room I have to do the task, and withdraw my money clip. Peeling the first bill from the top, I hand it over to the woman and graciously take the miniature plastic bottles from her. “Please, keep the change.”
Her eyes widen and she takes the crisp bill before thanking me and moving along to the next passenger awaiting their stale ginger ale.
“Ladies first,” I offer the assorted selection to Daphne, and she chooses the vodka and whiskey. “Good choice.”
“So, you were about to enlighten me?” There’s a small cracking sound as the sealed cap is twisted off her dwarfed drink.
I watch as she brings the toy-sized bottle to her lips. They part just enough for the rim of the mouth of the bottle to fit perfectly between the lips that close around it. I watch those plump, juicy, smooth, deep pink lips of hers nurse the bottle and feel my dick twitch as it longs to feel what that bottle is feeling right now.
Oh, she has no idea what she’s asking me. It would be my pleasure to enlighten this girl. I’m daydreaming about it, fantasizing about it. We’ve got plenty of time to work up to that though. By the time this flight lands, I’ll have her begging to go back to my hotel room.
I take a swig of the tequila in my miniscule bottle and celebrate early for what will most definitely be a good trip to New York.
CONTINUE READING