Mister West

by R. J. Lewis

  Now I really like her. What she said is too true and a hard-earned lesson that was fundamental to my success.

  “The catch would be sucking some old man’s wrinkly cock –”

  She interrupts me with a loud laugh and then covers her mouth to smother it. I just smile on, surprisingly enjoying someone else’s company in the back of a crowded plane while a demon child continues to kick my seat.

  “Anything else?” she manages to whisper, meeting my eyes with the mischievous blue of her own.

  For a moment, we just stare at each other. Her eyes on mine, my eyes on hers. Something…delicious sparks between us. I can see it on her face as she’s finally taking me in with a warmer look than before. In a split second, she is undressing me in her mind. I can tell by the way she gazes down at my clothes, lingers on my chest and arms, and then slowly moves back up to my face. Her breaths are slower, heavier, and her stare is more inquisitive.

  With a cocky smirk, I lean a little to her side and finally whisper back, “And riding it too.”

  Knowing she’s attracted to me, I continue like this, sneaking in vulgarity that would never have impressed the modest type ladies I’m used to picking up. Her laugh is high and infectious, and I’m biting my tongue to keep from laughing along with her.

  “A rich man with a dirty mouth,” she remarks with a shake of her head. “I’m sure you didn’t make your money talking.”

  “Wrong,” I reply. “I’m a damn good salesman. I could sell snow to the Eskimos.”

  She regards me curiously, as if she’s trying to figure me out. “What do you do?” she asks.

  “I’m an entrepreneur.”

  “Successful, obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Did you open up a place of business in Vancouver?”

  “No. I left Ottawa to look into investments on the side. Call it boredom. Checked into some propositions, but nothing jumped out.”

  She tilts her head to the side. “Are you an Angel Investor too then?”

  I smirk. She’s knowledgeable. “More like joint ventures.”

  “Hmm.” She glances around us and leans in closer to me. I’m a little too fascinated by those bright blue eyes, but her plump little lips are equally impressive. “So, in all seriousness, what’re you doing back here?”

  My eyes skim her slender long neck and travel down to her collarbone. I keep them away from her cleavage, knowing I’ll be more vulgar if I get excited.

  “I lost a bet.” To a man who owns this airline.

  I turn away to stop an old flight attendant as she passes by. I request something to drink (for the third fucking time) and am promised with a, “be back in a minute” (for the third fucking time).

  I will likely die of dehydration before this plane lands, and no one will care.

  “So you’re being punished,” says Rage-Case, who I’m certain doesn’t deserve the title anymore.

  “What’s your name?” I ask her, diverting the subject smoothly.

  She stills. “My name?”

  “Yeah, it’s something we’re given when we’re born into this world by our loving, doting mothers.”

  She scoffs sardonically. “Yeah, so loving. My name’s Ivy. Yours?”

  A part of me wonders why she just flamed her mother like that, but I’m more interested in her name than caring about her private life.

  Ivy. Never met a girl with that name before.

  “Aidan,” I reply.

  She eyes my clothes. “Aidan what?”

  I chuckle. “Not going to happen.”

  “You’re not going to tell me your last name?”

  I narrow my eyes at her curiously, jokingly replying, “Something tells me that contrary to how you look, you’re smart enough to know who I am if I gave you my full name.”

  She raises a brow. “You’re saying I look stupid.”

  “Never said it.”

  “Yeah, you did. In a roundabout way. Fucker.”

  I smirk. When was the last time I was called a fucker? “You’re a foul-mouthed stunner,” I remark.

  She playfully smiles, her eyes alight with amusement. “You think I’m a stunner?”

  “I’m sure you know you are, and you’re not stupid looking. You’re fucking appetizing to look at.”

  A light blush snakes up her neck and settles in her cheeks. It gives her a soft glow I can’t turn away from. She swears like a pirate, carries on like a hard ass, but the second she’s complimented on her looks, she shrivels up entirely. Which tells me she’s remarkably inexperienced.

  “How old are you, Ivy?” I ask quietly.

  “Twenty-four,” she answers. “Are you forthcoming with your age, or will I suddenly know your identity if you tell me?”

  “Thirty.”

  “And you’re a successful businessman at thirty?” she says doubtfully.

  “Is something wrong with that?”

  “Inherited wealth?”

  “Self-made.”

  “Wow.”

  “What?”

  “That’s just really, really young. Like unheard of actually.”

  “I agree. I’m damn good at what I do, and I worked my ass off to get to it.”

  She grimaces. “With that ego, I believe you entirely now.”

  “I’ve earned my ego in many other areas too.”

  “Like what?”

  I run my eyes over her slowly, letting her know exactly what.

  She smirks, keeping her eyes levelled to mine. “You’re direct, aren’t you?”

  I love that even when she’s shy, she’s still bold enough to keep her gaze directed to mine. There’s something so fucking hot about her contradictory nature.

  “The only way to get what you want is by being direct,” I reply in a low tone.

  Her lips flatten as a fleeting thoughtful look crosses her face. “And it works?”

  “I always get what I want, so yes, it works.”

  She’s quiet now, and we’re still staring at each other. Still feeling that remarkable pull I can’t describe, but it makes my chest warm and my fingers ache to touch her. Then, the flight attendant taps me on the shoulder and hands me my pathetically tiny plastic cup of water. By the time she walks off, Ivy has completely pulled away from my side and is looking back at the blank monitor with a frown. She grabs the flight headphones and tears apart the plastic wrapper to get to it. I furrow my brows as she turns the screen on and goes through a list of films. Is she seriously done talking to me? Just like that?

  I want to laugh at her. Does she really think she can capture my special attention and walk away unperturbed? Silly naïve woman. Did she not hear what I said moments ago? I always get what I want, and right now I want her.

  As she plugs it in, I lean over and tear the plug out of the socket. Her eyebrows shoot up and she looks surprised as I turn her monitor off and lean against her. So close I can feel her warm breaths against my face, I state, “We’re not done talking, beauty.”

  Three

  Aidan

  She’s bewildered by my action. Her face goes blank as she looks at me. “What is it that you want to talk about?” she says, and all humor has died off in her voice.

  “Anything,” I reply, and then shrug. “Everything.”

  She hesitates. Her eyes flicker from the monitor and then back at me. She’s silently debating this, and I’m curious about her indecisiveness.

  “Are you uncomfortable?” I suddenly ask her, smiling purposely to ease her. “I promise I won’t bite, Ivy.”

  “You’re close enough to,” she responds a little breathlessly.

  She’s right. I am. God, I would. My face is inches from hers, and neither one of us is pulling away. I want to fucking bite her hard. My gaze drops to her lips and I envision nibbling at that bottom one. I wonder if she’d squirm or melt against me. I wonder if she’d moan my name or hold her breath. Would she be a silent lover, or a loud one? Maybe both.

  Adrenaline courses through me, and that’s no go
od. I can’t be undone by a black- and red-haired girl in the back of a passenger jet while a kid continues to thump, thump against the back of my seat. So, I pull away and give each other just enough distance to breathe, and I regret it immediately.

  “You’re the one that talked about not suffering alone,” I remind her. “So, come on then. Let’s talk.”

  “Start me off on something.”

  “You had a bad day.”

  She laughs dryly. “Yeah, my day’s been shit. Sorry I was such a bitch.”

  I laugh too. “You should have seen me. I’ve been a dick. You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

  “Call it karma then.”

  “Oh, yeah. I deserved that.” She smiles so bright, and it’s so fucking beautiful. “Keep talking, Ivy.”

  “I’m operating on like four hours of sleep.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “That’s over two days, by the way.”

  I make a face. “You got bodies buried out there that you’re worried people will find?”

  She laughs. “Can you imagine if I did?”

  “Well I’ve seen your bad side, and I can imagine that just fine.”

  She grins. “Was I that scary?”

  “If I took a second longer getting out of your seat, I think you’d have thrown me off the plane.”

  “No chance. You got like a hundred pounds on me.”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “True.”

  “So why the fuck haven’t you been able to sleep?”

  Her expression tightens. “Been counting down the hours to this flight.”

  “You hate flying?”

  She just shrugs, dodging the question. “Anyway, let’s talk about something else.”

  And we do talk. About anything. Impersonal topics made for the specific purpose of hearing each other’s voices. I’m loving the anonymity I have with her. I can finally relax around a beautiful woman and not have to fight against an image that’s been painted of me. It’s refreshing not to have my past rearing its ugly head at me. I like this.

  “What do you do for a living?” I ask.

  She points to her hair. “Hairdresser.”

  “How do you like that?”

  She nods. “It’s a trade my mother approved of, and at the time I thought I needed her approval.”

  I raise a brow. “But how do you like it?”

  “I like making people smile. I’m good at what I do, and a lot of days it’s rewarding. I’m also studying on the side.”

  “Yeah? What’re you studying for?”

  “Well, I can’t just study what I want just yet. I’ll be taking an entry exam into College this coming semester, which is what I’m studying for. Not sure what class I want to take. I’d explore Creative Writing just for shits and giggles, but I’m also leaning toward Human Resources. I mean, that’s a long road ahead and I’d need to take some bridging courses too, and I’d be pretty late compared to other students but… given everything I’ve been through, it had to happen now, so…Yeah, I cut hair and want to study something worthwhile by next year. That’s been my life lately. I’m sorry for rambling.”

  Her cheeks are red when she finishes; she looks away from me for a moment to collect herself. I have a feeling she’s not used to talking about this.

  Yes, I tell myself, she is nothing at all like the women I’m used to. I never realized until now how tired I am of the spoiled bitches who live out of their daddy’s pockets. This girl has ambition, she’s a hard worker, and it’s refreshing.

  I study her face, at the way her eyes look away in thought, and a weird tingle settles in my hand. I have this urge to run my fingers along the curves of her face and demand for her to tell me what the hell is wrong. There’s this cloud of melancholy about her that makes my stomach twist and my mind feel unsettled. But I don’t dare venture into the feelings department. It’s not my business. Fun. That’s all I remind myself she is. I’m not ready for anything else. I’m not sure I ever will be, either.

  “Human Resources entails dealing with people, and I’m not sure that’s your calling with a mouth like yours,” I then remark.

  That melancholy disappears when I make her laugh. I love it. She smiles so wide, her cheeks go even redder. “I know,” she agrees on a whisper, “I’m fucking terrible. I’m going to need to cut that shit out when I’m reaching the fucking end, right?”

  I shake my head slowly, skeptical. “You’re so far fucked, Ivy, you have no idea. I’m not sure there’s any saving you.”

  Noticing that she’s idly still tearing apart her nails again, I move my hand over both of hers. Her face shoots down to see what I’m doing. A lick of pleasure courses through my veins just by this simple touch, and I know now with utmost certainty I’m incredibly attracted to this girl.

  I want you.

  I want you so bad, Ivy.

  “This is a nasty habit,” I tell her.

  “Yeah,” she says breathlessly. I notice the way her chest rises and falls faster.

  “Why do you do it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “A little.”

  “Is it me?”

  She shakes her head. “It’s…not just you.”

  I wonder what that means, and what else is consuming her thoughts, but again, I don’t want to talk about heavy shit.

  “You have very beautiful hands, and I’d hate for you to ruin them,” I explain. “I’m going to keep my hand here as a reminder for the rest of the flight that you can’t attack them. Alright?”

  She blinks and then slowly nods. “Alright.”

  I sit back, content that my lame excuse to touch her has worked. Somehow, I know she sees right through my bullshit. My hand pulls apart the two she’s clasped together and wraps itself around the one nearest to me. Her skin is smooth and soft. I imagine the rest of her delectable body is too.

  “You know,” she then remarks, “you look deceptively office-oriented, but you’ve got callouses along your palm. What do you do in your spare time?”

  Heat settles within me. She’s a very inquisitive person. When was the last time a woman remarked on my hands? Never. The answer is fucking never because they don’t give a fuck to ask. They just want me to finger them to orgasm and move the fuck on. When have I ever cared otherwise, though?

  Ivy seems older somehow. She must come from a whole life interrupted by some kind of devastation. I know this nature I see in her well – after all, I experienced it well enough to spot it a mile away.

  “I restore old cars in my spare time,” I softly explain, perturbed a little that I’m opening up about this.

  It’s my hobby. Something I do to pass the time in my loneliness. It’s not something I talk about to just anyone. I’m not looking for touchy feely conversation. Especially with a woman. Not after the hell I went through with one in particular. No, women just fill a void in me for a limited time. It’s safer this way. I get to enjoy them and move on when my satisfaction has been quenched. It’s just the way I am. Call me an asshole. Call me an insensitive prick. I know I’m all that. I’m not Mister Nice Guy, and I’ve laid that message across perfectly clear to every woman I’m with.

  So…why the fuck tell her that?

  “I like that,” she remarks. “You’re a capable man in a suit.”

  I smirk. “Is that impressive?”

  “A man who wears a suit and can change a tire on the side of the road? Yeah, impressive.”

  I chuckle. “What’s actually impressive is you noticing my callouses.”

  She scoffs. “Hardly. It’s an obvious tell.”

  “One that no other woman has made.”

  She reddens again and looks away. It’s interesting what happens when you dig a layer deeper into a person. That tough persona of hers from before has been cracked completely. What I see now is a genuine beauty with a softness in her I want a taste of. I want to crack more layers. Dig a little deeper. Make her redder. Lo
oser. She’s bold enough and might very well play along.

  “Speaking of physical pursuits, I’m very hands on in many other ways,” I huskily tell her.

  Her lips curve up, and when she licks her bottom lip, I feel my mouth part a little. A look of indecision crosses those delicate features before she leans again to my side and whispers, “I’m guessing you’re the kinky type, right?”

  I lean in, too, until I’m inches from her face and reply, “What makes you say that?”

  She probes me, sliding her gaze ever so slowly from my face and down my torso, lingering momentarily on my groin. Fuuuck, this girl can flirt with her eyes. Very dangerous.

  “You’re a young rich man,” she says, “which means you must enjoy whips and cuffs and stupidly shallow girls that’ll trust you because you’re sexy. You probably have a slew of mommy issues and a long line up of blondes ready to satiate your needs.”

  “And I think you read a little too many books.”

  She bursts out laughing. I like being this close to her. She’s like a magnetic field, forcing me to her. I’m a breath away from kissing her, and I’m beyond tempted to. I wonder if she’d pull away. The smug asshole in me chastises me for questioning such a thing. Of course she wouldn’t.

  “So, I’m wrong?” she asks, seemingly just as content to be so near.

  “Very.”

  “Tell me what I’ve got wrong.”

  “I have no mommy issues. My grandmother raised me, and I love her. That woman could put Betty Crocker to shame with her baking.”

  “I can’t believe you just admitted to being a mama’s boy.”

  “No shame,” I say confidently. “I’d never lie to someone about who I’d go to the ends of the earth for.”

  “And you would for her?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She looks warmly at me. “That’s pretty adorable, Aidan.”

  “I know,” I agree on a wink. “It’s a perfect topic before a pick-up line. I’ve never failed using my grandmother. Women gush like you are now over that benign shit.”

  I’m lying, of course, but I just want to hear her laugh.