Open fire, p.4
Open Fire, page 4
“It’ll highlight something,” she mumbles, and looks through the stack. Is she looking for a matching one in her size?
The idea of us wearing matching shirts through the airport makes me chuckle to myself.
“Anyway, Chicago?”
She clears her throat and for a second, I think I’ve struck a nerve. But then she stops shuffling through the shirts, resting her hand on top of the stack instead.
“I thought about it, but I have an autoimmune disease and my body seems to like the weather here better. Not that everyone with Sjögren’s needs to live in the heat and humidity,” she mutters, almost as an afterthought before continuing our conversation. “But it seems to work for me. Chicago is just so…”
“Bone-deep cold in the winter,” I supply.
“Exactly. Don’t get me wrong, I still have flare ups sometimes, but nothing like I did back home. I didn’t even know what they were back then, but I can see all the signs now.” Sloan bites her bottom lip, her nose crinkling in a very adorable way. “I don’t normally tell people about my diagnosis when I first meet them.”
I shrug nonchalantly. “We’re strangers crossing paths at an airport. It’s different.”
“It does feel different, doesn’t it?”
I nod. “Like when someone shares their darkest secret with you on the bus, or in a waiting room. You’ll never see them again, so it doesn’t matter as much.”
I’m hit with a sudden pang of regret that I may never see Sloan again. It’s a strange feeling, enjoying her company as much as I do. I can’t figure out if it’s because we’re both stranded and desperate for company or if there is a genuine connection. Would we be friends outside of this situation? Would we be more than that? I don’t know the answer, but I do know those are some deep thoughts for this time of day.
“That’s exactly how it feels,” Sloan agrees. “There’s less pressure to make a good impression today.”
“Yup. Plus, my mother had Lupus so I guess it doesn’t freak me out as much as it would some people.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, it was pretty hard on her. Especially winters.” Sloan nods in understanding. I thumb through a display of notepads with unfunny puns on them. “My dad always wanted to move her down south, but she loved living in Chicago so she would never go for it.”
And there it is. The sympathetic look I always get at some point. Oddly though, I don’t mind it coming from her.
“Is that how she died?”
“That’s the assumption. She just … never woke up one morning. But with how hard her body had been revolting against her, it was a pretty good guess.” I take off the hat and toss it back on the rack. “Anyway, enough of that. Let’s go check out some of the other stores. Let me have your bag.”
“What?” She looks startled, as if my words didn’t register.
“Your bag. Of presents.” I hold out my hands and wiggle my fingers at her. “You’ve got a backpack and suitcase to worry about. I have a duffle and I’m easily three times your size. Let me carry your bag of gifts.”
Sloan narrows her eyes at me playfully. “You’re just worried I’m going to rip this one, too, aren’t you?”
“You’re on your third bag and we’ve been here for two hours. The odds are not in your favor.”
She hands over the bag reluctantly, but not without taking her own jab at me. “I’d rather have a ripped bag than have lice from trying on hats at the airport.”
My jaw drops and a shiver runs down my spine. “Ew. I never thought of that.” I quickly run my fingers through my hair and then shake my head like a wet dog. “You don’t think I really have lice now, do you?”
Just the thought gives me the willies. I hate those creepy crawlies.
“Probably. But don’t worry. Mayonnaise works wonders getting rid of the little buggers.”
“Does it really?”
“So I’ve read,” she says with a shrug. “I don’t usually try on hats where four million people have already shopped, so I don’t know from personal experience.”
“You could have warned me,” I grumble and scratch my head, wondering if that’s really an itch, or if I’m freaking myself out.
“Stop thinking about it,” Sloan says as she tosses the neck pillow on top of the T-shirts and we exit the store with no purchases. “You wouldn’t be able to feel them yet anyway.”
“You don’t know that. I’m a very sweet person. They’re probably headed straight for the natural scent of my skin.”
Sloan giggles at my ridiculousness. “Tell you what, let’s head back toward the gate. We can find a place to sit down, and I’ll do a thorough inspection on you. Will that help you let it go?”
The idea of Sloan running her fingers through my hair does sound appealing, even if it’s only for debugging purposes.
“Yeah,” I finally say, like a petulant child. “It’s that way.” I point the direction of our gate and away we go.
Chapter Eight
Sloan
I am in no rush to get to the gate so we can hurry up and wait for our plane. Although the idea of running my fingers through Becker’s hair does have me going at a slightly faster pace. I think we both know I’m not actually going to find any lice, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to look anyway. And by look, I mean enjoy feeling the silky strands of hair running through my fingers.
Geez, do I always feel this way when I meet a hot guy, or is it just when I’m stranded? Not that I meet that many hot guys where I work. They’re either too young by several years or too old by a lot. Neither of which I find appealing.
Regardless, I couldn’t think of a better person to be stuck with. Becker is fun and charming, and I may have swooned a bit when he demanded to carry my bag. It makes me wonder what it would be like if we had met under different circumstances. Would we be friends? Would we be attracted to each other? I’ve never been in a situation like this before and it’s hard to figure out what feelings are real and what is just forced proximity.
The terminal is still packed with people so we’re staying close to the wall, allowing travelers who have somewhere to go quickly to get around us. As a random door swings open, almost smacking me in the face, I second guess that decision.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” A woman about my age carrying a baby and a diaper bag peeks around the door, eyes wide with surprise. “I didn’t realize anyone was out here.”
Didn’t realize anyone was out in the terminal? That’s weird.
“I mean, I knew,” she backtracks. “I just wasn’t thinking about how the door swings out and someone might be walking by…”
I put my hand out and touch her arm, stopping her rambling. “It’s okay. I’m okay. You’ve got your hands full so no worries.”
She smiles gratefully, her shoulders relaxing. “Thank you. Merry Christmas.”
“You, too,” I call after her as she bustles away.
Becker, who has stayed remarkably silent through this whole exchange suddenly begins laughing.
“Is my almost-broken nose funny to you?”
Becker shakes his head. Now I’m confused.
“I don’t get it. What’s so funny?”
He bends over, still laughing, and points at the door.
I glance at it, then look back at him, shaking my head. “Why are you laughing at the mother’s nursing station? Is feeding babies funny or something?”
He wipes his eyes and takes a breath, finally getting himself under control. “I’m not laughing at what it is. I’m laughing at the passcode to get in.”
I look back over at the door, getting more confused by the second. “I admit, having a passcode printed on the door kind of defeats the purpose of needing a code in the first place, but it’s not really that funny.”
“You’re totally missing is. Look what the code is.” He points at the ink printed on the door.
“8008. So what?”
Becker gapes at me. “Did you never write the word ‘boob’ on a calculator in middle school?”
“Yeah? So?”
“What numbers did you have to use?”
Not having used a calculator for a while has me thinking for a second. And then it hits me. “Ohmygod. 8008 is ‘boob’ on a calculator.”
Becker bursts into laughter again. I feel myself crack a smile but try not to laugh.
“Oh, come on!” Becker bellows. “It’s funny!”
“I will give you that in a clever sort of way, it’s funny. I bet a man came up with that password.”
“For sure. It’s a total dad joke,” Becker says as we continue our trek to the gate and some empty chairs.
“My dad was the worst at those. Or best. Depends on how you look at it.”
“That’s the kind of dad I wanna be someday. Full of stupid jokes that make my kids groan ‘Daaaaaaad’ because I’m embarrassing them in front of their friends.”
That makes me laugh more than the password did. “Somehow, I can envision it. You in a minivan, a bunch of little girls rolling their eyes at you because you’re ruining their lives.”
“I’d be the best girl dad. I already know it.”
“How can you be so sure? You got a lot of experience with little girls?”
“None at all,” he admits with a shake of his head, immediately scratching at the non-existent lice again. “I just have this feeling. The idea of playing tea parties and dressing in a tutu to take my little princess grocery shopping makes me feel all fluttery inside.”
I shoot him a side-eye. “Do your teammates know you have a secret fantasy of dressing up in a tutu?”
A scowl immediately crosses Becker’s face. “That’s not information I care to share with them, thank you very much.”
“Oh it’s going on a sign that I’ll be flashing around next time I attend a game.”
Becker pulls out his phone and pretends to type in a note. “Call security… and have Sloan banned… from all the games.” He clicks his phone shut and shoves it back in his pocket. “Thanks for the heads up.”
I roll my eyes with a smile. “Okay, so you’re ready to wear a tutu, but what happens if she wants to be a surfer instead.”
That gives him pause. “I guess I’ll have to get over my fear of the ocean.”
My mouth drops open. “No way. You’re afraid of the ocean?”
Becker looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Have you seen the kinds of things that live in there?”
“You know you have a better chance of being struck by lightning than being bitten by a shark.”
“I also had a better chance of being struck by lightning than becoming a pro hockey player and I defied those odds.”
I pat Becker’s arm playfully. “I’m sure your daughter will be fine with you watching her surf from the shore. You can build sandcastles in your tutu or something.”
“Stupid sharks,” he grumbles under his breath, making me smile.
“There.” I point out a couple chairs facing the window. “That’s perfect light to check your head for bugs.”
Becker scratches his head again as he guides me through the crowd to our destination.
Dropping my backpack on one of the empty seats, I plop down into the other one and sigh.
Becker situates his own bags and quirks an eyebrow. “Strolling through the terminal has you that winded already?”
“You hush.” I point to the floor and gesture for him to sit down. “It happens every time I go on vacation. As soon as the race to the gate is over, it’s like my body decides it’s time to rest. If I weren’t so hyped up from waiting for the plane, I could easily fall asleep in one of these uncomfortable chairs.”
Becker sits on the floor and begins to scootch backward until his giant shoulders are wedged between my legs. For a split second, I envision another reason for his shoulders to be between my legs and I feel a tightening in my core.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and try to concentrate on disgusting, slimy, eight legged bugs. Not that lice look anything like that, but at least it gets my mind off my inappropriate thoughts.
Digging my fingers into his hair, it feels exactly like I expected—soft and silky, a small whiff of clean shampoo making its way to my nose. His head is perfectly shaped. It’s odd how attractive I find the shape of his head to be.
Yeah, this delay is definitely messing with my mind.
“You’re one of those people who falls asleep whenever she flies, aren’t you?” Becker asks as I gently move his head to and fro, inspecting various strands for no good reason except to give him peace of mind.
“All I need is a window seat and a jacket to curl up under and I’m out like a light.”
I gently push his head forward so his chin is almost touching his chest.
“Lucky. I’m always wide awake with nowhere to go and no way to stretch my legs.”
I comb through the strands of hair on his neck, mostly because I want to know if they’re as soft as they look and not because I expect to find anything. I watch as goose bumps pepper his skin from my touch.
“You mean they don’t charter a flight for the team? That’s awfully cheap of them but not shocking considering who you play for.”
Becker chuckles and I tilt his head up to search the top of his head. “They do, but there are only a certain number of aisle seats.”
My fingers ignore my brain’s attempt at staying focused on the task at hand, and begin scratching his scalp instead. Becker gasps and groans at the feeling. Loudly.
I look around and no one seems to have noticed. Almost no one. A middle-aged woman is watching us intently, slack jawed at what we both know was probably how he sounds when he orgasms.
Don’t go there, Sloan. This is a stranger at the airport.
But man, I can’t help my body from hoping he wants to join the mile high club.
My thoughts begin to stray again as I envision us meeting in the bathroom on the plane, Becker locking the door behind him, his eyes full of lust as he stares at me. It’s such a small area I’d have to turn around and bend over. He’d slowly slide my pants all the way down before dropping his as well. Then he’d enter me slowly with a groan, holding still while I adjusted to what would likely be a sizeable cock. He’d begin by moving slowly, ensuring I’m nice and wet as he eases in and out at an achingly leisurely pace. He wouldn’t be able to go slow for long, though, before his primal instincts took over and he began thrusting, pounding inside me as hard as he can go, not caring who can hear us as my own moans begin to escape. Just pumping and pumping and pumping until he thrusts so hard on the back motion his body punches a hole in the door behind him, leaving us exposed to the passengers on the plane, where an Air Marshal would likely handcuff us to our seats and we’d be charged with public indecency…
Okay, so that fantasy didn’t turn out exactly like I expected.
I reluctantly pull my hands from Becker’s hair and pat him on the shoulder. “I’m happy to say you are bug-free.”
“Are you sure? You seemed to do a little more massage than treasure hunt toward the end.”
I pray my face isn’t flushed from either embarrassment or leftover hormones from my fantasy.
“I’m sure.”
Becker scoots forward and stands up, stretching his arms over his head exposing some really rock-hard abs.
Seriously, is he doing this on purpose, or does he just exude sex appeal naturally? It’s so unfair how hot he is.
“We still have lots of time and I have an idea of what we should do next.”
“Oh really?” I have an idea, too, but if it ends anything like my fantasy just did, I’ll have to pass on airport sex.
“Since it’s your nap time—” I scoff at him “—I know exactly what you need.” Becker grabs the bags and gestures for me to follow him.
“Come on.”
Chapter Nine
Becker
The longer I spend with Sloan, the less I care about the delay. Sure, there’s not a whole lot to do while we wait, but the conversation alone has made the hours pass by quicker than I initially expected.
And then she ran her fingers through my hair.
It took everything in me not to pop a boner right here in the middle of the airport. I almost lost the battle when she messed with the little hairs on the back of my neck. The touch of her gentle fingers had my thoughts going places they didn’t need to be in a public airport.
My idea for our next bout of entertainment will hopefully give us the distance I need to get my thoughts back in order.
Finally, we reach our destination and surprisingly, there are two open spots.
“We’re here!” I announce and immediately place our bags in between two massage chairs, staking our claim.
“What a great idea!” Sloan says excitedly and climbs onto one of them, settling in. She looks down at the credit card reader and her shoulders slump. “Holy crap, that’s expensive.”
“This treat is on me.” I grab my wallet and credit card, sliding it into the reader and activating her chair first.
“What? You don’t have to do that—” Her words cut off as soon as it as the cushions start massaging. “Ohmygod, it’s heated. I’m always cold.”
Sloan immediately stills, eyes closed, a look of pure ecstasy on her face. I look away quickly, not needing to see what is likely her orgasm face.
Dammit. Now, I have thoughts of her naked on this chair, playing with herself and that exact expression running through my brain.
I don’t know if starting my own chair will help me pull out of this fantasy or give me more ideas, but I quickly swipe my own card reader and try to relax into the movement.
It does nothing. The little balls inside the chair try their best to pound into my back, but I barely feel it. I’ve had trainers work out knots in my muscles while standing over me and using all their body weight as leverage. This feels like a hummingbird’s wings fluttering against my skin.
So disappointing.
But I suppose the heat is nice.
My mind begins to wander as I do more people watching.
