Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(26)

Vices. I don’t like that word, but I know he has a thing for cars and women. It’s other things that worry me.

“Let’s climb on board our ride,” he says, motioning toward my door. “The sooner we get on the plane, the sooner we eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” His lips curve. “And not just for you.”

My cheeks heat and I grab the door handle, his laughter following me as I pop the car door open and exit, shutting it behind me, while Jason heads to the trunk. I follow to help him, and while I’d swear if asked that the idea of food and bumpy air does not appeal to me, my stomach defies my fear and growls at the exact moment I step to his side.

He lifts the trunk, but his attention is on me, his eyes alight with wicked heat. “Sounds like I’m not the only one who’s hungry.”

“Good to see you, Red Bull,” a twenty-something man in a blue suit, with blond buzzed hair, greets him, reaching into the trunk to retrieve both of our duffel bags. “You playing tonight?”

“Aren’t I always?” Jason asks, shutting the trunk and settling his hand at my back, his touch quickly becoming familiar and always far too warm for my own good. “Skye,” he adds, “meet the other Jason.”

The new Jason’s gaze falls on me, curiosity in the depths of his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Skye. To avoid confusion just call me JJ, for Jason Jones.”

Red Bull flexes his fingers on my shoulders and he glances down at me. “You can keep calling me Trouble.”

I snort. “Believe me, I will.”

JJ chuckles. “My last girlfriend called me worse things than that.”

“That sounds like it didn’t end so well,” I comment.

That draws a snort from him. “Let’s just say Trouble is G-rated in comparison.”

“Skye calls me all kinds of names,” my Trouble says, draping his arm over my shoulder. “Asshole and arrogant come to my immediate mind, but I’m certain they’re endearments.”

“He’s right,” I agree. “Every time I call him ‘*,’ it’s from the heart.”

“So damn affectionate,” Trouble murmurs, hugging me closer, as if we’re a real couple, and lifting his chin at JJ. “I need to be at the table in four hours. We’d better roll.”

“We’ll have you in the air in fifteen minutes,” JJ assures him.

Jason doesn’t let go of me, leading me forward and leaning in close to make the soft vow, “I aspire to change your opinion of me this weekend.”

Butterflies erupt in my belly that have nothing to do with his words and everything to do with the steps I now face, leading to the plane. “That won’t be easy, considering you’re the man who’s putting me on an airplane.”

“Life’s too short for fears, baby.”

Somehow, some way, he’s once again said exactly the right thing—perhaps the only thing—that would make me overcome my dread of flying. Life is too short. I nod and he releases my hand, and I rush up the stairs before I change my mind. In several beats of my pounding heart, I am entering the cabin and see tan leather everywhere, including U-shaped booths on either side of me, with a shiny table in the center of the one on my left. Beyond them are several rows of oversized, comfy-looking seats.

Behind me Jason is speaking to someone, and I glance back to find him leaning into the cockpit, talking to the pilot or pilots, I assume. I don’t know which, and really I don’t want the pilots to be human and his friends. Humans make mistakes. I inhale and face forward again, trying to decide whether I should sit down or make a run for the door.

He steps behind me, his hand settling on my hip. “We need to buckle up until we’re in the air,” he says, indicating the chairs.

Buckling up sounds just fine to me and I hurry forward to claim a chair, but as I move toward the window seat to my left, Jason takes my arm. “If you don’t watch the takeoff, you barely feel it. Unless you want to torture yourself?”

I wave that idea off. “No, thanks. I’m not into masochism.”

“Good to know,” he says, mischief in his eyes. I take the aisle seat and he sits next to me.

At the sound of footsteps, I glance up to find JJ has joined us and is loading bags into an overhead compartment before walking our way. “Martha’s bringing your usual latte,” he tells Jason, then glances at me. “Martha runs our coffee bar. Can I have her bring you something as well?”

“I think the lady might need a real drink,” Jason intervenes. “She’s afraid of flying.”

He reaches down and squeezes my knee, sending tingling sensations up my thigh and straight to my sex, and I grab his hand and set it on the armrest. “Can you not tell everyone I’m afraid, please?”

“Cautiously concerned control freak?” he offers, amusement in those too green eyes of his.

My brow furrows. “I’m not a control freak.” He arches a brow in challenge. “Fine,” I amend. “Maybe I am.”

“You are,” he assures me. “And while I never drink before a game, you need to calm your nerves. What can JJ get you?”

“I thought poker players drank and smoked while they played?”

“I don’t smoke, and I drink Red Bull,” he reminds me. “Only professional fools booze it while they play at this level. You, however, aren’t playing, so you can drink. What’s your sin of choice?”