Fall (VIP #3)(88)
John
* * *
The heady combination of true anticipation and uncertain nerves is something I haven’t felt in a long time. It used to be my emotional drug of choice in the early days of Kill John. I lived for that sweet spot of feeling, teetering on the edge of greatness and ruin. Back then there was a chance we’d crash and burn onstage. Or we’d rock the house down. I loved the thrill of not knowing. And yet I did know. I knew I’d go out there and feel alive in a way few people experience—every nerve humming, blood coursing, balls tight, and cock hard.
Those moments became my everything. But they started growing far and few between.
Then came Stella. What I feel for her isn’t exactly the same. It’s more grounded. A weird mix of that teetering excitement tempered by unexpected comfort. But today is different. I’m practically jumping in my skin as I follow her instructions to this mystery experience she has set up for me. The land is flat and stretching along the Atlantic. It’s a clear day. Overhead a few small, private planes take off from a nearby airport.
In my ear, Stella’s tinny voice directs me to turn into the airport. Well, that’s a surprise. Is she taking me somewhere? Even though I know she’ll kick my ass if I protest, I don’t like the idea of her paying for a flight. Stella isn’t flush with cash, and she shouldn’t have to spend her hard-earned dollars on me. But I hold my tongue. This is her part of the day, and I’m going to behave and enjoy the fuck out of it.
The airport isn’t big—one runway and a couple of low buildings and hangars. A sign advertising skydiving points the way to one building, and I wonder if that’s her game, but Stella points me toward another building and then asks me to stop.
“Okay,” she says, pulling off her helmet, “let’s do this.”
“This” being Stella walking into an office to log a flight plan and chat with the guys who work there and clearly know her well, all while I stand there gaping in total silence. I’m still gaping as I follow her over to a small—seriously, the thing looks fucking tiny—white plane with one propeller on the nose.
I’ve owned SUVs that were bigger.
“You’re a pilot.” My voice sounds embarrassingly shocked.
Her cheeks flush as she smooths a hand over the edge of a wing. “Yep.”
“And you own this plane?”
“I’m one-tenth owner,” she says with a self-effacing smile. “The rest is Hank’s. He let me buy in so I don’t feel like a total mooch when I want to fly it.” There’s a fondness in her voice when she speaks of Hank that makes me, well, not jealous exactly, but …
“Who is Hank?”
“He’s an instructor and owner of the flight school. Back when I was sixteen, my dad spent the summer here as a mechanic. I was hanging around and Hank offered to teach me. In exchange, I worked at his wife’s bakery down by the shore. It was an easy decision for me.” A frown works over her smooth brow. “Then my dad cut out as he does when he’s tired of something, but Hank kept to our agreement, even though Dad owed him money.”
That rat bastard cut out on Stella too. I clear my throat, pushing away the fantasy of hunting down her derelict father and kicking his sorry ass. “Hank sounds like a good guy.”
“He’s golden,” she says. “I’ve taken lessons from him for years.”
“You must be close to him.”
She shrugs and runs a finger over a smudge on the plane’s smooth, white paint. “Hank isn’t exactly the type. He’s more of the cantankerous get off my lawn old man with a soft spot for awkward teens with idle hands. We get along fine but we don’t exchange Christmas cards or anything.”
Yet another person in her life who’s kept her at arm’s length. “If you could see your dad again, would you want to?”
Her mouth twists like she’s tasting something off. “Why would you ask?”
Shit. Tell her. But I can’t. Not when she’s making a face as if she’s seeing a foul ghost because I mentioned her dad. Not when everything about her posture shouts pain and defensiveness.
I try to shrug, but my shoulders are too tight. “We’re talking about Hank who kind of seems like a father figure.”
There’s a bitter sound to her laugh. “Father figures are overrated. I don’t need one in Hank.” She moves to the tail of the plane. “As for my dad? No, I don’t want to see him again. It would hurt too much, I think. That, or I’d kill him and have to face jail time.”
A small frown pulls at her soft mouth. And like that, I want to kiss her. So I do.
She hums against my mouth, then steps away, her cheeks nicely flushed. “You distract me like that and we’ll never fly.”
“Do your thing, captain.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “I’ll be good.”
“Debatable.” Stella has a clipboard and goes over the plane with the same intense inspection I give my guitars before a show. Yeah, I have a roadie take care of them during, and put them away after, but I tune my own equipment and it has to be exact.
Seeing Stella put the same care into something is a surprising turn-on. I never thought I’d want to jump a woman just from watching her check the flaps on a plane wing, but there you go; I’m hard and shifting my feet as she pulls out a small glass tube and fills it with gas from the wing.