Haze, Andrea Wolfe [english novels for beginners txt] 📗

"It's a plane, ma'am," he laughed.

"Very funny," I said. I got to the step in front of him. He didn't move. "Are we going to board, or what?"

"You didn't go through airport security. Hands up."

I shrugged and played along. Jack patted me down starting with my feet. "Hmm, what do we have here?" He gave my ass a firm grip and a nervous chuckle escaped me. "Is this some sort of contraband, ma'am?"

"No, sir," I said quietly.

He nodded and then continued up my body until he was at my breasts. After fondling them mechanically—and extracting more laughs from me, of course—he asked what they were for.

"Floatation device, I guess." I was mildly impressed at my spontaneous, goofy answer.

"All right, ma'am. Go on ahead."

I paused. "Can you actually fly a plane, Jack?"

He burst out laughing and broke character. "Hell, no. I just borrowed the hat from the pilot to throw you off. Worked pretty well, huh?"

"Oh, Jack." I pulled off his hat and stroked his hair, admiring his gorgeous features with both my fingers and my eyes.

We went inside and he closed everything up. I sat down on a leather couch and left my suitcase on the floor this time. It was the real deal inside—there was a TV, a couch and chairs, and a dining table with corresponding kitchenette. Jack disappeared up front and then returned without the hat.

"You're going to have to buckle up for take-off. Then do whatever the hell you want after that." I complied and followed him over to the seats.

"Where are we going, Jack? You still haven't said anything."

He leaned forward and kissed my cheek. "We're going to Los Angeles," he said proudly. "Welcome aboard my plane."

I sighed the best sort of sigh possible and prepared for takeoff.

Chapter 13

Sometimes I felt like life was just a blazing trip down one long highway, a godforsaken road that lacked speed limits and safety restrictions. The cars never needed to stop for refueling nor did they even stop at all most of the time. Unless your life was ending, your car never crashed either—a plus, I suppose.

A little less risky than physically driving.

You see, no good thing ever seemed to move slowly. It was as if you were in some stupid sports car that was speeding excessively, an obnoxious piece of machinery driven by some adrenaline junkie from hell. You spent most days sitting in the passenger seat, staring into nothingness, doing the same routine every minute of every hour as you desperately sought some sort of entertainment or escape.

That was hard work. You'd see so much of it, the same perpetually repeating things all the time. Well, unless you had one of those magic jobs that allowed you to travel all the time. But just because you could travel didn't mean that it was an unequivocally good thing. Constant traveling could easily damage families and personal relationships—and prevent new ones from ever happening at all.

Winding around the bend, you'd notice some incredible thing that you wanted to see up close. Finally, relief! Excitement!

"Can we stop?" Even though you shouted, your voice was like a meaningless whisper over the growling roar of the engine.

"Sorry. Gotta go even faster now." The driver was always faceless and tactless. Zero interest in appeasing you with kind words or false promises. You couldn't reason with him because despite his apparent grasp of English, he didn't seem to understand anything. He didn't show any emotion or concern whatsoever as he pressed the gas pedal even harder.

Head pinned to the seat, you were fighting off pangs of motion sickness because hey, you were going really fast.

You craved those brilliant things just out of reach but then again, not so much that they were overwhelming and diluted. In that speeding car, you still needed some sort of balance—but no one wants to stop and assess the situation when things were great. Why would you?

When you found the good things, they were always over too soon. No one liked to think about tomorrow when today was the best possible thing it could be. When todays were like that, you could never get enough of them.

And the better they were—better meaning you lost track of time and only noticed when they were over—the more you realized you'd never have another day just like them. No two days could ever be the same, no matter how hard you tried. The world couldn't be controlled like that, no way.

Like everyone else on the planet, I liked a good time. I liked a great time even more. When I was strapping myself into that private jet's seat next to Jack, I realized that time spent with him had been my great time—and it hadn't been short lived, something that defied everything I knew.

It was day after day of physical and mental bliss, the sort of thing that made you ask, Is this really happening to me?

Purposely distancing myself from Jack had just served to mask how I was really feeling, to take me out of the vulnerable position of being near him that instantly brought me to my knees. I didn't worry when I was around him, didn't over think everything I did and said. It made me vulnerable in the best possible way. I was genuinely living for the moment.

Sure, I had my job and all of that. And I wasn't about to blame Jesse or Laura or anyone else for my own indecision. Sometimes you latched onto whichever voice spoke to you first when you were craving advice. That didn't mean it was always the best advice or the best decision to make, but it also didn't mean it was the worst.

What kind of man jumped back into the picture with a surprise trip to California on a private jet, anyway? I think that's what you'd call a keeper. I hoped I was right. Timothy would have never done something like that, not now, not ever.

He also would