Page 2 of Love Off Course
Camilo
I nfuriating woman.
I’m rankled at the way she spoke to me and I can’t shake it.
Of course Carson fucking notices. He notices everything.
“She got to you,” he says in awe. “That’s a first.”
Letting out a snort, I ignore him as we begin our flight pre-check. The Embraer Legacy 650 is a luxurious super midsize jet with a bitchin’ tech savvy cockpit. I love this damn plane.
“She didn’t get to me,” I grumble. “She annoyed the fuck out of me.”
“No,” Carson says, glancing my way, “Lawton annoys the fuck out of you. Viper girl embarrassed you. It pissed you off. Admit it, hotshot.”
“I can’t stand people like her. They walk around like their shit doesn’t stink. We’re nothing but lowly people to service them and do their bidding.”
“But you thought she was hot.”
I glower at him. “In a snotty bitch kinda way, yeah.”
“All it takes is one hit.”
“What?”
“One hit?”
“One hit of what?”
“One hit from a complicated girl unlike the rest.”
“And then what?” I challenge. “People like me don’t fuck people like her.”
“No, but guys like us get brought to our knees by girls like her.” He flashes me a crooked grin. “Ask Krissy. The rest is history.”
“I’m not getting on my knees for her.”
“They usually prefer just one knee.”
“Fuck off,” I grumble.
Our banter quiets as Lawton peeks his head inside the cockpit.
“Oh my gawwwd,” he drawls out, waggling his perfectly sculpted brows. “Hottie alert.”
Lawton swings not just both ways, he swings every which way.
“The snob?” I ask at the same time Carson says, “Doris?”
Lawton lets out a cackle. “No to either.” He leans in to whisper. “ The Damian Birch is here.”
“He has nice pink pants,” Carson offers.
“Who’s Damian Birch?”
Lawton’s eyes roll so hard I’m afraid he might lose them in that big head of his. “You’re such a fuddy duddy, CZ. Damian’s on that interior design show, but it’s for boats. Anyway, not him. His assistant. He’s dreamy.”
Carson laughs. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Oh, honey,” Lawton purrs, “I sure will.” He pats him on the head and then bounds off.
I glance out of the open cockpit into the cabin. Damian—proudly strutting around in his pink pants—fusses over his assistant. The kid is young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, and looks way in over his head working for the Damian Birch.
The old couple is sitting side by side in a pair of cream leather seats as the old man helps his wife buckle in. Lawton is now assisting a leggy woman with her luggage. My eyes, though, zero in on her .
Where everyone else is smiling and enjoying themselves, she’s glaring out the window, her pouty pink lips pressed in a firm line.
She sits board straight in her seat, her legs crossed and tucked neatly under her seat as she angles herself toward the window.
Everything about her is closed off to those around her.
Her silky brown hair is smooth and utterly perfect.
It makes me want to walk by her and run my fingers through it, messing it up.
“Just. One. Hit.” Carson playfully nudges me.
I steal one lingering glance at her before turning around to ready us for takeoff.
As the engines fire to life, all irritation and anxiety fade away.
In these private jets, you can feel every vibration, making your nerve endings come alive.
Sure, commercial has its perks, like not having to deal with the people in the cabin, but private is my preference.
The next few minutes are ones of utter focus as Carson and I navigate the bird into the open skies. As soon as we reach our elevation and we’re cruising along at five hundred miles per hour, Carson starts humming.
Fly Like An Eagle.
Nothing like the Steve Miller Band to help me shake away my grumpy ass mood.
Soon, I join in and offer the “doo-doo-doo-doos” for him, both of us nodding our heads.
Once we’re stable, he unbuckles and pats me on the shoulder before stepping out of the cockpit.
His voice is friendly and chipper as he greets the passengers, tells them about our estimated travel time, and sings his usual The Beatles tune.
I’m relaxed and happy again. In the sky, I’m literally on top of the world and it’s freeing.
“Do you have Hennessy?”
Her.
Her voice cuts through my haze and thumps me in the head.
“Lawton will show you the selection of on-board cocktails and drinks we offer,” Carson says. “Though I hear tequila will loosen you up if you’re tense.”
I smirk, knowing already she thinks she’s too good for a shot of tequila.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
Fucking Carson.
Meddlesome bastard.
“Sheridan Reid,” she says in a regal tone that indicates we should all know who the hell she is.
“ The Sheridan Reid?” Carson taunts.
I can hear the Damian Birch hissing at his assistant to hurry and Google her. I’m a little curious as well.
“That’s me,” she grumbles.
“Well, funky flyers,” Carson says, “I was going to regale you with ‘Rocket Man’ by Elton John since that’s CZ’s favorite, but we have the Sheridan Reid on our flight and you know what that means?”
“Oh God,” I mutter.
Carson laughs, overhearing me. “No, God’s busy elsewhere, buddy. More like… Oh Sherrie ,” he croons the last part.
As he starts launching into Steve Perry’s “Oh Sherrie,” I shake my head and turn around to watch this shitshow.
“It’s Sheridan,” the Sheridan Reid barks out, her neck blazing crimson. “No nicknames. Not short for anything. Just Sheridan.”
No one listens.
And something tells me she’s a whole lot more than just Sheridan.
Damian starts singing along, snapping his fingers in the air above him and dramatically jolting back and forth in his seat. His assistant looks as though he’s about to puke.
“I know this song,” the old lady says, smiling at her husband.
“This is one of your favorites, Doris.” The man looks at her as if she hangs the moon.
The leggy knockout joins in on the singalong, but she doesn’t know the words. Girl tries anyway. And Lawton, he’s trying to show off some ridiculously porny moves in the aisle as he gyrates his way toward Carson. Carson laughs and can barely keep singing.
I’m flying with a bunch of idiots.
And a princess having a meltdown.
The Sheridan Reid is so red-faced she looks like her head might burst. It’s comical until I notice the slight tremble in her hand. One barely noticeable wobble of her bottom lip. Something about that small display of vulnerability hiding beneath her tough exterior has me feeling bad for her.
“Stop showing off, idiot, and get your ass back in here,” I bark out and offer a loud whistle too.
He chuckles but in the next instant, he’s back in his seat. “Got her name for you.”
“Thanks for that. But I don’t care,” I remind him.
“I think you do.”
“I don’t.”
“Maybe a little. Like just a tiny bit.”
“Nothing. You know my heart beats for one woman.”
“Such a fucking momma’s boy.”
I laugh and swat at him. “You’re a dick.”
“A dick who got the one’s name for you.”
“She’s not the one. Jesus, man.”
Our playful banter is cut short when we receive communication from dispatch. Possible navigation change to avoid Rodrigo’s trajectory. We spend the next three hours focused on the quickly changing weather situation.
“We can’t reroute to Mexico City,” Carson says. “It’s full. We don’t have enough fuel to wait our turn.”
I knew it.
I fucking knew it.
Having lived on the Pacific coast my entire life, you get a feel for weather patterns, especially hurricanes. Even Mamá wasn’t worried, assuming it’d make a wide arc, bypassing Mexico, but Rodrigo felt like coming home.
“Tahueca has an airstrip. Not big enough for commercial airliners, but it’s a place to touch down and refuel.”
Carson gives me a knowing smirk.
“Don’t say it.”
“Not saying anything, mijo .”
“I hate you,” I grumble.
“Nah,” he argues with a laugh. “You love when we’re scheduled to fly together. I’m your favorite. Admit it, CZ.”
Smug bastard is right.
We cut out the playfulness to iron out the flight changes. That’s the thing with Carson. We’re in tune enough that we can joke one minute and handle shit in a serious, professional manner the next.
“I do not look forward to this announcement,” he mutters.
“You’re a crowd pleaser, Captain Klein,” I taunt. “Do the honors. I sure as hell won’t. That woman out there hates me.”
“You could always announce it in Spanish. Maybe they’ll be too confused to care.”
I snort. “Fuck no. This is all you, buddy.” I flash him a pitiful look and shrug. “ No hablo inglés .” I don’t speak English.
“You’re a real asshole, Camilo Zaragoza,” he says, shaking his head. “You know that?”
“ Mamá cree que soy maravilloso .” Mamá thinks I’m wonderful.
“She’s the only one,” he argues. Then, with a heavy sigh, he grabs the speaker, too chicken shit to face them. “This is your captain speaking…”