CHAPTER TWO

DANE

I keep my breathing steady as the jet climbs, the engines purring, the oxygen flowing. This is where I excel. Even the sky isn’t a limit.

Pugachev’s Cobra is a dangerous stunt made famous by a Soviet test pilot in 1989. I pull back to an absurd angle of attack, the g-force pushing me hard into the seat. I use the drag towards the tail of the plane to pitch the nose forward again, can practically hear the applause from all the way up here.

Yes, it’s dangerous, reckless even, but I don’t give a fuck. This is the Dane Carr show, baby.

Safely landed, I take off my helmet and exit the cockpit of my F22, now starting to age gracefully. She’s been through a lot, and I don’t intend to stop spanking her just yet.

The crowd is howling and cheering as I step down from the wing onto the tarmac. Kids wave, big, beaming smiles waiting. Some of the mothers are smiling even wider, and I think it’s about more than the size of my plane. I could take my fucking pick if I wanted, a small-town MILF for every day of the week. Sexual Skittles.

The adrenaline sits hot in my veins as I stand, helmet underarm. It’s a clear, cold day—perfect conditions for flying.

The applause is still going.

Show time.

I pull myself back up onto the wing and pose, take time afterwards to sign autographs on whatever is pushed my way—cards, posters… chests. I consider adding my number to the latter, but think better of it. If I want to get laid, all I have to do is look in their direction. Their panties practically peel off unaided.

The announcer calls the next part of the air show. The crowd starts to disperse.

I walk back to the hangars and, hopefully, a cold beer.

I stop by the lockers on the way in and collect my duffle bag, finding the rest of the Red Devils standing in the middle of the hangar looking in my direction.

I dump my bag down. “Who fucking died?”

No response.

I point behind me. “Come on. Did you see that shit? They fucking loved it.”

Masters, one of the older members of the team, shakes his head. “Sure, Carr. It’s a great maneuverer, a real showstopper, but it’s risky as fuck. You know that.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Am I flying with the Red Devils here or Pussy Power? You sound like my fucking mother, Masters.”

I spot the Captain approaching from the back of the hanger. He stops with his hands on his hips and bellows, “Carr! Get your ass over here. Now.”

I wink to the others. “Speaking of my mother.”

The rest of the team heads out of the hanger as I make my way to the Captain. He’s got a constant pissed-off look on his face and the moustache to match. Add the Aviators and you’d think he was looking to audition for Miami Vice.

“I guess you think that was a pretty slick move up there, right?” he says, the serious expression remaining.

“You’re damn straight,” I nod. “I gave them exactly what they want.”

The Captain eyes me inquisitively. “And what’s that, do tell?”

“The fine line between life and death, that’s what.”

The Captain nods back, taking it in. “I see.” He pauses and I know nothing but a shit-storm of epic proportions approaches.

Here we go.

He lets it rip. “Who the fuck do you think you are, Carr?”

I start to answer, but he holds his hand up.

“It’s a rhetorical question, smartass.”

“I can handle maneuvers like that in my sleep,” I protest. “You know it, the crowd knows it, the girl I’m going to fuck tonight will know it.”

The Captain’s shaking his head, looks like he’s going to pop a vein. “All I know is that your big stunt up there has ‘liability’ written all over it. You consistently pull this shit time and time again after I tell you not to. You’re like a fucking toddler.”

“A toddler who’s the Top Gun of this team.”

That goes down like a cold cup o’ puke. “Top. Fucking. Gun!” the Captain shouts. “Are you fucking serious, Carr? I can’t even see past that fat fucking inflated head of yours.”

I manage to hold it together—just. “As I said, I can handle it. What’s the problem?”

“We can’t afford the liability. It’s as simple as that. You want our insurance pulled, the team disbanded? I can’t take that risk, not any more. I have the others, those that do fall into line, to consider. Not to mention the crowd out there. I have to keep their safety in mind too.”

I don’t like where this is going at all. “What are you saying?” I ask.

He exhales, lifting his sunglasses and locking eyes with me. “I’m saying you’re out, Carr, effective immediately.”

“I’m out?”

“Grab your shit and go.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I can be a little cheeky when it comes to the maneuverers, but out of the fucking team? “Come on, Cap.”

He remains firm. “Come on, nothing. I know you think otherwise, but you’re replaceable, Dane. We don’t need some hotshot pilot to fly gigs. I can think of ten, maybe twenty guys to fill your shoes, and every one of them will fall into line and do what they’re told.” He takes out a check from his pocket and hands it over. I look down at it. He’s serious.

“Your severance,” the Captain continues, “more than enough money to get home, wherever you want to go as long as it’s as far away from this team as possible.”

I’m still trying to process it all. “You’re fucking leaving me here, in the middle of Nowhereville, Michigan?”

“Yes, I am,” the Captain replies before turning to walk away.

My anger gets the better of me. I shake the check at him. “Fine. Fuck the Red Devils, and fuck you, sir!” I add sarcastically.

He flips me the bird in response, calling, “Try the Merit Motor Inn. I hear the room service is impeccable.”

I spin around to find the team, but they’ve disappeared. I’m all alone… a check, a duffle bag, and precious little else, but fuck them, him… Fuck everyone.

I gather my things and make for the exit.

The sooner I can get out of this shithole, the better.

*

The local Merit Greyhound Station is about as hillbilly as they come complete with single ticket booth. The temperature seems to be dropping fast as I approach it, low clouds sweeping in from the south.

The man behind the glass is watching a small, CRT TV in the corner of the booth, a heater on the ground blasting hot air up towards his legs. He stands when he sees me coming and approaches the glass. “Where you headed, son?”

“The nearest major city. Don’t care what it is.”

The man nods and punches something into the computer. “A man of mystery. I can appreciate that.” He looks up. “That’ll be thirty dollars and change.”

I take out a wad of bills from my wallet and pass them over, receiving a printed ticket in return. “When does the bus leave?”

The man gestures to the ticket. “Nine AM tomorrow, sharp.”

“There’s nothing earlier?”

The man laughs. “This isn’t Central Station, son.”

I look around. “Yeah, I got that.”

I notice a weather warning show up on the TV behind his back.

He follows my eyes as a map of the area pulls up on to the screen. “Big ice storm on the way, they say.”

“Ice storm?”

“From the south.” The man lifts his leg. “I can feel it in my bones she’s going to be a big one.”

Sure you can.

“So, what are the accommodation options around here?” I ask.

The man smiles again. “The accommodation option, singular, is a couple of buildings down to your right there. The Merit Motor Inn. Big blue sign. You can’t miss it.”

Figures. “Thanks.”

I slide the ticket into my pocket and make a start for the Motor Inn. It’s definitely getting colder now. There’s no doubt about it.

As soon as I hit a city with a population bigger than three figures I can rent a car, find an airport, find a way back to sunshine, beaches, and sweet ass.

But the worst part about Merit? With its drab color scheme and lifeless buildings it’s almost a perfect replica of the town I grew up in—a town I was more than happy to kick into the past. I’ve moved on, upwards, and I’m never going back.

The Merit Motor Inn is the kind of garish blue-and-white monstrosity you’d expect from a slasher flick. There’s even a buzzing neon vacancy sign. I don’t imagine the ‘No’ is lit up very often.

A bell chimes when I walk through the reception door, rubbing my hands together for warmth as I step up to the desk.

A large, balding man sits behind it, a name tag reading ‘Barry – Manager’ pinned high on his chest. He doesn’t stand but instead swivels to face me. “Cold out, huh?”

No shit, Sherlock. “Sure.”

“You want a room?”

No. I want a hot sauce enema. “I do.”

He sizes me up for a second before continuing. “Card or cash?”

I take out my wallet again and select a handful of Benjamins, slapping them down on the desk.

He swipes them away, his greasy fingers counting them out. “Alright then. There’s enough here for a couple of nights.”

“I’m only need the one.”

He hands a couple of the bills back and selects a key from the hanger at the back, placing it onto the desk. “Room Thirteen. Enjoy your stay.”

I look right, and see her…

She’s coming out a room next to the office, a perfect vision of honey blonde hair and legs you want to lift to the sky. The blue-and-white maid outfit she’s wearing wasn’t designed to be flattering, but on her it’s a revelation, showing off her firm cleavage and tight hips, bent as they are over the cleaning cart. Her ass rounds her skirt out, the hem of it dancing high, teasing as to the treasures below.

My cock starts to stiffen as I watch her, this angel come to life.

She turns, catches me watching her, and it gets even better. Her eyes are a piercing bottle blue, her lips full and plump, her features somehow spelling out ‘small town’ but wanting to break free all the same. I can show her how. I could show her a lot of things.

In seconds I’m fully hard, my cock pressing awkwardly against my pants.

I don’t take my eyes off her. Most guys would pretend they weren’t looking, shift their gaze away, but not me.

I know what I want.

I do what it takes to get it.

And this one? She’s going to be easy as apple pie.

Angel Girl looks away quickly and pushes the cart into the room, the skirt bouncing high on her perfect, peachy ass. I picture how it’s going to look in my hands as I thrust into her, drive her up against that cart until she comes all over my cock, those coral lips stretched wide.

“Your key?”

I swivel back to ‘Barry.’ He’s tapping the room key on the desk, still making no effort to move from that chair.

I take it, spitting out “thanks” before walking away from the desk and out into the hall, but the door to the room Angel Girl was cleaning is closed.

I consider going in until I realize I’ve got my own room, a room that’s going to have to be cleaned eventually. And when she arrives, with that adorable button nose and country curves, I’m going to make sure she is the one who leaves satisfied.

I’m not usually so taken with these folk, but there’s something about this girl that’s irre-fucking-sistible. She doesn’t have a fucking clue how hot she is, that much is certain. She’s probably been working this dead-end job for years, aspires to be manager one day when Barry keels over from a heart attack. Too many double cheeseburgers at the diner, I’m thinking. She’ll marry and get her picket fence, a two-bedder like her parents had.

I smile to myself. Or maybe a stranger will appear, an out-of-towner ready to rock her world.

Merit, middle of fucking nowhere, might be a small town, but big things are coming its way, and it’s all going to start in Room Thirteen.