Two
Usually, Viola’s favorite pastime at the airport was sitting at the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the beautiful planes taxiing, taking off, and landing. She could spend hours enraptured by the sight of the sun glimmering across their massive steel bodies as they rolled along the tarmac, amazed at their grandness and beauty. That afternoon, however, the airplanes rolling outside the windows in front of her went ignored—as well as the bustling terminal behind her at JFK—as she found herself enraptured at the words shining up at her from her phone.
Gleb: I dreamt I was eating your sweet chocolate ass last night.
Viola: I don’t want to talk about sex.
Gleb: K.
Viola: What’s your biggest dream in life?
What’s your biggest dream in life? The six words that had rendered a once lively texting exchange utterly extinct. As Viola stared down at those six words—gleaming up at her, almost tauntingly, since they’d gone unanswered two days earlier—she couldn’t help the sinking feeling in her stomach. Perhaps Gleb had been called to work back-to-back shifts and hadn’t had time to respond. Or a satellite in the sky had devoured her text, and he’d simply never received it. Perhaps he’d experienced a death in the family and was too grief-stricken to entertain her G-rated inquiries.
Or perhaps he’d been hit by a bus.
Perhaps he was dead.
A hopeful smile picked up the corners of her lips because no, he wasn’t ignoring her. He wasn’t rebuffing her attempts to shift their conversation to a less defiled place. He wasn’t rejecting her. Obviously, the man had dropped dead.
It was the only explanation.
“Miss Rice, we at Delta Airlines sincerely apologize, once again, for the inconvenience.”
Viola blinked rapidly as the gate agent spoke to her from across the podium, snapping her out of her delusions. “Oh, it’s cool.”
It actually wasn’t cool. It wasn’t cool that the moment she and Milo had taken their seats, several hours earlier, she’d been randomly selected to be removed from their flight because the airline had overbooked. It wasn’t cool that she would now be traveling to Utah alone, with nothing but her ignored text message to keep her company, and no Milo to talk her off the ledge when the urge to double text Gleb became too much to bear. It wasn’t cool, but as a woman who’d spent her entire life working in customer service, Viola had learned one thing: treat a perpetually abused customer service rep with a little respect, and they’d give you the world.
“Your $1500 voucher will arrive in the mail within 7-10 business days, and I’ve upgraded your seat to the first row of Economy Comfort. More legroom and complimentary refreshments. I would’ve given you first class, but it’s already full.”
“Well, my travel buddy is currently sitting in the last row of my previous flight, listening to the lavatory toilets flush every five minutes, so Economy Comfort sounds good to me.” Viola relished in the thought of Milo suffering in the last row after they’d rock-paper-scissored over which one of them would be taking a later flight. “Thanks for taking such good care of me.”
“Thanks for flying Delta.” The gate agent held Viola’s newly printed ticket out over the counter with the first genuine smile she’d given all afternoon. As soon as Viola took her ticket and left, the agent’s smile vanished as the next customer approached, going into an immediate tirade about his frequent flyer miles.
Thankfully Viola managed to ignore her cell phone all the way up until boarding. Only when she’d dragged her suitcase down the jet bridge, stepped onto the plane, and found herself in a lull as the boarding line came to a sudden stop in first class did she finally lose her will and look down at the phone once more. Still no message from Gleb. Just the last word he’d texted her, which didn’t even count as a real word.
Gleb: K.
K. The most reviled letter in all of messaging history. The middle finger of the texting world. A giant ‘fuck you’ without having to say the actual words. Somehow even the words ‘fuck you’ seemed less painful than ‘K’ to Viola. He’d even had the brass balls to slap a period at the end, just to really drive it home. She should’ve let the conversation die right then and there.
A thousand pound stone hit the pit of her stomach again. Milo had warned her, but she hadn’t listened.
She lowered the phone with a huff as the line began moving once more. As she moved nearer to her seat, her heated eyes shifted to the left as the first row of Economy Comfort came into view, wondering who her seatmate would be for the five-hour flight. With her luck, probably someone who emitted a pungent odor, or someone who talked non-stop, or someone with a service dog who’d piss on her shoes mid-flight.
Her mouth fell open at the sight that befell her instead.
An angel in human form. A tattooed angel—with both arms covered in black and white ink—sitting in the aisle seat. His muscular arms hung well over the edges of his armrests because his broad shoulders wouldn’t have it any other way. Every person who passed his seat brushed his elbow, but he never shifted or even lifted his head to mutter an apology. He leaned deep in his seat with his strong legs spread wide, ensuring one knee was also obstructing the aisle, forcing people to angle around him. Viola would usually be irritated by a man so blatantly indifferent to anyone’s space but his own, but something about him…
His black Ray-Ban sunglasses did little to hide his striking features, including his angular nose, with a perfectly pointed tip that begged for a bop of her finger. His lips were amazingly full for a white boy, with a natural pout that spat on the duck lip phenomena still going strong to that very day. His perfectly tanned skin hinted he’d earned most of his pulsing muscles outdoors. Chuck Taylors, at least a size fifteen, hinted at so much more.
Viola licked her parched lips.
Apparently used to being ogled, he stared straight ahead, ignoring every woman that turned her head as they passed him while clenching and unclenching his rectangular jaw around a piece of gum. His beard had been shaved just low enough to leave a shadow and had been shaped to perfection. Probably by the same barber who’d cut his brown hair into the trendy style he rocked—shaved low on the sides and long on top, gelled back to reveal the visible parts buzzed in on either side. His gray t-shirt and black skinny jeans weren’t too loose or too tight, hugging him just enough to leave no secret to the fact that he worked out. Not the type of guy who skipped leg day, clearly—or any day for that matter. The kind of guy who paid attention to every little detail. Who took pride in his appearance and probably expected the same of any woman he deemed worthy of knowing the comfort of his arms.
Viola swallowed back the saliva that had built up in her mouth, and his head shot up as she did. As if he could hear the giant gob struggling to make its way down her suddenly plugged up throat. She held her breath when he looked at her, pointing to her seat. Her hand was shaking. She snatched it away and hid it behind her back.
“Um, that’s me.” She nodded toward the window seat.
He raised his eyebrows just enough to make them jump over the rims of his Ray-Bans, pointing to the window seat as if to confirm that was all her.
“Yep.” She nodded to the seat again, refusing to give him another look at her trembling hand.
He didn’t appear to have any plans to stand, impatient line of people behind her be damned, and motioned at her purple suitcase. “You gonna put that up or…?”
His voice had the nerve to be deeper than Shaft’s. Smooth like melted butter. Viola couldn’t even speak, unable to decide whether she hated him or loved him. When she didn’t respond, he chuckled—the sound even deeper than his speaking voice—and stood. She nearly broke her neck as he towered over her, at least six three, bent down, and seized the handle of her suitcase. She stumbled back to make room for him as he lifted it with ease, keenly aware of the elderly couple in the row behind her, who now had the pleasure of having her ass shoved in their faces.
“This good?” He angled the bottom of her suitcase toward an empty spot in the overhead bin, right next to what she assumed was his leather coat.
“That’s great—” Her voice squeaked as she tucked her curls behind one ear, eyes falling. She shrugged off her black longline coat, revealing a gray midi sweater dress and black booties underneath. He took the coat from her as well, folded it, and placed it in the bin next to his. “Thanks a lot.”
“No prob.” He stepped back into their row as if he was going to re-claim his seat.
Viola went to remind him that she was at the window seat and still needed to get in. It wasn’t until he remained standing that she realized he wanted her to squeeze past him, leaving just enough room between his body and the bulkhead for her to wiggle through. She was five foot two, petite as could be, and even she knew there was no way to shimmy through that tiny space without getting very up close and personal with this complete and utter stranger. How hard would it be for him to step into the empty aisle and give her an appropriate amount of room? Did he not realize his current plan would leave her ass firmly pressed into the zipper of his jeans?
The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. He nodded toward her seat.
“Let’s go!”
An irritated voice chiming in from the back of the line shook Viola out of her thoughts. She hurried forward for fear of losing her life to the horde of angry passengers still waiting behind her. This tattooed angel was nearly a foot taller than her, after all. Even if their bodies were pressed together, it wouldn’t be his dick against her ass so much as his dick against her back. Totally innocent.
Something about the brush of his form against hers as she squeezed into their row, however, felt far from innocent. A blaze of light flashed through her that nearly blinded her, freezing her in mid-shuffle. His warm breath on the top of her head made the curls at her crown dance. She looked up at him before she could stop herself. He caught her gaze and raised his eyebrows over the rims of his sunglasses again. Swallowing thickly, she continued, never unaware of the heave of his chest and hardness of his abs against her backside. Even as her bones liquefied and caused her to trip over her own feet, his stance remained firm. Like a wall of flesh and muscle that would be there for her to fall back on no matter what. The roughness of his denim jeans disagreed with the stretchy fabric of her sweater dress so much she worried the metal zipper might tear right through the fabric. When her knees began to wobble, his firm, insistent fingers brushed her hip. A move that was meant to be supportive only sent another debilitating blaze of light flashing through her, this one strong enough to spark an inferno that caused her to trip over her feet once more.
“Oh—whoops—my fault—its… I got it—I’m good…” It was an uneven, stumbling, stuttering journey past his rock hard body and into her seat, but Viola managed to make it, holding onto the middle armrest when her knees finally gave from his touch, which had remained on her hip long after she’d passed him.
She managed to save her fall by turning it into more of a plop, crumbling into her seat. The cool blue leather instantly made an already cold plane feel like an Arctic tundra, but thankfully, the memory of his hand on his hip was there to light her body on fire once more and warm it right back up. From the corner of her eye, she saw him reclaim his seat and spread his legs wide once more, adjusting his jeans at the crotch, tugging it down while clearing his throat. What was all that adjusting about? Had the brush of their bodies had as much an effect on him as it had on her? She slammed her eyes closed, because of course it hadn’t.
When had her heart started beating a mile a minute like it was ramming a jackhammer violently into her ribs? When had her breathing gone uneven? He was the one who’d put in all the exertion, after all, hauling her bag into the bin for her. She’d yet to lift a finger but was heaving like she’d just run a marathon.
Don’t even look at him. She heeded her own thoughts. There was nowhere to go but down with the tattooed angel beside her. She’d already made enough of a fool of herself to last three lifetimes.
The longer she kept her eyes off him, the more her body cooled down. Until the fire that had been lit inside of her finally died out and the freezing cold air on the plane had encased her fully once more. Trembling, she immediately regretted removing her coat but didn’t have the courage to ask the angel to reclaim it for her. He’d already done her too many favors. She was one false move from making him feel like her butler. Frowning at the air conditioning unit overhead, she reached up to turn it off. When she realized it already was off, her eyes widened.
“Ladies and gentleman, we’d like to welcome you aboard flight 485 to Salt Lake City, Utah. We’re aware it’s a touch cold on the aircraft this afternoon, and our pilots are working on getting the cabin a little warmer. We thank you for your patience.”
A touch cold! If the temperature dropped a single degree lower, they could gather up every polar bear on Earth and relocate them right to that aircraft. The melting ice caps in Antarctica had nothing on Delta Airlines.
This time she made a concentrated effort to remind herself of the tattooed angel still sitting next to her, and it warmed her up just like she knew it would. Like the icy blood surging through her veins had suddenly been placed on a stove burner at the highest setting. Still, she didn’t dare look at him, taking the earbuds she had plugged into her phone, putting one in her ear and leaving the other ear free.
Pattering away at her phone, she pulled up her favorite song of the moment, Animals by The White Keys, and began bopping her head to the beat. Her eyes perused The White Keys’ new album cover, which now dominated the screen of her phone, showcasing all four members of the biggest rock band in the country. It was a black and white photo with the lead singer of the band, Adam Brand, front and center, staring at the camera. His bandmates stood beside him, all facing in different directions.
But it was the bandmate on the far right that gave Viola immediate pause. He had his back to Adam with his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. His head was thrown back, and his eyes closed as if he had a mind filled with beautiful thoughts. The sleeves of his white t-shirt had been rolled up, revealing his tattooed arm. Viola frowned as she studied his profile. His perfectly straight nose. His pert pink lips. His brown hair—cut short on the sides and long on top.
His muscular, tattooed arm, however, was what left her truly breathless. After drinking in the tattoo of a blooming rose on his bulky bicep, her eyes snuck to the left, past the empty seat between them, and locked onto the bicep of the angel sitting in the aisle. A blooming rose greeted her, peeking out from under the hem of his rolled-up sleeve. Her eyes widened and shot back to the photo, noting the tattoo of a woman’s eye just below the blooming rose. Her eyes shifted back to her seatmate and—sure enough—a woman’s eye awaited her, with a tear falling from the corner that hadn’t been visible in the photo. Her heart stopped in mid-beat as her gaze shot coyly back and forth from her phone to the angel. Skull-head on tricep: check. Grandfather clock surrounding elbow: Check.
Her mouth fell open, her phone seconds from falling out of her hand as every last one of her fingers went completely limp.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boarding has concluded, and the forward door is now closed, all passengers must be seated with seatbelts fastened and carry on items stowed before we can push back from the gate…”
The tattooed angel looked at her, his mouth lifting into a smirk as he motioned to the empty seat between them. “Lucky us, huh?”
A response was in order. Perhaps a clever joke about the God’s of fate having mercy on their souls for sparing them an overweight companion in the middle seat. Or how he’d narrowly dodged a war of the armrests since he’d been hogging them both since the moment he’d sat down. How his massive shoulders wouldn’t have left much room for anyone else anyway.
Anything.
Anything but the words that actually came out of her mouth. “You’re Jon fuckin’ Baca.”
This time, it was his mouth that fell open. He recovered quickly however, both corners of his mouth rising into a tentative smile that grew a little wider every second. He leaned deep into his armrest while holding a finger to his puckered lips, shushing her playfully.
“You’re, you’re, you’re…” Viola couldn’t heed his charming plea for secrecy, sputtering, “You’re the greatest guitarist in the country. The g-g-greatest who ever lived, depending on who you ask. In the league of H-Hendrix, Clapton, Richards…”
Lowering his finger from his smiling lips, he pulled his sunglasses off, revealing a pair of expressive blue eyes that only made his face even more heavenly than it already was. A pair of eyes she’d found looking back at her too many times to count from the dozens of TV specials, magazines, and album covers she’d collected over the years. She leaned into her armrest too until they were both so deep into the middle seat there was no longer room for a third party, anyway.
“When you play, it’s like… it’s like you’re not even trying. It just flows out of you like water. Like, like, like a tidal wave under your fingertips.”
“Thank you.” His bicep flexed, making the tattoos, which had rendered his attempt to remain disguised useless, ebb and sway like they’d taken on a life of their own. “But keep it down, alright? Trying to keep a low profile.”
“Sorry. I must be coming off like a complete creeper, but I just love you. I mean, I don’t love you. I can’t love you, obviously. I barely know you. But I just love how your fingers work. I mean, not your fingers. Not like that. What I mean is I love your music. Not you, or your fingers, or what I’m sure they’re capable of doing. Not saying I don’t think you’re capable, I mean, I’m sure you are—oh god, stop talking…” Viola forced herself to stop, opting to show him the screen of her phone where The White Keys album cover still dominated the screen. “I’m a big fan is what I’m trying, and failing, to say.”
“I’m flattered, just…” He held her eyes while pressing his palms down toward the floor, reminding her to keep it down, a playful smile remaining on his lips as he eased up on the armrest and returned to his seat. Leaning on the opposite armrest, closest to the aisle, he stared ahead at the flight attendants while massaging his smiling lips with the tips of his fingers.
Great. Now she’d freaked him out even more. The greatest guitarist of all time, who played for her favorite band, and she’d done nothing but act like a complete and utter madwoman from the moment they’d met. He was probably dreaming of the moment the plane landed so he could gather his shit and get the hell away from her. Probably silently pleading for the flight attendants in the first class cabin to save him from the lunatic sitting beside him.
Viola was thankful that her skin was too dark to show the redness she felt heating up her cheeks, making another silent vow to leave him be. She’d vomited her obsessive feelings all over him, and he’d taken it with grace. The least she could do was leave him alone, even though she had so much more to say. So much more praise to bestow. So many more questions. Enough to last a flight to Tokyo let alone Salt Lake City.
Regardless, she bit her tongue with a tight, embarrassed smile. Her eyes remained wide and manic, however, as she pretended to be entranced by the in-flight entertainment screen before her, pattering away at the touchpad even though her vision had gone too blurry to even see what she was doing. As the plane pushed back, the cold air encased her once more. This time the thought of Jon next to her wasn’t enough to warm her up. Quite the contrary, an icy chill went down her spine at what a psycho stalker she’d made of herself, which only served to make her even colder.
Just as another cold chill shot down her spine, the feeling of a plastic bag hitting her arm tore her away from her thoughts. She threw a look at Jon—who was leaning over the middle seat again—just as he hit her arm with the plastic bag a second time. Her eyes fell to the bag, which held a bright red Delta blanket.
“They only put one in every row and let us duke it out,” he said. “People go to war over these things. Get it while it’s hot.”
“Aren’t you cold?”
“I don’t get cold easily. Plus, I have this weird thing about community blankets. Bacteria. Communicable diseases. Bed bugs. This fuckin’ thing’s probably crawling with them.”
“So glad you’re doing me the favor, then…” She took the blanket with a smirk, realizing she’d just wisecracked Jon Baca. “I’d rather take a few bed bugs home with me than freeze to death, so I’ll take my chances. I live in Brooklyn anyway. Probably already have them.”
“Want me to get your coat from up top?”
“The blanket should be good, but thank you. Plus, we’re still taxiing. If the flight attendants see you get up, they will embarrass you over the P.A. They can’t wait for you to get up. Take it from someone who’s lived it.”
He nodded at her. “What’s your name?”
Stunned, she paused in the midst of opening the bag, barely managing to croak. “Uh, V-Viola. Viola Rice.”
He offered his hand. “Jon Baca.”
As if she didn’t already know that. She took his hand, voice still amazed. “Jon fuckin’ Baca.”
“Viola fuckin’ Rice.”
“Unbelievable. Is this real life?”
“Feels like it.”
“Maybe to you.”
He smiled, trapping his tongue between a set of perfect teeth as he did. A jolt had gone through her when he’d locked her hand in his and had now begun to continuously reverberate all over her body like it had become battery operated. She couldn’t tell if she was the one that had jerked, or him. As her hand found itself encased in the warm cocoon of his, feeling his every calloused fingertip scraping the back of her hand, she decided it was her. The army of butterflies that came alive in her belly and nearly beat it to death with their wings confirmed it. She was the only one of them who’d been falling apart at the seams since the moment they’d met, after all, and that moment was apparently no exception.
He returned her hand with a sigh, nibbling on the corner of his bottom lip.
Her eyes fell to watch as he did.
This was the moment another awkward silence would fall, and he’d turn away for fear of it going on any longer. The moment he’d realized the girl across from him was a nervous wreck, a lost cause, possibly even dangerous, and give up for good, proceeding to ignore her for the rest of the flight while he counted down the seconds until landing.
“I like your hair.” He leaned in deeper. “Good friend of mine has hair like yours. But hers is… I don’t know…” He made a big circle around his head with his hands. “It’s rounder or something.”
“Is this your sly way of telling me you have black friends?”
“Might be.” He smiled brightly, then chucked. “Damn… you just gonna call me out, then?”
“Mine used to be round. Like a big halo around my head.” She shrugged, playing the damaged ends of her waist-length curls between her fingers. “Guess your friend doesn’t recklessly abuse hers the way I do.”
“I don’t know. I’m kinda diggin’ yours, though. Kinda reminds me of a Disney Princess. Like Rapunzel, with an Afro.”
Was he flirting with her? Jon fuckin’ Baca? Impossible. She almost frowned at him like a science experiment she couldn’t quite solve. He was way too hot for her. Surely he knew it. Not to mention filthy rich. She imagined he preferred the kind of girls who graced the covers of Maxim Magazine. Girls with rock hard abs, come-hither smiles and breasts bigger than his head. Viola had been rocking an A-cup since middle school, her come-hither smile read more like constipation, and the closest thing she had to abs were her vital organs poking through her skin when she sucked in her stomach as hard as she could. The only things her boyish figure had earned her in life was relentless taunting in high school, scowling bouncers demanding her ID, and the nickname “peanut” from her best friend in the world. It had certainly never earned her a guy like Jon Baca. She found herself wondering what the hell he wanted from her. Was he just fucking with her?
“Wouldn’t have pegged you as a rock fan,” he said.
“Black girls listen to rock music too, you know.”
“I know that. We actually have a lot of black fans. Especially since Adam and Shaun.”
Viola nodded. He didn’t explain who Adam and Shaun were. Probably because he knew he didn’t need to. Still, Viola stayed mum about how embarrassingly excited she’d gotten when news of Adam Brand and Shaun Green had first hit the gossip circuit, years earlier. The lead singer of her favorite band dating a girl who looked just like her? As a teenager in high school, it had been the best news of her life. She remembered it like it was yesterday. Many had called it a publicity stunt when Adam had made an insensitive remark about black women, only to announce he was dating one shortly after. They’d deemed Shaun nothing more than a pawn in his PR game. Their entire relationship a fraud. A damage control farce that would be over in six months. Years later, however, Adam and Shaun were still together, recently engaged, and proving all the naysayers wrong.
“Just would’ve never guessed you liked rock though,” Jon finished. “I can usually tell.”
“Honestly? I only got into it because I had a crush on a white boy in middle school. Wanted to impress him. So I started listening to everything he listened to. Metallica, Lincoln Park, The White Keys…” She nudged him, causing him to chuckle, then shrugged. “Then, I accidentally fell in love with it.”
“Did you get the guy?”
“Nope. He told me that black people didn’t listen to rock music. You should’ve seen the look on his face. Like I was some kind of weirdo or something.”
“Fuck him.”
She grinned.
“You were listening to our music in middle school? How old are you?”
“Older than I look. Just turned twenty-one. Which makes me—”
“An infant.”
“Hey! You weren’t even legal when you starting playing for the band. You’re only five years older than me. Not a huge jump…” She paused. “Is it creepy that I already know you’re five years older than me?”
“Yes, but I had you pegged for creepy out the gate, so it’s all good.”
Her fist flew out to punch his arm before she could stop herself. Then her eyes exploded to twice their size because she’d just punched Jon Baca.
He covered his arm with a wince, as if she was actually capable of hurting him, then chuckled.
“You probably have eighteen-year-olds on your tour bus round the clock,” she teased. “Probably don’t even card them.”
“Nah, that’s Noodle’s M.O.”
She rolled her eyes at the thought of Noodle, The White Keys’ bass player, who never failed in keeping the band in the headlines with his crazy antics.
“Fuckin’ Noodle,” she laughed.
“You said it.”
She let a lull fall, giving him an out if it turned out that he’d only intended for their little exchange to be small talk and was secretly praying for it to be over already.
“So what’s waiting for you in Utah?” he asked.
Butterflies were back in her stomach. “My family. My mom, specifically. Haven’t seen her since I moved to New York three years ago, so I’m pretty excited. I can’t wait to hug her, honestly.”
“I can’t wait to hug mine, either.”
“It must be hard for you to get home to see your family, huh?”
“Ten years.”
Viola’s face fell in shock. “You haven’t been home in ten years?”
“Would’ve been longer if my mom hadn’t called me in hysterical tears, telling me she couldn’t go another year without seeing me at Christmas.”
“Is it that hard for you to find time? God, it’s only been three years since I’ve seen my mom and I feel like I’d lose my mind if I had to go another. It’s like there’s a gaping hole in my chest that only she can close. Family is the greatest healer, even when you’re not even aware you need to be healed, you know? I mean, I know the band is super busy and all, but whoever manages you guys needs to ease up a little. Everyone should be allowed to go home for the holidays.”
“Nah, our management’s pretty cool. I haven’t been home in ten years because I haven’t wanted to.”
“Why not?”
He searched her eyes for a long moment as if considering how to answer that. Then he pressed his lips together and looked away, eased up on his armrest once more, and fell back into his seat with teeth clenched.
Viola cursed under her breath. “I didn’t mean to be intrusive…”
“Nah…” He waved a hand to signal congeniality, but as he stared ahead at the flight attendants in the main cabin once more, his eyes were in a faraway place.
Viola didn’t know what place she’d just sent him to, but the rapid darkening of his previously gleaming blue eyes told her it couldn’t be anywhere good. Whatever he had going on with his family, it had been enough to tear him away from her completely. Away from the unexpected but exciting little connection they’d been building. A connection that was probably now dead forever. A connection that remained dead through taxi, takeoff, and well into the in-flight service. The kind of connection—with the kind of man—that only came once in a lifetime.
She’d ruined it.
She’d ruined her one and only chance with Jon fuckin’ Baca.