CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CAYDEN
“Not just any plane,” I tell her, pulling into the hanger. “It’s a Cessna 175 Skylark.”
“It’s your Dad’s?
I cut the ignition. “My grandfather’s, actually.”
Her eyes open wide in surprise. “Your grandfather’s?”
“Dad wouldn’t be caught dead in a plane like this. He’s all about show, sitting plush in his Gulfstream. Fuck that. That’s not flying.” I open my door and wave her out. “Come on.”
She steps out, looking around. “Where’s the pilot?”
I throw my hands out. “You’re looking at him.”
She points to the plane. “You are going to fly that thing?”
“Well, it’s not going to fly itself to New York, is it?”
“New York?”
I expect surprise, but she almost looks… scared. “You don’t want to go?”
I can see her thinking it over. “No, I just…”
I come closer, rubbing her arms. “I’ve been flying since I was sixteen. I’m fully licensed.”
Her eyes dart away. “It’s not that, it’s…”
“Come on, it’ll be fun. Trust me.” I hold her gaze and see her commit to it. “Okay, but if we go down I swear to god I’m going to haunt the hell out of you.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
*
The last guy who sat in the seat beside me was a very drunk Hunter who found himself somehow two states over without his ID, a car, his pants. That was quite a night. Suffice to say, Indy, sitting there with her oversized headset on and childish glee on her face, is a big improvement.
We soar into a smattering of periwinkle clouds, conditions near perfect.
There’s not much space in the cockpit, the 1958 aircraft shaking around us. We’re literally side by side. I can smell her, that scent I know so distinctly now, the one that comes to me at night, that makes my cock hard and muscles stiff with need.
“It’s beautiful up here,” she says, her voice laced with static but no less perfect.
I look across to her. “It sure is.”
She points ahead. “Can you concentrate on the road, please?”
“Some road,” I laugh. “You don’t like flying?”
“My idea of flying is cattle class with a rubbery steak. This is new.”
“But better right?”
“Only because you’re here. How long’s the flight?”
“We should be at Newark Liberty in about two-and-a-half hours, more than enough time to get better acquainted.”
“Did your dad teach you to fly?”
That provokes another laugh. “Dad’s never flown a day in his life. No, it was all my grandfather—the love of machines, of things that fly in the air and on the road. The man had gasoline in his blood, and so do we, or most of us. Colton’s pretty useless when it comes to the practical stuff.”
“What did he do, your grandfather?”
I can’t help laughing again, until I see she’s serious. “You don’t know? He was the original Beckett in ‘Beckett & Latham.’ He started the firm.”
“Oh.”
“But he was nothing like my father,” I continue. “He valued his clients. He fought for the little guy. He’d roll over in his fucking grave if he found out what’s become of the place.” I let my anger pass. “You still haven’t told me why you want to be a lawyer.”
She sits back. “I guess I want to fight for the little guy, too. My parents passed away when I was young, but instead of being placed into the custody of my aunty, I was juggled between foster homes because of ‘legal complications.’ My aunty couldn’t afford a fancy lawyer, and the clinic guy she ended up with was a sandwich short of a picnic. It took two years, two years, for me to be placed in her care. I can’t let that kind of thing happen to someone else. I can’t let it stand.”
I nod, proud of her, my Indy. “You’re not going to be a good fit for Beckett & Latham then.” I lean over her. “Look out the window. You can see Charleston.”
“Wow,” she says, stretching her neck to look out the window. “Pretty.”
Her ass lifts off the seat.
“You can say that again.” I smile.
She sits back. I place my hand between her legs, shift it under her skirt into the hot space there.
“What,” she gasps, “are you doing?”
“I couldn’t resist.”
My fingers yank the crotch of her panties aside, reaching for the wet heat beyond. “Cayden…” she moans. “Shouldn’t you be… flying?”
“I’ve got one hand on the yoke.” I take it off. “Or we can let the plane fly itself.”
Her eyes snap wide as the plane levels. “Cayden!”
I find the bud of her clit, using the fleshy underside of my thumb to press against it in soft circles while my index finger slides into her wetness.”
She gasps again, mouth ringed into an ‘O,’ one hand gripping my thigh hard, the other flattened against the door, bracing herself.
I split my attention between the controls and the hand between her legs, slowly building up the pressure there until she starts to buck against my hand, her head kicking back and her eyes closing.
“I want you to come,” I tell her. “Come all over my fingers. Can you do that?”
She nods, lost in the sensation.
I add more pressure to her clit, my knuckles pressing out the cotton of her panties, her heated pussy growing wetter and slicker as I finger-fuck it.
She’s breathing hard, sweating, a fine film of perspiration on her forehead. Her contained breasts heave up and down with the effort.
Suddenly, she lets go of the door and grips my wrist hard, pressing it against herself.
I pull up on the yoke, the plane climbing sharply into the clouds, both of us pressed back into our seats.
“Cayden…” she says, an equal combination of pleasure and panic in her voice, but I’ve got this.
“Come,” I command, working the slippery button that has become her clit.
I let the plane soar, increasing the angle. Gravity begins to pull, the clouds giving way to endless black above.
“Come,” I command her.
She opens her eyes, fingers clawing into my wrist and thigh. “Cayden!”
“Close your eyes. Trust me.”
The whine of the propeller drops away, rises again.
“Cayden,” she whimpers, close.
I feel her tighten around my finger, about to crest into climax. Her eyes close. I don’t stop, struggling with the yoke but still in complete control.
She stiffens, fast, and just when she’s about to come, about to lose it, I press the yoke forward and tip us forward, the plane levelling, her orgasm arriving at the perfect moment of weightlessness before we dive.
She grips me so hard I’m sure she’s going to draw blood, jumping and jerking in her seat, caught heavy in the throes of pleasure. I hold my thumb against her clit as she bucks and babbles nonsense, moaning and grunting as the plane continues to drop.
When I’m certain she’s done, I bring both hands back to the yoke and pull back, bringing us once more into the clouds, level again.
She settles limp into her seat, head hanging. “I’ve never experienced that in economy before.”
I laugh. “I should hope not.”
*
A limo is waiting to take us to MetLife Stadium. We kiss and grope in the back, unable to keep our hands off each other. I only wish the trip to the stadium was longer.
Once we arrive, I lead her up to one of the private suites overlooking the field, the inventively titled ‘Beckett Suite.’ I pick up a bottle of champagne waiting on the table at the back and pop it open. “Now this is my father’s, but he never comes out here.”
I pour and hand her a flute. A dreamy absence remains in her eyes I’m coming to know only too well. Standing here in front of her, I can’t decide whether she looks hotter with the jersey or without.
At the front of the room is a staircase and three rows of seating fronted by floor-to-ceiling windows looking down to the field. Some of my best, maybe only, decent memories from childhood were born here with my brothers. We watched the Giants, small titans from up here, and I knew I didn’t want to be anything else.
I still don’t.
It’s cold out, so I keep us inside, seat us in the front row as the game starts.
Indy wasn’t kidding when she said she wasn’t a big sports fan. A rock would have a better understanding of the game, but I like that. I like being able to walk her through it, hold her hand and help her understand why football is the ultimate sport, why this place doesn’t need stained-glass windows or a wooden cross to be a church.
She gets into it, cheers when I cheer, boos when I boo. It’s different than being here with my brothers, chugging down beer and smoking cigars. I’m seeing the game fresh through Indy’s eyes and it’s beautiful. She is beautiful.
What more could you possibly want?
I point to the field. “Look at the Packers’ offensive line. It’s weak. That was an important drive for them—ten plays, eighty yards, but they can’t stick it.”
Indy takes my hand, leaning into my shoulder. “You know, I’d never thought I’d say this, but hearing you talk football is kind of turning me on right now.”
She burrows a hand into my pants.
Rock hard in three, two—
The door at the front of the suite latches open, voices filtering in.
I stand and turn.
What the hell?
“Dad.”
My father, surprised as I am, looks at me from the back of the suite. “Son,” he states, not an ounce of emotion in it.
Fuck me.
He walks down to the seats, hands on top of the back row. He’s with another man, clearly a lawyer, both of them suited up, ties loose. “I must say, this is quite unexpected.”
Indy stands up sheepishly beside me.
Dad looks from me to her. “And you brought company, I see.”
I gesture to other man. “As did you.”
Dad smiles, that crocodile grin the world knows so well. “This is Gregory, a senior associate at the firm.”
Gregory reaches forward to shake my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
I shake the reed of a thing.
“And your guest?” queries my father, his slimy eyes taking Indy in.
There’s a throbbing pain at the back of my neck I can feel all the way to the floor. Stay the fuck away from her.
I pull Indy closer. “This is Indiana, from Abbotsleigh.”
She extends her hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
But instead of shaking it, my father places a kiss on her hand, his dry lips lingering too long on her skin. “A pleasure. And what are you studying there, at Abbotsleigh?”
“Law,” she replies.
He smiles, pleased at that. “Well, well, a room full of lawyers. I think that’s the start of a joke.”
Gregory, the ass-licker, laughs out loud. Indy smiles awkwardly.
Dad looks to me and then to his friend. “I don’t make it over this side of the river much these days.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s New Jersey, Dad, not fucking Calcutta.”
He manages to temper himself. “Now, now, language, son. You wouldn’t want to offend your lady friend here.”
Gregory’s looking at Indy. “I’m sorry, but have we met before?” he asks.
Indy looks nervous, but there’s something else. She looks… afraid.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t think so.”
Gregory shakes his head. “You sure? Because I’m good with faces. Ain’t that right, Jerry,” he says, referencing my father’s first name. So you’re on a first-name basis. How many dicks did you have to suck to get there?
Dad claps him hard on the shoulder. The poor guy almost goes through the window. “Damn straight. Now, shall we order in some food? I could eat a horse.”
I take Indy by the hand. “We were just leaving.”
“So soon?” asks Dad, as I move with Indy to the top of the stairs.
“Exams, classes—You know how it is.”
Dad nods, eyes continuing to roam over Indy. It’s making me sick just being in his presence. The way his friend is looking at her isn’t much better, but it’s the curiosity in his gaze that has me worried, the examination of it.
Dad watches us walk past. He’s gotten bigger since I saw him last, his gut extending over his belt, spilling out from his suit jacket. “Do drop by again soon, son. I’d love to get better acquainted with your friend.” He eye-stalks Indy while he says it, mouth watering.
She’s mine.
We’re almost at the door. The irritation becomes unbearable. I turn, have to say my piece. I’m so tense I can feel the strain in every tendon, my muscles coiled.
Indy squeezes my hand—a signal.
It’s enough.
I close my mouth and smile. “Nice to meet you, Gregory.”
“Likewise,” he says, still studying Indy. “I guess we’ll see you around the firm soon.”
“I doubt it.” I look at my father as I say it, make sure he knows. Let him take away our cash-flow, the house… I don’t give a fuck.
Cheering goes up as we leave the stadium, the Giants are on a hot streak, but I all I want to do is get out of here. I want to get back to Abbotsleigh and as far away from my father as I can and his whole, lurid world. A world I will never be a part of. That’s never been clearer.
Indy has made me see it. She has opened my eyes.
It’s not that I hate my father. I wasn’t locked up or abused. I do hold happy memories. He took us hunting the last weekend of every month, showed us how to use a firearm like his old man showed him. We’d camp out, the three of us, cooking meat over the fire. We’d laugh, the competitive spell of New York broken out there in the wilderness. I’ve still got my rifle, engraved with my initials, at the house.
But it faded—all of it. He even stopped coming with us to football games, work slowly taking over. Mom lost it, started to drink in his absence, looking for chemical ways to find happiness. He shunned her, sent her off to Palm Springs where she remains to this day. He found himself a new wife, and another… and so it went, so it still goes.
I’m quiet on the flight home. I know Indy senses it, but she doesn’t try to engage me in conversation, content simply to lean against my arm and fall asleep, the soft sheen of her hair ever-changing in the moonlight, her lips barely parted.
She is the picture of peace. And me? What the hell happened back there? Where did that anger well up from?
And then I realize.
I’m a Beckett. It’s simply in our nature.