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Samuel has gone pale again. “What?”
“Window or middle? You have to choose before that flight attendant comes back and makes us sit in the aisle.” His jaw unhinges and panic starts to set in. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.”
“I can’t sit by the window,” he whispers, pulling at his necktie. It’s a deep red with satiny stripes of the same color and does weird things to my lady parts.
“Middle it is,” I state, sliding into the row and taking the window seat. I shove my bag under the seat in front of me and clasp my buckle.
Samuel moves in, plopping down in the seat beside me. He’s clenching his carry-on to his chest like a life preserver, his body taut with tension. When the man in the aisle seat joins us, I can see the discomfort instantly on Samuel’s face. The man is spilling into his seat, taking the armrest with his big, meaty forearm. My travel companion looks about as comfortable as a prostitute in church.
When the flight attendants start their pre-flight instructions, I try to pry the bag from Samuel’s hands. The death grip he’s got is fierce, but I have something extra special in my arsenal. Gently, I place my palm on his thigh, fingers spread wide, and slowly run it up his leg. I can feel his entire body tense, the corded muscles on his thigh tighten, and his wide eyes turn my way. I move my hand until I’m a millimeter away from touching something I know I shouldn’t, yet can’t seem to not want. My gaze remains gentle, even as the hormonal storm starts to twirl in my gut. With my other hand, I tug on the bag. It pops free from his arms easily, and I can’t help but smile victoriously.
“Thank you,” I coo, tossing it on the floor at his feet and reaching for his seat belt. Giving it a tug to lengthen the strap, I slip the two pieces together and clasp the safety device in place. Then, to be extra ornery—or because I just can’t seem to help myself—I reach down and grab the extra belt, pulling it nice and tight. When I do, my hand brushes against…oh, you know exactly what it brushes against, and I’m not at all ashamed that it happened.
I grab the bag from the market in the airport and toss it on his lap. There’s still a little water left in the second bottle, so I hand it to him. He definitely will need his fluids after what happened in that bathroom, and it probably wouldn’t hurt him to see what else he can take for the flight. He glances in the bag, pulling out all sorts of small packages. Things for headache, motion sickness (which he pops in his mouth), antacids, even cough drops.
It’s when he pulls the last box from the bag that has me pause…
And think about sex.
“Condoms? Really?” he asks, annoyed as all get out.
“What? You never know when they’ll come in handy,” I reason.
Samuel tosses them back in the bag, seeming to hide them beneath the plethora of other medical goodies I have in there. “I highly doubt I’ll be needing them, Freedom.”
“Well, you know what they say, sex every day keeps the doctor away.”
He stops and stares at me, those yummy eyes shining under the horrible airplane lighting. “Seriously? Who says that?”
I shrug, reaching into the bag for the small box of condoms. “Dunno. A doctor?”
Samuel snorts, making a grab for them when he realizes what I have. “Put those away.”
“What, these?” I ask, holding them up and waving them around. “Oh, look! These are lubricated and ribbed!”
“Jesus, Freedom, would you keep it down?” he harshly whispers, making a quick grab for the box of protection.
Ignoring him completely, I continue, “It’s a three-pack. That’s three days’ worth of doctor-recommended sex on a five-hour flight.”
“Put them away, Freedom. I mean it.”
I stop and look him straight in the eyes before I say (quite loudly, I might add), “No, I will not have sex with you in the bathroom. There are children on this flight, Samuel Grayson.”
He freezes, his eyes wide with horror. His mouth opens, but no words come out. It’s one of my many talents to be able to render Samuel speechless, and something I take great joy in accomplishing. “You’re horrible,” he whispers, throwing the bag of medicine back onto my lap.
“You love me,” I coo, tossing the condoms back where they came from.
The plane starts to move, pulling away from the gate and taxiing toward our runway, and I sit back to enjoy. I love this part of flying, though admittedly, I don’t fly often. In fact, I’ve only flown on two other occasions, but both times, I loved the takeoff. The speed, the incline, the altitude. The fact we’re relying solely on a machine to keep us suspended in the sky, moving us from point A to point B. The thrill of the adventure that awaits.
“Christ,” Samuel mumbles beside me.
While I’m completely relaxed and gazing eagerly out the small window, my neighbor is pale as a ghost and gripping onto the single armrest like it’s the only thing keeping him from certain death. His eyes are pinched shut so tightly it must hurt, and we’ve barely begun the journey. I realize real quick this isn’t just about the whole coconut thing from earlier. Samuel’s afraid of flying.
“Sit back and enjoy your flight,” the flight attendant says over the speaker, as they all make their way to their seats and strap in.
With Samuel on the verge of a panic attack, this flight is going to be the longest of my life. He needs to relax or he’s going to make himself miserable, or worse, divert the plane for an emergency landing.
We slow as the reach the runway. I slip my hand against his, the whites of his knuckles clear as he grips the plastic. I’m fearful he’ll actually shatter the armrest if he doesn’t let up, but fortunately, that doesn’t happen. Instead, he lets go and takes my hand in his. His palm is warm, a little sweaty, and his grip fierce, but he doesn’t strangle my hand with his.
