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ROB
Wyatt gets us up in the air. While Bjork has his own seat in front of me, Amber-Rose is sitting on my left. She’s been quiet, gazing out the window. Maybe she's still digesting how on earth she got on this flight, headed to the hospital with a stranger.
Is she for real?
How can someone care so much about a boy she's never met?
I try to extract the last few drops of coffee her mother made us earlier from the thermos. I wish she’d made more. It’s hands-down the best coffee I’ve had in my life.
“Your mother is welcome at my house anytime,” I say to Amber-Rose.
She stays silent.
“Would you like some snacks?” I say, offering from the tray between us.
But she doesn’t reply. When I look closer, I realize she’s asleep.
I can’t wait to bring Bjork back to Matty, and I can’t wait for him and Clay to meet Amber-Rose. At the same time, I want this flight to last as long as it can.
How can a woman, a stranger, make me feel so at ease? The specks of blood on Bjork reminded me how much I had been holding back my grief. But she’d effortlessly allowed me to cry. Being around her felt like the kind of safety that only a best friend could offer. I wish I’d let it all out in front of her, but it was better to walk away. Then, I slept on her couch. It was kind of embarrassing when I think about it now, but it wasn’t something that I regret.
Amber-Rose shivers. While she’s put on a shirt over her strapless top, she must’ve left her coat at the shop. I take off my sweater and cover her with it.
She releases a breathy moan, slowly leaning over to me, totally asleep.
I inhale deeply, trying to calm myself the hell down. Either I’m extremely female-deprived, or she’s different. How can the simple touch of her temple on my shoulder feel so good?
She keeps leaning closer. Her arm is now pinned between her body and the hand rest. Looking at her awkward position, I remove the snack tray and lift the hand rest. With that, she nudges herself closer to me and drops her head all the way on my shoulder. After what she’s done––working four hours straight, until almost dawn—the least I can do is offer her my shoulder.
Going into Santa Maria earlier, I had it in my head that Amber The Mender was in her late thirties or early forties, a friendly lady who would wear floral dresses and handmade accessories. I was right about her friendliness—but boy, I didn’t expect a young woman running like Usain Bolt, dressed in a satin blouse and leather pants. She has a thin scar on the side of her lips, an old scar from a cut of some sort. When she smiles, it brings out her already cute dimple.
The girl sleeping next to me is not like my deceitful ex, Lina Belaya. She’s not like any girl I’ve known before. I might be misguided, but there’s something about Amber-Rose that lifts my heart, yet keeps me grounded. She keeps me calm, like Clay in a way, and her genuineness is something that you don’t see every day.
I came to her an exhausted, confused, low-spirited man, but now I’m coming back to my brothers with a reclaimed belief that things will be better today.
Observing her, I pose a question to my still-alert brain; a question I haven’t asked myself in a long time. She came into my life, or rather, I came into her life—dare I say—like a comet colliding into another’s orbit.Could it be?
Longing sends my gut churning. My sweater slides down as she moves again, revealing her cleavage. It gets my cock cautiously excited, but most of all, I feel… what did she say? Warm and fuzzy. Yes, that’s what I’m feeling now—the Amber effect.
Amber-Rose and her understanding.
Her generosity.
Her curves.
Her delicate nape.
I reposition my sweater over her, and then breathe out soft air through my mouth to calm my begging cock.
Suddenly she writhes, letting out a series of gruff mumbles.
“Amber-Rose?” I rub her arm gently.
Her legs kick around, as if trying to escape something.
I wrap my hand around hers. “Hey, wake up.” Her palm is about half the size of mine, but her squeeze is fierce. Feeling her fingers tremble, I use my other hand to completely cover her small, icy one.
Amber-Rose sits up abruptly, almost leaving the chair. Her head makes a sharp turn, staring at my hands. I could take it as a sign that she’s offended by my busy paws, but her hold is unabating. And she keeps staring…
