“My bird, my responsibility.”
He takes the clipboard, then walks to the plane. He checks the pressure in the tires, then circles the jet, pausing occasionally to open something so that liquid can drip into the tube.
“What’s he doing?”
“Checking for water in the fuel and for fluid in the lines,” Grayson says. “I’ve been prepping planes for him for five years now, and he’s never once not double-checked me.”
“Isn’t that a little annoying?”
“Hell, no. It’s the sign of a good pilot, and Damien Stark is a damn good pilot. I ought to know. I’m the one who taught him.”
“Pilot,” I repeat, as Damien returns and passes the tube back to Grayson. “You’re flying?”
“I am,” he says. “Ready?”
I glance at Grayson, who chuckles. “You’re in good hands.”
“Very good,” Damien says, but I have a feeling he’s not talking about flying. Or, at least, not about flying in jets.
The access stairs are already down, and Damien gestures for me to go first. I climb up and find myself in a cabin so fine it makes commercial first class look like prison. I aim myself at one of the seats, only to feel Damien’s hand on my arm holding me back. “We’re going left,” he says, and I follow him into the cockpit. Still polished and shiny, but this is a workplace, not an area to kick back with music and a cocktail.
He gets me settled into my seat, then gives the belt a tug, making sure I’m nice and snug before seating himself. “Why not let Grayson fly?” I ask. “Isn’t it a shame to forgo all that luxury and have to do all the hard work?”
“I have comfortable chairs and cocktails on the ground. Flying is where the thrill is.”
“All right,” I say. “Thrill me.”
His grin is wolfish. “I intend to, Ms. Fairchild. In the air, and when we’re back safely on the ground.”
Oh …
He puts on a headset and checks in with the tower. Then we’re taxiing to the runway and Damien is maneuvering the plane into position. “Ready?” he asks, and I nod. I hear the power build before I feel it, and then suddenly we’re moving, racing down the runway. Damien’s hands are on the wheel, firm and in control. And then he pulls back and I feel the ground fall away beneath us. I’m leaning back in my seat and we’re flying.
I gasp. “Wow.” I’m no stranger to commercial airplanes, but somehow the whole experience is different when you’re sitting in the copilot seat.
We climb for a while, with Damien talking back and forth with the tower. Then we level off. When I look out, I see the California coastline far below us, and the mountains rising in the distance. “Wow,” I say again, then rummage in my purse for my iPhone. I take a few snapshots, then turn to Damien. “I wish I’d known we were going to do this. I’d love to get some real shots.”
“I doubt you could get anything decent through the glass. Grayson keeps it clean, but it’s still going to cause some distortion.”
He’s right, and I feel a little better about the missed opportunity.
“Do you shoot digitally or on film?” he asks. Now that we’re in the air, it’s surprisingly quiet.
“Film,” I say. “My camera’s pretty old.”
“Do you develop your own film?”
“No.” I shudder involuntarily and hope that Damien won’t notice. Of course, he does.
“I didn’t realize that was such a loaded question.”
“I’m not crazy about small, dark spaces,” I admit.
“Claustrophobia?”
“I guess. It’s being enclosed in the dark, mostly.” I lick my lips. “And locked rooms. I don’t like feeling trapped.” I look down and realize I’m hugging myself.
He reaches over and presses a gentle hand to my thigh. I close my eyes and concentrate on steadying my breathing. It’s easier now that I have his touch to center me.
“Sorry,” I finally say.
“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”
“I should be over it. It’s stupid. Just childhood crap, you know?”
“Things that happen in childhood stay with you,” he says, and I remember what Evelyn said about shit being piled onto him when he was a boy. Maybe he does get it. And right then, I want to share. I want him to see that there’s an explanation for my quirks. Maybe I think that without a reason, I just look weak, and I don’t want to seem weak to Damien Stark.
Or maybe I just want him to truly know me.
I don’t know, and I don’t want to wallow in self-analysis. I just want to say the words. “My mother had me competing in pageants from the time I was four,” I say. “She was strict about a lot of things, but the one we battled the most on was me getting my beauty sleep.”
“What did she do?” he asks. His voice is gentle, but clipped, as if he’s holding on tight to control.
“At first, she just told me lights out at whatever time she set for my bedtime. Always at least two hours before my friends. I was never tired, so I’d go to bed, turn out the lights, then pull out a flashlight and play with my stuffed animals. When I got older, I’d read. She caught me one too many times.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the heaviness in the air between us. He’s anticipating my next words.
“She started searching my room. Taking away my flashlight. Then she moved my bedroom to an interior room so that I didn’t have a window, because there was some light that crept in from a streetlamp, and she’d read somewhere that you can only truly sleep well if you’re in pitch-black.” I lick my lips. “And then she put a lock on my door. From the outside. And had an electrician move the light switch to the outside, too.” I’m damp with sweat, wondering if I should have started talking about it, because even though the sky is bright outside the windows, the darkness feels like it’s pressing in around me.