Mina

"The man candy in 2:12B wants a scotch." Filipe strutted into the flight prep area.

He had perfect, cover-spread hair forced into submission by sculpting spray. His pants hugged every curve of his scrumptious ass a hell of a lot tighter than my stockings latched onto my thighs. And those stockings, well, they held on for dear life under the Friendly Skylines uniform that draped over my five-one frame.

"Why are you telling me? Get Mona." I poured some vodka into a plastic cup, then chased it around with several splashes of orange juice, trying to keep the pulp out of the mixture. "That’s her section."

Why the hell did they always stock orange juice with pulp in the bar?

"Not anymore, Darlin’."

"Excuse me?" A bit of the orange juice pulp oozed out and left a gelatinous glob of orange guts on the counter.

Dammit. I sighed. It’s three in the fucking morning. People need sleep, not alcohol.

"You’ve been promoted to first class."

"Wait. What? But I’m already working half of economy with you." A quick swipe with a paper towel, followed by a sanitizing wipe, and the reflective counter sparkled. "Why me? God, they’re so needy over there."

"Just like Sonya and the copilot, Mona’s barfing in the loo, among other things." He fanned his face. "Girl, it ain’t pretty."

"I imagine not."

"And let me tell you, it sounds even worse comin’ out the other end. You can smell it through the door." He made a crisscross sign over his heart. "I’m not joking either, I swear. Cross my heart . . ."

Filipe swiped his chest with an 'X,' and the second he did, a stupid nursery rhyme from my childhood played full blast in my mind: cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye. To you, my little love, I'd never lie—oh, wait a moment, I just spoke a lie because I never really intended to die.

Nausea rose to the back of my throat, forcing me to swallow the hurt and pain from another time, another life.

The rhyme droned on: but on this night I may, and I might, my heart to you, my little love, stays open only for tonight. And though my lips remain sealed, my promise to you is forever true.

Unshed tears burned my eyes, forcing me to struggle to keep my composure intact.

I'll never tell, Papi. I blinked back the moisture. I will never break my word to you.

"Wow, way to overshare, Filipe." Visions of blood drops danced in my head, followed by the dead, sightless eyes of my father. His murder scene now forever etched in my brain was an image I'd never be able to unsee along with the horrors inflicted by those present.

"Hey, as a team player, I’m just keepin’ ya informed."

"Yeah, right." Shaking my head to dislodge the memory, I forced the vivid image inside a rusty trunk deep in the confines of my head where all bad memories belong, then turned the lock. "So, how are you feeling?"

"Me? I’m good. Only tired." He yawned with a musical flare. "And you? How are you acclimating to the longer international flights, and their time zone jumps? It’s way different from the shorter ones you’ve worked over the last few years."

"Fine." I paused a moment. "It was a bit of an adjustment the first few flights, but I think I’m settling in."

Am I though? Am I really fine?

My stay over in Dallas, my first trip back in the states in almost nine years, proved more emotional than anticipated.

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"The pay’s way better too." He grinned. "Just wait until you see your next paystub."

"I hope so, I have some bills to pay, namely dental thanks to that extra sticky taffy you had to have."

Sure, I’d seen pictures of my mother’s and father’s graves, but I hadn’t visited since his death—couldn’t even attend my father’s funeral or burial back then—the risk of capture being too high. So, seeing their headstones filled out only solidified my orphan status and brought up emotions I’d fought hard to numb over the years.

"Hey, how’s that temporary crown doing?"

"It hasn’t fallen off, if that’s what you’re asking." I chuckled. "Thanks for helping me get an appointment in Dallas with such a short notice. Your uncle was great."

"Hey, that’s what family does, and you’re family now, my Uncle Rafa said so."

"Good to know." I chuckled.

"Any more pain?" He stared at my jawline.

"Nope. Once the swelling went down, the pain went away. But I’ll have to go back in a few weeks for the permanent crown."

"Yeah, I figured."

"So, 2:12B, how does he want it?"

"Oh, girl, he can have it any way he wants it."

"Not helping." I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

"Don’t know." Filipe plopped on a seat. "Want me to ask?" He stifled another yawn.

I grabbed the screwdriver for the handsy guy at the front of economy, a carton of apple juice for the kid in the aisle seat a couple of rows in front of the emergency exit, then a bottle of water for his nursing mother.

"No, I got it." I walked toward the opening that led to the economy section. "Hey, while most of the passengers sleep, get some rest. I’ll let you know if I need help."

"I’m already dreamin’ about 2:12B and his . . ."

A soft chuckle met my ears.

Sliding open the overhead storage, he grabbed a regulation-sized pillow and blanket embroidered with the Friendly Skylines’ logo.

"Uh-huh. You know there’s this thing called oversharing, right? You might want to give privacy a try."

"Where’s the fun in that." He fluffed the pillow, curled on his side, then pulled the blanket over his shoulders.

Dim floor lights illuminated the center walking strip between the aisles. Most of the overhead lamps remained extinguished, and the seats reclined. Sounds of slumber, some louder than others, reverberated through the confined chamber.

"Here you go." I handed the juice box to the boy—no older than two, then turned to his mother. "Let me know if you need anything else."

"Thanks." She nursed an infant in a football hold. "Sammy," she said to the toddler, "open the bottle for Mommy."

"I got it." My well-rehearsed flight smile met her tired, weary gaze. "Seems you have your hands full." I uncapped it, then handed it to her, placing the top on the tray in front of her.

"Thanks." She took a generous gulp. "I always get so thirsty when flying."

"It’s the altitude." I opened an overhead compartment and pulled an extra pillow and blanket out. "This might help cushion your arm."

"Thank you," she said. "I appreciate it."

Setting them down, I walked off to deliver the screwdriver to the jackass down the aisle.

"Sir," I whispered to avoid disturbing the woman next to him. "Your drink." With my arm outstretched, I offered the glass to him.

"What’s your name?" He palmed the drink along with my fingers.

"Mina. Like the name tag says." I held his gaze. "Release me, please."

"I gotta better idea." With his other hand, he grabbed the lapel of my uniform coat. "You could help me join the Mile High club." Then he yanked me closer to his chest, sloshing the drink over my fingers and cuff in the process. "I'll meet you in the bathroom in fifteen minutes."

"Yeah, that's not happening." My eyes bounced between the jackass holding my hand and Barry Martinez—the ever-alert air marshal who rose to the full height of six-two.

One look at Barry making his way down the aisle, and the spineless prick released his hold. Continuing down the dimly-lit path, I made my way to first-class, the marshal hot on my heels.

"Cut him off," Barry whispered from behind. "And if he continues to act up, I’ll have a talk with him."

"Will do." I offered him a genuine smile because he always kept an eye out on long flights like this, ensuring the attendants remained safe. "Thanks for all you do."

"It’s my job." He looked tired, pale, and fatigued, not at all his usual, chipper self.

"You okay, Barry?"

"Ask me in about ten minutes." He ducked into a restroom stall, marking it occupied.

Great. That’s all this flight needs. Another person down.

Inside the global first-class area, I approached 2:12B, half expecting to find a sleeping patron sprawled out in the oversized seating, which often happened in the roomier section of the plane. Instead, I found the occupant of the seat sitting upright and scrolling through a spreadsheet of financial numbers—large numbers.

"Sir." Calling out to him, I didn’t get a response. "Excuse me, Sir." I projected, but still, nothing, so I tapped his shoulder.

Head cocked sideways, his gaze traveled from my stocking-clad calves to my waist, only to roam over my breasts, then came to rest on my face.

"You’re not Mona." His stern, hardened look sent a ripple of anxiety rocketing throughout my body.

"N-no, Sir, I am not." Something about him seemed familiar, but I wasn’t exactly sure what. "She’s, uhm . . ."

Filipe wasn’t joking. The intense guy perched in 2:12B was definitely eye candy, from his sculpted jawline that carved out a path of confidence to the smoldering, sexy-as-hell hazel eyes piercing my soul, which I was sure had panties dropping at every turn.

"She is what?" A five o’clock shadow covered his face, and my fingers itched to touch it.

Focus on the job. I scolded myself. He’s a passenger like all the others. Well, not like the others. He looked like an Asgardian statue of a god come to life.

"Oh, uhm . . ." I swallowed hard, pushing thoughts of how his face, namely his lips, would feel against mine.