Death Flight Page 3

  "Oh, absolutely. I can do that right now, if you want."

  They produced a whack of papers. Tucker and I sat down next to each other with our forms while the Yarboroughs continued playing 200 Questions with the officers.

  "Officer, I assure you, I'll take wonderful care of him," said Mrs. Yarborough to the female officer, who had rejoined them, along with a fourth airport cop. "I already do. I take care of all his meals, all his cleaning, all his bills and all his pills—why, he barely makes it to the bathroom without me! And sometimes, not even then!" She nodded and winked at the officer, like that was a great joke.

  I looked up from my form. Every officer looked repulsed, as would anyone who doesn't wear a diaper.

  "It's because we're at the airport. He's fine at home. We're going to have so much fun in Montreal at Christmas. They have the best food. It's the gourmet capital of North America."

  I was impressed that Montreal's culinary reputation had reached Los Angeles.

  "So," said Tucker. His knee pressed against mine. He was not contemplating Montreal bagels.

  "So." I couldn't look at him. My cheeks were already incandescent. I would lose it in front of everyone.

  "All this paperwork is going to delay our flight. I heard them talking about it. Our flight is already complicated because it's at the west gate, with the bus—"

  "What is that, anyway? I thought they said remote gate, but I had no idea what they were talking about."

  He waved his hand. "Same thing. It's the overflow part of LAX, on the western side of the airport. They hardly ever use it except for parking overseas aircrafts between flights."

  "So why are we ... "

  "Because it's Christmas. Everyone's winging around the world to eat turkey with Grandma right now. They're using every section. They'll load us on a bus and take us to the west gate, or remote gate. No big deal, except it was one thing too many for Mr. Yarborough."

  Poor Mr. Yarborough.

  "The bottom line is, I figure we've got minimum twenty, thirty minutes before they sort this out." His knee burned against mine.

  My heart hammered as I leaned in toward him. "You sure we're not going to miss our flight?" I'd do anything for this guy, but I didn't need to pay for a whole other thousand dollar flight when we could join the Mile High Club instead.

  He gave a low chuckle. "Nah. Marina will text me if our plane boards before then."

  I frowned. "Marina?"

  He nodded at the agent at the desk, a brunette cheerleader type who grinned back at Tucker from behind a line of angry customers.

  I ground my teeth together. Of course Tucker had not only prevented a demented old guy from decapitating people with his luggage, he'd also made friends with the perky ticket agent who filled out her navy uniform better than I would've.

  "Hey, I wanted to get to you as fast as possible. Making friends is free, right?"

  I checked his face out of the corner of my eyes, too embarrassed to face him head on. "Sorry."

  "It's okay, Buffy. I like you jealous and possessive. Puts us on equal footing." He put down his pen. He'd managed to fill out his form by writing big and messy.

  "Just a minute," I said. I'd listed out my name and contact information. I didn't have much to add in my statement, since all I'd done was show up and sing.

  “That was very impressive, by the way," he said, as I signed the bottom of the last page.

  I gazed up at him.

  "How you saved that guy's life. I thought I was going to have to tackle him, or take the tase for him—"

  "Don't even joke about it."

  "—But you came and defused the whole sitch. You're like an evil genius."

  Evil? Genius? I burst out laughing. After all this foreplay in front of the airport police, who were finally letting the Yarboroughs go, he was equating me with Dr. Evil?

  "An extremely hot, sexy, formidable genius."

  This time, I gave him my best attempt at a smolder. "Prove it."

  6

  As soon as we hustled out of eyesight of Gate 68A, I stopped and wrapped him in my arms. I could feel his heart banging against mine, shielded by ribs and muscle and pericardium.

  "I love you," I mouthed against his chest.

  Saying the words, knowing he might not say them back, hurt. But we were alive. Alive, alive-o. I had to tell him the truth right away, even if it flayed me.

  I could feel his lips move on my hair, whispering the same thing back to me, as if the words were nearly too precious to release into the air.

  Tears stung my eyes. I both do and don't like being mushy after 14/11. I had to tell him how I felt, because otherwise, when the planet exploded in a ball of hydrogen in 2.2. seconds, I'd regret it. Yet it was almost too much, too rich, to hold him now. I peeled my mouth away from his skin enough to peer up at him. "You couldn't get operated on in Canada, eh?"

  He slanted a smile and tilted his head down to kiss me. "God, I missed you, Hope."

  I pecked him back, suddenly shy, but he leaned into me, stronger than ever, and somehow, his mouth tasted like summer rain before it devolved into something spicier. When he took a moment to breathe, I tucked my face into the spot where his shoulder met his neck and muttered, "Me too." My hand brushed against the numbers on the back of his shirt, which gave me another excuse to change the subject. "What's with the number 42?"

  "It's the answer," said Tucker.

  "To what?"

  "To life, the universe, and everything."

  That rang a bell. I'd never read Douglas Adams, but I'd heard of that quote. And right now, Tucker was my life, my universe, and everything.

  I hid my face in the crook of his neck again. I blinked away some more tears. Then I inhaled his skin and kissed the curve of his neck before I licked it.

  His hands seized my shoulder blades. He exhaled, and I could feel the tension in every part of his body.

  I was glad. Sex was easier than love. "Do you know any good hiding spots?"

  He touched my hair. "Nowhere that's as good as you deserve, but..."

  "Yeah," I said. Words. No good no more.

  He grinned at me. "Give me your phone."

  I didn't know why he wanted my precious iPhone, or why he was delaying our hook up, but I handed it to him.

  He handed it back. "Unlocked, if you please."

  I punched my passcode in. It's a long one, in case I lose my phone and accidentally have any patient information on it. I offered it back, eyebrows raised. It was sexy to have Tucker take charge. I licked my lips.

  He flicked his way through my phone alerts and made sure it would ding and vibrate if I got a text. "So we don't miss the plane," he said, and he took my hand. His were warm and not sweaty. In other words, perfect.

  I tried to be thoughtful too. He was only wearing a backpack. I said, "Do you have a suitcase?"

  "I checked it. Let's go."

  I lingered a little behind him, taking deep breaths. I wanted to do this. It was time to do this. I sent a quick mental apology to Ryan. We who are about to fuck, salute you. And then I followed Dr. Tucker into what turned out to be the family bathroom.

  Bathrooms don't turn me on. Family bathrooms especially, with their built-in change table and their urine smell. The lockable door, though? Genius.

  Tucker unzipped his backpack, whipped out a fat, pink candle, and set it on the edge of the sink.

  "A candle? Where did you—?" Where did he have time to find a candle, in between catching a plane and battling a lost, old man?

  Instead of answering, he struck the match on a folded matchbook cover. Scritch. The flame caught, casting a warm, yellow light on the room.

  "You can't bring matches on the plane," I said. My voice echoed off the grey tile walls. It sounded hollow, like my resistance. I relished the smell of wax as the candle caught, flickering its light on both of us. I was smitten with this man.

  He propped his phone on the counter, behind the faucet. It started playing "I'm in the Mood," by John Lee Hooker.


  I burst out laughing. "Tucker—"

  He kissed me. Now the spicy taste of his mouth was stronger, almost like pepper. I liked it. It reminded me of him. Edgy, unpredictable, a little wild.

  Then he turned off the lights and started stripping off his clothes in the glow from the candle and his phone. Shirt, pants—always a problem to do it gracefully, when you've got to get them off your feet, and they get stuck on your socks, but somehow, he managed.

  I found myself reaching for his belly, careful to avoid his bandages, as if I could heal his scars with my fingers. He pushed my hands south, humming along to the song, and I laughed.

  I'd imagined sex with Tucker hundreds of times, but I never expected this.

  He tugged the edge of my shirts. I threw my arms over my head to make it easier for him to pull them both off at the same time.

  I knew we shouldn't get naked for sex in a public place. I've heard enough war stories to know that you should leave your clothes on so that you can make a quick getaway. Yet Tucker had created the opposite vibe with his candle and music. He could create romance out of a cube of bouillon and a piece of string.

  He wrapped his arms around me so closely that I could feel his heart beat against my bra-clad chest as he breathed in time with me.

  He made it sacred.

  Even so, when his hands stirred and he stripped me completely naked, except for my socks, my first instinct was to step back and cover myself up.

  This proved impossible when Tucker applied his mouth between my legs. I always feel a bit awkward about this, like I'm too exposed, but the man knew what he was doing, so I leaned against the cool plaster wall and let him do his work until I was a gasping, shuddering mess.

  I took a deep breath. I started to drop to my knees to return the favour, but Tucker grabbed my arms to keep me upright. He lifted me up, pressing my back against the wall, and even though I knew he shouldn't lift anything post op, let alone me, I automatically wrapped my legs around his waist as he sank into me.

  He wanted to look into my eyes, and I wanted to look into his.

  We had loved each other for so long. This moment was sacred, too.

  Then he figured out exactly how to hit my G-spot. I threw my head back and tried not to cry out, especially after he bent forward to taste my neck. He drove so hard that my vision blurred. I thought I was on the ceiling for one glorious second.

  Afterward, while my eyes refocused, he lowered both my feet down to the floor gently, so I wouldn't slip in my socks. I tried to sound coherent. "That was ... you're so ... "

  He grinned.

  "Are you okay? You're not supposed to lift."

  He raised an eyebrow at me, only slightly breathless. "Never better."

  I blushed.

  He whipped off the condom. Somehow, he'd magicked one on without me noticing. And it didn't take him long to get ready for take two, especially when I got on my knees and did my best to apply the second condom with my mouth. That's harder than it sounds, no pun intended, but he enjoyed the effort.

  He pushed me back against the cool wall as we faced each other, this time with both feet (mostly) on the ground, and I didn't care that someone had started shouting outside. If anything, it made us even crazier.

  This time, I marvelled at the small things as well: the soft skin under his arm, his smell, the tenderness in his fingertips before he lost control and rammed into me. It was sex, but at the same time, it felt holy. Almost beyond words or thought.

  When it was over, he said, "You're so beautiful."

  I started crying. I couldn't explain it, but he didn't ask me to. He only smiled down at me and brushed my bangs out of my eyes with such gentleness, it made me cry harder.

  Eventually, I wiped away my tears.

  I would have gone a third time, but a woman on the overhead speaker intoned, "Attention, please. Attention."

  I froze.

  7

  "We regret to inform you that all departures and arrivals in Terminal 6 will be delayed."

  Tucker's hand stilled. I could feel each fingertip pressing into the skin on my side. "That's our terminal."

  "Of course it is," I said. At this point, I'd be stunned if a natural (or unnatural) disaster occurred more than fifty feet away from me.

  We both threw on our underwear. If we were going to die, we'd rather it wasn't buck naked. And I, for one, would not tend to gunshot wounds as a nudist.

  Airport shootings happen. LAX had one in 2002 and another in 2016. But they beefed up their security since then. They're one of only two American airports with their own police force.

  I remembered the police officer raising her taser, and I thought, Maybe that's the problem.

  But they wouldn't delay the airplanes for another taser. This was something that had affected the entire terminal.

  Still, I was calmer now that I was with Tucker. Even if we faced Armageddon, at least it was together.

  "Please stand by for further details," intoned the overhead voice. Not very dramatic for Armageddon. Maybe it was something boring like high winds, but I wouldn't relax until I got level I evidence to that effect.

  Tucker scrolled through his now-quiet phone, wearing only his black boxers. "Twitter hasn't picked up on this yet."

  "Why don't you try Marina?" I said, less waspishly now that I'd finally had a taste of Tucker. I climbed back into my black star T-shirt and long-sleeved, V-necked cobalt shirt.

  "Already tried," he said. "No answer." He grinned at me. "Love the shorts, by the way."

  I smiled back at him. The first day we met, at resident orientation, I'd snuck in late, wearing red hibiscus board shorts, and he'd admired my legs. "Glad you noticed. But now that you've seen 'em ... " I unzipped my backpack, stuffed in the shorts, and grabbed a pair of mauve jeans.

  "Boo," he said.

  "You'll see my legs again." If I had to run onto the tarmac, I wasn't about to do it in shorts. There is a limit to vanity, especially mine.

  "Yeah, but I want to see them all the time." He ran his hand down my ass and legs, undeterred by denim. "I waited forever for you."

  "Less than six months." I donned my trusty red fleece jacket. Even less sexy than jeans, but the zip up pockets were big enough for my passport, wallet, and a pair of disposable gloves. I stopped carrying a purse in first year med school, when I had nowhere to lock it up in the change room during an anaesthesia elective.

  "That's forever." He went back to his phone. "Wait, there's something here about a dog. Yeah, one of the pre-boarders on our flight had a dog. Maybe that's it."

  I frowned. "A dog shut down the whole terminal?"

  "Maybe if it ran onto the runway."

  "Oh, no. There was a dog in New Zealand who wouldn't get off the runway." My throat convulsed as I tried to swallow. "They shot it."

  Tucker's mouth flattened. "That wouldn't happen here. They love animals. Remember how Pink freaked out when they coloured horses with non-toxic chalk for a Selena Gomez video? They'd never shoot a pet on a runway."

  "Yeah, but LAX is one of the busiest airports in the world. They're not going to stop long for a dog." I shouldered my backpack. "Let's go."

  He kissed my ear and blew out the candle. The music had already been silenced. Our interlude was over. Chaos had begun.

  Still, we stalked back toward the gate like we owned it. I'd found Tucker, we'd stopped an old guy from getting tased, and we'd ravished each other. Next stop: save a dog, save an airport—who knew?

  Tucker kept refreshing Twitter, but I watched the people around us. If this ended up as a shooter scenario, I needed all senses on alert. I surveyed for sudden movements or bulky clothes that might conceal a weapon.

  Although people looked annoyed as they scrolled their phones, no one was panicking. Yet most of the crowd flowed in the opposite direction, away from our gate, while Tucker bounded toward it. Who was the smart one around here?

  I searched for cover in case of gun fire. I'd never realized before that airports
have no place to shield yourself. It's designed for the free flow of people, not shelter from an active shooter. You could dive under rows of benches, but I wouldn't count on their flimsy metal and wide open spaces to stop a bullet. The walls on the tarmac side are made of glass. The hangar-like hallways are designed only for pedestrian traffic. The public bathrooms don't even have doors; you roll your suitcase behind curved walls that maintain privacy from peeping Toms, not assault rifles.

  I kept my ears attuned for screaming or for any further announcements.

  My nose twitched, ready for smoke or other suspicious scents. I wasn't a sniffer dog, but I'd do my best with my limited equipment.

  I scanned the TV screens. They still broadcasted national news instead of actually, you know, informing us of what was going on in Terminal 6.

  Tucker noticed the way I was casing the place. "We're going to be okay."

  Why did everyone keep saying that? I glanced at him out of the corners of my eyes before I shook my head. There was no guarantee either one of us would make it out of LAX with our body and brain cells intact. Sure, 99.999999999 percent of people do, but that's not a hundred.

  On the other hand, I shouldn't prematurely drag Tucker down. I forced a smile.

  "I mean it, Hope. We've got this." He grabbed my hands, interlaced our fingers, and winked at me.

  I pressed my lips together so hard, my bottom lip cracked. If two long-lost lovers finally hook up at the beginning of a movie, you know doomsday cometh. It makes for maximal emotional impact when you slam one or both of them down to the ground.

  Tucker started singing "Give Peace a Chance," only he changed it to "Give Hope a Chance," which made me laugh out loud. Ah, the irony of someone named Hope not believing in hope, especially at this time of year. Game point: Tucker. He was so bizarre and cheesy, not to mention brave and tongue-meltingly good in bed/bathroom/beyond. I never knew what to make of him.

  So I was laughing when we heard the distant sound of sirens.

  And, being doctors, we both sprinted toward gate 68A.

  Even if I fled, Tucker would blow me a kiss as he careened toward the sirens, the fire, and gunmen, so I matched him stride for stride.