Page 3 of Obey

He sighs under his breath, bracing his hands on the arm rests either side of him.

“You know what? It’s fine. I’ve got it.” Steeling my spine, I drop my shoulders. If this imposing, greasy, rude man isn’t going to move his sticky-outy knees for me to pass, then I’ll just climb over him. I did gymnastics in high school, and I do yoga every morning. I’ve got this.

Picking my leg up with the grace of a gazelle, I step widely over him, half expecting applause from the surrounding passengers when my other foot makes it safely across into the aisle, too. Mildly surprised I didn’t fall into his lap, I reach above his head to pop the handle of the luggage bin. He’s put his bag in front of mine, and when I try to move it, well, let’s just say I’m barely over five feet tall and not wearing heels.

“Uh... sir?”

His head barely moves to acknowledge I’ve spoken to him.

“Your bag is... uh...” Some days I hate being short. Smoothing down the front of my shirt, I bite my lip. You know what? Nope. I’m not asking the grouchy guy next to me for his help. I can do it myself. My stomach is practically smashed into his face as I lean up into the bin, grasping blindly for some purchase on my bag.

“Ma’am?” The flight attendant’s voice startles me from behind, I shriek, lean forward a smidge too far, and before I know what’s hit me, I’m falling for the second time today.

Only this time, it’s right into Mr. Crankypants’s lap.

Strong, warm arms wrap around me, picking me up like I weigh nothing, and plop me back onto my feet between his legs.

“Thank you.” My voice is barely a whisper. Heat consumes my entire body, and I don’t know where to look. I can’t look at my seat buddy. The vibes rolling off of him are less ‘hey, no problem, it’s all good, these things happen,’ and more ‘why did I give up my seat for that family?’

I can’t look at the cabin crew either, so I return back to my mission to retrieve my bag. Because if I didn’t need a drink before, I definitely need one now.

As I reach my arm up, I’m picked up off my feet again. Burly Guy—who has now rolled up his shirt sleeves revealing inked forearms that could probably rip the door to the plane open without unlocking it—moves me out of his space.

Reaching into the overhead locker with ease, he tugs my bag free and hands it to me, still scowling. When was the last time he smiled?

He sits down again with a grunt. I’ve never been so tempted to run through an airplane wall before. Prickles of humiliation cover every square inch of my body, and by now I’m sure even the cabin crew are experiencing second hand embarrassment on my behalf.

Peachy.

Staring up at the open lid of the luggage bin, I shake my head. I know before reaching for it I can’t close the stupid thing. Tossing a pleading look to the flight attendant and hoping they take pity on me, I scooch back into my seat, muscles heavy and a light coating of sweat sprouting up across my skin.

I order chardonnay, hand over my card, and accept the drink with no additional drama, politely thanking the cabin crew as they pass. The seatback tray table comes down without any fuss, and I make the decision to turn this day around.

Sure, I fell on my face, twice. Sure, I have sore hands and hurt pride. And sure, I’m seated next to a man who could probably snap me in half if he chose to.

But I have a mini bottle of wine, blue hair, and I’m heading home to Louisville.

Huh. There’s that twinge again.

Putting the small bottle into my palm, I try twisting the top off but end up hissing in pain. Oh, no. I try the other one, same result. It’s cruel and unusual to be holding a bottle of wine in my still-throbbing hands and be unable to open it.

I have two options, I can use my teeth—which I’d really prefer not to, last thing I need right now is a cracked tooth—or I can try again with The Grump.

Swallowing down the sour lump at the back of my throat, I spin in my chair, presenting him with the bottle. “Could you help me, please?”

Chapter Two

JAGGER

She’s got to be fucking kidding me, right?

When the blue-haired pain in my ass repeats her question, I wonder which part of myfuck off and leave me aloneface let me down. Usually my R.B.F doesn’t let me down with strangers. Resting bastard face. Works every time.

Usually.

Except right now.

Right now, the bubbly Half-Pint in the seat to my left stares up at me with wide eyes and up-turned palms covered in scratches and scrapes, holding out the bottle of liquor. Her pale, white skin is accentuated by various shades of blue, her bright blue hair, her sea-blue eyes, even her fingernails are painted blue.

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