Page 5 of Obey

Digging into my back pocket, I pull out my handkerchief and offer it to the now sniffing bundle of palpable sadness. She stares at the piece of cloth in my hand, then my face, then the handkerchief, then my face.

I wiggle the fabric a little. If she doesn’t take it soon my momentary lapse in judgment is going to expire.

Her button nose wrinkles, and her shoulders shake. Is she... laughing at me?

“You’re quite the contradiction, Mr. Grumpypants, aren’t you?”

Mr. Grumpypants? Shaking my head, I can’t help but roll my eyes. Again. I’m a fit guy, but my eyeballs haven’t had this level of workout in a long time.

I mean, she’s also not wrong.

“You use handkerchiefs?” She tips her head, whatever emotional outburst that was brewing within her only moments ago having simmered down at least for the time being.

Maybe if I give her a tidbit of personal information it will feed her for the flight. “My grandfather used to carry handkerchiefs. He said it was the key to a long and successful marriage.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility for such a small square of material.”

I offer it to her again, and she accepts it before blowing her nose. For a moment it seems like she’s thinking about offering me back the now snot-covered cloth as indecision flits across her face, but instead, she scrunches it in her hand and places it on her lap.

There’s a moment of blissful silence that’s verging on euphoric. But I’m not naive enough to think I’m getting the quiet I need to read my fucking book. I lean my head back, and just as my eyes are drifting shut, she sniffs. “Were you close?”

“To what?” Refusing to turn my head, I let my eyes drift closed. Maybe if I start snoring she’ll give up. Wouldn’t count on it.

“Your grandfather.”

I was. My parents worked multiple jobs to make ends meet. They were always so busy that my grandparents played a pivotal role in my childhood. I miss my gramps more than I care to admit, and the urge to press my fist into my chest, to massage away the ache his death left me as a teenager, is consuming. She doesn’t need to know that, though. She’s gotten her factoid about me. And unlike her, I don’t share my life story with strangers on a plane.

So instead, I simply grunt in response.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. As you can see, it’s coming down pretty heavy outside. Despite our best efforts, air traffic control has reported all flights are being grounded, and the airport is closing until the storm passes.”

The collective groan is so loud the captain is drowned out for a long moment. He’s probably telling us to talk to our flight carriers about rescheduling our flights, but half the passengers are already on their feet grabbing their luggage from the overhead bins.

Half-Pint is praying for everyone in the storm, she’s asking God to keep everyone safe and return them all to their families. She pauses, cracks the eye closest to me, and adds “even Mr. Grumpypants. Amen.”

Another gasp. “Was that a...?” She points at my face. “Smile?”

Shaking my head, I cuss internally.

“I think it was.” She beams like she’s won the lottery and doesn’t have to pay tax.

“You want out?” Jerking my thumb at the throng congregating in the aisle.

“I’ll wait.” She pulls out her phone and pounds the keyboard for a few moments. I should probably do the same, but I’m not sure who lives close enough to the airport to come and get me in this weather.

I left my car at Protocol—one of the local kink clubs where I work as a house dominant—and one of my colleagues brought me up to the airport. I don’t like leaving my pride and joy, my car, my baby, Raquel, in the airport parking lot. She draws too much attention. At least at work, there are cameras in the parking lot and enough people around to keep an eye on her.

But I didn’t have a plan for getting snowed in at Minneapolis-Saint Paul International Airport. Fuck. I should have bounded up out of my seat and hit the rental desk to grab a car. Shootingoff a bunch of texts to friends in the area, I mentally cross my fingers.

My seat mate shivers, still looking out the window to her left. As though she’s reading my thoughts, she turns to me, concern piercing me from her stare. “Do you have a ride?”

My phone pings with any number of laughing emojis in response to my request to get picked up. I’m fucked.

In the half-beat I hesitate with my answer, she must read something on my face.

“My car is at the airport. As long as it starts I can give you a ride home.”

Another long pause from me doesn’t dissuade her.

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