Page 20 of Inflame

“You haven’t been compromised again, have you?” I ask, trying to get a feel for what he wants me to do that his current men failed at accomplishing.

He confirms with a nod and then a chin tilt toward Angie, signaling that he wants her out of it. She has been through enough with her drive toward becoming an investigative journalist and nearly getting herself killed numerous times. Too many to accurately count.

“I have trust issues,” he states the obvious. We both do. “What do you think?”

“I hope you can afford me,” I say bluntly.

He throws his head back and laughs but quickly calms down when Angie stirs on his lap. I feel hair at my neck and look over to see Claire drifting into me. She is so exhausted from the Dramamine. I get drunk off the vanilla fragrance that is now so close to me that I know I am wearing it.

“I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

“I’ll do it but only because I get a sick thrill at catching the bad guys.”

Graham’s smile reaches his eyes and he settles into his seat more comfortably than when the conversation first started. I glance back at my computer screen and send off a couple of emails I’ve been avoiding writing all week.

Claire’s hair tickles my neck and her hand slides into my lap. I stiffen and keep my breathing even so as not to disturb her. She really does need to rest. I am writing another email when she jolts up from the seat.

“Oh no,” she yells, rubbing her hands up and down the front of her dress. “I’m soaked.”

“What has you so spooked?” I ask, looking at her freaking out. “Why are you jumping out of your skin?”

“Look,” she says, pointing down toward the empty cup on her lap. Melting ice is collected between her closed thighs and is dripping into the crevice. Goosebumps sprout on her smooth flesh, as a chill causes her to tremble.

I grab some napkins from the back flap of the seat in front of me and help her dry up the water from the armrest and leather seat.

“What am I going to do?” she asks, mainly to herself. She won’t stop talking to herself. Curse words fly out of her mouth like bullets from an automatic weapon. She looks at me with helplessness. “I can’t sit here like this, soaking wet. I can’t believe I did this.”

Angie is up from the commotion. I turn to her. “Have any spare clothes in your carry-on? A shirt? Jacket? Anything?”

She shakes her head. “No, I never thought to bring anything other than what I am wearing now.”

I look to Graham. “Same,” he responds. “I got nothing.”

I undo my seatbelt and start unbuttoning my white dress shirt, revealing my fitted white cotton tee underneath.

“Here,” I say, handing Claire my shirt to wear. “It will probably look like a dress on you. Go into the bathroom and change.”

She stares down at my offering, as the tears pooling in her eyes start to dry. “Thank you,” she mouths, sliding out of our row and shimmying into the bathroom. I’m sure those spaces are not designed for outfit changes. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

When the bathroom door opens after several minutes and Claire peeks out from behind it, my heart drops. She is gorgeous. My shirt comes midway down her thighs and covers ninety percent more of her body than the glitter bomb did. Yet, here I am seeing her at her sexiest. I look at her waist and notice that she turned the penis necklace into a belt to give her look more functionality. She kept the top two buttons undone, showing off the demi cups of her black satin bra. Her sleeves are rolled up. If I didn’t know I just stripped off my shirt for her, I would think that this outfit was planned and designed this way. That’s how damn good she makes it look.

There’s a vulnerability to her stride as she tries not to make eye contact with anyone and just get back into her seat undetected. She glides past me, and the whiff of our joint scents makes me want to bottle it up and store it forever. I know that I will be masturbating later to the image of her wearing my clothes and not feel a damn ounce of guilt over it. I earned it.

“Thanks again,” she mumbles, settling back in.

Pulling out her phone, she logs into the Wi-Fi to check her text messages, and something upsets her. I can tell by her changes in breathing. I try to get a more detailed look but come up empty-handed when she tosses her device back into her purse and pulls out the freaking lip gloss. I lean my head back and close my eyes. I must be in purgatory for all my past sins. There really is no other explanation for the torture I’m being forced to endure on this damn trip.

The flight attendant gathers up all our trash and discards of it in the galley. She then passes out individual steamed towels. I place mine around my neck and rub at the tension building. The pilot announces that we need to prepare for landing. I pack my laptop into my bag and secure the storage compartment overhead.

Claire grips the armrests like her life depends on it, but still stares out into the night sky as we descend anyway. I lean over and look out the window with her as I grow excited to get the first sighting of the lights on the strip.

“Do you see them? Do you?” she asks, bubbling over with anticipation.

“Not yet, but we will,” I promise. It’s like I am experiencing the city for the very first time with her. Everything seems different. Never before did I care to look at the aerial view. This is probably the first flight where I even have the window shade open to see out. Usually I just try to catch up on work or sleep—ignoring everyone around me. There is simply no ignoring Claire. She makes it utterly impossible not to watch whatever it is she does.

“There,” she says, pointing and tapping the window. “There. See?” She turns back to look at me.

I know I am sporting a cheesy grin but I don’t care. Seeing her this happy makes me want to keep her at this high for as long as I can. “I see,” I chuckle.

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