Page 11 of Forced Proximity
I could definitely see him being a Finnian.
It was distinguished and befitting a sexy older man with his salt and pepper hair on top of his head and his neatly trimmed beard.
That was the only thing that screamed “nice” about the man, though.
Being a charge nurse at a hospital, and spending eight of my twelve-year nursing career in the emergency room before moving away from the chaos, I came upon all walks of life.
I’d seen nice men dressed badly. I’d seen bad men dressed nicely.
I’d seen just normal men dressed casually and comfortably.
But this man at my side definitely screamed dangerous to me.
As in, stay away.
His tattoos spoke a story of his life, and the darkness I saw in all of them made me pause.
But it was the outline in neon pink of a skull with a hood on the man’s hand that made me realize he was dangerous.
Because I knew that symbol.
Everyone in Dallas did.
The man next to me was a Truth Teller.
I worked with one of those, and he scared the absolute shit out of me.
His wife also worked on our floor, and every time I saw them together it gave me the feeling of watching a lion standing next to a lamb.
That lamb had to be absolutely crazy to get so close to someone so dangerous.
Yet, Aella was the sweetest, most competent person I’d ever met, and she had a great head on her shoulders.
When he wanted to be, Chevy, Aella’s husband, also was fairly nice. But only when Aella was around. When she wasn’t, he was distant, closed off, and scary. Or, scarier.
But they all had that tattoo on their hand.
There was no denying who they belonged to.
I felt my mouth get dry as I looked away from the man who was still talking on the phone, then slipped my headphones back into place and closed my eyes.
I kept them on through takeoff, but ended up having to take them off shortly after because the male flight attendant from earlier touched my shoulder.
I opened my eyes and made eye contact with him.
He looked at me expectantly and I took my headphones off to say, “I’m sorry.”
“Chicken parmesan or Greek salad?”
Was that even a question?
“Chicken parmesan.” I smiled.
“To drink?”
I was scared to ask what my options were because he looked fit to be tied and angry.
“Um, do you have Dr Pepper?” I asked hopefully.
