Page 7 of Game Changer

The door opens, and my seatmate is there, staring down at me with his trademark irritated expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do this,” I whisper as I squeeze my eyes shut. “I can’t…”

I expect him to signal for the flight attendant to come get the crazy woman rocking in the bathroom.

Instead, he wedges inside along with me.

It’s barely big enough for both of us. His legs brush mine, his knees resting against my thighs as the plane bumps and jolts.

“Oh God,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.

“My friends call me Clay, but I’ll take it.”

I force my eyes open to find him looming over me. His expression is composed, except for the flecks of gold dancing in those moody eyes.

He shoves up his sleeves, revealing muscled arms covered in tattoos. The stunning patterns of black inked across smooth, tanned skin make me gasp.

“These are amazing.” I whisper like I’m in a church.

The panic recedes enough for me to take his wrist, trace the parallel lines that begin to twist and intersect midway up his forearm.

He tenses at first, but doesn’t pull away.

“How many do you have?” I ask.

“Twenty-nine.” His voice is softer than it was before. “One for every year I’ve been alive.”

On his other arm, there’s a pine tree, tall and strong with thinning branches near the top.

“You got your first tattoo when you were a baby?”

I only realize how dumb that sounds once it’s out.

But instead of calling me out, his eyes crease at the corners. “I doubled up a few years.”

He looks different when he’s half-smiling. I wonder what it would take to make him smile for real.

“I always wanted one, but it was never the right time,” I say as I refocus on the tattoos. It feels safer than staring into his eyes.

The plane hits a bump, and my stomach lurches.

Clay tenses. He’s going to bail on me before I embarrass myself more by puking on him.

Instead, he reaches back and yanks the hoodie off over his head.

My heart stops.

He’s a canvas, a work of art. Like one of thoseI Spybooks I had as a kid, except every tattoo is a masterpiece.

The body revealed by his white tank is as impressive as his tattoos. Beneath the ink, he’s another kind of art. Every inch of shredded muscle and smooth skin makes me wonder what he does, what he’s capable of doing.

I take a breath and focus on the lines and not the fact that we’re millimeters apart.

He shows me a tattoo riding the crest of his shoulder, a hawk. I’ve barely absorbed that when I notice the black snake disappearing under his tank.

The hammering in my ears is still there, but it feels like I’m creating it instead of being its victim.

It’s as if, in this tiny excuse for a room on a bouncing metal tube, I’m safe with him so long as we’re breathing together.

---