Can't Touch This (15 page)

I grind my teeth together, seething at Kyle and Rick for wandering off.  Dammit, I’m getting on that plane in an hour and a half with or without them.

They get one more chance.

I scroll through my contacts on my phone and find Kyle’s cell number.  After a couple of rings, I hear, “We’re sorry, the cellular customer you are trying to reach has left the area.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Absolutely disgusted with the entire situation, I walk back to the blackjack table where I’d left them originally when all of a sudden I heard shouting.

Rick calls out, “Soccer Mom!”

“Vanessa, there you are!  Over here!” Kyle calls out.

They swarm around, overjoyed at seeing me.  Rick, of all people, hugs me to him.

“We didn’t know where you’d gone.  We thought you left us ‘cause I was bein’ a drunken asshole,” Rick says.  “We went out to the parking lot looking for you.”

Kyle looks relieved to see me.  Very relieved.  “We wandered around the casino floor searching.  Then I had you paged.”

“You did?  But I’ve been here the whole time, I didn’t hear anything.”

“I heard it.  I heard them say your name, Soccer Mom,” Rick says, still squeezing me.

My chest hurts, though, at the realization that they were missing me and looking for me.  “Did you actually have them say Soccer Mom?”

“Yeah,” Kyle says softly.

“I’m sorry, you guys.  This is so stupid.”  I almost start to cry again, which brings them upon me, comforting me.

“This is all because we wouldn’t let you drink?” Kyle asks.  “Come on, Vanessa, I think you’ve earned a stiff one.”

I look up through my glossy haze and laugh.

“A stiff drink.  Get your mind out of the gutter.”  He winks and I feel like everything will be okay now.

“But someone has to drive.”

“Listen,” Kyle starts. “MGM is close to the airport.”

“I think I can handle that.”

“We’ll only stay until eleven-thirty.  That should give us plenty of time to drop off the minivan and get to the gate.”  Kyle is sure of it.  Or full of it.  One or the other.

I have no problem catching up with the guys’ alcohol consumption as I stand at the craps table drinking for free.  Kyle fills me in on how the game works and even gives me a fifty-dollar chip to play with.  Apparently, he’s made up for his losses from the other day.

“You keep whatever you make, okay?” he says.

“I can’t do that.”

“It’s my way of saying ‘I’m sorry.’”

With a killer smile like that peering down at me, I can’t refuse.

Rick’s at the other end of the craps table and he has the dice.  As I slurp beer, I follow Kyle’s lead and place my bets accordingly.

The craps table reminds me—as even the tiniest thing does—of Rory and how he cleaned up on the dice in Atlantic City.  He’d tried to explain the game to me that night, but I’d been too into him to understand.  Now, I wish he was here instructing me.  But Kyle’s doing that now.  My skin heats and tingles all at the same time when I feel his hand move on the small of my back.  I shift my weight into him more until he’s nearly supporting my weight.  He doesn’t seem to mind at all and it feels so…
right.

“Eight!” the dealer shouts.

I look down and see that’s the number I bet on, so I’m a winner.  Kyle is too.  He wraps his arm around me and hugs me close to him.  Man, he’s nothing but a rack of muscles.  I can sense his rapid heartbeat as we’re smashed together.  I’m assuming it’s from the craps win because the dealer moves over an impressive stack of chips his way.  Kyle looks down at me and for a minute, it’s almost like something passes between us... a whisper of unspoken words, a moment of understand each other, the thought that things could be different, deeper if we didn’t work together, the promise of—

Once again, I get poked with the dice retrieving stick.  “Hey lady, it’s your roll.  Pick your dice,” the dealer snaps at me.

My mouth drops open and I tear my eyes away from Kyle’s.

“Sorry,” Kyle says, letting me go and stepping back as if burned.  “Got excited.”

The moment’s over just as quickly as it happened.

I exhale and play off the tension with a joke.  “Hey, I got excited, too.  I just won a shit-load of money.  Now, I get to roll.”

Kyle seems relieved, so I don’t press it further.  And I sure don’t admit to myself how good it felt to be in his arms.  Instead, I take a pair of dice and toss them to the end of the table with everyone cheering me on.

An hour later—and four beers in my system—I’m the happiest gal in Nevada with a little over two hundred dollars in winnings.  But, it’s time to go.

“We’re going to miss our flight,” I say frantically.

We blow through the cashier line at MGM as quickly as we can and run like greyhounds out to the parking deck.

“Punch it, Soccer Mom!” Rick screams once we’re all belted in.

Moments later, we pull up to the Hertz drop-off area.

The representative doesn’t seem fazed by our franticness.  He just inspects the vehicle, takes the keys and asks, “Would you like to keep all the charges on this credit card?”

“Umm, sure.  Whatever,” I say.  I have no idea what credit card he means and I honestly don’t care at this point.  I just want to go home.

We lurch toward the airport shuttle with all of our crap in tow.  A woman clutches her small son to her as we stagger on and plop into the seats.   We must be a sight.

“We’re not going to make it,” I say, shaking my head.

“Yes we are.  Think positively,” Kyle says.

I glance around and ask, “Who’s got the booth?”

“I’ve got it, Soccer Mom!  Don’t worry,” Rick shouts, leaning against the large vinyl casing.

The shuttle drops us off at the terminal five minutes before our flight is scheduled to take off.  Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck!  Scrambling through the automatic doors, we scurry in and come to a dead stop.  The line at the counter flows outside the roped off area.  There’s no way we’re getting on the red eye and I’m in no mood to spend another night in Vegas.

Kyle reads my eyes.  “Leave it to me.”

He inches his way over to the First Class line and steps forward.  He bends his head to talk to the ticket agent.  She says something, and then the two of them laugh.  I sense the green monster of jealousy creeping up and peering over my shoulder when I see the way she’s eyeballing Kyle.  Rick rolls the booth apparatus next to me and stretches his arm over the top of it, holding himself up.  I’m literally out of breath.

Kyle works his way back over to us and heaves a deep sigh.  “Flight 66 to Boston has...” he pauses for dramatic effect, “...been delayed.”

I think I’m going to be sick.

O
ur flight from
Las Vegas doesn’t take off until after one a.m. 

Rick, who continues to drink at the airport, is so blitzed he can barely keep his eyes open.  He’s so out of it that he tips the lady behind the counter fifty dollars to put him in a window seat on the plane.  Idiot was already
booked
in a window seat, but she took the tip.  (I would, too.)

Finally, we board the oversold flight.  Rick takes his seat three rows in front of Kyle and me and promptly passes out cold, wearing his sunglasses.

“Here, Vanessa, you want the window seat?” Kyle asks, moving aside for me.

I step in and all of a sudden the familiar fear washes over me.  I’m nauseated and my head hurts.  My pulse rattles feverishly in my veins and I can feel my breathing starting to get labored.

“Oh no,” Kyle says.  “Your fear of flying?

I nod.

“It’s okay, Vanessa.  Just look out to the horizon, remember?”

The horizon consists of flashing neon lights, twirling spots, and oversized billboards of Criss Angel, Penn and Teller and a revival performance of Celine Dion, like she ever went away from Vegas.  Besides, I’m afraid the horizon won’t help in keeping down the Burger King chicken sandwich and fries I crammed into my system before boarding the plane.  That’s what I get for not eating all day, stressing out at the tradeshow, and then pouring alcohol onto an empty stomach.

I know I need to remain calm, but the plane’s starting to move and make all of those flaps shifting sounds.  My blood pressure begins to rise so much that I feel the seared heat in my face, on my neck, and around my ears.  I must look like Violet in
Willie Wonka
when she starts turning purple.  They do carry oxygen and defibrillators on airplanes.  I just hope I don’t need either one.

Realistically, I know the wings aren’t going to fall off.  Someone at Boeing or McDonald Douglas or one of those other companies spent a lot of man hours welding and riveting the steel beast together.  Yet, I can’t stop my body from over-reacting to the idea of the plane crashing into the fake Eiffel Tower down below.

“Breath, Vanessa,” Kyle says softly.  He makes a hissing sound of sucking in and out as if he’s my Lamaze partner.  “Look at me.”

I can’t.  I have to watch out the window to make sure everything goes properly.

Kyle speaks up a bit.  “Vanessa Virtue.  Look.  At.  Me.”

Turning, I see his face, dimly lit from the overhead light.  His eyes are dark and dilated, but totally zoomed in on me.  His fingers form a “V” and he points them toward his eyes and then at me.  I do my best to breathe through the panic and instead disappear into the depths of his hazel orbs.

“Good,” he says.  “Keep watching me.”

This works momentarily.  Then this horrendous groaning begins to sound out from under the 727.  “What’s that?” I ask abruptly.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s something.”

“Breathe, Vanessa.”

“Fuck breathing!”

As we power down the runway, I have my death grip on the armrest that separates Kyle and me.  My knuckles are turning white and the veins in the top of my hand are bulging out.  This is going to be the end of me.  Twenty-five years and what… there’s nothing to show the world that Vanessa Virtue was here.  I will die a coward in a smoldering heap of charred metal and my parents will have to use my high school senior year dental records to identify me.

Suddenly, there’s something warm on my fingers.  Something soothing.  I glance down and see Kyle’s large, strong hand covering mine and trying to wrench it from the armrest.

“It’s okay, Vanessa.  I’m here for you.”

Slowly, I loosen my hold on the seat and let his hand take over.  Our hands merge together, disappearing into one another.  The rapid rate of my heart increases at his touch, at his care, at his concern.  Yet, I’m soothed and starting to think I won’t die alone.  Kyle’s with me.  He cares and he won’t let me down.  Certainly the company handbook wouldn’t frown on comfort like this from one employee to the other when it’s in a work travel situation.

Peeling my fingers off the seat handle, I rotate my wrist and flip my hand over.  Kyle holds on tightly to me.  I can’t tell if he’s uncomfortable with the contact because it’s so dark in here.  Maybe he’s thinking about that damn manual, too.  I don’t know.  Whatever the case, I just appreciate that he’s trying to put my mind at ease.

When the plane finally barrels down the runway and then lifts off the ground, I gasp; not so much from the thrust of the jet or the flaps pulling us through the night sky.  It’s from the heated fire stoking the embers of attraction in my entire body from Kyle’s touch.  His thumb moves ever so slightly against my hand, as if to say every thing’s going to be okay.  That he’s here to watch over me.

His whisper tiptoes over me.  “Just go to sleep.  I’m here for you.”

“Thanks, Kyle.  You’re the best.”

“I am, aren’t I?” he says.

Basking in the warmth of his protection, I lean my head back, close my eyes, and allow myself to fall into a deep sleep.

When we land at Logan at six a.m.—damn Jiles making us take red eyes to save money—I bolt up from my comfortable resting place.  Shit!  I’d slept on Kyle’s shoulder.

“Morning,” he says with a grin.

Our arms are still tangled together and I sense a blush cross my face as I pull my hand from his.  Wow, he held me the whole flight.

“Sorry.  Didn’t mean to pass out on you.”

“It’s okay,” he assures me.  “If it helps you get through the flight… whatever works.”

I run my hands through my hair and cringe at the thought of my appearance.  “I must look like something the cat dragged in and the kittens wouldn’t have.”  A stupid saying of my father’s.  One I can’t tamp down before it bubbles out.

Kyle merely laughs and unhooks his seatbelt.

We file off the plane—Rick’s still wearing his sunglasses, obviously to mask his hangover—and we head down to baggage claim.  We retrieve our bags and the booth and Rick says he’ll haul it back to the office in his truck.

Kyle slings his suitcase over his shoulder and walks me out to the curb where I step to the cab queue.  His eyes are slightly dilated in the early morning light and he says, “Come on Vanessa, no need for a cab.  I’ll give you a ride home.”

My whole body aches and sings at the same time from the deliciousness of spending the night in Kyle’s arms.  Strangely enough, I don’t I feel like I’ve cheated on Rory.  I just got some comfort from a friend.

A friend who looks like heaven first thing in the morning.  Kyle’s cheeks are stubbled with dark hair shadowing his stern jaw.  I want to reach out and touch his face, but that would be ludicrous.  We ride in silence, other than me giving him directions to Porter Square, and the Ministry of Sound CD he has playing.

At the front of my house, Kyle parks the car and turns to me.  For a split second, he has that look like he wants to kiss me.  I almost want that too.  Almost.

“Thanks for the ride home, Kyle.  And for helping on the plane.”

Kyle merely smiles.  “It was a pleasure traveling with you, Ms. Virtue.  Let’s do it again real soon.”

My next trip is San Francisco—to see Rory and have our third (sex?) date—and I realize right then that the last person I want on that trip is Kyle Nettles.

“I
can’t leave
town anymore,” I say to Griz at lunch two weeks later.  “Something happens to you every time.  And it’s the same foot.”