9

“Usually when a guy looks as bad as you, he’s leaving Vegas, not heading into the party.” The man’s voice was at least one octave higher than Jim’s current tolerance level.

Jim nodded but didn’t respond or look his way. No way he wanted to chat with the high-talker for three frickin’ hours.

“I take this flight a few times a month,” the guy went on as the plane finally settled into its course and quit floundering around the airways like a wounded bird doing its best to make Jim hurl. “These nonstops are hard to get. Sure am glad to have it today. It’s my girlfriend’s birthday.”

The rumbling of the jet engines was like a team of Clydesdales running a long-distance race in Jim’s head. He leaned forward and used his thumbs to hold pressure on his temples, hoping for some relief. Nothing. His eyes squeezed shut trying to block out the morning light. The closed plastic window shade wasn’t cutting it. Too many others in the cabin were wide open. He hoped this man didn’t request that he open it back up. Jim needed what little respite from the glare he could manage. Might have to punch the high-talker in that flapping piehole if he didn’t shut up.

Fuck, he didn’t remember drinking that much. He couldn’t remember drinking enough to feel like this in years. Maybe ever. Not that he remembered much after his client had started rubbing his junk while he stared at the taxidermied buffalo ass. He eased his thick head against the seat back as the plane banked north to head away from Dallas and toward Nevada. The sensation and a tiny bit of turbulence made him swallow hard. Bile. How the hell did he manage to get himself into these situations? Do the job and get paid. Easy. No need to add a fat layer of drama on top. Women. Of course it was a woman. He had to have the world’s worst luck when it came to the fairer sex. Maybe he should consider only taking cases involving men.

Those cases would all be men looking for proof of cheating or lying wives. Although, he made a good bit of cash from women looking for proof of cheating husbands.

Behind his closed eyes he saw choppy images of Cynthia in the dark. Flashed moments of the night. The restaurant. His hotel room. Her bare shoulders looming over him. Long red hair in his face. Soft thighs pressed against his. Her breasts caressing his chest as she moved. The silent mental video of her talking to him as she dressed. But those memories were as cloudy as an abandoned fish tank. Hazy. Green. The sound dampened.

“You visiting Vegas?”

He shook his head. “Local.”

“Me too. I’m in poker table sales. I’ll be glad to be back home. A lonely casino out in the Texas sun was not for me.”

The plane jumped again. Usually, turbulence didn’t bother Jim much. Hell, he’d jumped out of planes a couple of times, but this time his stomach felt as though the big plane had taken a five-thousand-foot drop in altitude. He swallowed hard. Fighting what quickly was becoming a losing battle. Maybe that famous rare steak was bad. Could have been actual buffalo butt for all he knew. Food poisoning. Maybe that would account for his memories of Cynthia naked. Could it be hallucinations? Fantasies? He hoped so. There had been no real evidence of her stepping foot in his room this morning. No abandoned underwear or lipstick stains.

He searched the seatback pocket for the airsick bag. None.

“Jesus … here man.” The high talker shoved the bag from his seatback pocket into Jim’s hands. Just in time too. Fortunately, it was just bile. The tiny bag was enough to manage until he shuffled down the aisle to the lavatory. Many eyes on him as he went. He had to stop himself from planting his fist into the face of one guy who gave him the you pussy smirk. Then again, the constant throbbing in his head egged on a burning desire to punch everything. He tried to think back on his anger-management class. They hadn’t covered anything about working through the world’s worst hangover.

The cramped quarters made it hard to puke into the metal john. He was listing back and forth with the sway of the plane. Public restrooms suck. While he balanced, he considered the thousands of bare asses and men with bad aim who had come before. His best hope was that the minimum-wage cleaning crew did a decent job before he boarded. No other choice.

Fuck. He hated being sick. Felt weak. Out of control.

It ended.

His shoulder banged the wall as he splashed water on his face. He paused to consider the state of his innards. No rumbling. No cramping. All seemed calm. For the moment.

He pushed the door to the side. “Not feeling so good this morning, Mr. Bean?”

She was standing right there. A foot from his face. The shock of seeing her made him almost stumble back. He had to catch himself on the folding door. Her voice echoed around in his skull. “No. Seems not.”

With a little pout, she handed him an opened bottle of water. “Drink this.”

He choked on the first swallow. Bitter. Fake limes and something spicy. He inspected the half-empty bottle. “What the hell is it?”

The plane bounced over another air pocket. He fell against her. His body responded to the feel of hers even though his head felt like it was being melted by sulfuric acid. Dammit. He hated this situation. No denying it. Hated himself for breaking his own code of ethics. Bright eyes and an impish flash of her dazzling smile convinced him the snippets were memories and not hallucinations. At the moment, drunken fragmented fantasies would have been much better.

“It’s aspirin, Alka-Seltzer, and a secret ingredient. Family recipe. My college friend called it the Wings of Angels.” She turned to walk back up toward the front of the plane. “Drink it, Bean. You’ll feel better by the time we land. Trust me.” She glanced over her shoulder and winked.

He watched her walk past his third-row seat, back to first class, and slide in. Right-hand aisle seat.

He took another swig. It was horrible, but what the hell? The only other choice was scotch. The stomach did a little complaining at just the thought of it. He waited another few seconds before making his way to his seat. This time he passed pity-filled faces. The contempt had felt better.

He settled in, chugged his liquid remedy, and then tried to close his eyes and sleep. Within seconds the frayed images from the previous night replayed like a bad horror movie preview. No hesitancy on his part. He could tell that. But the rest was unclear. Out of order.

He’d woken to an alarm set on his phone. He never set his alarm. Didn’t usually need it. Maybe Cynthia had done that. But how did she unlock it? He twisted in the seat, searching for a spot on his head that didn’t feel as if it was propped against a bed of nails. He didn’t remember if he’d felt like he’d had sex this morning. His body was as groggy as his mind.

The guy next to him started to snore. The erratic, guttural snorting was far better than his voice had been.