He held up the credit card. “I’ll run it in here, and watch you on the monitor.”
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, but his intentions were honorable. He pointed at the stack of Sunday editions of the
Arizona Republic
that were wedged between bags of Doritos and other assorted chips on the overstocked shelves. The headline screamed at them:
Abducted!
It was the Valley’s third such abduction in the last month, and the source was familiar to Jorge and Lilly. It was an initiation ritual in which a prospective gang member would travel to suburbia with the intent of kidnapping a woman from a public place. The first victim was an Arizona State University student who was doing some late night grocery shopping at a Safeway in Tempe. A forty-one-year-old mother of three was next, taken from a park while walking her dog, right here in Chandler. Then just yesterday, a thirty-year-old real estate agent was snatched from outside a home in Scottsdale. The good news was that the first two women were found alive. The bad news was that they were beaten and raped—their lives never to be the same—and were either unable or unwilling to identify their attackers.
The headline seemed to soften Lilly. By removing her shield of aloofness, she now more resembled the girl that Jorge remembered. The one who wore hand-me-down clothes and tirelessly helped teach English to the many immigrants in their neighborhood.
She smiled at him. This time it wasn’t fake. It was a tough smile from the old neighborhood. The one where you never showed a hint of weakness. “That stuff doesn’t faze us, does it, Jorge?
He smiled back at her, noticing that she dusted off the accent for his benefit. He was now talking to Liliana. “Because we’re from South Phoenix?”
Her smile turned into a chuckle. “South Phoenix wasn’t so tough. I teach high school English. Teenagers—now those monsters scare me.”
She sauntered toward the door.
Jorge turned his attention back to the security feed, watching Liliana return to her vehicle. When she finished filling the SUV with gas, she took out her phone and appeared to be snapping a photo of herself. Jorge looked on curiously—whatever she was doing, she seemed to be enjoying herself. Now that they were homies once again, he would feel comfortable asking her about her theatrics when she returned to retrieve her credit card.
But the picture quickly changed. It happened so fast he couldn’t respond. All he could do was watch in horror.
A dark figure in a ski mask rolled from underneath the car with knife in hand. Lilly’s scream pierced the night.
Even without the knife, the man looked like he could tear apart the petite woman, limb by limb. In a matter of seconds, he grabbed her by the neck, opened the back door of the vehicle, and threw her in like a piece of luggage. He ripped the nozzle from the tank. He then climbed behind the wheel.
The SUV tore out of the gas station as Jorge looked on in horror.
Chapter 2
Darren McLaughlin peered into the bathroom mirror and wondered how he could have aged fifteen years in one day. He was quite certain that he was thirty-eight when he got up this morning. The flight to New York was supposed to lose hours with the time change, not gain years.
He splashed water on his weary face and attempted to maneuver his short-cropped hair into place without much luck. All he wanted to do was fall into his bed and get his sleep for tomorrow’s flight—he couldn’t believe he let Treadwell convince him to join him for a night on the town. Since this was their last trip together, he was unable to say no.
“You should just shave it off and go Vin Diesel,” Ron Treadwell’s loud, drunken voice shot through the bathroom, while he relieved himself in a grimy toilet-stall.
“What?” Darren asked, coming out his trance.
“Your hair—or should I say lack of it. Just shave it off. It will take ten years off you.”
Darren took another look at himself. “I don’t think it’s that bad.”
Treadwell snorted a laugh. “Then I must be really hammered because I’m either looking at a bald spot or you’re wearing a yarmulke. And I figure you’d discuss it with your mentor before converting.”
Darren hated to acknowledge that Treadwell might actually be his mentor. But he did know that despite Ron’s infantile nature, numerous vices, and general obnoxiousness, he owed him his life. Not for saving the day during one of the many flights they had piloted over the years, but for introducing him to Lilly.
“Lilly says it doesn’t look that bad when it’s cut short.”
“Lilly lies.”
Darren angered. “Lilly is the most honest person I know.”
“Ease off the throttle, big guy,” Treadwell said, putting up his hands in surrender. Darren really was a big guy, standing a shade under six-four.
He joined Darren at the sink. “I mean she told a fib to make her aging warrior feel better about himself. A good lie.”
Darren nodded acceptance, too tired to fight for his woman’s honor. He took one more look in the mirror and decided to stop fighting reality and put on his navy-blue pilot’s hat. “Why are we still wearing our uniforms again?” Darren asked.
“Because the only thing chicks dig more than a fighter pilot, is a man in a uniform. So that means we have the best of both worlds. Haven’t I taught you anything?”
“Fighter pilot? Have you been watching
Top Gun
again?”
Ironically, Darren was the military man who did over three thousand flying hours after graduating as an officer from the Air Force Academy. Treadwell took the civilian route to commercial airlines, getting his pilot’s license at just sixteen with the goal of impressing girls. His early start was why he was ahead of Darren on the pecking order of the airline they flew for.
Treadwell reclaimed the Bloody Mary he’d rested on the sink, swirled it with the celery stick, and took a sip. Darren had given up on reminding him that the rules stipulated he stop drinking at least eight hours before a flight, and they were getting close to the deadline. Treadwell looked in the mirror and played with his rat’s nest of curls. “You know how I keep my hair?”
“I thought you wore a wig.”
Treadwell ignored him. “Because I have remained permanently single. Marriage adds like fifteen years to people.”
By permanently single, Darren assumed his friend forgot to factor in his two divorces and three kids.
“Speaking of which, what do you think of Carrie? Please fasten your seat-belts because we’re preparing for landing…in my room tonight,” Treadwell said with a slurred grin.
Darren just shook his head. But had to admit what Treadwell lacked in looks, intelligence, charm, and maturity, he sure made up in confidence, and did usually make that “perfect landing” with the opposite sex.
“Her name is Kelli, not Carrie. Remember, she introduced herself as Kelli-with-an-i and you responded, ‘I’m Ron with an eye for you?’
I also think I’m a third wheel, so I am going to take a cab back to the hotel. That way one of us will be in shape to fly tomorrow.”
They had an eight a.m. sign-in for the final day of their three-leg trip. They would fly from New York to Miami and then to San Juan, before arriving home to Phoenix deep into the night.
Treadwell looked mortally wounded. “You can’t leave. You’re my wingman.”
“I’m actually your first officer.”
“Exactly. And as your captain, I order that you stay!”
Darren was promoted to captain starting next month, after four-and-a-half years as a first officer. Aside the fact that he would be making more money, it also meant that he and Treadwell wouldn’t fly together again, as a captain always flies with a more junior first officer. That’s why they both bid on this trip for a final voyage of student and mentor. So Darren was guilted into staying.
Treadwell dragged him back into the bar area. It was a typical sports bar filled with loud televisions and even louder patrons. Darren had been to so many cities that the only way he could tell them apart was by the sports teams the locals rooted for. In this case it was the Yankees and the Rangers—New York.
“Kelli said she has a sister who might be stopping by. If she looks anything like Kelli, then you will be flying first class tonight, my friend,” Treadwell said, maintaining his mischievous grin.
“What are you talking about? If you haven’t forgotten, I’m married!”
“Yeah, but you’ve been whining for weeks about how you’re afraid the spark is gone.”
“That doesn’t mean I’d ever cheat on Lilly. It’s until death do us part, you know, for better or worse.”
Treadwell grabbed his head like a migraine had swept through it. “You just gave me a bad flashback to my first marriage. One thing you can count on is that it will always be
worse
. You know what your problem is?”
Darren braced. Nothing like getting marriage advice from the twice divorced.
“Lilly is a spicy sauce and you’re mild. It’s a bad mix.”
Darren looked at him, perplexed. “You’ve been telling me for years that we’re a perfect fit because she’s salsa and I’m a chip. Salsa is worthless without a chip, so we complement each other like yin and yang.”
“More like yin and
bor-yang
. All I’m saying is your relationship has become too much chip and not enough dip. There’s a lot of chips that would like to be in that dip, and if you don’t dig in then someone else will.”
Darren wanted to write it off as the ramblings of a drunken fool, but the comment stirred his insecurities. Darren never fit the image of the confident pilot. Which is another reason why he and Lilly were so compatible—where he would stick his toe into life with doubts and hesitations, Lilly would leap right in to the deep end without fear. As long as he had Lilly he wouldn’t need confidence—she had enough for the both of them.
But lately she’d been distant and distracted. Maybe Treadwell was right, and she had grown tired of the mild chip. Perhaps it was the middle age that had surprisingly crept up on him. Or the failure to have that baby they tried so hard for.
But the one thing he was sure of was that he couldn’t lose her.
Chapter 3
Kelli was waiting for them at their table, still sipping on the same vodka tonic. Treadwell brazenly moved right in for a kiss.
Darren shook his head. Treadwell had spotted Kelli sitting alone at the bar when they arrived, declared that they’d be having a “layover” at his hotel later that night, and now he was well en route to making it happen. In his single days, it would have taken Darren a week to build up the courage to talk to a woman at a bar, and even that was a long shot.
Kelli was attractive, but lacked a usual trait of Treadwell’s women—what Lilly often referred to as “stripperness.” Kelli gave off a vibe of sophistication that matched her short, stylish haircut and designer suit. She also spoke with the hint of an accent that Darren couldn’t identify, but didn’t feel comfortable inquiring about, perhaps Eastern European. She appeared out of place in the testosterone-filled sports bar, but explained that she was a big hockey fan and had stopped off on her way home from her Manhattan office. Her work was that of a lawyer, which explained the suit and the long hours.
When Treadwell removed his lips, she announced, “My sister just called, she can’t make it.”
Darren was relieved. The comment also reminded him that in the rush to “hit the town,” he failed to call Lilly and let her know he made it safely, as he did after every flight. She always joked that it would make the news if he crashed, so don’t waste the minutes on their phone plan. But one time he didn’t call and she got upset with worry.
He removed his phone from his coat pocket, realizing it had been off the whole time. When he turned it on he saw that he had a text message from Lilly—almost a half hour ago. He badly wished he’d heard her voice, but when he read her typed words he wasn’t complaining. It read:
Every man’s fantasy ~ ILY Lilly.
Darren opened the attached photo and began laughing. From the intro, he expected some racy photos, but this was even better. Lilly had photographed herself pumping gas into their SUV, posing with the look of seduction. Darren had always told her that there was nothing sexier than a woman doing manual labor. Especially one who looked like she did in that little black dress he liked so much.
He typed back:
LOL ~ can’t wait to see you tmrw
!!
ILY2
.
He handed the phone to Treadwell, who burst into laughter. “I told you things were fine,” he said.
Darren actually remembered him saying something about finding other chips. Treadwell handed the phone to Kelli, who remarked, “Your wife is beautiful.” She examined Darren more closely, obviously trying to figure out what she was doing with Mr. Average.
Darren could care less. It only mattered what Lilly thought. And with one small gesture, he felt like he had her back.
“I introduced them,” Treadwell interjected, playing the sensitive matchmaker to score points with Kelli. Or as he might say—accumulating frequent flyer miles. Darren didn’t mind—it was a story he never tired of hearing.
It was Darren’s first commercial flight. He was teamed with Captain Ron Treadwell, flying out of their home base of Phoenix. They had returned from a similar three-leg domestic trip, and Darren planned to retire to his lonely apartment to over-analyze his first flight and be his generally boring self. But like tonight, Treadwell dragged him out. They went to the Gila River Casino on an Indian reservation south of Phoenix, a place Treadwell had lost much of his savings over the years, at least what was left after the drinking and divorces.
Darren was mesmerized by a beautiful blackjack dealer. Her name was Liliana, but she told Darren that he could call her Lilly. If he could have formed a sentence, he would have. But as time went by, and he continued to lose money, he began striking up a conversation with her. He was impressed that she worked at the casino to put herself through school, with the goal of becoming an English teacher. He was aware that she was occupying him with conversation to break his concentration—typical dealer trick—but he would’ve gladly signed over anything to keep talking with her.