Wrecked (The Blackened Window) (51 page)

I looked down at the pile in my arms doubtfully. “I don’t have any pantyhose,” I replied in weak protest.

“Want to borrow some?”

“Yuck, I’m not borrowing your pantyhose. I know you don’t wear panties with them.”

Stevie put her finger under her chin in deep contemplation, as if she was trying to solve the economic problems of a third-world country. She suddenly smiled and snapped her fingers at me. “Do you remember that garter belt and hose set I got you for your birthday?”

I grimaced. “You mean the gag gift?”

“No, you idiot, it was a real gift. Wear those. It’ll be fabulous.”

I thought about arguing, but Stevie looked determined and I was already running late. I ran into my room and assembled myself in an amazing fifteen minutes. Stevie ran blush and eye shadow across my face, despite my protests. I had already put makeup on, but apparently it was too light. When I finally looked in the mirror, I had to admit I was impressed. The outfit was snug enough to hug my curves perfectly without being too tight or short. I pulled my hair up to twist it into a knot, but before I could fasten it, Stevie grasped my hand.

“Your hair is so pretty. Don’t hide it,” she commanded, smoothing out my locks. I didn’t quite agree with her sentiment. I had thick, shoulder-length blondish hair that some people referred to as ‘dirty blonde’. It was like, five colours, really. People asked me if I had highlights all the time, but my hair was naturally uncommitted to a certain colour. I stared into the mirror, allowing myself a brief moment of admiration. I was no siren, but the pouty lips and long eyelashes inherited from my mother provided a subtle sexiness. I would call Stevie classically beautiful, whereas I was cute in that tomboy kind of way. Growing up, some boys had said I was prettier than Stevie—I guess in the same way guys prefer Jennifer Aniston to Angelina Jolie…not Brad Pitt mind you, but some guys. We never fought about it, though. It was never a competition, especially since I wasn’t very interested in charming the opposite sex.

“I don’t know about this, Stevie. I think I’m overdoing it. I don’t want this guy to think the company sent an escort to pick him up.”

She rolled her eyes. “You look totally professional, not slutty. Seriously, Marley, professional doesn’t mean matronly. You’re a pretty girl. Don’t be afraid to show off what your mama gave you.”

I laughed. “Yeah, looks like you got more from mama than I did.” I glanced towards the clock and gasped. I had to go. I snatched the email from the printer, hugged Stevie and thanked her for her tutelage before bounding down the stairs. My mother, thankfully, had coffee waiting for me.

“Can’t talk, Mom, got to go. I have to pick up this cheapskate consultant at the airport,” I said hastily, grabbing the travel mug she handed me.

“How do you know he’s a cheapskate, sweetie?”

I shrugged my shoulders, smiling at my lovable mother. “What else would he be when he can’t even spring for a rental car?”

“Okay, sweetheart, let me know what you think of the sweetener I put in your coffee. It’s chocolate almond milk this time.”

I stifled my groan. My mom had become a vegan a few months ago and had managed to force the lifestyle on us. We all loved her so much that we suffered silently while she found herself through food.

“Marley!” Stevie yelled, standing at the top of the stairs.

I turned to her, letting out an exasperated grunt. “What now?”

“Don’t forget to clean your car. If he’s riding in it, you want to make sure it’s presentable.”

Damn! Why didn’t I think of that?
My car was a complete sty. I jumped into my little Honda, cursing myself as I drove with a lead foot to the nearest car wash. After my car was thoroughly bathed, I pulled over and started vacuuming the insides, ignoring the catcalls of the carwash boys. It wasn’t smart for a girl to be vacuuming her car in a short skirt and high heels. I noticed a speck of lint on the driver’s seat floor, which I had missed with the hose when I was on that side. I leaned all the way over from the passenger side to vacuum it up. Instead of sucking up the lint, I managed to knock over my travel mug. Almond-flavoured coffee spilled everywhere.

Crap!
The hot coffee rolled in rivulets down the passenger seat, drowning the email with the flight info. I ran around like a lunatic looking for towels to soak up the mess. The car wash guys took pity on me and found me some. I guess a short skirt can come in handy at the right moments. I wiped down the seat, but it was still damp.

Screw it!
Let this jackass, cheapskate consultant sit in the wet spot. It served him right for ruining an otherwise mundane Monday for me. I placed the soaked email on the dashboard, hoping feebly it would dry. I jumped into my car then proceeded with an even heavier lead foot all the way to the airport.

I parked in the intimidating parking garage, cursing repeatedly until I finally found a spot. With a deep breath, I realised I had no idea what this consultant looked like. I snatched the email off the dash. It was still damp and part of the paper didn’t lift completely. I tried to piece it together, but it had torn right through his name. I stared at the smudged, ripped letters in complete disbelief. I couldn’t very well go through the airport and yell out, ‘Mr Cheapskate consultant. Your ride is here!’

I put it out of my mind, running into the airport and praying I didn’t trip or break a precious heel on Stevie’s Louboutins. By the time I got into the passenger pick up area, I was a panting, wheezing mess. I looked around the bustling lobby, trying to regain my composure and hoping it would be obvious who I was supposed to pick up.

It wasn’t.

The airport looked like an orphanage for business executives. There were tons of suit-clad men talking on their cell phones, working on their laptops or just walking around. Was this for real? Where had they all come from? Did a stork deposit them at the United Airlines terminal at O’Hare? At least the view was nice. Although I wasn’t a dressy kind of girl, I did enjoy a man in a good suit, and this was an all you can eat breakfast buffet of hot men in suits.

One in particular made me gasp for a deeper breath. It felt like those movies where the girl and guy catch each other’s eyes and the soft music plays while they exchange lovesick looks across a crowded room. That’s complete bullshit. My reaction to this man was so strong it frightened me, but it was completely sexual. There was no music, except for the drastic beating of my heart, which was not soft at all. He bit his lower lip and I clenched my thighs, aware of the sudden dampness emanating between my legs. Sex was real—tangible, visceral and primitive. Love was mystical, elusive, vague and obscure. Sex was atmospheric, but love was ethereal. I chose sex every time.

I stared at him a little too long and he held my gaze, which did not aid in my attempts to control my breathing. The planes of his face appeared chiselled with a strong jawline that was clean-shaven. His sandy brown hair forked effortlessly across his forehead. It was neat, but not slicked back or groomed perfectly, which I liked. It was a head of hair that could sustain a friendly tousle, but still look flawless. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I imagined they were sexy like the rest of him. He wore a charcoal suit with an emerald-green tie and looked comfortable in the tailored fit. A suit like that coupled with the designer briefcase led me to conclude he was wealthy and definitely not my cheapskate. He was talking on his cell phone, but even from this distance, I could see he was studying me with the same intensity. I looked away quickly, trying to hide my lustful leering.

I needed to concentrate on my task. I looked down at the paper in front of me. I could make out some of, but not the whole name. There was definitely an R in his first name, a U in the next and the last name clearly spelt Randy. I sighed in frustration and flipped over the stiff, ripped email. I scrounged in my purse only to find I didn’t have a pen.
How am I so unprepared that I don’t have a flipping pen in my purse? I have three kinds of lipstick, but no pen?
I decided to MacGyver it. I chose the coral pink lipstick, the colour I wore the least, and wrote on the back of the paper
R U RANDY
in big block letters. I stood next to the limo drivers, who all had proper boards with their passenger’s names clearly written. A few looked at me perplexed, but I just smiled and held up my stupid makeshift sign.

It didn’t take long for an older gentleman with a sweet smile to approach me.

“Yes dear, I am,” he said, in a British accent, pointing to my sign. I tried to hide my surprise at his appearance. I’d thought this consultant was a whiz kid, not a gallant grandpa. The man in front of me had to be in his sixties. Then again, the man I was picking up had a strong reputation for business acumen, so it would make sense he’d be older. In addition, he was British and the Brits were very smart in my summation. James Bond was a Brit after all.

“Hi, you’re Mr Randy?” I asked brightly, taking his hand.

“Yes I am.”

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m sorry I’m late. I’m Marley Mason from Henley Inc.” I relieved him of his shoulder bag. Mr Randy appeared frail and I didn’t want him to strain carrying it. He had an amiable smile, which endeared him to me immediately. He wore a suit too, although it looked like it belonged in a previous decade, especially with the polka-dot bow tie. “Have you gotten your luggage, sir?”

“We don’t have to worry about that, dear. This won’t take me very long.”

I had no idea what he meant, but I assumed it was that Brit wit I always had trouble following. Besides, his shoulder bag was heavy, and it probably had clothes in it. The man was an efficiency expert after all.

“Follow me, sir. My car is in the parking garage, but I’ll pull it up for you.”

“Thank you, love. That’s very generous.”

He actually called me love!
I put my hand over my heart. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad car ride. I found him adorable, in a grandfatherly way. Maybe he’d unleash some of that dry, Brit wit in the car. I doubted I would get it, since Monty Python confused me, but I’d pretend to find it humorous nonetheless, so I wouldn’t offend him.

He took my arm. It seemed like such an unexpected, courteous thing to do. We walked arm in arm towards the exit. We were about half way there when I heard the loudest, most cantankerous shriek echoing out behind me. “Dad, where are you?”

We kept walking, but some crazy, heavy-set woman was screaming out with headache-inducing wails. She was looking for someone, but I was in a hurry, and didn’t have time to be side-tracked again. As it was, Mr Randy was going to be late because of me. I almost dropped his bag when a plump hand reached for my elbow.

“What the hell are you doing?” It was definitely the owner of the screech, and she had a British accent too.

“Excuse me?” I replied in my offended tone. Unfortunately, my voice cracked at the last minute. I was a little freaked out by this woman manhandling me.

“Give me that bag!” she said hysterically, reaching for Mr Randy’s bag.

I held it tightly. “Look lady, I don’t know what your problem is, but you best get your hands off me!” My grammar really lacked when I tried to act tough.

I thought she was talking quite loudly, but when her voice raised a few octaves, it sounded like she was on a megaphone. “Help, kidnapper! She’s kidnapping my father and stealing his bag,” she said to no one in particular.

Before I knew it, four TSA agents were crowding us, beckoned by her panicked cries. I stood helplessly, silenced by her crazy accusations. The deranged woman explained to the TSA men that I had attempted to kidnap her senile father. I looked at Mr Randy, imploring him to help me, but he just smiled at both of us as if this was a normal occurrence.

I dropped Mr Randy’s bag like it was a bomb—probably not the best way to discard a suitcase in the airport. “But…but…this is Mr Randy,” I kept saying, to which crazy lady responded that I was insane.
I’m the insane one?

I looked around and my face burned. I knew I was ten shades of red from the realisation of the horror surrounding me. Every hurried businessman had stopped their multi-tasking. Children had stopped their temper tantrums. Parents had stopped paying attention to their children. Even the boyfriends had stopped kissing their girlfriends. Everyone was gawking at us.

“Uh, excuse me, but I think I may be able to shed some light on this…ah…situation.”

I didn’t see him approach, but heard the deep cadence of his voice. It was Mr Lip-Biting-Perfect Hair-Charcoal Suit himself. He appeared amused by my distress. I gave him a ‘get out of my business’ look and narrowed my eyes, but it only made him laugh. He asked the TSA agents to step away with him, while I was left with Mr Randy, the crazy lady and the one remaining agent.

“Mr Randy, I’m sorry about this,” I apologised, placing my hand on the old man’s shoulder.

Crazy lady batted my resting hand right off him. “What the hell is wrong with you? You should be ashamed of yourself for trying to kidnap a senile old man.”

My mouth gaped open as I stared at the older gentleman in front of me, whose smile didn’t falter. “He…uh…he…told me he’s Mr Randy,” I stammered.

“I am dear. I always thought you Americans were very friendly, but this is quite marvellous.”

My brain felt like it was going to crack. I stared at all the TSA agents talking to Charcoal Suit. A tiny trickle of sweat rolled down my brow.
Am I going to jail?
Kidnapping was illegal, but was it more criminal if you did it at an airport, like how stealing mail from the post office was a federal offence?