Maverick
I’m wired today. Couldn’t sleep. Spent all night making our reservations, then picking the perfect restaurant in Boston to take Reese out.
I texted her the confirmation number and flight times, and she replied, I’ll see you there
My cock’s on fire today. My whole body is on fire today. My brain is on fire, my whole body buzzing in anticipation of fucking holding her, fucking looking at her, fucking making her mine again.
I read the text again while I wait at the airport and wonder if she got held up at the security checkpoint. “You masturbate daily, Mav?” Oz asks to my right.
“Yeah.”
I’m hard. So what. She does that to me.
“Do it more often.”
I clench my hands at my sides and exhale, trying to get it to come down. We’re at the boarding terminal, Oz and I.
I want to be alone with Reese, but I’m keeping a close eye on him too. Him and his “water.” I know it sure as heck isn’t water. But at least he’s cut it down some, now that I’m watching him so closely.
I want him to be well. I want him to want to be well.
“You won’t be able to take your hands off her. You need to woo a woman with your head, not with your cock.”
“I’m bringing my best game, Oz. Really. I’m taking you both out to dinner. Someplace nice.”
“So.” He pats the water bottle he mysteriously brought back from the men’s restroom a while ago, as if to make sure it’s in his jacket pocket. “Does Tate know she’s coming with you?”
I remain silent.
Tate is a touchy subject now. Oz hates that I train with him. He can go on for hours on what a bad idea it is to get in bed with the enemy, yada yada.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he answers himself. “Tate can go fuck himself. Or his hot wife.”
“Oz . . .” I shoot him a warning look. “We respect Tate. And his wife. Right?”
“Me?” Oz asks.
“Come on, Oz; we’re professionals.”
He frowns. “Tate’s gonna bust your face when he knows you’ve got it hard for his wife’s cousin.”
“Tate fucking knows, all right? And he’s not stopping me.” I rub my palms on my jeans and I glance at the clock.
The speakers flare up again for the second time: “Now boarding flight . . .”
The line is diminishing by the second.
I want to text her.
I’m too proud to text her.
I’m aware of Oz staring at me with an I-told-you-so look.
I get up and pace, then lean against a pillar, hands inside my jeans as I scan the walkers heading in our direction. I wait a little longer.
I text her.
You ok?
I call her. Voice mail picks up. “Reese? You all right? Call me.”
I check my phone for messages, nothing. I check my ticket and I stare out at the plane window.
Oz looks at me, the last man boarding.
I shake my head.
He sighs and heads inside.
And I watch the plane taxi out. Watch it head to the line, and then watch it take off.
The plane disappears on the horizon. I wait for two more hours. Dragging my hand through my hair, over and over. Then three hours.
Four hours later, I head to the ticket counter and change my ticket to coach.
Flying first class on my own just isn’t on my agenda.
