Alyvia: I love you, but I like cock.
“Hi, I’m Marcel, and this is my girlfriend Stefania,” a deep, masculine voice with a heavy Spanish accent says in my left ear, startling me.
I hastily close my screen before getting a chance to reply to her and turn my head to find them both staring at me with huge grins still plastered on their faces. “Nice to meet you. I’m Bristol,” I say softly, mad at myself for the inability to be rude, and praying they didn’t see the pictures displayed on my phone only moments ago.
“Bristol, that’s a really cool name,” Stefania chirps in a nasally, high-pitched voice, “and thanks again for trading with me. You’re such a sweetheart. Isn’t she, Papi?”
Oh God, please tell me she didn’t call him that.
She drapes herself across his chest, unabashedly batting her falsies—I’m not sure at him or me, since she’s looking back and forth between the two of us. Marcel shifts his gaze from her to me, his dark brown eyes roaming from my face, down to my bare thighs, and up again. “Yes, love, sweet indeed,” he rasps, his knee accidentally touching mine.
Weighted awkwardness settles in the pit of my stomach, unsure what the proper response is here. I thought I was being creepy gaping at mysterious emo boy, but this is on a whole other level. Both of their faces are alit as they wait for me to say something, but all I can do is laugh nervously.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not a prude by any stretch of the imagination. I’m confident my sex drive falls in the ‘normal’ category of most nineteen-year-olds, and actually, they’re both very attractive, well-dressed people, but they’re at least a decade my senior and she called him . . . No. Just no.
“Tha-thank you,” I stammer as I move my leg away from his. “It’s really no big deal. I’m just gonna uh, listen to some music and read for the flight. No big deal at all.”
With shaky hands, I reach down to grab the current issue of “Marie Claire” tucked in my backpack, their eyes following my every move. Opening it to a random place in the middle, I silently try to regain my composure . . . and then I look down to the article I opened it to. How I Planned a Ménage A Trois is plastered in bright red letters across the two-page spread. I slam the magazine shut and groan. Please, someone, shoot me now.
An amused snicker escapes from across the aisle, so naturally I swivel my head around to see who has witnessed this entire interaction, hoping for someone to start up a conversation with, anything to keep me from having to chat with Stefania and Marcel. At this point, I pray they suck face for the next three-and-a-half hours, completely forgetting I’m even here.
However, instead of a reprieve from the unnerving, I find myself staring into the most captivating whiskey brown eyes, twinkling with mischief underneath the navy brim of a baseball cap.
“So, whatcha reading there, sweetheart?”
YOU’VE GOT TO FUCKING BE KIDDING ME.
Of all the people that could be sitting directly across the row from me, it has to be him. Perhaps God misheard the ‘not’ part of my prayer asking to not be seated next to any of these people, because miraculously, I’ve found myself trapped between all of them.
“First, you stare at me in the airport like I’ve grown a second head, and now you don’t answer me when I speak to you,” he says with a southern drawl and an arrogant smirk. “Do we know each other and I don’t remember? If so, I’m sorry for my previous dickish behavior, but that’s just kinda who I am. Chicks usually dig it though.” His voice is dry, unapologetic.
“No,” I blurt out, unable to tear my gaze from his face, my cheeks ablaze knowing he saw me watching him. Damn, he’s good looking, and there’s something about him that’s familiar, but I can’t place from where.
“No, what?” He pulls his cap down further, covering his eyes even more. Maybe, Lyv was right . . . maybe he is trying to stay disguised for some reason.
“No, we’ve never met before,” I scoff, redirecting my focus straight ahead and growing more irritated by the second. “I definitely remember all the dicks I come in contact with.”
“That’s a damn shame,” he chuckles.
I’m not sure if he’s giving me a backhanded compliment, or increasing his already absurd level of narcissism; either way, I’m finished with the conversation—with him and the two weirdos to my left. I pull my headphones back up to my ears and close my eyes, hoping none of them will try to talk to me again. Gratefully, they all get the hint. Evidently, my headphones and shut lids work as the perfect duet for unapproachability. I make a mental note in case I need to use it again later in the trip.
Unfortunately, however, about an hour into the flight, my usually worthwhile sound-cancellation headphones aren’t doing near the job I need them to. Afraid to open my eyes, I can’t only hear the giggling and moaning from Stefania and Marcel every so often, I can feel the vibration in my chair every time they move . . . and they’ve been moving a lot.
In addition, if the dick didn’t already have cirrhosis of the liver, he definitely does now. I’ve heard him order no fewer than eight of those little bottles of Jack, two at a time as soon as beverage service began. But now, he’s either passed out or the flight attendant has cut him off, because he’s grown very quiet in the last thirty minutes or so. Resisting the urge to open my eyes and look over at him, I squeeze my lids tighter, trying to sleep a little before landing.
“This is your captain speaking from the flight deck,” a loud, male voice resonates throughout the plane, waking me from my nap. “There’s been a slight change of course in our flight this evening.” My stomach drops slightly, not liking the sound of this at all.
“The airport in Vieux-Fort is experiencing some serious technical issues,” he continues calmly, “so our flight has been rerouted to the George Charles Airport in Castries, on the other side of the island. There’s no need to panic,” naturally, the first thing I do is begin to panic, “because there will be plenty of taxis and shuttles available at the airport, waiting to get you all to your final destination. We apologize for this inconvenience, but your safety is of our upmost concern. Thank you for your attention, and we should have you on the ground within the hour.”
A quiet murmur breaks out among all of the passengers; however, the only words I can make out are coming from the hot dickhead across the aisle—the now extremely pissed-off, hot dickhead.
“What the fuck? Are you fucking kidding me? This is bullshit. I fucking knew some stupid shit like this would happen. Goddamn it, motherfucker,” he growls every word of his rant while banging his fist on the seat in front of him.
Like a car crash you can’t not look at, I turn to watch his temper tantrum, as does everyone else within earshot, until the flight attendant appears from the back. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to calm down and watch your language. Everything’s going to be just fine. We will ensure everyone gets to their hotel this evening.”
He doesn’t even bother looking up at her. “Fuck off and leave me alone. This is bullshit,” he snarls.
“I understand you’re upset, sir,” she snaps back, “but you really need to settle down before you scare the other passengers. Everything is going to be just fine; the captain will make sure the plane lands safely, and ground transportation can be handled once everyone deplanes.”
“Whatever, this is fucking ridiculous,” he mumbles, crossing his arms on the fold-out tray in front of him and burying his face in the crease of his elbow. “I knew better than to do this shit again.”
She shakes her head and storms off, leaving the rest of us wondering what in the hell just happened. I glance over at the crazy couple, mainly for some reassurance I didn’t imagine the entire exchange, and I’m greeted by two sets of eyes as wide as saucers. Shrugging, I lift my eyebrows to silently say ‘I’ve got no clue either.’
Not too long after, the seatbelt light overhead illuminates with a ding as the captain comes back on the speaker alerting us we’re about to land, at the wrong airport no less, and apologizes again
for any inconvenience the issue has caused. I momentarily forget about the freaks I’m surrounded by, returning to my panicked worry of how I’m going to get to my hotel and how much farther away I am now that I’m on the other side of the island.
When the plane finally comes to a stop, almost everyone jumps up, cramming the center walkway and grabbing their carry-on bags as the concern about being at the wrong airport is discussed openly. Listening to the others isn’t helping my level of uneasiness; suddenly being a young girl alone in a foreign country no longer seems like such a great idea.
“Which resort are you staying at?” Stefania asks me as we wait for the people at the front of the plane to disembark.
Once all of my things are securely inside my backpack, I swing it over my shoulders and answer. “Ti Kaye. What about you guys?”
“We’re at one of the Sandals—the adults only one.” She loops her arms around Marcel’s waist and gazes up at him dreamily. “We’re on our five year anniversary trip, and I think Papi has a surprise or two in store for me.”
I force a small smile as I look at them both, cringing internally. I know by the intonation in her voice she’s hoping for an engagement ring . . . or a big ass orgy . . . maybe both. But I also know by the look in his eye, she isn’t getting one.
Well, at least not the ring.
“I hope you two have a great time doing all those adult things,” I snicker, unable to hold in my inner-smartass any longer. “Don’t forget sunscreen if you’re gonna run around topless.” I wink at her as I step out into the aisle and begin to move towards the exit.
Stefania’s high-pitched giggles fade quickly as I hurriedly step through the hatch door, only to find myself outside, walking down a portable flight of stairs pulled up to the side of the plane. Where in the world are we?
As my feet find the solid ground, my eyes dart around the unfamiliar area, trying to figure out where to go, but all I see is a big-ass parking lot and a grass-roofed shack the rest of the passengers are walking towards. There isn’t another aircraft in sight, and the airport—if that’s what you want to call it—looks like the cabana bar in Lyv’s dad’s backyard.
“Just be happy they didn’t kill all of us,” a gruff voice from behind me mutters.
“Huh?” I spin around to find him standing behind me, his face expressionless, hiding in the shadow of his brim.
He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, then walks past me, softly nudging my shoulder with his arm. “Come on. Let’s get our bags and find a ride; you don’t need to be left alone.”
I stand there dumbfounded for a moment, wondering how in the hell this trip can continue to get weirder by the minute. “What?!” I finally squawk, taking brisk steps to catch up. “What did you say to me? Who do you think you are? And why can’t I be left alone?” My feet have to work just as fast as my mouth to keep up with him, his long legs striding dead ahead across the pavement.
We reach the open-air structure—no doors or windows, just a wide-open space—and he still hasn’t answered my questions or even looked back to make sure I’m still with him. There’s a guy in a red t-shirt and jeans directing us where to go to retrieve our luggage, and as we step into the makeshift airport, emo-boy abruptly grabs my hand, jerking me close to his side.
“Don’t fight me on this,” he insists, speaking low under his breath. “This place isn’t safe for a girl like you. I’ll help you find your bags and get us to the resort. Then, you never have to speak to me again,” he leans down to whisper suggestively in my ear, “or you can thank me later, if you’d like.”
I attempt to yank my hand from his, but he holds on tight, laughing heartily at my reaction. “Calm down. Jesus, I was only joking. For some crazy reason, I’m trying to help you, not hit on you.”
Lifting my eyes up to meet his striking light brown ones, I hiss in a jagged breath—he’s so much more than good-looking. Panty-dropping gorgeous is probably a better description, but having already been exposed to his self-proclaimed dickishness, and then seeing his juvenile outburst on the plane, my brain is sending messages as quickly as possible to my panties to hold-on tight.
“I didn’t think you were trying to hit on me,” I retort, turning my nose up in the air. “According to your shirt, your taste in women is much more refined and experienced.”
Another deep laugh emanates from him, resulting in a grin that shows off two perfectly-placed dimples, one on each side of his pearly-white smile. “Come on.” He tugs me into an area to the left, where apparently our entire plane’s luggage has been dumped in the corner of the room. “You’re funny, Mets girl. And yeah, your mom is probably more my style. Now, what does your luggage look like?”
I flinch at the mention of my mom, my face heating up. “I’ve got two bags, both zebra-print with hot pink tags, and unless you’re into necrophilia, Yankees boy, she’s probably not your type either.”
This time when I release his hand, he lets me go.
I shuffle over to the mess, immediately locating both of my suitcases, already feeling bad for what I said. I’ve never been one to throw my parents’ deaths in anyone’s face; pity is the last thing I’ve ever wanted. Before I go find a taxi, I need to apologize to him.
He’s sorting through a pile of black luggage when I locate him, and as I approach him, he grabs one and lifts it into the air with an “Aha!”
“Found it, eh?” I ask, my words an olive branch of sorts.
His head snaps in my direction and he nods. “Yeah, you get yours?”
“Yep,” I tilt my head downwards, “I guess I gotta find a ride now.” People are still milling around us, searching through the luggage, asking if anyone works here, and the level of disgruntled confusion is rapidly growing by the minute.
The gap between us is eaten up in two of his lengthy paces, and before I know it, he’s right up in my personal space again. “I told you I’d help you get there; it’ll definitely be safer for both of us to travel together. You don’t need to be going anywhere on this island alone. Okay?”
“Okay,” I agree, unsure why he keeps mentioning safety. I read up on the island quite a bit in the months leading up to the trip, and everything I read was positive, saying how nice the locals were and how they couldn’t wait to come back. “Which way should we go? Not that there are a lot of options.” I laugh nervously, glancing around the open space as I think about spending an extended period of time in a car with this guy whose name I still don’t know, and whom I am finding more captivating by the moment.
He tips his head towards the opposite way in which we entered. “Over there, I think.” I grab hold of my bags, thankful they’re both on wheels, and roll them behind me as I follow his lead. The good news is he was right about where to go; the bad news is it’s a freaking madhouse of disorganized activity when we get there.
People are shouting, running around, and trying to make phone calls everywhere I look. The pandemonium is unsettling. I’m not sure who to talk to or where to go. I just want to get to my resort.
“Stay right here. Do not move for any reason. I’m leaving my stuff here with you and I’m going to arrange a car for us.” His voice is firm and commanding, but surprisingly soothing to my nerves.
With not much of an option, I nod and wait for him, watching as he works his way through the crowd and talks to a black man dressed in solid white from head to toe. They shake hands before he heads back over to me, leaving me alone for less than five minutes.
“That guy’s gonna grab his car from the lot and come pick us up,” he explains.
“Awesome. Thank you, uh . . .” I snicker at the absurdity of this all, “I don’t even know your name. Sorry I haven’t asked yet; this has been a little overwhelming today . . . first flight ever, wrong airport, crazy swingers on the plane, and all.”
“No apology needed. You can call me D, Bristol, and yes,” he chuckles, “I was eavesdropping on your interesting plane conversation, so I know your name.”
A small, white car
pulls up across from where we’re standing, and the man giving us a ride climbs out of the driver’s seat, motioning for us to come over. Before D steps off the curb towards the car, he smiles apologetically and squeezes my hand.
“I’m sorry for the comment about your mom earlier; it was very disrespectful of me,” he says softly. “It’s true, I’m usually a dick, but I should’ve known better.”
“How could you have known?” I ask puzzled.
Freeing my hand, a wave of sadness washes across his face. “I’m staying at Ti Kaye too.” He picks up his bags, turns around, and starts walking away as the realization slaps me hard across the face and my mind begins to race.
He’s like me.
He’s a survivor too.
AS BRISTOL HURRIES OVER to the car where I’m lifting my suitcases into the compact trunk, I see the acknowledgement light up her eyes and questions form in her mind. Now she knows what I am, but still not who I am. Though there’s a good chance even if I told her my full name, it wouldn’t ring any bells for her; most teenage girls don’t follow high school and college football much, unless it’s where they go to school.
I’m a washed up has-been, yesterday’s news, my life but a shell of what it was a couple of years ago before everything happened. Once the most highly recruited quarterback in the country, now the only football I play is Madden on XBOX, while lounging on the couch in my parents’ house.
She stops beside me and reaches down to lift one of her bags up.
“I’ve got them both. Go ahead and get in the car,” I say, more as an order than a suggestion. Can this girl not see all of these guys openly gaping at her and her mile-long legs sticking out from those jean shorts?