Random Acts of Fantasy Read online

  And only a guitar.

  She broke the statue thing she was doing and took off like a shot, lumbering through and weaving between people like she was on roller skates. Gave me a sweet view of her ass, too.

  And I was still hard.

  Darla

  Just when I damn near got to knock my brain out of this anxious loop-de-loop it was doing about being afraid of flying, I had to run. Joe gave me the perfect fucking excuse to get out of my own head: his fiancee.

  FEE-ON-SAY. Like Beyonce, only without the Hulk face while dancing. Fiancee. He put a ring on that toothpick-legged chick with the useless shoes and a bitchface that could give Tori Spelling a run for her money.

  We got to the counter thingy in front of the gate where we were supposed to get on the plane, the unnecessary glare from an uptight airline employee ratcheting up my overall state like someone falling off their roof and snapping a femur after getting attacked by a swarm of bees.

  I just didn’t need that shit at that exact moment.

  “You’re cleared to board,” said the perfectly coiffed woman with hazel eyes and drawn-on eyebrows, her lips a shade of red that you only found on mail-order-bride websites from Russia.

  “Thank you!” Joe and I said in unison, looking around. No Trevor, Sam, Liam, or Amy.

  Hope they boarded already.

  Oh—and no Suzy.

  FEE-ON-SAY. Joe almost married the woman. That meant love, right? Men don’t put a ring on it if they don’t intend to declare themselves before a justice of the peace or the president of Harvard or whoever the fuck performs weddings out here in Fancyland.

  Joe almost made Chicken Legs his forever woman.

  And never said one single word about her to me.

  So, if you are with someone for seven months, and you’re trying to figure out whether you’re in love, you talk about your past loves, right? Me and Trevor had. He knew all the nitty-gritty about Davey, the atrocious car-window speller, and the other mumblety-mumblety number of guys I’d been with. And that one girl.

  Maybe. We were seventeen and I had a lot of peach and peppermint liqueur, so my recollection of that night is hazy. I do know there was a kiss…

  “What are you thinking about?” Joe asked sweetly, which made all my sensors go off and scream like DEFCON 9000. Because Joe didn’t do sweet.

  And no straight man ever, ever asks a woman what she’s thinking. It would be like a man having a period or suddenly thinking Josh Groban is the best singer ever, or begging to rent The Notebook and watch it. Nuh-uh.

  “I am thinking that you are trying to deflect me by going all gooey-metrosexual man on me and that shit ain’t gonna work.” I handed my boarding pass to a woman who used a handheld scanner on it. Beep! And then she handed the paper back and did the same with Joe’s.

  But she didn’t tell me what to do next, and I stared at a doorway that looked like the tunnel to hell. A gaping maw without teeth, and a whooshing sound with the distinct scent of cooked rubber and air freshener. My stomach roiled.

  Wasn’t this all enough already? Mama’s diabetes problems, Joe being gone and coming back, juggling his jealousy and Trevor’s needs, adjusting to my new, weird job, and then this invitation to a place called “Eden”—and to top it off, Joe’s ex-fiancee shows up and there’s some sort of kinky ex-stalkerchick element there that I’m supposed to process?

  Hello! Too much. Overload. Not okay. My motherboard just fritzed out as I stood there.

  I couldn’t move. Joe bumped into me as he tried to go, and whispered, “Darla. Go through the door to board.”

  Silence. My brain just…wandered off. Like an American hockey player in the finals against Canada at the Olympics.

  “Darla,” he said more urgently. People were looking at us. I didn’t care. My brain was picking daisies in the sunlight. My brain was a little girl dressed in a bee costume in a field of flowers. My brain was a teenage singer dressed in a bear costume licking a rope. My brain had done gone over.

  Joe grabbed my upper arm and yanked me out of the way. Everything smelled like chemicals, like structure and oppression and fear and control. I couldn’t go down that hallway. There Be Dragons, or something like that.

  Why couldn’t we just take a bus and then a nice ferry to the island?

  “What is wrong with you?” Now his voice was a blend of anger and genuine concern. Nice of Joe to summon that from the depths of that cold little heart.

  Truth. My brain decided to let my mouth open and dump out the truth.

  “I hate you and Trevor’s better in bed than you.”

  OKAY. NOT TRUE. But apparently my brain had decided that it was better to piss him off than to admit my vulnerability. My brain can be stupid like that. It’s part Justin Bieber in an M&M factory with a tricked-out forklift made from a Hummer. With a flamethrower attachment.

  “I love you, too, dear,” he said. It felt like a smack in the face, but he said it with a smile. Our eyes locked. My heart slammed in my chest. The air smelled like flowers and hope and freedom. Nothing but Joe was here, and he reached for my hand and slipped something in it.

  A ring?

  Nope. A pill.

  “Swallow this. You clearly have a problem with flying,” he added, his voice clinical and nonchalant, as if the “I love you” meant nothing. Apparently it hadn’t. It was a joke to him, said as a joke and meant as a joke, and dammit, that’s how I’d have to take it, too.

  My head pounded in a jagged off-beat, out of sync with my heart. I dry-swallowed it and grabbed my bag, following him into that tunnel. Then my brain kicked back in and I asked:

  “What was that you just gave me?”

  “It’s like a Valium. Just don’t drink any alcohol on the plane and you’ll be fine. What do you normally take when you fly?”

  See? He assumed I’d flown before. And if I admitted I never had, it would become another thing that separated me from Trevor and Joe. I’d be poor, underprivileged Darla who didn’t know anything about the world, and I was sick of that. So I played along.

  “I don’t take anything.” Which was technically true.

  “Nothing? I’d think for anxiety like you have—”

  The floor was a series of sections with thick edges, covered with a rolling black industrial carpet that smelled like rotten oil. The air was pumped through by some kind of fan and a jumbled pile of hastily dropped strollers greeted my view as we came around a slight curve. The stewardess looked like a warden.

  “I don’t have anxiety!” I said.

  He laughed, that low, comfortable sound people make when they’ve been together a while and know each other. “If you don’t have anxiety, then I don’t have ambition.”

  Fair enough. I let it slide because why argue when you’re boarding the plane to your own death? At least I’d get a bag of peanuts and a watered-down cup of pop before meeting Satan.

  Acting like a mute eight-year-old got me through greeting the stewardess, who seemed to glare at me and speak in words I didn’t understand, but I forged ahead as a nice, low-level glow started to build inside me. She sounded like she was speaking Bulgarian.

  The inside of the plane looked exactly like it did in the movies and on television, except all the seats seemed to be designed for people with twelve-inch asses. I possess an ass that is distinctly not in the twelve-inch range. Not even close. Hell, I think I slithered out of my mama’s body with an ass bigger than that. When we got to our row, Trevor was already there, his brow creased with worry.

  He looked hot.

  And I creased my brow, too, and said, “You don’t think my ass can fit in any of these seats either, do you? Don’t worry. I’m sure they have an ass crowbar somewhere here.”

  Someone in the row ahead of us chuckled and I fell in love.

  “Your ass is fine,” Trevor said, shooting Joe a look that I didn’t understand, because my hands had decided to defect from the rest of my body. It was kind of nice, being handless and all. Suddenly, the plane seemed so lo
ving. I wanted to just start singing that old ’70s Coca-Cola commercial song.

  So I did.

  Trevor un-clicked his seatbelt and jumped up. He’d taken the aisle seat, and Joe whispered furiously in his ear, the two arguing while I looked around the plane for my hands. Detachable hands.

  “Detachable penis,” I began to sing, and that caught Liam’s and Sam’s attention. A big old red head of hair turned around and looked at me with more expression than I knew Sam was capable of making with that beautiful face.

  “You our new lead singer?” he asked. Amy giggled.

  “I hear you, Amy. How’s your phone?”

  She went silent.

  And then a wave of fear poured over me. Where would I sit? My ass was too juicy to squeeze between my men. The only way this would work would be to reduce the amount of stuff that I had to fit in that itty-bitty seat, and I couldn’t cut off chunks of my own flesh.

  So I came upon a lovely solution as I began to panic in earnest.

  My clothes had to go. Any layer that added bulk to my body was now non-essential. While Joe and Trevor hissed at each other like they were speaking in Parseltongue, I began to unbutton my jeans. Joe caught me out of the corner of his eye and smacked Trevor’s shoulder.

  “Darla?” Trevor’s hand grabbed mine. Oh my God! My hands were back! I wrenched the one he held away and started clapping. Yup. If you love your hands set them free. If they come back, they’re yours. If they don’t, then they’ll probably end up in the property of some serial killer who uses your skin as a pussy pocket.

  Words to live by.

  “Pussy pocket hands,” I marveled. Hands. Hands look like five-legged spiders, you know? Spiders. I hate spiders. I began to shake, because holy motherfucking shit, there were spiders attached to the ends of my arms!

  “I think the flight is terrifying her,” Joe explained as Trevor made me sit down. He took the window seat, carefully guiding me into the middle, and Joe took the aisle seat, his face smug as a bug in a rug.

  Or something like that.

  “You’re shivering,” Trevor said, throwing a thin blanket with the airline’s logo on it over my lap.

  “Spiders,” I murmured. “Spiders on a motherfucking plane.”

  He laughed. “No, that’s snakes on a motherfucking plane.”

  “SNAKES?” I screamed. “OH MY GOD, WHERE?”

  A few people who were loading their luggage into those bins up top stopped and frowned at us, and Trevor clutched me in his arms, pushing my mouth against his shoulder. “There aren’t any snakes or spiders anywhere, Darla. It’s okay. It’s fine to be a nervous flyer. You’ll be okay.”

  “I am not a nervous flyer.”

  “That’s what she said when she froze as we boarded,” Joe added, leaning across me to talk to Trevor as if I didn’t exist. As if my hands weren’t spiders. As if he didn’t have a FEE-ON-SAY he’d hidden from me for eleventy billion years.

  “No. I didn’t.” I began to giggle. Haha. Secrets. I had one, too.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you have to pick a fight with everyone, Joe?” Trevor asked. Ah, his warm body felt so good. Joe reached for my free hand, the other one now inventorying the chest hair that sprinkled the edge of Trevor’s t-shirt. One, two, eleventy.

  “But she said—”

  “I’ve never been on a plane before,” I blurted out, pleased with myself for keeping such a big secret.

  Oh. Wait.

  “Never?” they said in unison. Trinison. Quadrison. No—quintison, because Amy, Liam, and Sam must have been listening. Five voices all realizing my secret.

  “It’s not like I’m a virgin and you’re all finding out right now,” I declared. Perhaps a little loudly, because people a few rows up laughed.

  “But you’re a flying virgin,” Amy said.

  “I have never flown. Nope. Lots of people haven’t. I’ll bet this is the first time for one of you.”

  Silence.

  I stood, my dignity ruined, and now my earlobes done run off with my ego. “Anyone else here on their first flight ever?”

  A woman said, “My six-month-old is flying for the first time.”

  That made Joe snicker. I sat down, defeated.

  “Even the spiders and snakes have flown before,” Trevor said.

  “SNAKES!” I screamed, shaking against his warm chest. Joe’s hand squeezed mine and he and Trevor shared some quiet words. Then Trevor peeled me off him, the coolness shocking me. The plane felt so tiny, and the thought of moving up into the clouds with no ground beneath us seemed so stupid.

  Stupid. Who goes into the air and has that kind of pride, of thinking you could cheat nature and make humans fly? If we were meant to fly we’d have wings, right? I reached back and caressed Trevor’s shoulder blades. Nope. No wings. He was such an angel, though, that I wouldn’t have been surprised to find some tucked in there.

  “What are you doing?” he asked with a smile, voice rumbly and low in that way that always made me wet and hungry.

  “Checking for your wings.”

  “C’mere, Darla,” Joe said, tugging on my hand. “I think you need to go to the bathroom.”

  And you know what? He was right. Because suddenly I had to pee like a racehorse. I stood and looked back at the sea of faces sitting, thirty rows of human fleshbags with feelings and opinions and hopes and dreams and hands that didn’t wander off like lost children at the county fair.

  But I sat down instead. “No. You go. I’m fine.”

  Joe frowned but said nothing, snaking his way (snakes!) through the aisle back to the End of the World where the plane just stopped. Stopped. Like the edge of the planet.

  Trevor stroked my shoulder and hitched his hips up from the seat, lifting his ass.

  “You want a blowjob? Here?”

  One of the guys ahead of us started choking.

  “I’m reaching into my front pocket to get something,” Trevor said slowly, enunciating with great care. And then he pulled out a tiny pill.

  With hands that were still attached. He handed it to me and my hand took it. It came back!

  He pulled out a bottle of water. “Drink this. It will help calm your anxiety. My mom always gives me one just in case when I fly. I guess when I was a kid I was a real basket case on flights.”

  “That must have been so annoying for your mom. To deal with someone anxious, I mean.” I put the pill on my tongue (which had not run off) and swallowed.

  He just smiled in response.

  “You and Joe are so sweet to help me calm down.”

  Trevor put the bottled water in the little flappy thing on the back of Sam’s seat. And then he froze in mid-reach.

  “Joe?”

  “He gave me a nice pill, too.”

  Trevor’s eyes got real wide, like I could swim in them if I wanted to, only I’d need hands to help me push the water aside, the water of Trevor, the lapping ripples of pure sunshine and love inside him that could make its way into my pussy and…

  I suddenly needed to pee.

  My legs were still there, and when I stood all those fleshbags were there, row after row of men and women and boys and girls, the occasional squawking baby fleshbag in the mix. I smiled nice and big as my not-twelve-inch ass made its way down the long aisle to the bathroom.

  Occupied.

  Bang bang bang. Didn’t people understand I needed to go? My shirt covered my waistband, but my hands found the button to my jeans undone. Silly Trevor. He must have tried to get in my pants earlier.

  “Occupied,” a man’s voice said.

  “I can read!” I said loudly. And then—click. The door opened, an arm shot out, and I was pulled into a silver-covered room not much bigger than a coffin.

  Hey, if you’re headed to hell already, might as well spend some time in a coffin on the way there.

  Joe’s mouth crushed mine with the kind of kiss that tells you everything. He wanted me, he wanted my mouth, his hands (attach
ed!) ate up my big old ass, running up under my t-shirt. A groan escaped when he groped my unbra-ed breasts and I groaned, too. Trevor had made my pussy nice and wet by just being Trevor and now Joe was—

  What in the hell was Joe doing?

  “Want to join the Mile-High Club?” he asked, shuffling his feet, the press of his erection against my thigh the only card I needed to become a member of this exclusive, invitation-only group.

  “Hell yes. Sex on a motherfucking plane sure does beat snakes.” Snakes! My head whipped around the room as Joe’s fingers undid my zipper, his hands everywhere, like he’d multiplied them and had them surgically attached to come out whenever he had an erection.

  Maybe he had. I couldn’t put anything past Joe.

  Oh, how he tasted so fine, like coffee and mint and citrus and man and yum. My hands found his cock quickly, somehow figuring out zippers and boxer briefs and the feel of his soft flesh against mine was like ice on fire, like something immortal and naughty being emblazoned into my soul.

  He turned me, one finger sliding in my wetness, and I groaned, because Joe had this way. This perfect way of touching me that made me—

  “Oh, God,” I whispered. “Right there.” The throbbing made all my fears and shakes and worries go away, and he turned me so my ass faced him, then pulled my jeans down with a frantic need that made me want him more.

  “What about a condom?” You’d think my brain, which was more likely to wander off than my hands, wouldn’t worry, but some part of me did.

  “Got it.” A kiss on my neck came with the tearing of foil and then he was poised at the tip of my sweetness and plunged in from behind, his thighs hot against my own, my arms balanced over the toilet seat, my face inches from the flushing warning.

  Romantic.

  You take what you can get, and in this case I was getting out of my head as Joe was getting into me, and holy fuck as he thrust into me it was like all the cacophony of this plane-ride chaos—of Mama and work and Suzy and the enormity—disappeared into the lust of being fucked so hard and so well I pulled in, a wave of muscle and need curling up and tightening around him like I could never let him go.

  “You’re milking me from the inside,” he hissed, the motion making him thrust harder as I came not once, but a million times in one giant wave, pulsing through my core as I shook not with anxiety, but with the oh, holy hell of Joe delivering exactly what I needed, and when.