“Done.”
With nudges and winks, they wished Rye good luck, then left them. As they sat down in the vacated chairs, Rye said, “I recommend sticking to the basics like a cheeseburger and fries, or nachos.”
“What else is on the menu?”
“Sides.”
“What are they?”
“Chili and jalape?os.”
“I’ll take the cheeseburger. No sides.”
He signaled a passing busboy and, as he was clearing the table, Rye said, “Couple of cheeseburgers, please.”
“I ain’t the waiter.”
Rye gave him a pained look. “Give me a fuckin’ break and bring out two cheeseburgers, okay?”
The young man looked even more pained. “Fries?”
“What do you think? And two Cokes.”
“Bourbon in those?”
Rye shook his head. “I may be flying tomorrow.”
“Rum?”
Rye laughed. “Straight Coke.”
After the young man moved away, she said, “You seem right at home.”
“Yep. And I know how the system works. Wait here. Keep your head down. Don’t make eye contact, or he’ll take it as encouragement.”
“Who?”
“Pick one, any one.”
He left the table and waded his way to the bar, where he motioned the busy bartender over. He paid for the drinks of the two men who’d given up their table, then conferred privately with the bartender.
Brynn read the names and dates and vulgarities carved into the tabletop.
Rye returned. “I put a bug in the bartender’s ear.”
“He’ll find a pilot for me?”
“He won’t have to. The pilot will find us.”
“That’s the system? You put the word out and see who comes around?”
“Basically. But don’t be scared. Whoever winds up taking you will have met my qualifications. He won’t be a rookie.”
“Thank you.”
“Save it for when you’re on your way.”
She took a look around. “You were teasing me about the porn.”
“No, I wasn’t.” He indicated the wall nearest their table.
She looked at it, then realized that every inch of wall space was covered with pictures of airplanes. Every era of aviation was represented, so was every type, shape, color, and size of aircraft.
Rye said, “I call it ‘plane porn,’ because it’s what every guy in here gets off on.”
“Flying.”
“Flying.” He handed a five-dollar bill to the busboy, who had returned with their food and drinks.
They doctored their burgers using the condiments grouped into a beer six-pack in the center of the table, then dove in hungrily. When Brynn came up for air and took a sip of her drink, she said, “Why do you love it so much?”
“Tabasco?”
He’d poured a puddle of it onto his plate, but she knew he was using the quip to dodge giving her an answer. “Why do you love flying so much?”
“Early exposure, I guess. Most of my growing up was done on Air Force bases.”
“Was your father a pilot?”
“He had his license, but flying bothered his ears. Pulling Gs made him sick.”
“He didn’t have the stomach for it.”
He responded to her joke, but then his smile relaxed into a thoughtful expression. “He didn’t have the—” Coming up empty, he made a gesture of dismissal.
She ate one last French fry, then moved the plastic plate aside and wiped her hands on a paper napkin. “Didn’t have the what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes you do.”
He dabbed the last bite of his burger into the pool of hot sauce, but returned it to his plate without eating it. He took a drink, shifted in his seat, turned to see if perhaps the bartender had forgotten him. When he finally resettled and his gaze lighted on her, she said, “Rye, this may be the last private conversation we ever have. Make it count.”
“Why?”
“Because, it’s been roughly twenty hours since you knocked me to the ground. That was the high point. Since then it’s been one calamity after another. Aren’t I entitled to take away something meaningful from this experience?”
“You turned down a grope and a damn good sloppy kiss in the making.”
She held his stare.
He relented by exhaling a deep breath as he leaned back in his chair. “Thing of it is, I don’t know how to explain it, any more than I know how to explain my fingerprints. They’ve always been there, and so has the obsession for flight. It goes beyond liking it, or even loving it. It’s…” He paused, searched for the word, and again drew inspiration from his fingerprints. “Ingrained.”
He must have thought that she would comment, or thank him for enlightening her, and that would be the end of it. But she continued to watch him with a listening aspect.
Eventually, he continued. “For as far back as I can remember, I wanted to be up there. I’d spend hours on end as close as I could get to a runway, watching the planes take off. One after the other. Over and over. I never tired of it. Envied the guy in the pilot’s seat. All the time thinking, ‘God, I can’t wait to do that.’”
He looked toward the ceiling as though seeing open sky through it. Coming back to her, he said, “To this day, for that last nanosecond before I pull back on the yoke, I savor the anticipation of taking off. I still can’t wait.”
Her eyes glossed over with tears, but she sniffed them back. “Now, was that so hard?”
“Not very poetic.”
“You’re wrong.” She spoke with emotional huskiness, but even above the cacophony, she knew he heard her.
He sat forward and braced his elbows on the table. “Okay, Dr. O’Neal, your turn. Why did you become a doctor? Did you answer a call to serve your fellow man?”
“Something like that. My mother died when I was very young. Before I understood about incurable illnesses, I was angry at the doctors for not making her well. Wasn’t that what doctors were for?”
“You wanted to do better than they had.”
“I suppose that factored in, early on at least. But becoming a doctor was also—”
“Excuse me?”
She and Rye looked up at the man who’d interrupted them. He was around Rye’s age, but cleaner cut, with hair worn short, and a smooth shave. His Hawaiian print shirt was tucked into his jeans. A Levi’s jacket was slung over his shoulder, hooked on his index finger.
“Rye Mallett?”
Rye shot the bartender a vexed look. “I told him no names.”
“You’re in need of a pilot to fly this lady to an as-yet-undisclosed destination ASAP. Is that right?”
“You instrument rated?”
“Yes.”
“How many hours do you have flying IFR? And what kind of plane is at your disposal?”
“I’m not applying.”
Rye’s tone turned testy. “Then what?”
“There’s a cop asking around the pool tables if anybody’s seen you and a lady fitting this one’s description. Said the police are canvassing all the probable places for you to charter or rent a plane.”
“Shit!”
“So, that resonates?”
“Yeah. It resonates,” Rye muttered.
“What did y’all do to tick off Atlanta PD?”
“You don’t care what we did, or you wouldn’t be over here warning us.”
“Was it short of killing somebody?”
“Way short. In fact, she’s a doctor who’s trying to save a life and running out of time to do it. Security cameras in a parking garage have me trying to teach some manners to an asshole who came at me with a knife. His package is gonna need an ice pack for several days, but he’s still breathing.”
The explanation seemed to satisfy the other man. He pulled on his jacket. “The cop went into the can, but he won’t be long. I’ll walk out with her, like she’s my date. The cop has a picture of you taken off a security camera. I got a glimpse of it. It’s blurry, can’t tell much, but doesn’t hurt to be careful, so use my cap.”
He passed Rye a Braves ball cap. Rye put it on and slid off his bomber jacket.
“Good call,” the man said. “Jacket’s cool as shit, but it’s part of your official description. Meet you outside.” Addressing Brynn, he said, “You ready, sweetheart?”