Layover Rules

Chapter Two



I had been lying to Trevor a lot lately, and it was becoming almost as tiresome as he was. This time I told him I’d been having trouble with my bag and had spilled my coffee, which prevented me from getting to the phone when he called.

“If you’d take my plane, you wouldn’t have to carry anything. Including your coffee. And your flight wouldn’t have been delayed. Yes, I checked.”

I could almost hear his smile in the words he spoke through the phone. And I hated it. I wanted to carry my own bags, I wanted to fly by myself on commercial flights, and while he was joking about having someone else carry my coffee, it wasn’t that much of a joke. Given half a chance, Trevor would get someone to do it. “I thought we settled the travel thing.”

“Why are you fighting me, Sweet?”

Oh, that’s another thing. I was sick of his pet names for me. Sure, in the beginning they were cute and endearing. But now they sounded to me more like an avoidance of using my real name. Or maybe like the name of a pet. Actually, he’d called me that, too—his “pet”—and too often I felt exactly like one, and the leash was way too short.

“Trevor…” I didn’t know what to say without releasing the floodgates and letting all my frustrations spill out. And since that wasn’t a discussion I wanted to have in public, even one in which people would hear only one side of the conversation, I didn’t say anything.

“What is it?” Trevor asked.

“They’re calling my flight. I have to go.”

“Call me when you land.”

I took a deep breath, looked around the terminal, gripped my suitcase handle and said, “Will do,” in a terse and borderline sarcastic manner.

I ended the call, relieved and looking forward to a couple of hours of not having to deal with Trevor.

I only had myself to blame, of course. I had gotten into a relationship that wasn’t for me. In fact, it wasn’t for most women I knew.

I’m intelligent and independent. I’m also outspoken, something that’s usually said about women in a pejorative way, while those same attributes are seen as signs of strength in men. Most of the women I know—at work and in my personal life—are much the same. That’s probably why I associate with them.

I’m not some radical, bra-burning feminist. For one thing, I spend way too much money on my bras to set them on fire. And not to put too fine a point on it, but if someone doesn’t like you being yourself, they’re not really worth your time anyway.

So, yes, becoming Trevor’s sub was a mistake on my part. I plead one-hundred percent guilty to that.

Actually, Trevor aside, being a submissive wasn’t for me, no matter who I was in a relationship with.

Call it an error in judgment.

Now it was up to me to rectify the situation.



. . . . .



I managed to avoid Sam as we finally boarded the plane. I had no reason to talk to him, and I wasn’t especially in the mood for any conversation after my phone call.

I’d also made a quick call to the Atlanta store to let them know I’d be in later than anticipated due to the flight delay. Not that I had to check in and get approval; being from the corporate office, I didn’t have to answer to anyone at the store level, but I did want to keep them in the loop. Plus, I’d spent too much of my morning feeling and acting uncharacteristically annoyed. Calling ahead was the polite thing to do, and something I’d normally do anyway, so it helped me feel more like my real self.

Sam had boarded first and as I got on the plane I saw that he was in a first-class seat. I was in coach. My first thought was: maybe someday I’ll be sitting there, too. But when I made it to my seat, I was just thankful that I was aboard a commercial flight rather than Trevor’s plane.

The flight wasn’t crowded, unusual for a Monday morning, and it looked like I wouldn’t be sitting next to anyone, always a plus.

I got my belongings situated, and watched as more passengers boarded, hoping the two seats next to me would remain unoccupied.

I had been looking down, turning on my iPad, when I heard: “I’m 21-A.”

I looked up and saw a woman about my age, maybe a little older, with long blonde ringlets of hair framing her face. Judging by the way she was dressed—conservative blue pantsuit—I figured she must be in finance, or maybe a lawyer.

I got up to let her through, she thanked me, and I sat back down, more than a little disappointed.

I returned my focus to my iPad and put in the earbuds. I didn’t have any plans to start the music. I just didn’t feel like any idle chit-chat that morning.

As we readied for takeoff, I leaned into the aisle a few times, trying to catch a glimpse into first class. I wondered why Sam was traveling alone. The last I knew, he was married, and he had told me his wife traveled to all his games.



. . . . .



Sam and I met about eight years ago when I was a personal stylist assistant at Barneys. He came in one day and was escorted to the back of the store, where I worked assisting some of our more affluent and famous clients. Sam qualified as both, but I remembered him as being different from many of the rich men who came into the store.

I was never a baseball fan, so I wouldn’t have known who he was if my then boss hadn’t introduced him by his name and position—second-baseman for the Yankees.

To be honest, I’d always had the impression that athletes were kind of stupid, that while their bodies were finely tuned, their brains…well, not so much. I suppose that was due to the jocks I had known in high school. The guys all the girls chased, but who could barely string two coherent ideas together in an intelligible sentence. For years, I was convinced that they were getting preferential treatment in the classroom to keep them eligible to play their respective sports.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as though this belief defined my existence. In fact, I didn’t dwell on it much at all. For the most part, it was just something I assumed was true and it had little bearing on my life since I was more interested in artsy guys anyway. Particularly musicians.

I know, I know. Lots of people look at musicians the way I looked at athletes. But there was something so intriguing about the brooding, detached guys who, deep down, were sensitive and would own up to their emotions.

Or maybe they just did that to get in our pants.

Anyway, suffice it to say that when I was introduced to Sam, I had very little in the way of expectations. But the more I saw him—once every couple of months for a year or so—the more I learned that he didn’t fit my preconceived notion about athletes at all.

I should make it clear that I had no romantic feelings toward him. He was married, and having any type of involvement with a married man—beyond a friendship or professional one—was out of the question. If I ever compiled a list of things I wanted in my life, an affair with a married man would rank somewhere below getting the Ebola virus.

As we became more acquainted, I came to realize that while Sam was a big sports star, he didn’t let that go to his head, and, even more importantly, he unabashedly stated that he loved his wife more than he loved anything about his professional baseball career.

“I’d give it up in a heartbeat if she asked me to,” he once confided in me.

We’d been talking about their upcoming anniversary, and Sam had asked me to help him pick out something for her. The conversation had led to him sharing more about his marriage.

“Why would she ask you to stop playing?” I had asked, holding up a few cashmere sweaters I thought his wife might like.

His eyes fixed on the sweaters, a dead-serious look on his face, he’d said, “She wouldn’t. That was just hypothetical. I’ve never known anyone who had my best interests at heart more than Sandra.”

I remembered him very well, and it had almost nothing to do with his striking good looks—it was more along the lines of how different he was from the usual clients I helped. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and he was completely devoted to his wife. I never detected a hint of flirting, or even checking me out.

I never saw a shred of pretense in him. In fact, on more than one occasion he’d remarked about how he would never feel the need to buy high-end clothing if he didn’t have to keep up with all the other baseball players, especially when they were guests on TV shows or attending public events. “I’m more of a jeans and t-shirt guy,” he had said, “and in the winter, a fleece pullover and a coat from Old Navy would do. I can’t stand that wool trench coat.” Since I’d suggested that coat, I apologized. But he laughed it off, telling me he didn’t mean it as a criticism of me.

I saw Sam maybe fifteen times total back then, and then he suddenly stopped coming to the store. I had his number in my client book, so after two months of not seeing him, I called him and found out he’d been traded to the Milwaukee Brewers. He said he still had his place in New York and that he would come to Barneys for his clothing when he was in town.

He never did.



. . . . .



Sitting there waiting for takeoff, I noticed a strong scent wafting through the airplane cabin. Perfume. Way too much perfume. And it was coming from the girl who had taken the window seat on my row.

I tried to nonchalantly cover my face to block the smell, to no avail. This was going to be a long flight.

When we were finally airborne and leveled out, the captain announced that we were free to move about the cabin, and the flight attendants started coming around, delivering juice and coffee. At first I declined both, but then figured I’d take the coffee. I’d already had enough that morning, but I planned to hold the cup up to my chin so I’d smell that instead of the cloying perfume.

Turning on my iPad, I was unable to get it connected to the plane’s wi-fi, just as I’d been unable to get my iPhone connected in the airport. Either there was something wrong with these things, or I’d end up taking them to the Apple Store only to have a “genius” tell me the devices were fine but there was something wrong with me.

I thought about asking for help from Perfume Girl, who seemed to be having no trouble with her iPad, but I didn’t want to get any closer to her, and if I started talking with her I’d probably have to keep that up for a while and I couldn’t handle the thought of that right now.

“Excuse me.” I stuck out my hand, almost a cry for help, as a flight attendant passed by.

She stopped.

I held up my iPad. “Is the wi-fi on? I can’t seem to—”

“Again?”

That would be the voice of Sam. I hadn’t seen him coming down the aisle, thanks to the flight attendant blocking my view. She turned to look at him and smiled, a much different smile than she gave me.

He looked at the flight attendant, cocked his head toward me and raised his eyebrows as he said, “She’s not very good with these things. I’ll get it working for her.”

He edged past her and started to move toward the middle seat. I quickly pulled my legs up to let him by, my knees pressing against my breasts.

“You know, I could have gotten up,” I said.

He plopped down into the seat. “Too late.”

God, this was embarrassing. I wanted to escape from the plane, maybe use one of those inflatable slides that deploy during airline emergencies. But of course we were thousands of feet in the air, so that wouldn’t work. If only I had a parachute.

Sam looked at me with a grin, then his brow furrowed and he took a sniff, then another, his face scrunching up like he was disgusted. “Wow. What’s—”

I shook my head rapidly. Whispering, I said, “Not me,” then with a thrust of my chin, indicated that it was the girl in the window seat.

Sam’s eyes widened and blinked a couple of times. His lips made an O shape and he mouthed the words: “Too much.”

I said, “Ya think?”

Sam held out his hand and for a moment, I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I was getting high off the perfume.

He looked down at my lap. “The iPad.”

“Right. Sorry.”

I handed it to him and watched as he touched the screen. Without looking at me, he said, “How long is your stay in Atlanta?”

“Three days.”

He looked at me. “Same as mine. Maybe we’ll be on the same flight back too.”

“Maybe so.” And maybe by then you’ll figure out that you used to know me.

He looked back to the iPad, and said, “Do you know anyone in Atlanta?”

“No. This is my first time. I’ve had layovers there before, but I’ve never spent any real time there.”

“You know me, and I’ll be there.”

I nodded.

“Maybe we could get together, have a drink or something.”

“The wi-fi, please?” I said, ignoring his comment.

He smiled. “Sure.”

I watched him swipe the screen, pulling up a menu, and in a matter of about five seconds he had the wi-fi working and he handed my iPad over.

“It’s new, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Why?”

“Same thing happened to me when I first got mine.” He went on to explain about choosing a network in the Settings menu, then accepting the agreement from whatever network you were trying to get on, saving me from an embarrassing trip to the Apple Store. “It’s pretty much the same on the iPhone. I’ll show you.”

“I think you fixed it in the airport café.”

He held his hand out, shaking his head. “Different wi-fi. Might as well check.”

I handed him my phone and he did something with it, but I didn’t pay attention.

With the impromptu technology tutoring session over, we sat in silence for a moment, and then Perfume Girl spoke up.

“Aren’t you Sam Vonn, the baseball player?”

Sam turned toward her. “I am.”

I couldn’t see the expression on his face, but I managed to lean forward and see hers. She was smiling and flipped her hair as she declared her love of baseball.

Please.

She said her name, but I didn’t catch it. Didn’t care to.

Sam’s left hand was on his knee and I noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. He’d always worn it when I saw him at Barneys. I wondered if that meant he was divorced or if going ring-less was something he did on the road so he could flirt with impunity with girls who bathe in perfume. But that wasn’t like the Sam I remembered.

Oh, well. Not my problem.

With my earbuds in, I launched iTunes and started a playlist.

Sam and the girl talked for no more than two minutes or so, and then he turned back toward me. I pulled the earbud from my left ear.

“I’m going to head back to my seat,” he said.

“Thanks for the help.”

He turned back to Perfume Girl. “Nice meeting you. By the way, you smell fantastic.”

She thanked him, and I pressed my lips together to smother a smile.

After Sam left, I started the playlist on my iPad and checked my email. I picked up my phone to make sure I hadn’t missed any calls, swiped the unlock screen and it opened to the last thing Sam had done before handing it back to me.

He had put his name and number in my contacts list.