put her hands on her hips and twirled to face him. “I need you to get used to seeing dead guys if you want to kill Billy Lafitte. I need you to pull that trigger and mean it. Get in my car.”
“ Your car?”
“You wrecked yours, and I killed two white boys for this one, so yeah.”
Unbelievable. He needed to take a big piss. But he wasn’t going back into the little building behind them. He wondered if there were people watching from close-by, on their phones describing him and Melissa to the cops. He hoped they were saying Fine suit, handsome motherfucker. Girl has got an ass she knows how to use .
She opened the driver’s door of the Tiburon, and DeVaughn went around, got in the other side. Hot as balls in the car. Waves of heat coming out as he sat down. She cranked up and revved and revved again. Turned the a/c on full, a blast of hot making them both cough first before the cold hit. He expected her to shift into gear, but first Melissa grabbed his crotch all the sudden and said, “If we weren’t in a hurry, I would’ve let you fuck me back on the desk in their office.”
“You serious? Dead guys watching and shit?”
“I feel you getting hard. You know you would’ve.”
She was right. Off they went, too fast down a road lined with strip malls and fast food joints.
CHAPTER TWELVE
––––––––
A n hour into the flight, the turbulence shook them hard. Rome closed his eyes, interlaced his fingers on his lap, and took a deep breath. “Airplane crash” was a more high-profile way to die than “hit a deer”. Maybe people seeing his name on the victims list would get the nation talking about Lafitte again. Since he’d escaped and been able to stay escaped, the news had gotten tired of talking about it, and had stopped mentioning the sightings altogether.
Rome could be a martyr for his cause.
Worth it.
But when he opened his eyes after a calm stretch, the flight attendant was already up again, picking up the drink orders where he had left off. Nothing fancy, water or orange juice. Conventional wisdom: if the flight attendant is up and about, then no worries. This was a small jet, a CRJ-700, a bit stuffy but still plenty of leg room on the exit row they had paid extra for. Only four “first class” seats, only three taken this flight, both by lucky upgraders instead of someone who paid full price. He could tell because even back here, he heard word-for-word a conversation between a loud old woman and the flight attendant, telling him all about her upgrading adventures, and him doing a shit job pretending to care. Even she could tell the “sky waiter” didn’t care, but that didn’t stop her.
Wyatt read a magazine. Rome couldn’t read on planes. Never could. Didn’t like movies on flights, either. He listened to the drone of the engines, cringed to the slight bounce of the fuselage on the air currents. If he didn’t concentrate on those things, it would all fall apart. His willpower was what held the plane together.
Another bitchslap of turbulence. Jesus! He had to grab hold of the headrest in front of him.
Wyatt said, “Hey, Frank, take a look,” and started to pass over an article—some shit about an over-fifty dating service—but then the article was in his face, pressed hard against it. Rome reached up and grabbed the edge, peeled it off. He was disoriented. The plane’s dinger went ding-dong four times, and the flight attendant said, “Excuse me,” to the old woman as he turned for the phone, but the jolt came fast and dropped him to the ground as they lurched to the right. Way far right. Goddamn almost turned upside-down. People falling out of seats, luggage slamming down from the overheads. Screams.
Engines screaming too.
Oxygen masks.
Something cold. Cold all over. Smoke.
Ears pop pop popping.
Disembodied voices from the speakers: “Keep calm! Keep fucking calm! I can’t—I can’t—shit! I can’t!”
Wyatt, grunting, white-knuckling the armrests.
Rome
“ Your car?”
“You wrecked yours, and I killed two white boys for this one, so yeah.”
Unbelievable. He needed to take a big piss. But he wasn’t going back into the little building behind them. He wondered if there were people watching from close-by, on their phones describing him and Melissa to the cops. He hoped they were saying Fine suit, handsome motherfucker. Girl has got an ass she knows how to use .
She opened the driver’s door of the Tiburon, and DeVaughn went around, got in the other side. Hot as balls in the car. Waves of heat coming out as he sat down. She cranked up and revved and revved again. Turned the a/c on full, a blast of hot making them both cough first before the cold hit. He expected her to shift into gear, but first Melissa grabbed his crotch all the sudden and said, “If we weren’t in a hurry, I would’ve let you fuck me back on the desk in their office.”
“You serious? Dead guys watching and shit?”
“I feel you getting hard. You know you would’ve.”
She was right. Off they went, too fast down a road lined with strip malls and fast food joints.
CHAPTER TWELVE
––––––––
A n hour into the flight, the turbulence shook them hard. Rome closed his eyes, interlaced his fingers on his lap, and took a deep breath. “Airplane crash” was a more high-profile way to die than “hit a deer”. Maybe people seeing his name on the victims list would get the nation talking about Lafitte again. Since he’d escaped and been able to stay escaped, the news had gotten tired of talking about it, and had stopped mentioning the sightings altogether.
Rome could be a martyr for his cause.
Worth it.
But when he opened his eyes after a calm stretch, the flight attendant was already up again, picking up the drink orders where he had left off. Nothing fancy, water or orange juice. Conventional wisdom: if the flight attendant is up and about, then no worries. This was a small jet, a CRJ-700, a bit stuffy but still plenty of leg room on the exit row they had paid extra for. Only four “first class” seats, only three taken this flight, both by lucky upgraders instead of someone who paid full price. He could tell because even back here, he heard word-for-word a conversation between a loud old woman and the flight attendant, telling him all about her upgrading adventures, and him doing a shit job pretending to care. Even she could tell the “sky waiter” didn’t care, but that didn’t stop her.
Wyatt read a magazine. Rome couldn’t read on planes. Never could. Didn’t like movies on flights, either. He listened to the drone of the engines, cringed to the slight bounce of the fuselage on the air currents. If he didn’t concentrate on those things, it would all fall apart. His willpower was what held the plane together.
Another bitchslap of turbulence. Jesus! He had to grab hold of the headrest in front of him.
Wyatt said, “Hey, Frank, take a look,” and started to pass over an article—some shit about an over-fifty dating service—but then the article was in his face, pressed hard against it. Rome reached up and grabbed the edge, peeled it off. He was disoriented. The plane’s dinger went ding-dong four times, and the flight attendant said, “Excuse me,” to the old woman as he turned for the phone, but the jolt came fast and dropped him to the ground as they lurched to the right. Way far right. Goddamn almost turned upside-down. People falling out of seats, luggage slamming down from the overheads. Screams.
Engines screaming too.
Oxygen masks.
Something cold. Cold all over. Smoke.
Ears pop pop popping.
Disembodied voices from the speakers: “Keep calm! Keep fucking calm! I can’t—I can’t—shit! I can’t!”
Wyatt, grunting, white-knuckling the armrests.
Rome
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