“Sir, you can’t carry your guitar on. You’ll need to check it.”
“Make an exception for me? Please, Betty?” I say, glancing at her nametag and accentuating the English accent. Usually, my clipped tones get me out of sticky situations, especially with the female half of the population, but I’ve been hitting a brick wall since the moment I walked up to the desk. Maybe it’s my tattoos, leather jacket, and mesh tank top—I don’t exactly scream nice guy.
Her beady eyes sweep over me, lingering on the black widow artwork on my neck and then moving to check out my hair. I touch it self-consciously. It’s cobalt blue this month, swept back in a gelled pompadour style with the sides shaved close to my scalp. Next week, I’m dying it white. No matter the color, girls go nuts over it.
Not Betty.
“I’m sorry, but you already have a carry-on bag and a personal item. That’s all that’s allowed on the plane. Those are the rules, and they’re clearly marked.” She points to a sign on the wall next to me that explains the rules for flying with Delta. It’s the second time she’s pointed them out to me, and the stubborn arsehole I am, I refuse to look.
“But this is my one true love.” I lightly stroke the case.
“It’s a guitar,” she says dryly.
I lift the case up on the counter and pop open the metal snaps, giving her a view of the yellow and blue instrument. “She’s a Gibson Les Paul that’s gutsy as shit but lightweight at the same time. She’s made from maple with rosewood inlays—the best money can buy, worth over five grand. Paid for this baby myself. Dear old Dad didn’t even help.” I point to a small horizontal strip at the end of the fingerboard on the neck of the guitar. “See this here? That’s the nut on the bass and it controls the string placement. It’s made from real bone. I don’t know what kind of bone it is, but I like to think it’s from a lion or a tiger. Of course, they weren’t killed to make the guitar, but their bones were donated after they died in some majestic battle in the wild. Fitting, right?” I grin.
Come on, Betty, let us on the plane, my eyes beg.
But Betty bristles at me, her bushy gray eyebrows lowered in a scowl behind tiny reading glasses. Her lips thin as she gazes down at the beautiful piece of art. “Please remove your item from my desk, sir.”
I lean over the counter, widening my eyes, giving her the full-on Spider effect, or in other words: my gorgeous peepers with long black eyelashes. People tell me it’s a gaze that’s devastating to the female reproductive organs, and I question if she has working anatomy because she doesn’t seem fazed by my allure, even when I bite my lip. “Helene and I—that’s her name, Helene—have been together since I was fourteen.”
“That’s nice.” She’s already looking over my shoulder at the person behind me.
I forge on, lying through my teeth. “My girlfriend dumped me while I was here in New York.” The truth is it’s not hard to fake feeling low with a massive hangover. “She always had a cheating problem. Once it was my cousin she slept with—talk about some weird family get-togethers after that.” I sigh. “We came here to, you know, figure things out, and then she met him.”
“Look, Mr.—”
“Please, call me Spider.”
Her brows shoot straight up, her eyes bouncing back to the black widow tattoo on my neck. “Er, Mr. Spider, I’m sorry about your girlfriend. She sounds awful, but—”
“Have you ever been cheated on, Betty?”
She nods, albeit a little grudgingly.
I wave my hands at her. “You get it then—the heartbreak. God, the way she played me.”
“Was it your cousin again?”
I nod, dabbing at my eyes with a napkin I tucked in my pocket last night at the club. I peek at Betty, watching as she moves from foot to foot, her eyes weighing me, checking for sincerity.
“My dog died last week, too,” I toss out in a last-ditch effort, sinking to a whole new low for me.
The thing is, I’m headed to see my father, and just the thought of seeing him makes me want to puke. He’ll see what kind of shape I’m in and know the truth.
I need help.
But also . . . fuck him.
“What kind of dog?” Betty asks, startling me.
What kind of dog?
Shit. I freeze, unable to snatch a breed of dog out of thin air. Think of a dog! It’s not that hard. What’s that multicolored collie that had its own show in the seventies? Ah, my head. God, hangovers suck.
“Say Yorkie,” a female voice hisses in my ear from behind, the push of her words causing tingles to slide down my spine as she breathes against my neck. “They’re cute and small. She’ll like those. Plus, I’d really appreciate if you’d get out of my way so I can get on my plane. You’ve been holding up this line forever. It’s rude.”
The girl’s warmth leaves me as she takes a step back.
I feel summarily dismissed.
“Collie,” I say to a waiting Betty. “Like in Lassie, the TV show.”
“I like Yorkies myself,” Betty murmurs as she taps on her computer.
“Told you so,” grumbles the voice of the girl behind me.
I ignore her and place our latest CD on the desk, signing it quickly with a permanent marker from my backpack. “Someday I’m going to be famous, and this is my gift to you, and I’m not giving you this so you’ll take care of Helene . . . it’s because you’re a beautiful woman, Betty, and every beautiful woman deserves a little surprise in her day.” My lips kick up in a grin. “But, if you can find a way to get my guitar on the plane, well, that would just be icing on the cake. Maybe I’ll write a song about you—Betty has quite the ring to it.”
Lo and behold, a dimple appears on each of her cheeks as she takes the CD and gives me a considerably warmer look. “We have an area in first class that we usually reserve for coats and such. Maybe there’s room there. Let me check.”
Two seconds later she’s calling someone up, checking if they have a place for my guitar.
I smell victory.
Something soft pokes me in the back.
“What the—” I turn and see a large bed pillow currently being held by the girl who whispered in my ear. I move my gaze up and take her in.
Ruby red lips.
A tight black dress.
And a pair of high-top red Converse.
Damn. I bite my lip—and this time, it isn’t fake.
Pillow Girl checks all my boxes.
I half-expected some uptight old lady in a nun habit, but she doesn’t look old, maybe somewhere in the vicinity of my own age of twenty-two. She’s gorgeous in a way that makes guys—and girls—look twice, maybe three times, but I see beautiful babes all the time on the road.
Wide eyes stare back at me, landing on my tattoo and then dropping down to take in my shoulders, hips, and legs. I smile widely because I know I look tight. My face is near perfect, my shoulders are muscled, and my long legs look damn good in designer jeans.
“Sorry I poked you,” she says with an arch to her brow.