Page 17 of Tempting Eden

Our captain was short and stout, and looked to be in his sixties. He wore a Braves cap, and his silver hairs floated around his ears. He waved at me as I caught up with Ms. Rochester.

“Tom, this is my assistant, Jack. He’ll be working with me on Belle Mar, so you two will be seeing a lot of each other.”

She turned back to me. “Jack, Tom is a retired Navy pilot. He was a top gun instructor, if that makes you feel any better.”

I’d seen parts of that movie—though I still couldn’t figure out what the deal with the half-naked guys playing volleyball was about. But knowing that Tom could actually teach people how to fly made me feel better. At least a little.

“Now, Tom, go easy on us today. This is Jack’s first time flying.”

Tom slapped his hands together and stomped one of his feet so hard his mirrored aviators slid down his nose a bit. “Well, hot damn! That’s rare these days. I promise I’ll make it a smooth ride. Great day for flying.” He pointed a crooked finger to the cloudless blue sky. “Good air up there. You sure you’re all right, son? You’re looking a little green around the gills.”

“Oh, he’s fine. Aren’t you, Jack?” Her smile was back, mischievous at best, diabolical at worst.

I nodded and swallowed hard. My mouth was suddenly dry, my tongue somehow growing huge and spongy.

“Well, don’t worry, we still got some vomit bags stowed away somewhere. I’ll fix you up a couple.” He took Ms. Rochester’s luggage and opened a hatch on the side of what claimed in bold writing along the side, to be a Cessna.

“Thanks, Tom,” I managed to say.

Ms. Rochester grinned at me. “So this is the way to disrupt your poker face? Make you fly in a tin can with an octogenarian at the controls?”

“He’s eighty?” I gasped. Images of him slumped forward over the controls, his hat lolling off his head and his aviators askew flooded my mind. Ms. Rochester asking me if I could fly the plane. Me shaking my head and using the vomit bags. I could hear the whine of the engine.Going down.

She laughed as Tom stowed her luggage and came back for mine.

“No, I’m teasing. He’s only in his sixties. I think.” She cocked her head to the side, pretending to be stumped. If I didn’t know better, I would think she was flirting with me.

Tom, ignorant of our banter or perhaps slightly deaf, took my bags and canvasses to stow them along with Ms. Rochester’s luggage. He dropped open the passenger door on the side of the aircraft, and Ms. Rochester climbed inside. Tom’s eyes and mine were glued to her ass as she went. He lowered his mirrored aviators and gave me a wink once she’d settled in. I decided I liked the old guy.

I took a deep breath and followed. I felt as if I was folding myself in half to fit into the cramped quarters. I couldn’t even stand up straight, but once I’d plopped down in one of the plush seats, I realized it wasn’t as tiny as it had seemed. There was a cockpit and in the rear, four seats all covered in cream-colored leather. The seats faced each other around a small table in the center.

Ms. Rochester was already setting up her laptop, as if this was just another day at the office. Tom climbed in, the aircraft rocking back and forth with his movements. I leaned back and breathed slowly and deeply, trying to calm my heartbeat. I closed my eyes so I couldn’t see the closeness of the roof.

“All right folks, let’s get this party started.”

Ms. Rochester giggled, actuallygiggled, and said, “He says that every damn time. Without fail. I think it’s a good luck charm or something.”

I fucking hope so.

The engine came to life, not exactly a roar, but it was loud enough to show there was some power behind it. Maybe this questionable contraption could get us into the clouds, after all. Tom started babbling into a mouthpiece about flight plans, just like in the movies. I imagined he was wearing a bright yellow headset over his Braves cap. He went on for a while until I heard him clap his hands again.

“Cleared for take off. Everybody buckled up back there?”

I looked around and found the old-school lap belt. My hands were shaking, and it took two attempts for my sweat-slickened fingers to grip the metal. I snapped it in place, pulled the belt across, and yanked it tight. Ms. Rochester did the same, though hers was far too loose for my liking. I wanted to reach over and tighten it for her. I lifted my hand from the armrest to do just that, but then Tom revved the engine, and we started to move.

I gripped the armrest and screwed my eyes shut as tightly as they would go. My ears were at once hot and cold. We picked up speed. The wheels rumbled beneath us, and something made a loud whining sound like metal turning or warping or maybe disintegrating. I didn’t know.

I was trapped, caged. I had no room to move, no air to breathe. I could feel the old familiar bars under my hands, the coldness and the metallic smell they left on my palms. Dampness. My cell was always slightly damp from a leak under the sink. That feeling was here, too. My palms were wet, clammy. The other inmates were making noises, banging on their cell walls, their bars, making the whole prison hum and vibrate. I covered my ears, the sound growing unbearable.

“Jack?”

I was on the plane.On the plane. There were no bars, not anymore. I rubbed my ribs on my right side, imagining the ink beneath my shirt. I would never be inside again. Never.

We had been coasting for a while but then turned abruptly. The engine grew even louder, and we took off at a rush, the speed building to a fever pitch. My insides were being wrenched apart, just like the time I was almost beaten to death in the juvie yard. The noise of the engine mimicked the sound of the other boys crowding around me. The echo of fists on skin, a sick smacking sound. My ribs breaking. My blood soaking through my shirt.

Someone grabbed my hand, gently at first and then pressing harder.

My eyes flew open. Ms. Rochester was leaning over, spanning the distance across the middle aisle and gripping my hand. My mind snapped back to the present. She was looking at me, concern in her touch, her eyes. She raised her eyebrows in an unspoken question: “Are you okay?”

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