Page 20 of Fly Boy
For all intents and purposes, Fiona Breacon is dead to me.
Chapter Eight
KCOS 090520Z 0906/1012 VRB18G30KT 2500 SHRA TSRA
BKN050CB
PROB30
TEMPO 0913/0915 VRB25G45KT 1200 +TSRAGR
BKN012 BKN040CB
I tap the stylus on the screen of my tablet, scrolling between the weather apps. Two reports just to tell me about the weather conditions in Colorado, yet both contradict each other.
The throbbing headache I’ve had since last night still rages and pulses just like my mood. I let my head fall back against the headrest and close my eyes, thinking about the forecast.
For the next thirty hours in Colorado, there’s variable gusting wind with rain showers and thunderstorm rain. There is a thirty percent chance that the gusting wind will pick up to 45 knots between one and three p.m. with heavy thunderstorms, rain, and hail.
Fucking great. Nothing I haven’t handled before, but the final part of the report has my eyebrows pinching together, the headache intensifying.
Broken clouds at 1200 feet and a cumulonimbus at 4000 feet.
In other words, there’s a chance—albeit a small one—that there could be one massive-as-fuck thunder cell sitting over the airport we’re heading for. A thirty-hour projection for whatcouldhappen from six this morning until twelve tomorrow afternoon. But no guarantees.
I open my eyes and lean forward, staring at the fueler from the window. I’ve requested enough for the flight out plus a little extra like always, but maybe I should ask for a bit more… No, fuck it. It’s not like I’m going to hang around when I get into the Colorado airspace anyway. Simply land, let Miss Cartwright disembark, refuel, and be off again as quickly as possible so I can get home and find the nearest bar to drown out the image of the last time I saw Fiona every time I close my eyes.
What does she even want? She hasn’t been in contact for most of my life and now she decides to reach out? Fuck that. She wasn’t interested in me as a child, so she sure as fuck doesn’t get to know me as a man.
“Morning, Wyatt,” Phillipa calls into the cockpit door as she walks past, her voice light and melodic. The small slice of sunlight through the dark cloud that is my mood.
“Good morning, Miss Cartwright,” I say, getting to my feet and greeting her from the doorway. “We will be on our way as soon as the fueler is done.”
She smiles and shrugs off her coat before dropping into her seat. “Not a problem. The longer it takes us to get back to the rink, the better.”
I frown, cocking my head to the side. “Practice not going the way you want?”
She sighs, long and exasperated. “You know when you’ve been doing something over and over, but you just don’t seem to be getting any better?”
I swallow a snort. If only she knew how long it took me to understand Terminal Aerodrome Forecasts without looking up the abbreviations and acronyms. The report is like code a hacker would use to break into a mainframe and render it obsolete.
“Well, that’s me. Not to mention, my whole body is killing me with all the extra overtime I’m putting in,” she says, leaning onto the side of one leg, bringing the other up to rest her foot on the seat, and starting to rub her calves. “Focus on the Grand Prix final, Pippa,” she mutters to herself, resting her cheek on her knee.
“When is it?” I ask. She lifts her head, a knot of confusion on her brow. Clarifying, I say, “The final.”
“The second week in December.” She winces as her fingers dig into her muscles. “Then nothing until the end of January.”
“I didn’t realize your schedule was so busy.”
She smiles. “Lifestyle of a professional athlete. And it doesn’t help that I come home most weekends too.”
That’s when I notice the dark circles under her eyes. I don’t know much about professional athletes, but I do know they won’t stop pushing until they’re the best. And even then, most still don’t think that’s good enough. But concern over the womanin front of me is not something I can voice. What do I know? I’m just her pilot.
“No moon boots this time?” I ask instead.
She laughs, shaking her head. “No, Evan stole those from me as soon as we landed.”
My jaw clenches at the mention of her partner, an unwarranted reaction that only serves to sour my fragile mood even further. Squaring my shoulders, I thumb toward the open plane door, my tone clipped as I ask, “Are we waiting on him again?”
