A/N Many thanks to my reviewers- I hope you have as much fun reading this story series as I have in writing it!
CHAPTER 2
"Are you alright, Rusty?"
The teen cautiously turned his attention towards his guardian, and away from the seat back that he'd been staring at for the last few minutes. He had a vice grip on the arm rests of his own seat, and a tablet device running a chess game laying unattended in his lap.
"Um, yeah," he lied. "I'm just not real good with flying."
"You'll be okay, Kid," Provenza offered across from the aisle. "Just try to get your mind on something else." Frowning at his tray-table, the older man growled, "Like how much we're being overcharged just for the right to feed our stomachs. And for what? Eight dollars for a tissue paper-thin piece of turkey rolled up inside a flour tortilla. A mealy apple, and a stale oatmeal cookie? If this could potentially be my last meal on Earth, then I'd like it at least to be edible!"
Sharon glared past Rusty, and towards Provenza. "You're not helping, Lieutenant."
Detective Sykes peeked over the back of her seat, facing both Sharon and Rusty, like a little girl on her way to Disney World. "Think of something happy, Rusty. Like hitting the beach, once we get to the hotel."
"Because clearly, we don't have anything like it in Los Angeles."
"Rusty," hissed Sharon.
"But it's frakking true!" he whined.
"RUSTY!"
Sharon bit her bottom lip. The swear word, 'Frak', made-up as it was, from a TV show, was one of their agreed household allowances. It was used, with great measure, for everything good and bad, in place of the original F-word. Often, it resulted in shared laughter, afterwards.
Still, in that moment, she was beginning to lose patience.
The teen flopped his head back against his seat. "You're no better, Sharon. You've been dreading this trip since day one. Don't think I haven't noticed you giving yourself private pep talks. At home. In the car. At work, in the break room..."
Sykes raised an neatly groomed eyebrow. "When the two of us flew up to Denver a couple of weeks ago to extradite that baby killer, you had no problem with flying then. So what gives, Captain?"
Sharon crossed her arms. "No comment."
"It wouldn't have anything to do with your aversion to pink flamingos, would it, Captain?" Sykes asked pointedly. When her superior glared back at her, Sykes shrugged. "That's what Flynn heard from Taylor."
"And God knows Andy can't keep a secret," Provenza groused. When he heard Sharon sigh, he changed his tone and lightly teased, "Me thinks the lady captain has an aversion to the Magic City."
Ms. Raydor closed her eyes, hoping to block out the questioning looks from her fellow travelers. Perhaps Rusty's fears of their plane's eminent demise might become reality, she hoped darkly.
"Think happy thoughts," Rusty whispered into her ear, and patted her hand a few minutes later.
Instead of being full of attitude and snarky comebacks, he was acting like the young man she'd come to love as much as if he'd been born from her very own womb. Genuine and caring.
"Thank you, Mr. Beck."
Sharon squeezed Rusty's shoulder, and burrowed herself into the flimsy airline pillow as best as possible.
Happy thoughts...
Gentle, salty air breezes...
Waves, lapping upon the powdery shore...
A blanket of stars, unfolding as if by magic, overhead...
Distant music plays inside my body...
I can feel warmth from behind, and strong arms surrounding me...
The taste of rum is sweet on my lips...
And on his...
It is good...
Upon that last memory, Sharon's eyes flew open.
"No. No. No."
Once on her feet, she all but jumped over the legs of a startled Rusty, who was seated on the aisle, and retreated to the plane's rather thankfully unoccupied lavatory.
Locking herself inside the compartment, Sharon gripped at the stainless steel of the vanity counter, and took several deep cleansing breaths to regain her composure.
This was ridiculous. She was sixty-two years old. Successful in her career. Happy in her life. She had her family. Rusty. Co-workers. Not a lot of friends, but a few that counted greatly. Her days, and nights, were more than full. She certainly didn't need-
Sharon caught her reflection in the mirror.
Damn, but she looked like a woman on the verge of... an orgasm!
Maybe it was just a holdover of the menopause she'd long thought to have kicked in the ass. A last niggling little hot flash, sent to remind herself of a very bad period of time in her life.
And the man who tried to help.
"Don't even go there," she told herself.
Wetting a paper towel, Sharon wiped at her heated skin, hitting all the high points. Her wrists. Neck, both in the front and in the back, beneath her auburn mane. She lifted the hem of her aqua blue Eileen Fisher sweater, and dabbed at her core, finding great relief there. Desperately, she wanted to unsnap her bra and cool her heaving chest, but that had the potential for either a positive or negative outcome. As it was, she was already stimulated enough. Not taking the risk, Sharon sat on the closed lid of the toilet, kicked off her comfortable wedges, and mopped at the soles of her feet.
Later, once she returned to her seat, she'd order herself something to drink.
No rum. Definitely, no rum.
Putting herself back together, Sharon looked herself over, once again. She was quite presentable, actually. Just a hint of what would appear to others as an enviably healthy blush, highlighted her cheeks. A tube of lip gloss from her pocket of her pin-stripe slacks, helped complete the picture.
Satisfied, she fluffed her hair, and readjusted her glasses.
The mask of Captain Sharon Raydor was firmly in place.
Just because what happened once, so very long ago, didn't mean it would happen again...
"I won't let it."
She hummed softly at her own statement, unsure if she was happy or sad at the notion.
#TO BE CONTINUED#