Chapter Two Nathan
Chapter Two
Nathan
A certain amount of opposition is a great help to a man. Kites rise against, not with, the wind.
—JOHN NEAL
I’ve met incompetent flight attendants before, but that’s not the word I’d use for Claire Holloway.
She apparently obsesses about being competent.
In fact, I’d wager she’s used to being so completely competent that it’s thrown her to try something new.
Why else would she consider herself a failure for making one mistake?
Inexplicably, I’ve never seen a passenger so happy to miss a flight. “That was a pretty amazing response to giving bad directions,” I call after her. “Someone’s looking out for you.”
“You?” she challenges.
I’m only keeping an eye on Claire in order to make sure she has a plan to get her oversized suitcase to her crash pad or wherever she’s staying. I don’t want her to beat herself up more when she fails to wrangle all that luggage onto the light rail—or worse, uphill in the rain.
“Someone besides me.” I nod up toward heaven.
“Well, I’m watching you.” She does the warning where she points to her eyes, then points to me.
I can’t help smirking. It’s been a while since I noticed a woman this way. She got my attention when she shook her hair out like a supermodel and put on her sunglasses like a movie star.
As soon as she’s within hearing range, I motion toward her giant pink suitcase. It would be much easier for me to pull two carry-ons than for her to try to wrestle hers alongside that thing. “Want some help getting to your crash pad?”
“Why?” she asks with suspicion.
Did she miss the whole thing about God watching out for her?
I should probably be offended, but it wasn’t long ago that I was in her shoes.
Well, not her high-heeled Mary Janes, but starting a new job in a big city.
So I’m aware that her distrust comes from rational apprehension during transition.
And I’ll settle for knowing her people-pleasing behavior doesn’t override stranger danger. “Because I’m a nice guy.”
She narrows her eyes. “So are many serial killers.”
Her response startles a guffaw from me. “You know a lot of serial killers?”
“I watched Forensics Files every night during training.” She says this in the same way Will Turner informed Jack Sparrow that he practiced with swords for the sole purpose of killing pirates. “It’s taught me to be suspicious.”
Serious is the new hilarious, though I smother my laughter for her sake. “How are you getting all these bags home, Sherlock?”
She pulls out her phone and studies it. “My condo isn’t far. The crash pad owner said it’s a short walk.”
“Hmm . . .” I probably know the place. Lots of pilots and flight attendants stay there. “The Tudor-style complex with red doors?”
She draws back. “How’d you know?”
I’m tempted to tell her that’s where I find all my murder victims, but then I wouldn’t be living up to the nice-guy claims. “I rented out beds in my own crash pad there.”
She lifts her chin to look down her pert nose. “And none of your roommates ever went missing?”
I once again consider messing with her, but she’s about to discover that what the crash pad advertisement dressed up to look like a charming village more closely resembles a postapocalyptic version of Bavaria. “Not a single one. Come on.”
I lead the way without offering to take either of her bags the way I normally would. She obviously needs to feel in control even though she’ll be putting her life in a pilot’s hands every single day on the job.
“Where are you going?” she calls.
I glance over my shoulder to find her studying the signs that got her into trouble in the first place.
“My email says to follow arrows to the train, then cross a sky bridge to the street that I can take uphill.”
Yeah. In the rain. “I’ve got a drier route.” I step onto an escalator leading to a sky bridge.
“Just because you’re a nice guy doesn’t mean I’m going to follow you,” she insists, even as she follows. “I know how to make a weapon out of a can of soda in a sock.”
I step off the escalator and pause to visualize such a weapon. “How does that work exactly?”
She joins me, then swings an imaginary sock. “You put the can inside and use it as a nunchuck.”
Now I’m nun-chuckling. Because even if a skilled martial artist had a soda in a sock, it’s still a soda in a sock. And I doubt she’s skilled in martial arts. “Did you learn this from watching Ninja Turtles?”
The sky bridge leads to a parking garage where passengers can stay dry while waiting for pickup.
We don’t have to worry about precipitation, but we do need to worry about missing our shuttle and having to wait another fifteen minutes for the next one.
So I grab one of Claire’s bags to hurry her toward our destination.
She jogs after me, apparently more concerned about convincing me of her fighting skills than about the threat of having to fight me. “They taught us in flight attendant training.”
Okay, it’s too sad to be funny. “Is that how you’re supposed to defend the cockpit from hijacking?”
We reach another escalator, this one taking us back down to ground level. She steps on and twists her lips in thought. “If I have to.”
“Poor terrorists.” And this is why I’m an FFDO—a Federal Flight Deck Officer. I’m licensed to carry a firearm in case my flight attendants aren’t able to halt hijackers with a knee-high sock and ginger ale.
“What do you suggest I do?”
I roll our bags off the escalator and next to a bench, and check the street for a white shuttle displaying the Marriott name in cursive script. It comes by every fifteen minutes. With the way her day is going, we probably just missed it.
“We’ll wait here for one of the many shuttles that will take us to the hotel next to your condo. Drivers don’t mind giving flight crew a ride if we tip them. Rideshare apps charge an airport fee, which makes a half-mile ride much more expensive than it should be.”
“Oh.” She parks her luggage, then looks up and down the roadway filled with vans and buses. She faces me again. “Okay. But that’s not what I meant. How do you suggest I fend off an attacker instead?”
She really wants a self-defense lesson right now? “What else did they teach you in training?”
She shrugs. “They basically turned on the song ‘Kung Fu Fighting’ and let us practice beating up dummies.”
From now on I’m giving all flight attendants the fundamentals before we take off. “You know about a knee to the groin, right?”
She nods vigorously. “Want me to demonstrate?”
“No!” I reflexively step backward and cross my forearms to block. “Uh, no. It’s very effective, so I just wanted to make sure you’re aware of it.”
She brings her fists up in front of her face and bounces in place for a moment. Then she stops and shakes out an ankle, like she twisted it. “What else?”
“Well, a knee is great if you have the room. Same with a palm strike. It’s easier on your arm, and also, the attacker won’t be expecting it the way he would a closed fist.”
She uncurls her fingers into jazz hands. Unless she’s performing a fight scene in West Side Story, she needs more help.
My lips twitch. “We’re not singing showtunes.”
“I’m a ballerina, not a singer. Or, I was.”
“Makes sense.” The grace. The bun. The entertainment. “May I?” I step behind her and gently wrap my arm around her neck to demonstrate a choke hold.
“Please.”
Her response concerns me for her safety even more than the sock-and-soda thing. But at least she’s not accusing me of being a serial killer anymore. I adjust my elbow underneath her chin without squeezing.
She smells sweet like cherry blossoms, and suddenly it’s spring on the UW campus.
Much more inviting than the exhaust that normally scents the parking garage.
I can’t help wondering if there are cherry trees where Claire’s from and if that’s why she picked this scent.
My ex preferred lavender from the farms we visited during their annual festivals.
I exhale the bad memories to keep from actually choking Claire.
“If your attacker comes closer, you don’t have the room for a full palm strike. So you use your elbow. It’s the sharpest point on your body.”
Claire flaps like a chicken, which could also work. She’d be able to break free because her attacker would double over in laughter. Or be swept off his feet by her overwhelming adorableness. I resist the urge to do both.
“Put the full force of your body into it. Step one foot behind you and pivot with an elbow out.”
She splits her stance and braces herself.
The Marriott shuttle hisses to a stop in front of us. Its accordion door squeaks open.
“Get off her.”
For the first time I realize how we must look.
I barely have time to glance up before a large Samoan driver charges down the steps with vengeance in his eyes. Protecting myself from him is going to be a lot tougher than from Ninjarella here.
Releasing my hold, I jump back, hands wide.
He continues like a linebacker. If I don’t explain fast enough, I’m going to find myself on the ground with little Seahawks flying circles around my head.
“Wait.” Claire jumps in front of me, reflexes quicker than I expected given her history with jazz hands. “He was training me in self-defense.”
The linebacker slows. His eyes narrow to warning slits directed my way before sliding to check on her. “You want self-defense? I can demonstrate self-defense.”
A nervous laugh startles from her lips. “Not necessary.” She smiles over her shoulder at me, as if sharing a joke, but much like our hypothetical bad guy, I am not seeing any comedy in this situation.
She catches a glimpse of what is probably an alarmed expression on my face, sobers, then turns to defend me once again.
“No. Really. I think I’m good with my soda-in-the-sock technique. ”