Nine Hours

Chapter 1

"I can't believe I'm doing this. I must be crazy."

Stuffing the tote bag under the seat, I settle into the cramped space by the window and blow a strand of stray hair off my face. The plane is noisy and crowded. Passengers stow bags in overhead bins and claim their own seats. It's a full flight, every seat but the one next to me occupied. The last person boarded several minutes ago, and the flight crew has sealed shut the hatch door. Is it tempting fate to pray it stays empty? I mean, who wouldn't want a little extra elbow space during a nine-hour flight?

Not happening. As I watch the ground crew on the scorching tarmac load luggage into the belly of the wide-body jetliner, a man slides into the seat. Just my luck. He's a large guy whose thigh and arm brush against me more than once. On purpose? I may be dying to check out this Attila the Hun who's packed into the tight space, but not so curious that I'm up for idle conversation. No thanks. The flight would be interminable if he turns out to be a self-absorbed jerk who never stops talking about himself. I've had enough of that type to last awhile. I sniff the air. At least he smells good and doesn't reek of raw onions or stale cigars. Hmm. It's a familiar, expensive cologne like good-looking high-rollers might wear. Come to think of it, a recent regular at the Calypso cocktail lounge wore it, but no particular face comes to mind. It nags at me that I can't picture who. I get nothing but an ambiguous, ghostly image sitting at the bar. Odd, I'm usually better at remembering people I see night after night. Especially when something about them makes an impression. That cologne would definitely do so. It might as well have been made as a female attractant.

He secures his seatbelt with a soft click, and seconds later the plane pulls away from the gate. The jumbo jet rises into the sky, and the impressive Las Vegas Strip skyline wavers in the distance like a mirage amid the unrelenting desert heat. One hundred fifteen degrees. I'm relieved to escape these blazing summer temps and the crazy world below.

The heat, the crowds, promising sounds of jackpots and acrid aroma of booze. The overall aura of sex, greed, lust, gluttony. Maybe I should wave bye-bye as it disappears. A weight lifts unexpectedly, triggering a small smile. It's freeing to leave this town and my grueling job behind. Las Vegas has a way of gobbling up a girl's spirit and confidence, then spitting it back out with precise regularity. Yup. I've been on the receiving end of that misery plenty—Mario being the worst.

Okay, no dwelling on the long shifts in the bar or Mario's hateful indiscretions. If I lug that baggage to Europe it defeats the purpose. Look ahead, not behind.

While I'm not sure how wandering around Europe alone will accomplish resetting my clock, so far nothing else has inspired change. When it comes down to it, this trip isn't much more than an indulgent escape.

The idea for a solo European vacation started on a whim. A magazine article suggested stepping outside one's comfort zone to jumpstart a fresh lifestyle. Waitressing paid the bills, but didn't feed my soul. I wasn't a big spender, so saving my tips and living frugally for the past year was easy. It's exhausting, though. An aching back and sore feet were the result of long shifts hustling drinks to every type of human being imaginable at all hours. Vegas never rolls up its carpets, which means around-the-clock cocktails and customers demanding instantaneous service.

The tips were golden—a ticket to something exciting and different from the lonely, boring, work, work, work lifestyle I'd stumbled through these past few years.

The next nine hours are a kind of holding pattern. An intermission between Cassie the Cocktail Waitress of yesterday and the Cassie of tomorrow. A girl open to whatever new experiences the world threw at her feet.

It may or may not motivate me to change my life, but if not, I'll have great vacation pictures. Until then I'm stuck on this plane with nothing to do but sleep, read and avoid eye contact with the hulking god inches away.

"Would you like anything to drink?" The flight attendant rouses me from my thoughts.

"No, I'm good thanks." I make sure to train my line of sight on the attendant and avoid that eye-contact with my seat mate.

"I'm fine for now, as well." Jesus. His voice is deep, but not too deep. Sexy enough to raise goosebumps on my arms. It's a battle to focus my attention on the view out the window and mutter a mantra under my breath. " Do. Not. Peek. At. Him." If I lasted ten minutes, it would be a miracle.

Unable to resist any longer, I spare a glance at Mr. Attila. His eyes are closed, earbuds blocking the muted conversations in the cabin and the hum of the plane's engines. On the armrest, his left index finger taps a silent beat to the music. It's a precise and controlled movement. With a slight curve upward at the edges of his mouth and a tiny crinkle around his eyes, he appears peaceful. I bet he flies a lot.

Ugh. Long flights make me restless. Even the romance novel and journal in my tote bag fail to capture my attention. So, more staring out the window it is. Now a wispy cloud cover hinders the view. Boring.

My imagination kicks into drive. What unexpected things could happen at 35,000 feet? Hmm. Flight attendants passing out free drinks? A woman going into labor? An impromptu marriage proposal? Hah! Highly unlikely. I fidget in my seat.

Geez. What the hell is wrong with me? Why can't I settle down? Shouldn't I be more excited? Or at least nervous? Instead, I'm just...blah. As if I'm waiting for—no anticipating—one of those crazy things to happen. Get a grip.

I extract the dog-eared pages of my well-thought-out itinerary and scan each familiar page.

Land in Munich.

Purchase rail passes.

Explore Munich, Paris, Geneva...

Good thing I brushed up on simple phrases in French and German.

I'm giving myself a silent talking-to when I realize I've been studying the features of the man. Okay, okay. I'm staring. Who wouldn't? He's freaking gorgeous. Thankfully, his eyes remain closed. My imagination must be working overtime, because I have the ridiculous idea he's giving off a compelling, electrifying vibe that's sucking me in like a vortex. There's a rugged air about him. Blond hair is piled into a man-bun, escaping tendrils licking at the tip of his ears. A slight shadow of scruffy facial hair peppers the strong jaw framing his full lips and high cheekbones. What color would his eyes be? Blue, I'm guessing. A plain white collared shirt has suffered the imperfection of wrinkles from a day of traveling, giving it a casual, unfussy feel. The best part? The shirt stretches snug across a broad chest, stuck to it like a wet T-shirt, and the sleeves are rolled up onto strong forearms. Effortlessly hunky. Yum. Way outta my league for sure.

Eh, he's asleep. Why not amuse myself? Who is this guy?

Male model? Not the type. Maybe one of those MMA fighters? He's certainly big enough. Nah, his features are too perfect—no broken nose or visible cuts and bruises on his face or knuckles. In fact, his hands are almost...beautiful. A giggle threatens to erupt. He's probably a dull, rich, corporate dude who wears designer suits all day, gets manicures, and has a personal trainer. I bet he's slumming today in coach.

Even in his casual state, he's got more going on than my own unimpressive appearance today. I was tempted to wear a skirt with my sleeveless tank top, but the comfort of plain black yoga pants won out. My dark hair, highlighted with shades of gold and softer browns, is shoved into a now-messy ponytail rather than the carefully arranged style I spend too much time accomplishing each day for work. After plastering on dramatic show-girl-style makeup daily, skipping that routine was a treat, as well. Instead, I hastily applied black eyeliner and mascara along with a thin coating of sheer peachy lip gloss. No demerits for bad makeup from a crabby boss today. I considered ditching the contact lenses for my heavy, dark-rimmed glasses, but that was going too far. I have some minimal standards.

A sudden bone-deep weariness hits. All of the burdens in my life collapse around me. Is this what they call unwinding? My heavy eyes flicker closed, and I squirm, seeking a comfortable position in the confined space.

A nap will pass time until we land in Munich. After all, what can happen in nine hours at thirty-five thousand miles above Earth?

*****

Thanks for reading "Nine Hours." Please feel free to vote and comment.