BRUNO
Five days after she busted into the control room, I’d texted Ava in the middle of the night.
Davis will be there to pick you up at 6:30 a.m. Be ready.
She didn’t textme back, but the little notification beneath my text said Read so message delivered. I knew I was intentionally being a dick. All night I reveled in the image of Ava disturbed and groggily twisting in her sheets, rolling over, grabbing her phone off the night table because she was fucking obsessive about being responsible to LSA, and then raging with irritation when she saw my name followed by an order. I liked waking her up. I liked knowing that her teeth were clenching and I was the cause. It didn’t matter how I wormed my way into her thoughts; just being there made my cock twitch.
It always had. No matter how much bad blood there was between us, I couldn’t control how I felt about Ava. My body was drawn to hers. If I couldn’t have her, I wanted to hate her and frustrate her. Lately, knowing everything luscious about her was just an elevator ride away, my need to possess her was in overdrive. But I wouldn’t look past the reality that Ava was dangerous. She was trouble for me. She made me lose sight of my own goals and needs. And when it came right down to it, she would choose herself over me every time.
But she was talented. She was great at her job and she was right about one thing. If I was going to wrangle my friends and put out three hit singles in four months, I needed her expertise. I needed her on the inside. So, I decided it was time to man up, get my ego and my fucking dick in check, and let her in on my plans, but once I did that, I couldn’t let her out of my sight. I had to know her every move, or else she’d have the opportunity to screw me.
Hence, the cryptic late-night text and my current situation—sitting on an idling plane, drinking coffee and waiting for her to arrive. I was buzzing, eager to watch her climb the aircraft stairs and appear in the aisle. I was betting she was gonna be pissed. A flustered, inflamed Ava was a specialty of mine. And I couldn’t help but grin when she stomped up the steps, snapping, “You can’t just whisk a woman off on a plane. This isn’t some movie, Bruno. I have appointments and responsibilities today.”
Before responding, I took a sip of my coffee and then calmly placed it on the white tablecloth draped over the tray table in front of my comfy leather seat. She looked fucking sexy. Her dark-chocolate hair with pink highlights hung loose in ringlets around her shoulders and bounced as she scolded me. She’d forgone her usual professional office bitch uniform, instead, rocking a more casual look with skintight black jeans, a fitted white tee that was cut low enough for me to see a glimpse of her cleavage, and a cropped denim jacket that left her hips available to admire. Besides reminding everyone everywhere that she was hot, Ava’s outfit told me she wasn’t planning on going into the office at all, so the smack she was trying to sell me was an empty threat.
“Don’t fuck with me, Ava,” I smirked. “It’s early and I’m tired.”
She maintained her huffy stance and said, “I’m not fucking with you. I have appointments.”
I rolled my eyes. “I bet you do. But you also already know you’re gonna cancel them. Because there is no way you're planning on going into the office dressed like that.”
Her cheeks flushed and for a second, I wondered if maybe it hadn’t occurred to her that she’d already made the decision that she was going to follow my lead for the day.
Scratching her forehead and closing her eyes, she said, “I wasn’t expecting the plane.”
There is no way she didn’t know I was taking the plane. The agreement my parents set up made sure of that because Ava had to sign off on everything I did that cost the company money. An outing in the company jet certainly fell into that category. But rather than be annoyed, I just laughed. “You're lying again.”
The fight went out of her. It just blew away like the candle flame being snuffed out on a birthday cake. She bit the corner of her lower lip, and looking defeated, moved to take the single seat across the aisle from the two seats I’d chosen. Once she was buckled in, I thought she’d ask where we were going or what we were doing, but all she said was, “Thank you for including me, Bruno.”
Two hours of total silence.Two hours and she didn’t say a fucking word. She’d barely moved. Just leaned on her armrest and stared out the window. All that was out there were fucking clouds. They weren’t even the billowy, who-wants-to-figure-out-if-I-look-like-a-zoo-animal kind. They were just wispy white skid marks in the sky and she had stared at them like a shitty forlorn puppy for two hours. I kept reminding myself that she was actively trying to break me, but her game was working. The silence was killing me.
The flight attendant, who honestly had nothing to do, came by for the umpteenth time to refill my coffee and just to hear the sound of my own voice, I asked, “How much longer until we arrive at our destination?”
While pouring, she smiled sweetly at me and said, “We should be landing in Oregon in a little over two hours, Mr. Difranco.”
Seemingly shocked, Ava gasped. “Oregon? We’re going to the West Coast?”
Giddy that she said anything, I grinned and said, “Oh, thank fuck.”
The flight attendant, who thought I was responding to the information she offered me, awkwardly asked, “Are you uncomfortable, sir? Is there something I can get you to make the time pass? Perhaps a magazine or would you like to watch the television?”
I laughed and Ava did too, knowing full well I’d finally won a round. Then, shifting her weight in her seat, she looked up at the confused woman between us and said, “Marcy, I think I’d love a cup of coffee now.”
Accepting that she had missed something, Marcy nodded before heading off to fulfill Ava’s bidding.
“Marcy, huh?” I asked nonchalantly.
Ava nodded. “I know the name of every LSA employee.”
I couldn’t help but shake my head. “Of course you do.” I paused for effect and then sarcastically said, “But you didn’t know we were going to Oregon.”
She shrugged. “I know you don’t or won’t believe me, but I didn’t know we were getting on the plane.” I scoffed and she added, “I told finance to give you free rein to travel. I know you’re not going to intentionally gouge LSA’s bank accounts.”
Marcy returned with Ava’s coffee and the two women exchanged the pleasantries of coffee consumption.
“Almond milk and agave, correct?”
“Yes, please.” Marcy set the accoutrements on the table in front of Ava. “Thank you.”
I laughed into the very black sludge in my cup.
“What now?” Ava queried, minor annoyance in her tone.
“Pretentious order for a girl who came up the hard way.”
It was her turn to roll her eyes at me. “Can you try not to be a dick for like three minutes?”
I crossed my legs, turning my body so it faced her more, before I winked and said, “‘I’ll think about it.”
She exhaled a noisy breath, then she stirred her spoon in circles, trying to melt the agave in her coffee. The spoon made a little clanging sound every time she hit the side of the porcelain mug. The sound reminded me of sitting next to her on the lengthwise seat of a stretch limo, back when we were teens, before there was any bad blood between us. I remembered the fluttering anxiety of feeling the heat of her thigh next to mine. I remembered my desperate need for her to think I was cool.
We were on our way to an awards show and the ice in my mother’s glass clinked every time we drove over even the slightest bump in the road. Both of my parents were on their phones. Still lobbying for more airtime and looking for last-minute PR opportunities. Annoyed by their never-ending jobs, I’d slouched, letting my head roll on the back of the seat. I had dropped my voice to a low tone, trying to create a private space between her and I and lamented, “Most parents wish their kids would put down their phones.”
She was silent for a minute and then with cynicism said, “In my world, most kids wish their parents would stay sober long enough to remember that dinner is a thing.”
At the time, I was thrown off by her response. She didn’t bring up her world often and she’d never wielded her upbringing like a weapon before, so surprised and selfishly teenaged, I asked, “Did I do something wrong? Are you mad at me?”
She sighed. “No, but…” She pulled at the hem of her skirt, adjusting it so it stayed flat against her thighs. “You’re dumb about your life. You have no idea how good you have it.”
I blew her off, thinking she didn’t know what it was like to be me, but obviously, older and wiser at this point, it was clear that teenage me had no idea what it was like to be her. The memory felt bittersweet. I liked the thought of a time before Ava was complicated for me, but I sort of wondered if that time ever existed. She seemed to always get my parents in a way I did not. Driven by my own inner thoughts, I found myself asking, “Do you miss my parents?”
My question was random to her and she flinched when I asked it, like having to consider them caused her physical pain. She turned to stare back out the window when she said, “Yes. All the time.”
Her answer struck me as deeply as if my chest had been hit by a handful of shattered glass, little icy pricks of pain. Resentful, I said, “There were times when I felt like they were your parents.”
She shook her head and I wasn’t sure whether she was being defensive or protective when she said, “No. They were always your parents. They worried about you. They cared about you. They wanted the best for you. I wasn’t their child. I was a well-loved employee, a tool.”
I laughed sardonically. She stared at me blankly, and I centered myself. “You don’t really think that, do you? That you were just their employee? They left you in control of their legacy for Christ’s sake.”
She responded by quirking her head at me and furrowing her brow. I felt like I was being studied. I could tell she wasn’t convinced. But she shifted away from my point by asking, “Do you miss them?”
I didn’t. At least not in any normal way. When I thought of them, I felt angry maybe. My relationship with them was so strained for so many years. We never agreed. We always fought. I wanted to miss them because it felt fucked up that I didn’t miss them. So, when anyone asked, I pretended to miss them. But for some inexplicable reason, I didn’t tell Ava that lie. I answered honestly. “If it weren't for this game we’re playing when it comes to inheriting the company, I think I might forget they were gone sometimes. Or feel relieved.”
I thought she’d be appalled, but she wasn’t.
“They hadn’t been part of your daily life in a long time,” she said.
I shrugged. “I’m still angry at them.”
Her voice was hollow when she added, “Because of me.”
I shrugged again. “Maybe.”
Again, she got quiet and looked out the window, and then after a beat, she asked, “What’s in Oregon?”
She and I were going to some tiny town that I’d literally never heard of and whose name I couldn’t seem to remember because it wasn’t the name of a town. Towns had names like Silverton or Aspen or Jamestown. This town had the name of a man. Jessup? John? Joseph? Something like that. It didn’t matter. I didn’t have to remember the name. We were going there regardless because that tiny town was where Marcus located Sam Tucker.
Seventy-year-old Sam Tucker was part two of my plan. Tucker was quite possibly the greatest country bluegrass musician of all time and a killer songwriter to boot. He was on the LSA roster. My father found him in a bar and signed him before I was born. For ten years they made great music together, and then the wind shifted and people started to listen to synthesized pop. LSA followed the fandom. But not Tucker. He wouldn’t make the kind of record that my parents wanted him to, and they had him by the balls, all tied up in contracts. So he walked, and he hadn’t released a record since. Honestly, he hadn’t been seen since. I was gonna change that. Getting Sam Tucker to make a record was a magic trick, a rabbit out of a hat that would result in one of my coveted chart-topping singles.
I’d had Marcus hunting to find the bastard even before the board meeting. And it wasn’t easy, but you know, YouTube. Harder to disappear than it used to be. Now, all I had to do was convince him that at my version of LSA, he could release any record he wanted, if he did it quickly. Well, that, and I had to pray that he didn’t like the simple life in Jessup or Jimmy or whatever more than being famous.
But I didn’t tell Ava any of that. Feeling a guttural need to watch her squirm, I answered her question by merely saying, “A lot.”