The Peacemaker Page 5

  I paused for a second—thinking about the prince and wondering if he was awake or not.

  Balancing my own needs, my selfish desires, and my own sense of self-vanity, I decided to risk it all by taking a quick peek outside the beaded curtain.

  I only needed to stick my head and find that the prince’s back was turned towards me—his face facing the other way.

  I listened intently for any kind of sound, but founding absolutely none.

  Was he dead? I wondered to myself, but decided that I had spent what dignity I had left and ducked back inside quickly before I was caught red-handed.

  Or bare-assed—as it were.

  Going to work on the clean linens, I quickly made the bed and donned on a fresh pair of panties—lime green this time—and a clean over shirt.

  After that, I jumped right back into bed, re-set the alarm for six (instead of 5:30) and turned off the light—falling back into a surprisingly easy sleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHT.

  April 23rd.

  6:00 AM

  No matter how quick I was on the throttle or on the stick, there were still some things which scared the unholy shit out of me.

  Namely…?

  The fucking radio.

  I had completely forgotten to switch it to Sleep Mode, and instead toggled it to ‘radio’ only.

  And what was even worse—?

  The damned thing was playing, “Obsession”!

  “No!” I practically yelled at it. “Anything but that!”

  I managed to reach over in record time to shut the stupid thing off—even as the first line kept repeating in my head: “You are an obsession…”

  I rubbed my eyes and groaned.

  “Holy…god…” I said. “I’m going straight to hell, I just fucking know it…”

  I rolled off the bed in one fell swoop—feeling more dead now than I was only a few hours ago—when I was a prisoner of my own sexual desires.

  “Freakin’ A…” I mumbled—feeling my head spin and my legs hurt.

  Neither one was a good combination—considering where we were both headed this morning.

  “Gotta get up…gotta get moving…” I vowed adamantly. But it was easier said than done. My whole body was stiff and feeling very much like too much dead weight.

  Or whenever I pulled a few gees from inside the Peacemaker, while going at quarter-burn.

  I pushed myself off for a second—holding onto the edge of the bed—until I was certain that I wasn’t going to fall over and kill myself in the process.

  “Next time…? No sex before bed.” I promised myself darkly. Then reality came in to smack me upside the head.

  “Right…there was no sex.” I muttered—running a hand through some tangles and knots.

  Great. I thought, stopping right where I was. Bed hair. And just when I didn’t need it.

  Walking over to the dresser, I grabbed the brush and started attacking my hair with a vengeance.

  Hurry, hurry, hurry…I repeated over and over—making record time on the quick makeover and then tying my hair back into a large pony-tail.

  I threw on a pair of loose-fitting denim pants, a t-shirt, plus a sports bra afterwards—though, not in that exact order.

  Socks came next and then I went tearing into my dresser again for some extra clothes.

  Because you never knew when you might need them—going on a long trip like mine.

  I snatched up some promising items, stuffed them into a pack lying next to the dresser and bolted out of the bedroom before I could say, “Cheese!”

  And that was my first fatal mistake of the early morning.

  In my haste to go make some breakfast for both me and the prince, I accidentally tripped over something and went diving head-first into the side of the loveseat.

  Instead of crying in pain from my head hitting the damned thing so hard, I broke out laughing—which woke up my sleeping beauty.

  The prince was so startled by the noise, he instead took the opportunity to start whacking me with the pillow he had been sleeping with!

  I was in no more pain than the next single girl on the block, but the repeated beatings with the throw pillow and the ached at the top of my head just made things…worse.

  I couldn’t stop laughing forever it seemed. I certainly didn’t stop even as I instinctively curled myself into the fetal position and kept laughing and crying at the same time.

  “So…s-s-so-sorry…” I gasped out, between a river of tears and my splitting sides. I hurt now than I ever did waking up.

  The prince took on a more contrite attitude as he suddenly realized whom he had been attacking without reason.

  “I am so sorry!” He blurted out. “I did not realize it was you!”

  That confession served only to set me off into a fresh wave of laughter and a shit load of giggling—most of which I tried to rein in, because I didn’t have the time to see this whole thing through.

  “Who-who-who did you think it was?” I stuttered—wiping my face of the tears and the broad, childish amusement from my face.

  “I’m sorry, your Highness. I tripped. It was not my intention to scare you so.”

  “Spoken so succinctly.” The prince murmured approvingly.

  I managed to get up with his help—feeling his hot flesh against my cold forearm and hand.

  Goosebumps and chills ran down one side of my face and then my back—making my legs and knees tingle.

  “T-thanks.” I said. “I hope this doesn’t mean you won’t wish to eat—” me!—no! I mustn’t think of that right now! “—with me.”

  Phew.

  That save came out a lot easier than just what was passing through my mind only a moment ago.

  Then I stood up on both legs and stumbled over to the light panel and turned on the overheads—bringing them up just a little.

  Soft lighting. Nothing to dazzle or daze us. I thought—glancing over at the handsome prince on my loveseat.

  Though I must say, he does look exceptionally beautiful under the light!

  “I would be delighted. Though, what did you have in mind?”

  “Scrambled eggs, hash browns, and toast. Classic fare that never gets old with the passage of time.”

  “It certainly doesn’t.” The prince agreed with me. “Just like tea and biscuits in the morning, with a marmalade or blackberry spread.”

  “I’ve got some blackberry jam—though I was never all that great making mom’s famous drop biscuits…?” I admitted openly.

  The prince got up off the couch and dusted himself off lightly, then tossed the throw pillow right where it was the previous night.

  “It will be enough, my lady.” He said with a short bow.

  My blood boiled then—but not in a good way.

  “Is there any way that I can convince you to call me, Kina?” I implored him in a dramatic fashion. “I don’t mind the honorifics—and I think you’re sweet to use them on me—” did I just call him ‘sweet’?—”but if you’re going to be flying with me today, please call me by my first name.”

  The prince looked down at the floor for a second and for that longest second, I thought I saw a flash of hurt ripple across his face.

  “If you insist. But it goes against everything I’ve been reared up on.”

  I didn’t know whether to feel glad or guilty then.

  “I’m not trying to corrupt you, your Highness. I am simply saying that most people around here aren’t used to having royalty show up on their proverbial doorstep uninvited and expecting everyone to fall in line like little ducks in a row.” I tried to explain to him in the best way that I could.

  But the prince didn’t seem all that put off by my short explanation.

  “Ah, I see,” he said lightly. Then he shook his head. “I should’ve known it was too much to ask of you. I simply wanted—”

  I went to him then and threw my arms around him—formality be damned.

  “What you wanted—” I was saying, my breath blowing through the top
s of his hair. “—was to act all princely—as you have been groomed and conditioned to be.”

  “It’s something that cannot be helped.” The teenage boy said quietly. “It’s in my blood.”

  “I know.” I told him, before releasing him from my grasp. “And it’s okay. But here—in Vermont—we don’t stand on royalty. We’re just simple Vermonters with simple lives. And we intend to keep it that way.”

  “So what does a courier pilot have with an experimental jet? It’s of no design I can think of?” The prince inquired.

  I turned and winked at him as I got up to the top landing.

  “It’s classified, your Highness.” Then I snapped my fingers. “Which reminds me…?” and I went to one of the desks at the far end of the kitchen and pulled out a piece of paper and then grabbed a pen out of one of the kitchen cup holders.

  “Here.” I offered to him straight up. “A contract between me, you, and the Defense Department.”

  The prince looked at the piece of paper with some incredulousness.

  “Pray tell…what is this?”

  “Sign it.” I wagged a scolding finger in his direction.

  The prince set the paper down and read it from where he stood.

  “This is for…the jet downstairs?” He asked.

  I nodded. “It is.”

  “Because of secrecy concerns.”

  “Because—” I reiterated firmly. “That jet downstairs isn’t supposed to exist, let alone still be flying. Now sign it, my prince. And I’ll get breakfast started while you read it over and decide.”

  The prince did so in the next few minutes and produced—for me—one of the most beautiful signatures I’ve seen in quite awhile.

  But I still had to ask one important question.

  “What’s your name again? I can barely read it.”

  “Bartholomew Herrington the Third.” The boy explained. “My friends call me Bart for short. It’s easier to remember.”

  “Bart it is.” I said with some relief. Now, I can forgo the titles and all that jazz and try something a little more closer to home. I looked at him for a second and then said, “if that’s okay with you, Your Highness.”

  “I’m fine with it.” The teen said easily.

  “Good.” I said—taking the paper from him and folding it neatly. “This will make our time together more easy to manage.”

  Bart blushed from my comment and I suddenly had this gnawing pit at the bottom of my stomach.

  “I’m sorry. You must have a girlfriend or something like that, right?”

  “I…have a close girl friend. But that’s all we are.”

  Now, my curiosity got the better of me.

  “N-no high school sweetheart?” I asked—my heart pounding in my chest.

  “No.” He said. “You?”

  My heart practically bottomed out into the soles of my shoes. So far, I had a wonderful high school girl crush going and suddenly…?

  I was reminded of a painful past that I rarely got to talk to others about.

  My family excluded.

  “No.” I said quietly—turning away from him and going to the fridge. “Nobody in quite some time.”

  “Must be hellishly frustrating.” Bart quipped innocently.

  I paused—eggs in hand—and thought to myself, Kid—you have no idea how hard it is not to jump you right at this moment!

  Instead, I said, “It can be at times.” Then set them on the counter. I got out some potatoes and stared pushing them through the slicer sitting next to the toaster and turned on the machine—dropping them in one at a time.

  I also took out some bread and started making toast, while I dropped some cracked eggs in a bowl and began beating them senseless.

  “What about your family?” He asked. “How are they holding up?”

  “My grandmother’s still around and so is my mom—though she misses dad terribly as is. I have a brother serving in Afghanistan right now, but I don’t hear much from him lately.” After whisking the eggs, I dug out a pan and dumped them in—forgetting to spray the surface with either Pam or some other non-stick butter substitute.

  “Damn.” I muttered to myself, but thought nothing of it.

  “What?”

  Showing him the pan, I said, “Let’s just say that this will be an experiment in my cooking after all—rather than what I was supposed to feed you.”

  Bart grinned at me. “With the way my stomach is going, I could eat the rubber of my dad’s buggy and still have room for desert. So whatever you‘re feeding me…? Probably will be most palatable.”

  “You’re on, Bart. One scrambled American breakfast, coming up.”

  CHAPTER NINE.

  6:44 AM.

  Tugging down my suit’s uniformed sleeve, I said, “No, no, no…not like that. Like this.” And I came over to show him what I meant with the arm sleeve. He had it rolled up, rather than rolled down.

  “Why?” He asked.

  “The suit is a multi-layered Kevlar/Nomex outfit which will give you adequate protection from shrapnel and debris, while also protecting you from a flame out—because you never may know.” I explained—pointing to sections of his suit.

  “You don’t want to have your arm burned off—do you?”

  The prince shook his head.

  Good boy! I thought with a certain level of giddiness.

  “These air plug connections are a four-way shunt which will inflate your suite to a certain degree—to give you protection from the intense gee turns you may or may not experience on this flight—and to provide you with an adequate oxygen supply.”

  “And this black notebook-thingy on my back?” He asked, showing it to me—strapped to his back like a regular backpack.

  I had him snap the front snaps around his thin waist—because I wasn’t sure I could control myself if I did it.

  “It’s an emergency reserve—good for a few hours—just in case the jet’s life support systems were ever to conk out unexpectedly.”

  “When does that happen?”

  “It hasn’t.” I told him. “Not in the ten years that the Peacemaker has been flying.”

  “Peacemaker?” The boy questioned curiously.

  “It’s the plane’s call sign while in flight. My dad came up with it out of the blue—after he had seen its stellar performance record.” I showed him the stylized patch on one arm that had an emblazoned plane insignia on it.

  Then the other shoulder—which had a picture of a man sitting down in prayer with some Latin writing under it.

  The prince looked at the delicately stitched words carefully:

  Pacis Exsisto Vobis

  “Peace Be With You.” He translated easily. Then the inscription, “Triton-12 Peacemaker”—surrounded it.

  “You know a little bit of Latin?” I asked—surprised.

  “I took many classes on the subject.”

  “It was one of my foreign language class pre-requisites during college.” I told him—checking to make sure that everything was in proper order. He didn’t mind the innocent pat downs I was giving him.

  But his suit was in working order.

  “Now, I want you check mine.” I told him—holding myself out for him to check.

  “Why?”

  “Holes, leaks in the seams, that sort of thing. You have to be thorough my prince.” I emphasized with a tiger’s glint in my eyes.

  The young man hesitated for a second, before bending down to check each part of my legs, my hips, extending his way up my sides and my mid-riff.

  I was so certain that he was going to go for my breasts, but modesty won out and he stopped right there and turned around to check my back and my butt.

  When he placed his hands on both my checks gently, I suppressed a shudder right then and there. I did not want him to know how turned on I was at this moment.

  Young man or no, this prince had some good hands. And he knew how to use them to his advantage.

  If things progressed eventually, I made it my perso
nal mission to find out how good a kisser he was too.

  I stood stock still as he finished with his FBI moment and heard him say, “Everything’s good. I don’t see anything out of place.”

  Good. I thought. He’s very attentive to detail.

  Points in my book.

  Bending down, I retrieved one of the two helmets that I had on hand.

  They were like your typical dirt biker’s helmet, with an open visor face, but they had some extra features which I explained to him.

  “Inner mike is here and here.” I pointed to specific points inside the helmet, and then tapped the right side of the temple area—causing a visor shield to slam shut over the open part of the helmet.

  Covering the face and nose area nicely.

  “Chin guard for extra protection, while this wrap-around neck covering connects to the neck ring you see right here.” I showed him discretely.

  Bart was a good student by par and he certainly was eating everything I was telling him with a spoon.

  Part of me was hoping he would do more. Or would it be too presumptuous to toy with the idea that I was going to get him to do what I wanted first?

  I suppressed a giggle deep inside of me and continued my demonstration.

  “Wrist gauntlets here and here will hook up to these special tactile gloves—which will give you a free range of motion and feeling; unlike those bulky astronaut gloves they still have on the ISS. They are black and slim and come in a one-size-fits-all category.”

  “Really?”

  I nodded. ‘They are designed to conform to the wearer him or herself—even if they have fat hands.”

  That comment brought a chuckle out of the prince and even I had to smile at it.

  “All set then?” He nodded. “Any questions about what you’re wearing?”

  He raised a hand.

  “Um…yeah. Where do you go the bathroom?”

  “There’s a utility hose connecting…well…” I looked at his groin area where there was an even smaller plug attachment just a half inch above everything else. “That.” I said—pointing to his crotch with a slight flush of embarrassment.

  “It’s only good if you have to pee. Doing the Number #2 wasn’t exactly on the Defense Department’s priority list when they first designed the Peacemaker or her utility suits.” I told him. Then I smiled a little.