Open fire, p.1
Open Fire, page 1
Open Fire
Copyright © 2022
By M.E. Carter
eBook ISBN: 978-1-948852-41-8
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-948852-43-2
Cover design and Formatting by Uplifting Author Services
Editing and Proofreading by Gemma Brocato
https://www.gemmabrocato.com
Front cover photo by iStock
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Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. No part of this publication may be stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, people – living or dead – is entirely coincidental.
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The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, characters, businesses, artists, and the like which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Bonus Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by M.E. Carter
About the Author
This book goes out to all the people who are currently stuck at an airport.
God speed.
Chapter One
Becker
“Chestnuts roasting on an open fiiiiiree….”
Fucking hell. I hate this song. It might be a holiday season staple, but it makes me irrationally angry. Maybe because I live in Florida and nothing should be roasting on an open fire in the heat and humidity we have here. Not even in December.
My day is already in the crapper. The morning started fine, but then my Uber was late, probably because it’s Christmas Eve. Traffic is heavier than normal, so now we’re racing to the airport in a very old Honda Civic, which I think lost its bumper about two miles back.
Not my problem and I’m glad the driver didn’t stop and check. I never thought I’d hope for a flight delay, but just a few minutes would be nice to guarantee I won’t be late. I hate cutting it this close, especially when traveling during the holidays.
I would have left yesterday but I couldn’t miss the Glaze’s early morning skate session. Coach would have had my balls. Lucky for me, our next game is in Chicago where my pops lives, so I cheered when Coach moved our practice to this morning instead of keeping it in the afternoon. The change gives me about twenty-four hours to visit my dad for Christmas, which is more than professional hockey players usually get.
“Can you step on it?” I ask the driver. His only response is a grunt.
After a few more lights and one heated argument through the window between my driver and another Uber, including some very creative hand gestures, he pulls up to the curb at the terminal.
“Thanks, man,” I say quickly as I jump out of the car and race to the check in kiosk. I only have one suitcase with Christmas presents and my rarely-used oversized winter coat to check, so this shouldn’t take long, right?
Wrong.
Two of the kiosks are down and one has a family of like seventeen people checking in at once, so I wait.
Tapping my foot with impatience, I take the opportunity to add a generous tip to my Uber bill. He wasn’t the friendliest of drivers, but he got me here in one piece on Christmas Eve, which is all I really needed anyway.
Finally, the giant family ahead of me is finished. I tap my foot more as they take their sweet time clearing out of the area, leaving one kiosk available. Clicking my email open, I try to scan the QR code on my flight confirmation.
Nothing happens.
I try again.
Still nothing.
Shaking my head, I breathe deep to cool my frustration but no matter how many times I try or what angle I tilt my phone, it’s not registering.
“Here, let me help you,” a friendly but frazzled looking employee says and snatches my phone out of my hands, like she’s going to put my phone in the magical spot I couldn’t find over the last two minutes.
Eventually, she calls it quits. “Yeah, this one doesn’t scan right. Let’s try this one over here.”
“But wait… I can type in my confirmation code…” I try to stop her, but she’s already walked away, and she still has my phone in her hand.
Pulling my suitcase behind me, I try to navigate my way through all the other travelers to catch up with the “helpful” employee. It takes a few seconds, but I finally get to the kiosk where she’s standing, waiting for me.
“Going to Chicago, Mr….” she squints her eyes at the screen. “… Bell?”
“Yeah. Flight starts boarding in half an hour.”
“Cutting it awful close, huh?”
I don’t remind her that I could have been checked in already if she hadn’t made me switch kiosks. I just grunt a “uh huh”, while we finish up.
Finally, I drop off my suitcase, but keep the carry-on bag with most of my gear in it. I can live without my clothes, but I can’t afford to accidentally have all my most important hockey equipment disappear the day before a game. The big stuff will arrive with the rest of the team tomorrow morning, but no one touches my skates and lucky socks. Call me superstitious, but that’s non-negotiable. Thankfully, TSA doesn’t have a problem with the skates.
The lucky socks? Well that’s why there are wrapped up tight in a Ziplock bag—out of courtesy to the other travelers. I may be superstitious, but I still have working olfactory senses.
Glancing down at my watch, I realize I’m running out of time. I speed up my steps, barely making it onto the tram before the doors close and it pulls away from the main terminal. I forget how easy traveling with the team is versus traveling alone. Not that I’m complaining. I’m glad I get to spend Christmas morning with my father. I get to sleep in and spend the morning watching A Christmas Story while we eat take out. Maybe I’ll even clean up his house a bit.
He’s not a slob. Things just aren’t as clean as they were when my mom was alive. She died when I was thirteen, so I’m used to it by now. But when I left for college, Pops let things go even more. It’ll be nice to help him out for a bit. And I got him a ticket to my game, which he’ll enjoy. He may not be a big talker, and we may not speak on the phone a lot, but he’s my biggest fan.
Once I leave the tram, the line to get through security seems about a thousand people deep and I send up a quick thanks for TSA Pre-Check. The perks of being rich is I can pay for that upgrade which means I just might make it to my flight on time after all.
As I wait for my turn, I glance around absentmindedly. Man, the line on the other side is long. There doesn’t appear to be enough trays for electronics, people are putting on their shoes right at the conveyer belt instead of going to the benches first, and some lady is trying to wrangle a bag full of wrapped packages onto the conveyer belt.
Oh yeah. I haven’t missed regular travel at all.
“Next in line!” an agent calls out, gesturing for me to approach.
Quickly, I hand over my ID and ticket, flashing the same smile that’s on my photo. With just one bag and my phone to account for, thanks to the perks of pre-check, I’m through security and heading toward my destination before the other line seems to move at all.
I make it to my gate with just three minutes to spare before boarding begins.
I don’t bother sitting since I have a first-class ticket and will board first. Instead, I lean against a wall and wait.
Suddenly, I get a text alert. As I pull out my phone, I realize a lot of people in this area got an alert at the same time. My gut knots as a bad feeling washes over me.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I open the text.
Flight 435 to Chicago has been delayed due to a technical issue with the plane. New take off time is 11:47am.
A two-hour delay? Fuck! Looks like my Uber driver could have slowed down after all.
Chapter Two
Sloan
“Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock…”
I love the holidays, but I swear this music is driving me crazy. The upbeat pace is boosting my normal travel anxiety. I got here early, anticipating all the holiday travelers, and yet, I’m still running out of time.
It started with multiple kiosks being down at check-in, continued with a tram having to be rebooted or whatever mid-trip, and is ending with the normal clog of people at the end of security who refuse to move out of the way quickly.
Wrangling my wrapped Christmas presents onto the conveyer belt, it finall
“Ma’am, you need to take off your shoes and your jacket.”
Crap. In my efforts to make sure the presents got through without being harmed, I forgot to grab a bucket.
The agent cocks his eyebrow at me like I’m a disobedient child and hands me a gray tub. I don’t bother defending myself. I don’t have enough time even if I did care what he thought of me.
As quick as I can, I toss my shoes and jacket into the bin and drop my backpack onto the belt.
“Do you have any electronics in there?”
Dammit!
Ripping the zipper open as fast as I can, I pull out my laptop. And my e-reader. And my phone.
The guy behind me huffs in frustration because I’ve turned into one of those people that I hate; the dreaded line-clogger. Not like any of us can go any faster. For the umpteenth time, the Xray machine is at a standstill again.
Finally, all my items are going through the machine while I get my own Xray. I tap my foot as I wait for the all-clear to keep moving.
“Ma’am, I need you to step aside.”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“There’s just a blurry spot on the screen, so we need to pat you down.”
I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second so I can center myself and not scream in the middle of the airport, before opening them and smiling brightly. “Sure.”
Moving to the side, I wait for a female agent to become available and watch as all my stuff sits alone on the conveyer belt, just waiting for an opportunist to come along and steal it while no one is looking.
“Um.” I hold up my hand and wave at someone official looking across the way. “Can you make sure no one steals my Christmas presents? They’re for my niece and nephew.”
The same agent who huffed at me before rolls his eyes, but mutters to one of his co-workers and they begin gathering my things for me.
“Okay, do you have any metal on you?” A very brusque woman whose badge reads “Darla” begins peppering me with questions but not waiting for my answers. “Metal rods or implants? Metal devices of any sort? Handled any gun powder or explosives in the last seven days?”
I shake my head, trying to process everything she’s asking and give her the correct answers. I don’t even know for sure if she’s noticing or even cares what my responses are before calling out instructions.
“Hold your arms out wide, feet apart. I’m going to pat down your arms and legs, stomach and back. Then I’ll pat in between your breasts with the side of my hand, as well as underneath them and under your buttocks. Do you feel the need for a private room before we begin?”
From the tone in her voice, I don’t think that’s really an option, but I shake my head anyway.
Fortunately, Darla is pretty quick and after copping more of a feel than I’ve had in a very long time, we move onto the gunpowder check portion of our visit.
I move to where she directs me while all my stuff is gathered and brought over to be swabbed. Glancing up at the clock, I feel my heart begin to race. I’m going to miss boarding if they don’t move this along.
I continue tapping my sock-clad foot while I wait for my suitcase to be swabbed. Then my backpack. Then my bag of presents.
Wait a minute…
“What happened?” I ask, my heart sinking.
The bag is ripped down the middle and one of the presents is almost completely unwrapped, the box severely dented.
“It fell out of the bag and the ribbon got jammed in the conveyer belt.” The agent from across the way shrugs. “Sorry.”
He’s not and we both know it. But what am I supposed to do? Accidents happen and it’s the Christmas rush. The only thing I’m likely to get is handcuffed if I make a stink about it.
I sigh deeply. So much for paying extra for pretty wrapping. Maybe one of the shops at the airport in Chicago has wrapping paper or something. I didn’t want to stop once I got there, hoping to spend as much time with the family as possible, but I don’t see that I have any other choice.
Now that I’ve been deemed gunpowder and weapon free, I’m ushered away from TSA as quickly as I can go. Holding my shoes in my hand, my laptop under my arm, and a ripped present bag with my e-reader tossed in it, with my backpack slung over one arm, I waddle to the nearest bench to gather myself, knowing I’m going to have to run to the gate.
Of course my phone would go off at this exact moment.
“Oh no. Are they boarding already?” I say to myself and begin mentally preparing to run through the terminal. But the text says the one thing I wasn’t expecting.
Flight 435 to Chicago has been delayed due to a technical issue with the plane. New take off time is 11:47am.
My shoulders slump. Of course, of course there’s a two-hour delay to Chicago. There are always delays in and out of that airport.
It’s not all bad, though. At least I’ll have time to track down some wrapping paper.
Chapter Three
Becker
I try waiting at the gate for a while, hoping they’ll get the mechanical issue fixed quicker than expected, but I should have known better. The time gives me a chance to people watch however, which I never get to do.
What I’ve now learned is it’s not nearly as much fun as I’ve heard. There’re only so many times I can watch a toddler throw themselves on the floor and a frazzled parent have to carry them wailing through the airport before I’m considering getting myself snipped. I already deal with temper tantrums in the locker room. I never want to have kids if this type of scene in an airport could be in my future.
Finally, giving up on my dream of whatever the opposite of a delay would be, I grab my phone to call Pops.
Four rings later, my call almost goes to voicemail when he picks up.
“Hey. You calling me from the plane?”
“I wish. My flight is delayed by a couple hours.”
He doesn’t sound surprised at all, but he lives in Chicago. Flight delays are practically a given. “You gonna get here for Christmas?”
“Don’t have a choice. I’ve got a game tomorrow night. It’s only two hours. I’m sure we’ll be headed out soon.”
“Good. That gives me enough time to pick up when I get home from work anyway.”
I grimace because if Pops is noticing he needs to toss out some trash, I can only imagine how bad it really is.
“Don’t go to any trouble on my account,” I say, having basically the same conversation we always have before I visit. “A clean bed is all I need.”
“I can handle that. Gotta get back to work. Be safe. Love ya, kid.”
“Love ya too, Pops.”
My father isn’t a man of many words, which is fine by me. It’s not that he isn’t loving. He’s just not the guy who will encourage me to cry if I’m feeling sad. Of course, he wouldn’t reprimand me for showing emotion either. He’s just a steady, stable force in my life. Always providing. Always quietly rooting for me. Always supporting me the best way he knows how.
Growing up that usually meant working two jobs to keep my very expensive hockey dreams alive. I’m grateful that he’s always had my back. He’s a good man, although he’s never really recovered from the loss of my mom. But I guess that’s why deep emotions don’t frighten him. He may not show them, but he feels them as deeply as anyone else.
Getting bored with my own thoughts and trying not to be irritated by yet another toddler blocking the flow of foot traffic, I decide to wander around for a bit. There’s not terribly much over here in the way of shops and restaurants, but there’s enough to at least provide a little bit of entertainment.
With the strap of my duffle slung over my shoulder, I meander my way through the crowds, getting bumped on all sides by people who are trying to get somewhere quicker than I am. As I pass by the giant screens with all the flight listings, I stop and look up, on the off chance that there has been a change in my flight status since I left the gate thirty seconds ago.
