Spider

I nod. “Yeah. Vital Rejects. Ever heard of us?”

She gives me a blank stare.

“Yeah, we’re nobody—at the moment.”

She flicks a strand of hair over her shoulder. “I’ll be sure to check on you quite often,” she says, her lips curving up. “If you need a blanket or a pillow—”

“Good grief, don’t you ever stop flirting? Just please move over. You’re blocking the way for everyone,” calls an annoyed voice from behind me.

Pillow Girl.

Damn, she’s everywhere.

I watch in amusement as she weasels past me, her bottom brushing against my crotch as she huffs and carries on down the aisle.

Her heart-shaped ass sways from side to side in her black dress. She has to be at least five eleven, and that isn’t even in heels. Her legs are tan and smooth and long—

Someone bumps into me as I watch her, and I scoot over to give the passengers coming onto the plane more room.

“Would you like to meet the pilot?” Heidi asks me, her smile flirtatious.

“Delta is my favorite airline,” I say.

She giggles and introduces me to the pilot, and I end up giving both of them a copy of our CD and a quick spiel about our music. I sign them both, and before I know it, two other flight attendants are crowding into the cockpit area, insisting on a copy.

I smile at them, used to the attention.

One girl slyly tucks her business card in the back pocket of my jeans as she pats my ass.

I smirk at her and waggle my eyebrows.

She and Heidi exchange a few whispered words, and it’s obvious she’s warning the other girl that I’ve already been claimed.

I chuckle.

Sebastian Tate, our lead singer and my best mate since my prep school days in Highland Park, jokes that I have a way about me that sucks people in. His theory is it’s the accent, but mostly it’s my party like the world is ending attitude. I’m the mate everyone wants. Hell, I’m the guy who volunteers to do the beer run (and pays for it) then comes back with a case of tequila and a carload of beautiful women.

Live fast and collect no hearts is my mantra.

I’m fearless.

After all, I have nothing in life to lose, not when I’ve already lost it all.

I shove those dark thoughts away, blaming them on my pounding head. Fuck hangovers. I just need a bump of pure white bliss to get me over the edge.

After cheek-kissing the flight attendants, I head to my seat and see that my seatmate has already arrived—and guess who it is?

She’s still just as hot as before.

I halt and stare down at her, surprised when I catch a gander at what I see on her Kindle: 100 Foolproof Rules To Get A Man To Fall In Love With You.

I grin.

Is the girl trying to get a bloke?

Oh yeah.

This flight isn’t going to feel nearly as long as I expected after all.

You know the old adage of turning lemons into lemonade? Pillow Girl is my lemon, and I’m going to turn her into the sweetest drink ever.

Rose

I WALK DOWN THE AIRPLANE aisle and eyeball the window seat I’ve been assigned. Three, maybe four inches separate me from death.

Yeah, I’m tough, but flying makes me crazy scared.

Planes are basically just battered tin coffins traveling a million miles an hour. Toss in a small thunderstorm—like the one currently surrounding us—and I’m a freaking basket case. Sweat beads on my forehead as I picture my mangled body on the ground amid flaming debris.

My hands tremble as I unpack my backpack, removing my lucky paperback copy of Jane Eyre, my Kindle—you can’t have too many books—and a sweater. I’m freezing on this plane, and I’m not sure if it’s from nerves or if it’s actually cold. Nerves, I decide as I furtively check out the other passengers who seem warm and toasty.

Shivering, I settle in my seat and try to read the ridiculous book my cousin Marge has downloaded to my Kindle. A twenty-something New Yorker, I stayed with her while I visited New York University on my spring break from prep school. We had some late-night talk sessions, and when I mentioned my crush Trenton back in Highland Park, she made it her mission to load me up with self-help books and advice about how to get the man of your dreams.

It’s a dumb idea, and I know it.

But it’s hard to tell Marge no.

Forgetting the book, I lean my head back against the headrest on the seat. I’m tired from my evening out with her, even though I sat in the corner at the back of the bar and just watched everyone most of the night. I was nervous since I’m only seventeen and used a fake ID, which Marge provided. I’ll be eighteen in September, about five months from now.

My thoughts go back to the hot guy from the gate.

From the moment I first saw him last night, something about him just . . . called to me.

It was as if I knew him—yet I didn’t.

My eyes followed him the entire night, the way he stalked across the stage as if he was fearless, the way his lean and muscular body whipped around, moving with the rhythm of his gritty and evocative music. With an excuse to Marge that I had to go to the bathroom, I’d even followed him outside during the break where I watched from the doorway as he smoked a cigarette, leaning his head against the brick of the building as he blew smoke up into the air. He hadn’t noticed me . . . of course. There’d been too many girls around him vying for his attention. In a nutshell, he was way out of my league.

Forget about him.

Right.

What I should be doing is focusing on convincing my adoptive mother Anne to let me attend NYU this fall.

As if she knew I was thinking about her, my phone pings with a text from her.

Did Marge behave herself? Growing up, she was quite wild.

From Anne, this really means she thinks Marge is a slut. I was actually surprised when she agreed to let me visit Marge, and I attribute her acquiescence to her own recent surprise pregnancy and subsequent hasty marriage. That’s right. My uptight, forty-five-year-old adoptive mom had a one night stand and got pregnant.

I type out a reply. She was great. Very hospitable. Her apartment is close to NYU.

Her reply is quick and fast, and I picture her fingers typing the words furiously. She hates any mention of NYU and every time I bring up attending there, she shuts me down.

I know NYU seems exciting, but Winston University is smaller and here in town. Plus, you’ve been accepted. It’s too late to apply to NYU. Only a few more weeks and you’ll be graduating high school. Love, Anne

Only Anne texts as if it were a term paper, with complete sentences and correct punctuation.

I sigh, my fingers running idly over the surface of my phone. I don’t want to attend Winston. Exclusive and located just ten minutes from Highland Park, it’s just like the prep school I currently attend, only with older students. It’s also where Anne went to college. I mean, I’m grateful she’s providing me with an education, but I’d like to have a say in the matter.

She’s under the impression that this trip was just a quick visit to see her cousin and take in the sights on spring break. She doesn’t know that I secretly already applied to NYU months ago and recently got the acceptance letter. I just have to talk her into it.

A well-known Dallas philanthropist, I first met Anne after two years of being shuffled around in the foster system. That day, she’d sat with me in the office at the Department of Human Services and marveled over my hair color (a mix of brown and auburn) and complimented me on my perfect skin. I read her right away, a rich lady looking for an accessory, and I used it to my advantage, telling her about my above average test scores and my dream of getting a doctorate in psychology someday.