Hummingbird Rose Ch. 03

"Well?" Violet asks.

Rose looks up from her laptop. Violet stands in the door of Rose's office, her arms folded. She looks fantastic, her amazing curves in wondrous abundance.

Rose gives her a mischievous smirk. "And good morning to you. What's up?"

"What's up?" Violet rolls her eyes. "How about how'd the weekend go? How was the date?"

"Dates."

Violet raises an eyebrow. "Dates? As in, more than one?"

"Yes." Rose pauses, teasing it out. "With more than one guy."

Violet's eyebrows go up. "Now you've got to fill me in."

Rose resists an audible sigh. How about a little girl-on-girl action to start the workweek instead? Shut the door, start tongue kissing. Feel each other's boobs. Suck each other's nipples. Cunnilingus all around.

"Up for a cup of coffee?" Rose says. "My next exam's in an hour."

"My dad owns the brewery and leaves me to run it how I see fit. So, yeah, I can take as long a break as you like."

Rose reaches for her purse. "Come on."

The Starbucks at the other end of the strip mall is as convenient as it is habit-forming. They sit at a table outside and Rose speaks in a hushed voice describing the main events of her weekend.

"Rose." Violet stares at Rose's pendant. "That thing's for real."

"Come on, Vee," Rose says.

"How else do you explain it? You wore it Friday night. Look at everything that's happened to you since."

"That's silly," Rose says.

Violet's eyes narrow. "When did you run into Patrick again?"

"At the farmer's market," Rose says.

"Before or after you bought the pendant?" Violet asks.

"Right after," Rose says.

Violet nods. "Right after. And when did you put the pendant on?"

"On Friday night." Rose sips her latte. "Before heading out to meet Patrick."

"Before or after Eric texted you?"

Rose tries to remember. "Before."

"So you bought it, then Patrick shows up," Violet says. "And when you put it on, Eric texts you. Am I right?"

"I suppose."

"Well, there you go. That proves it."

"No, it doesn't," Rose says.

"Are you kidding? Look at your weekend. Patrick Friday, Eric Saturday. I mean, holy shit."

"Yeah." Rose tilts her head and smiles "It was a pleasant weekend, wasn't it?"

Violet smiles. "You're my hero, you know."

I'd like to be more. "Well, I do my best."

There's so much to appreciate looking at Violet. Her striking green eyes and red hair. Her big tits and soft curves. Her well-freckled skin and the shape of her mouth. She's as hot as Rose and should have as many men interested in her. Why doesn't she? Poor, beautiful thing.

"I think Rick likes me," Violet says.

"The FedEx guy?"

"Yeah."

Rose resists rolling her eyes. Rick is loud and obnoxious. Julio, the FedEx dude before him, was more to Rose's liking.

A car blasting loud music drives by, interrupting the flow of their conversation.

"So when are you going to take Patrick up on his offer?" Violet asks. "A flying lunch date. Wow."

"Not this weekend because I have Gina," Rose says. "But the one after that, yeah."

"It's going to be a long couple of weeks for you."

Rose sips her coffee. "It will be. But I'll endure."

***

What does a girl wear for a flying lunch date? Best go casual.

Rose settles on a Minnie Mouse t-shirt which clings to her huge tits and shows off most of her arm ink. She pairs it with black jeans which display her thick thighs and round ass in their best light. High black boots, too.

She puts her hair into a ponytail, adorning her neck with the black rose pendant. Green-rimmed frames from the late sixties are her obligatory eyewear, sunglasses tossed into her bag as a back-up.

She studies herself in the mirror. Yeah, she'll knock him dead.

She checks the time. Eight-thirty. Nearly an hour to kill. Whatever. She's gotten through the last two weeks waiting for this date. One more hour won't kill her.

Rose sits on her couch paging through the book Eric bought her. She takes note of several designs, wondering how they'd look emblazoned on her back. She never gets tattoos on impulse, only after long consideration.

She returns, again and again, to the multicolored hummingbird. The image has bored its way into her brain. Is this the one?

Rose sets the book down to answer a series of texts. A friend's interested in lunch this week. Her mom has a question about how to change her printer cartridge. Patrick says he'll pick her up at nine-thirty.

What? What's he thinking? Rose's place is fifteen minutes in the opposite direction for Patrick from his airport. She texts him back. "No. I'll pick you up."

"You sure?" he responds.

"No problem." Rose looks out the window. A clear sky, warm weather. A good day to take out Precious Baby?

She checks the weather app on her phone. Partly cloudy, balmy temperature, no chance of rain. Perfect. Precious Baby hasn't been out for a few weeks. Patrick'd love to meet her, too.

Rose throws on a bright pink hoodie that zips up in the front, puts on her shoes, and scoops up her purse. She heads out to the detached garage and clicks the button on her keychain.

Rose never tires of it, the moment the garage door rises and Precious Baby is revealed.

A rolling work of art, her sweeping curves and bold lines a masterpiece of design. Daring, yet simple. Sleek and sexy, yet raw and untamed. Boldness defined.

The most beautiful American automobile ever produced? People will disagree, but Rose thinks so.

Rose puts the top down and gets in. She turns the key. Eight cylinders awake, announcing themselves with a throaty rumble. That never gets old.

She lets her idle for a few moments. Gotta let Precious Baby warm up.

Rose runs her hand over the steering wheel and the gear shift knob. She grips it. From this stick she controls the raw potency of the vehicle. Making it do her bidding.

All that power, under her control. Guiding it, directing it. Done right, it looks effortless.

Rose depresses the clutch and shifts into reverse, backing the Corvette out. The bright orange paint comes to life in the morning light as it emerges into the sun.

She drives slowly down her street, pulling onto the main road for the two mile ride to the interstate.

She turns on the radio. Everything in the car is original, down to the wood of the steering wheel. Save for the modern sound system she installed.

Rose selects a playlist while at a red light, songs she's selected for when driving Precious Baby. "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen starts.

Rose reaches the entrance ramp to the highway singing along to the lyrics. She keeps it in second as she takes the curve and shifts into third. Appreciating the power of the machine and her ability to bend it to her will.

Easing into the merge lane, a giant pickup looms in her rearview mirror, accelerating. Its driver expects her to merge behind him though she has more than enough room. Yeah, right. Good luck, douchebag.

Still singing along to the lyrics, she guns it. The truck recedes behind her as she shifts into fourth. As if.

Ten minutes later she pulls off the highway, her phone guiding her to Patrick's house. He lives in a townhouse development within easy walking distance of a pleasant main street.

Rose pulls into his driveway and gets out. It's a nice place. The landscaping out front overflows with bright red petunias and purple columbines.

Patrick appears at his door, eyes wide. "Is this your car?"

Rose walks around the front. "Allow me to introduce Precious Baby."

Patrick's eyes take in the car's bold lines. "Seventy-four?"

"Seventy-three. Last year with the chrome bumpers. Ontario Orange, four on the floor, 454 engine."

"You never mentioned you owned one of these", he says.

"There's a lot I don't mention."

Patrick looks at Rose, snapping out of his car-induced trance. "You look amazing. I'm sorry, you took me by surprise with the car."

They share a soft kiss.

Rose laughs. "She can be distracting."

"You look amazing," he says again.

"Thanks. So, hot stuff, can I give you a lift?"

"Yeah." He looks at the Corvette. "I don't suppose I can drive?"

Rose shakes her head. "Not happening."

They head off. Patrick keeps glancing at Rose as she drives.

"What?" she asks.

"I'm impressed by how well you handle this thing."

She scowls. "What? That a woman knows how to handle a sports car?"

"I, uh, no. I meant--"

Rose shakes her head. "Will you ever learn? Remember? The teasing thing I do?"

"Of course."

"Please," Rose says. "Do continue."

"As I was saying, before your cruel joke was that you drive with such careful precision."

"Hell yeah. And you know the best part?"

"What's that?"

Rose grabs the knob of the gearshift, feeling the vibration of the drivetrain. She shifts down as they enter a turn. "I'm in control. All this car, all this horsepower, at my fingertips."

"I see. How long have you had it?"

"It?" She casts him a horrified glance. "Her."

"Her. Sorry."

"Don't let it happen again. I inherited Precious Baby from my Nana Rose."

"Your namesake?"

"And then some," Rose says. "She never took shit from anyone, never let anyone define her. Or tell her what she had to be or how she had to act."

"She sounds familiar."

"I used to spend summers with her at her place in the country," Rose says. "We'd drive around in Precious Baby and talk about everything. Some say I take after her."

"I can't imagine why."

She glances at him. "Wiseass."

Patrick's airport is tiny, little more than a pair of hangers, a collection of trailers, and a runway. One trailer holds the airport office and control room. Another is Patrick's, a sign identifying it as "Pinelands Flying School." A third trailer belongs to a skydiving company.

A dozen aircraft are parked alongside the roadway.

Patrick has Rose pull into one of the hangers, its bay doors open. A pair of planes are inside. Two men working on one of the planes drop what they're doing when the Corvette pulls in.

"What's this?" the taller of the two says, then sees Patrick. "Oh, hey Patrick."

Patrick introduces them. Their eyes admire the car and, when they think she won't notice, Rose.

Rose talks with them as Patrick goes off and gets his plane ready. They ask about Precious Baby. Rose pops the hood and the three of them lean over the engine.

"I wonder what this puts out," the shorter of the two says.

"The 454 put out 270 horsepower," Rose says. "Not much by modern standards, but I've added certain modifications. I estimate somewhere around 370."

"I love the orange," the taller one says.

"The most popular color that year," Rose says.

"You know your stuff," the taller one says.

"I know everything there is to know about this car."

"I bet," the taller one says.

Rose chats with them for a few minutes. They're best friends who own a plane together. Lawyers, too, which they both make a point to work into conversation.

Men with good jobs who want to impress her always let her know what they do for a living. No matter how much of a stretch, they work it in right away.

A typical example:

Rose: "Do you come to this park often?"

Guy: "Well, I'm a cardiologist and my practice is thirty minutes over yonder. So, yeah, I'm here all the time. Did I mention I'm a cardiologist?"

Rose: "You might've, yeah."

The lawyer-aviators--Rose decides to call them the Legal Eagles--are good-looking and seem sweet, though. Rose's mind wanders into her MMF fantasy. She pictures what they'd look like spit-roasting her. Or Rose riding one Legal Eagle while getting face fucked by the other?

Not to be. At least, not today. Instead, they show her their plane and explain the routine maintenance they're doing.

"I've always wanted to learn to fly," she says.

"The feeling when the plane rises from the ground," the taller Legal Eagle says. "Nothing compares to the thrill."

Rose raises an eyebrow. "Nothing?"

"Well," he says, grinning.

Patrick returns. "You can leave the car here. We'll be ready to take off in a few minutes."

"Excellent." Her stomach feels queasy. This is going to happen, is it? She's going to get in a tiny plane and go up in the air.

She turns back to the Legal Eagles. "Well, it was nice meeting you gentlemen."

She heads off with Patrick, not looking back but certain they're checking out her ass. Enjoy the view, boys.

"I'd suggest using the toilet in my trailer," Patrick says. "Even if you don't feel the need. There's nowhere to stop on the way."

Rose takes his advice and rejoins him outside. His plane, he explains, is a Cessna 172S.

"It's not the 1973 Corvette of small planes," he says. "More like the Ford F-150. Or the Volkswagen Beetle."

Patrick goes through the intricate process of getting a plane ready for flight. Rose reads from the checklist as he conducts the preflight inspection.

Patrick helps her get into the plane. He leans over and assists her with her seat belt, helping her click it in place. "FAA regulations require I brief you on the use of the seatbelt."

Rose kisses his cheek.

"Yeah," he says. "It's a good regulation."

Patrick hands her a headset. "Put this on. It gets loud up there."

Rose puts on the headset and settles in. The cabin is narrow, far tighter than Precious Baby. Her eyes take in everything. There are a set of dual controls, everything a bewildering assortment of dials and gauges. She can't begin to make sense of it.

Patrick speaks to the ground controller several times. He also performs something he calls a run-up. He starts the engine and revs it while keeping the brakes on.

"That's to make sure the engine, electronics, and control systems are all functional," he says.

Rose learns about magnetos, transponders, and something called ATIS. She also discovers why a fuel-air mixture has to be adjusted according to altitude.

"You ready?" Patrick asks after he gets clearance to take off.

Rose takes a deep breath. No chickening out now. "Yup. Guess so."

"Okay," Patrick says. "Now, take-off is going to be a lot quicker than the big jets you're used to."

Rose nods. You agreed to this. A flying date. It sounded great and now here you are. "Of course."

Rose tries to calm down. She's flown before. Dozens of times. This is the same, only in a smaller plane. A much smaller plane. Plus, Patrick knows what he's doing. This isn't his first flight.

The plane moves forward and Patrick taxies into position. When everything is ready, he pulls back on the throttle and the plane rolls forward. "Here we go."

Rose inhales sharply. Why did I say yes to this? What was I thinking?

The plane heads down the runway, picking up speed. Rose glances at Patrick, her stomach tightening. He's calm as can be. Why is he so fucking calm? Doesn't he know what's about to happen?

Rose looks forward, bracing herself. This tiny plane is about to go airborne. Is this how it all ends?

"We're looking for fifty five knots," Patrick says. "And there it is."

The plane lifts off the ground. Rose lets out a nervous squeak, closing her eyes before getting up the courage to open them again. They're soaring above the trees, already hundreds of feet above the ground.

Rose looks at Patrick again. He's the epitome of calm. How can he be so fucking calm? Doesn't he know we're flying?

Patrick turns the controls left and the plane banks accordingly. Rose dare not speak. She stares out the windshield in self-enforced silence. She isn't going to interrupt or distract him no matter what.

They reach cruising altitude and Patrick glances at her. "Enjoying yourself?"

"It takes getting used to."

"No need to be nervous," he says. "You're safer up here than on the highway."

"The rational part of my brain knows that." It's the rest of me which is fucking terrified.

Rose glances at Patrick again. He's in command of himself and the plane. In total control, their lives in his capable hands. It's the same as if they're driving down the street. Except, in the air, the reality of it is more vivid.

Patrick in control, Rose helpless. It's unnerving. She's surprised to feel turned-on. Too bad this isn't the right kind of plane for the mile-high club.

They fly northwest, the flat shoreline giving way to hills and mountain ridges. They soar over it all, towns and highways passing underneath. They've been flying for a half hour when Rose asks how fast they're going.

"There's airspeed and there's ground speed," Patrick says. "Also, pilots think in terms of flight time. But the cruising speed for this aircraft is one hundred forty miles per hour."

"Omigod." She looks out the window. "It doesn't feel like it."

"It doesn't, does it? So, how are you liking it now?"

Well, I managed not to pee my panties. "I'm getting used to it. Kinda."

"Relax, Rose. You're safe as can be."

"I know. But the reptile part of my brain doesn't like being away from terra firma."

"What about the rest of your brain?"

"It's not so much terrified anymore as thrilled."

"It's pretty cool, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

They fly another seventy five minutes. Patrick points out various landmarks, adjusting course according to his flight plan. The Hudson Valley stretches out beneath them. They turn east and Patrick backs off on the throttle. The plane drops altitude steadily.

"There's our landing strip," he says.

Patrick cuts back on the throttle further, the plane descending smoothly. Rose breathes in, her stomach rising again. It's the same for her as on a commercial flight. Flying along at a steady altitude? Fine. Takeoff and landings, not so fine.

"It's okay," Patrick says. "This is nothing. I've landed planes on carriers at night in poor weather. This is as easy as pulling into your driveway."

Patrick guides them down. When they're six feet above the ground, he cuts the throttle to an idle and the plane eases onto the ground.

Rose exhales, looking out the window. They've flown over two hundred miles. All for lunch. Lunch, and to impress the fuck out of me.

"Show off," she mutters.

"What's that?"

"Nothing," she says.

"I hope you're hungry," Patrick says. "This place is great."

Patrick guides the plane towards a large red building at the end of the runway. There's a wraparound porch outside with dozens of people seated at tables. Another plane is out front already.

Patrick parks the plane and cuts the engine.

"Okay," he announces. "Let's eat."

They get out of the plane. Every person sitting on the porch watches them. Rose smiles and takes Patrick's hand as they walk over. That's how you make an entrance.

***

Lunch is excellent. Rose orders mushroom ravioli and Patrick gets chicken and waffles.

"Everyone keeps looking at us," Rose says.

"Are they?"

As if you don't notice. "They're wondering about us. Who pulls up to a restaurant in a plane?"

Patrick shrugs. "We do."

"That makes us the cool kids."

"I suppose," he says.

Something in the smooth but confident tone in his voice which strikes her. "Now you're channeling James Bond."

"Am I?" He takes a sip of water. "Which one?"

"Timothy Dalton."

"I hope that's you teasing again."

He's catching on. "Maybe."

"Funny girl."

"I try."

Patrick sips his water. He puts the glass down and looks Rose square in the eye. "Vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred."

The accent, the timbre, and the cadence are all on-point. Like sitting across from Sean Connery in 1962.

Rose nods. "Well, well, Mr. Bond. That's your nickname."

"I'll take it," he says.

"I'm sure." She sips water. "I keep discovering more to you than meets the eye, Mr. Bond."

He takes a bite of waffle. "But shouldn't there be? What'd you say on our last date? Who's an open book?"