Callie’s Last Dance

38.

Donovan Creed.

Cincinnati.

THE PILOT TURNS and points a grim finger at the fighter jets on the runway.

“We should wait till they move, sir.”

“Yeah, but I’m in a hurry.”

“They’re blocking the runway.”

I’m running late because of some work I had the geeks perform this morning, and Callie just called to say she’s on her way to the private airfield in Cincinnati to pick me up. Due to a faulty igniter, the jet I flew in on has been grounded. It’s forty-five minutes to the nearest airport, and they don’t have any private jets currently available for charter anyway. So I found an old Cessna 1SP in the hangar that can be legally flown by a single pilot. Since one of the private pilots has to stay with the broken plane, I hired the other one to fly me to Cincy in the Cessna. We wasted thirty minutes fueling and checking the systems, and now the fighter pilots are back on duty, sitting in their cockpits, twiddling their thumbs. They’re not in my chain of command, which means they don’t move unless the defense department tells them to.

Unfortunately, it’s lunch hour at the Pentagon.

So here at Sensory, the fighter jets continue to sit at the far end of the runway, blocking our takeoff.

“You’ve got plenty of room, don’t you?” I say.

“Technically, yes. But it’s never a good idea to take off on a runway that’s in use. I could lose my license.”

“Those fighter pilots think they’re hot shit,” I say.

“They do indeed, sir.”

“You know they’re sitting there laughing at us.”

“I expect you’re right, sir.”

I move from the cabin to the cockpit and strap myself into the co-pilot’s chair and say, “What’s your name, son?”

“James Rogers.”

“What do your friends call you, Jimmy?”

“Buck, sir.”

“Buck Rogers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I like that.”

“Are you planning to fly us, sir?”

“No. But maybe it’s time I asked you a question.”

“Sir?”

“Who’s the real pilot here, son? You? Or those guys?”

“Me, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s show ’em what we’re made of.”

“For real?”

“You know you want to.”

“I do. But you can’t just go around doing whatever you want all the time.”

“Of course not. But you can do whatever you want when your cause is just.”

“What is our cause, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“True love.”

“Sir?”

“Can there possibly be a more noble cause?”

“Uh…”

“Light the fires and kick the tires!”

“Sir?”

“Make them shit their pants, son.”

“Yes, sir!”

He revs up the engine and taxis onto the runway. Then looks at me and says, “Aren’t you even the least bit nervous?”

“Not at all,” I say.

“Can I ask why?”

“Only three runways in the world make me nervous, Buck. One, Paro, in Bhutan, where only eight pilots in the world are certified to land, and even they can’t do it without setting off all the cockpit warning sirens. Two, Matekane, in Lesotho, where the too-short runway suddenly ends at the edge of a 2,000-foot cliff and your plane is forced to plummet downward until it gains enough altitude to clear the mountain in front of you. And three, Barra International, in Scotland, where the runway is made of sand and disappears twice a day at high tide. These are tough runways, son. Not this one.”

“But the fighter jets.”

“We’ll clear them with forty feet to spare.”

As it turned out we cleared them with only twenty feet to spare. By then, Buck’s drunk on the adrenalin rush, and we laugh and joke about the experience all the way to Cincinnati, where he touches us down safely, and taxis to our assigned drop off area.

I point at Callie’s limo, entering the gate.

“There she is, Buck!” I say. “Wait till you see her!”

Buck brings us to a stop and winds down the engines. Then fusses with the old door till it finally opens. I descend the stairs to find Callie out of the car, running toward me. We have one of those Hallmark moments as we catch each other in a warm embrace, and share our first kiss.

And our second.

I’m going to pause here and freely admit I’m not an overly-emotional, touchy-feely kind of guy. So I’ll spare you such details as the “surge of happiness” I’m feeling, and how “right” it seems, and how “time stood still” as we kissed, and all that crap. I’ll keep to myself how my heart’s pounding and do my best to refrain from all girly descriptions of how her lips seemed to hunger for mine, and how our passion “soared to heights unmatched by those who’ve loved before.”

First of all, it wouldn’t be true. I mean, how can I say you haven’t felt the exact same thing when you kissed the man or woman of your dreams? What right do I have to suggest our first kiss was any more special than yours?

None.

I’ll simply say that kissing Callie was the greatest feeling I’ve ever known, a moment I’ll never forget.

It probably didn’t hurt knowing in a couple of hours I’ll be in her pants.