Quirk: Read Outside the Lines

The Professional

Crowds swirled around her. Jet fumes leaked into the airport, scorching her nose and leaving a metallic residue in her mouth. The constant thrum of airplanes landing and lifting off reverberated unpleasantly under her skin.

Angel glanced at her Apple Watch. Thirty minutes until boarding. To occupy herself, she continued reading from Inspirational Leadership. "What a load of bull hockey," she mumbled, turning the page and resisting the urge to swear. People who swore were unprincipled, and Angel was a consummate professional. She planned to rise from star sales representative to upper management at her pharmaceutical company. In fact, she was on the way to Amsterdam to represent them. That had to be a good sign.

She squinted in vexation when the plastic cushion next to her puffed air. Angel glanced at the many empty seats and then at the man who had flopped down next to her. When he smiled, she flipped the book page and twisted so her back faced him.

Angel hated to brag, but with watercolor blue eyes and blonde hair, she was a nine. The nondescript man beside her ranked a five at best, even with the guitar case he'd dropped by her feet.

"Where're you headed?" The man's eyes reflected the ocean's deepest, coldest depths.

Obviously, can't take a hint, Angel thought as she appraised his baseball cap, baggy jeans, and droopy, wrinkled dress shirt. "Amsterdam." She returned to her reading, but his stare dogged her. With a sigh, she met his eyes once more.

"Me too." His teeth were white and straight. "Maybe we'll be lucky enough to sit near one another." He took out a computer from his laptop bag and opened it. 

"Sure," she said to placate him but then squinted. That smile. Her subconscious nagged her, and Angel almost asked the man if he was a famous musician. She checked the surrounding seats. No entourage. No screaming fans. Not famous.

"Can't wait," he said.

Angel's lush, apple-red lips turned into a dash as the man's restless energy filled the space. He tapped his foot and fiddled with the gear close to her legs. He was, most likely, enjoying the view. Her calf muscles had been sculpted by evenings at the gym and highlighted by the shorter-than-professional navy skirt and red stilettos.

Her eyes began to search the waiting area for a far-away, empty seat when her name filled the air. "Angel Jameson, please report to the desk."

She grabbed her carry-on luggage and purse as she sprang away, ignoring the faint "See you later," the man sent with a parting wave.

"I'm Angel," she said to the clerk at the desk.

"You've been upgraded to first class," the woman said in heavily accented English. "Here's your new ticket. You can board." The clerk waved her away. "Enjoy the ride."

Walking onto the plane, Angel squealed in delight. Her boss must have noticed her dedication. A promotion, luxury, and the life she deserved were close. She settled into the plush gray airplane seat, relishing the champagne the steward handed her. Life should always work like this and would. Soon.

She recognized the shirt first, her buzz fading slightly when her stalker stepped into the aisle, put his guitar case in the overhead bin, and sat beside her.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said.

Her cheeks flushed as her thoughts ping-ponged. The seating arrangement had to be coincidental. Her company upgraded her. The creep couldn't have done this. 

There was no chance of anything happening between them, and Angel made that clear. "I'm sorry. I don't want to be rude, but I have a huge presentation to prepare." She pulled her computer from her purse and proceeded to ignore him.

He shrugged and took out a spy novel. After a few hours, she noticed he also worked on his computer. Besides the fact that he used the bathroom and checked and rechecked the overhead bin, the man didn't bother her, allowing Angel time to research Amsterdam and nap.

When the flight bumped to a landing, the man was nice enough to hand Angel her carry-on from the overhead compartment and let her exit the plane before him. Angel swiveled her hips suggestively, knowing he probably wanted one last look. She considered it his going away present.

Her passport and forms were in hand when she was called to the customs agent's cubicle. He looked at the passport and stared at her. He said in broken English. "I need you to come with me."

"What?" Why?" Angel asked.

"Follow me, please." He moved from behind the desk and grabbed her elbow, dragging her despite her loud protest.

"Stop. You can't do this. I'm an American citizen." She refused to move. The customs agent spoke on the radio. Two security agents appeared, and the three forced Angel to the ground. Her red stiletto slipped from her foot as her head hit the tile.

Her seatmate from the flight chuckled at the skirmish. It had all been too easy. He could have killed her on the plane and made it look like an accident, but where was the fun in that? During the plane ride, he retrieved the hard drive he'd stowed on her when they first interacted at the airport. 

One couldn't be too careful going through security with highly classified information that could start a war or end the world. It was true; he acted unprofessionally when he planted the gun in her carry-on luggage and tipped off security. 

Normally, he would've retrieved the gun from the bathroom where his friend on the cleaning crew had left it and kept the weapon hidden in the secret compartment of the guitar case for emergencies, but spies had to have a little fun too. He wouldn't have done any of it if she'd been a nice person, but she was a bitch.

He'd see her again. It was his greatest desire. And next time, it would be different. But let her enjoy a couple of days in jail first.