In all the excitement at home, I wasn't able to grab a bite to eat like I had promised Aunt Mae. As usual, my stomach is churning and growling as we pull onto the airstrip. Aunt Mae hears the traitorous noise and glares at me with her knowing green eyes. It's a wonder her and my stomach don't rise up and commit mutiny against me.
Standing in front of the charter jet, reserved for us by the state, is my lawyer Silver Donnagan. He drove over 100 miles from Rawlings, Wyoming just so he could go over the trial with me during the flight from Laramie to Houston.
After our car comes to a complete stop, Mr. Donnagan opens the door for me and offers a helping hand.
"Good morning Miss. Calvinson. Pleasure to see you again." He says with a smile.
"Good morning Mr. Donnagan. Pleasant drive?" I ask.
At 6'3, with black hair, a solid build, and 36 years of life under his belt, Silver Donnagan could be a very intimidating man if the occasion called for it. When his face turned three shades of red at my simple question, naturally I was surprised. Such a harmless exchange, and yet he almost looked embarrassed. My heart immediately begin's to flutter out of sync. From fear or interest? It's hard to tell.
His striking blue eyes find mine and search them out intently. "What are you implying?" They seem to inquire.
"The drive was typical Miss. Calvinson. Boring and long like always."
Someone clears their throat behind us, breaking the spell. Only then do I realize that Mr. Donnagan is still holding my hand.
I take a step back, low my gaze, and turn to see Ted standing next to the open trunk with an impatient look on his face.
"Do you want me to load your bags onto the plane or into the cargo hold?" He asks with a frown.
Out of embarrassment of him witnessing my interlude with Mr. Donnagan, I studder,
"Oh, um, the cargo hold is fine Mr. Huxley. Uh, thank you."
With a smirk, he gathers our bags and heads toward the plane.
Mr. Donnagan gestures in the same direction Ted is heading and nods toward Aunt Mae and me.
"Shall we?" He asks politely.
The closer we get to the jet, the happier Aunt Mae becomes. She's always had a fascination with airplanes and jets. That's how her and my great uncle met 40 years ago. He was a pilot for the US Airforce and she was the head aviation mechanic. It was love at first carburetor repair; or so the story is told.
"Hey Aunt Mae, I was wondering. What kind of plane is this?" I ask teasingly.
She looks at me with a sigh of frustration, as if I should know the answer to such a ridiculous question.
"It's not a plane Lily, it's an Executive Jet. In fact, it's a French made Dassault Falcon 2000. First assembled and flown on March 4, 1993 and was developed from the Dassault Falcon 900. Shorter cabin but wider compartments that now seat up to 14 passengers."
"Wow Aunt Mae, you sound like a travel brochure." I laugh and push her easily with my shoulder.
She pinches my cheek and gives me a smile.
I love how young she makes me feel. Every conversation I have with her is like re-writing my childhood one bad memory at a time.
Growing up on the compound, I was always shrouded with rules and enforced punishments. There were always more tears shed than laughter shared. We never celebrated holidays, including birthdays, and a joke could easily be misinterpreted as insubordination. People label these compounds as cults, sects, or even religious fanatic asylums, but I've always deemed it my own personal hell.
YOU ARE READING
Wild Thing
Mystery / ThrillerLily Calvinson grew up on a compound that would later be described as "the cult of the century." Followers were taught obedience, that God was their enemy, and any interaction or affiliation with churches, Bibles, or Christians could be punishable b...
