The Last Hour (Thompson Sisters) by Sheehan-Miles, Charles (reading well .txt) 📕

flap screaming to your death? Is this it? But then ... everything went calm after a few seconds. The wind was intense. But there was this feeling of absolute freedom. No gravity ... flying. Absolute exhilaration. I could see hundreds of miles of land below us. I could touch the sky. It was the most amazing moment of my life.”

“Did your parachute open?” She had a wry smile on her face when she asked the question.

I grinned at her. “It did. But the thing is ... that feeling that I could touch the sky? That’s exactly how you make me feel.”

Her smile just grew, her white teeth gleaming, her eyes prominent and beautiful, and she said, “That’s the cheesiest thing I ever heard in my life.” Then she giggled and stopped and kissed me again. Which is exactly what I wanted at that moment.

Our lips parted and I said, “Would you be upset if I said I want to skip the dinner and the concert and run off to the hotel with you right now?”

“No,” she said. “But we can’t do it. I don’t get to see my sisters enough as is.”

“And I can’t wait to meet them.”

“You don’t actually have to wait. We’re here.”

I looked up, and she was right. The sign for Mustang Sally’s was three doors down from where we stood.

“Well ... I get a kiss first? To tide me over?”

She bit her lip then smiled again, and we were kissing, and I was in free fall all over again.

Then, barely at the edge of consciousness, I heard the words, spoken in a clear, loud New York accent, “Isn’t that Crank’s sister-in-law?”

Next thing I knew, there were flashes, several of them, and I flinched. Both of us whipped our heads to my right, and there was a crowd of photographers with cameras pointed at us. What the hell?

“Oh crap,” she said. “Come on, let’s get inside.” She actually gave the photographers a friendly smile, which is a lot more than I could do, because I wanted to punch one of them. The flash had thrown me off, making my heart race, as I instantly became aware of everything around me. Every bit of trash on the sidewalk that might hold a bomb, every coat that might have a gun hidden underneath. My breath sped up and I said, “Let’s get inside now.”

I never let go of her hand as we pushed our way through the crowd to the front door of the restaurant. A bouncer stood at the front door, which was pretty unusual for a restaurant. Carrie said something to him, I don’t know what, because my mind was still focused on the photographers, and he let us in.

“Jesus, what was that about?” I said.

She shrugged. “Part of the cost of having a celebrity in the family. You get used to it.”

You get used to it. I wanted Carrie, badly enough to get used to anything. But that would take some serious getting used to. I didn’t realize I was shaking until Carrie turned and put a hand on my shoulder.

“Are you okay?” she asked, a look of concern on her face.

“Yeah,” I said, knowing I didn’t sound it. “The flash startled me.”

Understanding dawned on her face instantly. She wrapped her arm around mine and said, “Come on. Let’s get the introductions out of the way and relax for the night, okay?”

I nodded. “Sorry. I’ll try not to be too much of a spaz.”

“Relax,” she said. “I get it. I really do, okay? It’s going to take some time before you’re ... completely home. And that’s normal, and it’s okay, and I’m here with you. You hear me?”

Okay. I’m not a guy who breaks out in tears at the drop of a hat. I’m not terribly sentimental. Sad movies don’t evoke anything from me but an order for more popcorn. But I’ll admit that her bald, open declaration that she was with me through this? It brought an unfamiliar prickly feeling to my eyes, which were blurring.

“I love you, Doctor Babe,” I said.

She grinned. “Come on?”

So we turned, and the hostess took us to a large circular booth in the very back of the restaurant.

“Weed!” called Dylan, and then he was up and out of his seat.

“Hey, man,” I said, grinning, and we bumped chests and growled. Some things you can’t explain. Then Alex broke off from her embrace with Carrie, and came over and folded me into a hug. Alex is a pretty girl, with remarkable green eyes, and it was always painfully obvious why Dylan had fallen for her the way he had. And while I was being maudlin about Carrie’s declaration that she was with me, I have to admit I was proud of how Alex stood by Dylan while he was being a complete dickhead earlier this year. They’d gotten through it and looked as happy as I’d ever seen them.

A couple in their late twenties, maybe early thirties, approached. Of course I recognized the guy: everyone on earth with any awareness of pop culture would. Crank Wilson was the lead singer of Morbid Obesity, one of the most popular alt-rock bands of the last decade. He was tallish, but only in comparison to normal people, not anything like my or even Carrie’s height. His hair was bleached pure white and spiked, and he wore black jeans and a t-shirt saying, “Chew on this.” His wife, about Alex’s height, maybe five-four, had long and lush brown hair and very pale blue-green eyes almost exactly like Carrie’s.

With a lopsided grin, Crank held out his hand and said, “I’m Crank Wilson. You must be Carrie’s soldier.”

“Ray Sherman,” I said, and we shook hands. Then the woman came up and grabbed me in a hug. “I’m Julia. I’m so happy to meet you, finally. Carrie’s had a lot to say about you.”

“Mostly good stuff, I hope?”

She smiled. “Sorry. What’s between me and my sisters goes to the grave.”

I chuckled. Then I saw the tiny pixie.