Shacking Up - Abby Knox Page 0,1

seat in the room is in front of me, next to the corny guy. A minute ago I heard him comment to his neighbor to the other side, “I guess it’s time to hurry up and wait,” and then guffawed at his own joke like it was the first time anybody had said that.

All right fine, I’ll stay where I’m at. As painful as it may be. I’m just gonna read my book.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the young lady cock her head to read the cover of my Wild West novel, but I keep my eyes trained on the words in front of me. Maybe Louis L’Amour will be enough to ward her off from trying to talk to me.

He seems to do the trick.

She sits back in her chair and takes out her phone, then tucks her earbud back into her ear. That’s right, darlin’. I’m boring as shit. Just keep your thighs to yourself. I mean eyes. Not thighs.

Suddenly, I hear a strange voice, one that’s definitely not from these parts. A highbrow kind of British accent from one of those PBS programs where fancy folks laze about a manor house and give each other knowing looks while discussing the weather. I mean, I don’t watch those shows, but I’ve seen them advertised. And I might’ve caught a minute or two, here and there. And maybe I’ve lingered, if something interesting is happening, such as a lady turning down a proposal of marriage from some oily dude. Anyway, how could a guy like me resist looking at well-mannered English women wearing historical costumes that show off their tits?

And then my brain registers what that British male voice is saying. And it for sure ain’t a costume drama on public television.

“Take it out and hold it in your hand. It’s quite massive, isn’t it? Now, pet, you’re going to do as I say and put it your mouth.”

People seated around us give themselves whiplash as they swivel around trying to locate the source of this filthy narration. Some of them stare at me and the young lady, but she’s just sitting there staring at her phone screen, perplexed. Someone nearby titters. Some old lady in the row in front of us gasps, horrified.

The sounds of smut continue, the breathing becomes heavier, and the invisible British man is getting bossier now. “I said, stroke it and tease the tip. Be a good girl, now, and you’ll get your reward.”

I realize what’s happening. The young lady is listening to something filthy on her phone and she doesn’t realize the Bluetooth connection isn’t working.

Jiminy Christmas. What in the world is she listening to? And where can I find the female-voiced version of it?

“Ma’am,” I say, shifting toward her although it’s the last thing I want to do.

She ignores me. Must be noise cancelling headphones.

I don’t want to touch her, but I tap her gently on the shoulder.

She turns her head and her mouth drops open, giving me a questioning look.

“What?” she says, a little too loudly.

I point at her phone, and then at her ear, and shake my head.

Her eyes widen in horror when she realizes what has happened.

Rushing to stop the track playing on her screen, she fumbles the phone and it clatters to the floor. Meanwhile, the words broadcasting from it become more graphic with every passing moment.

“Fuck," she says, her hands scrambling and missing. Some people around us are in stitches, some are murmuring about public indecency. The phone skids across the floor and I reach out one foot to catch it, pinning it beneath my boot.

Leaning forward, I press the pause button on her screen. “Sorry, folks,” I say to the half-horrified, half-amused faces all around me as I sit up straight again. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Must have drifted off and started talking in my sleep.”

I hand the phone back to the young lady.

While trying to get back to my book, I can feel many pairs of eyes on me, including the lovely ones belonging to the tattooed woman next to me. I can tell her jaw is hanging open.

Without looking up at her I ask, “You trying to catch flies with that mouth?”

“I’m Wren,” she says.

I tear my eyes away from the page and look at her. Her pretty eyes are full of gratitude. “Like the bird, not like Ren & Stimpy.”

I shoot her a questioning look. “Ren & Stimpy?”

“My mom’s a hippie. She named all her kids after birds.