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  Open Sky

  By Nickie Jamison

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2018 Nickie Jamison

  ISBN 9781634866101

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  For my darling-baby-buggy-bumper-boo.

  * * * *

  Open Sky

  By Nickie Jamison

  The food in first class was more than a step up from coach. It was like going from eating fast food hamburgers to dining on filet mignon. No real comparison. Every time Birdie ate a bite of steak, her eyes rolled back and she exhaled with sheer bliss.

  “Red meat is so bad for you.” Tucker groaned as a cherry tomato zipped away from the tongs of his fork and landed in his lap, leaving a blotch of red wine vinaigrette dressing on the left thigh of his jeans. The dark brown curls of his hair bounced with the movement of his shoulder as he blotted at the spot with the linen napkin.

  “We’re going to a cattle ranch, remember?” Birdie shoved another slice of meat into her mouth and glared at her boyfriend. Tucker James Winthrop, heir to the Winthrop Hospitalities empire, was caring, affectionate, and level-headed guy—except when he was being an ass. Birdie blamed Tucker’s disposition on his lonely childhood.

  Tucker’s grass green eyes caught the light when he looked up at her and she could see the tiny flecks of silvery gray woven into his irises, the beautifully delicate tapestry of his soul. Birdie was sure if she ever stared into Tucker’s eyes too long, she’d lose herself. Even though he was outwardly a strictly business type, suits and numbers, Tucker had the eyes of a free spirit.

  Birdie chewed slowly, trying to decide if Tucker coming with her to Montana had been such a stellar idea. Everyone back home wanted to meet the city-slicker who’d wrangled himself a country girl. Birdie didn’t have a family, she had a tribe—the Johnsons—and they were all excited to meet her new man.

  Her biological family was nothing like her chosen family. The only thing that Birdie knew about her father was that he came from New Orleans. Her mother, Selena Bird, was a teenager that couldn’t wait to get off the reservation and ran away from home. According to Birdie’s gramma, Selena took off when she was fourteen and when she came back, was six months pregnant and cracked out. When Birdie was born later that year, her mother gave the nurses the stupidest name she could think of: Mary Betty-Lou Bird. Thank God Grandpa nicknamed her Birdie, because Birdie hated her given name with a passion.

  Two weeks after giving birth, Selena took off again. Birdie wasn’t sure if her mother was still alive or where she was as she’d only seen the woman twice in her life. Once when she came back to town for Grandpa’s funeral when Birdie was five years old and again during Birdie’s high school graduation. If it hadn’t been for Helen Johnson, Birdie wouldn’t have known who the woman with tired eyes and long stringy black hair loitering by the bleachers was.

  Birdie remembered how hot graduation day had been. The noon-time sun was relentless in June. Sitting on the metal folding chair, her hairspray-heavy curls wilting like flowers after two weeks without water and her makeup degrading into a sticky mess, sweating in places she didn’t know she could. Waiting for the principal to call her name was damn near torture. Birdie’s slowly melting misery was compounded by the stink of teenage boys wearing too much of that cheap body spray that was advertised during every football game ever on television with a commercial with a shirtless guy drowned in bikini clad women.

  She scanned the stands looking for her boyfriend, Luke, who’d graduated the year before, and his mother, Helen. When she spotted them, she waved and they waved back. After what felt like forever, the ceremony ended and Helen and Luke met her outside of the stadium.

  “Hey,” Birdie said, throwing her arms around Luke’s neck and pulling him in for a kiss.

  “Hold up the diploma, I want to get a picture,” said Helen.

  “My hair’s a mess and my makeup is all screwed up.” Birdie whined.

  “You’re still the most gorgeous lady here.” Luke gave her shoulders a squeeze. His corn silk blond hair glittered in the sunlight and he smiled all the way into his blue eyes.

  “Is Greyson here with Amelia?” Birdie asked. Amelia was a classmate of Birdie’s and Greyson was Amelia’s older brother.

  Luke and Greyson were together. They’d gone on a couple of dates, made out a couple times, but hadn’t done anything beyond heavy petting. Together, with Birdie, they were trying to figure out polyamory. Back then, Greyson wasn’t sure if he was Bi, Gay, or something else.

  “Just one picture?” Helen held up the little silver digital camera that her husband, Roy, had given her for her birthday last week.

  “Just one,” Birdie said. She slipped her arm around Luke’s trim waist. Like his father, Luke was a Rancher. A life of riding horses, herding cattle, and caring for livestock, had kept him fairly fit. She pulled him closer.

  Luke grinned, placed his Stetson hat back on his head, and tugged the brim low on his forehead. Birdie giggled and looked up at the camera. That was when Birdie noticed the woman standing by the bleachers.

  She wore a dress that looked like it’d come straight out of the late eighties, light pink with a large floral pattern, complete with a sweetheart neckline and shoulder padded and puffy sleeves. The woman’s long hair hung to her hips and her copper skin glistened with sweat. She had probably been pretty once, but now she looked haggard.

  “Who’s that?” Birdie asked.

  Helen turned to look and frowned. The woman waved.

  “Stay here.” Helen’s mother hen tone made Birdie feel kind of queasy, but at the time Birdie had attributed that to being hungry, rather than anxiety. Helen walked over to the woman.

  Birdie held on to Luke, her fingers toying with the fabric of his shirt. She couldn’t hear anything that was being said, but that strange woman kept looking at her. After a few moments, the woman’s shoulders slumped and she walked to a rusty green Nova parked across the road.

  “Get in the truck,” said Helen when she came back and waved them toward the parking lot.

  The entire ride home, Helen’s mouth turned down in a grim line. They were most of the way home when Birdie summoned the courage to ask. “Who was that lady?”

  The truck bounced along a narrow country road. Helen let out a frustrated sigh. “Birdie, that was your mother.”

  Birdie stared out the windshield, her thumb stroking along Luke’s hand as she held it. No one spoke, giving her time to think. She couldn’t remember exactly what had been going through her mind, but after a long time she said. “She didn’t even come to Gramma’s funeral.”<
br />
  Luke wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled Birdie close when she began to sob. He let her ugly cry all over his good dress shirt for the rest of the ride home.

  “You okay?” Tucker asked.

  Birdie blinked. She stabbed the last slice of steak with her fork. “I’m fine, why?”

  “You kind of spaced.”

  “I was thinking. I’m worried you’re not going to like my family,” said Birdie.

  “Your family or just Luke?” Tucker arched an eyebrow.

  “A bit of both.” She laid her utensils on her empty plate and blotted her lips with the napkin.

  “Honey, you love him and I love you and he loves you. We already have at least one thing in common.” Tucker smiled at her and pressed the call button for the flight attendant.

  “True, but you two are polar opposites.” Birdie eased back into the seat. The attendant appeared and took away their empty plates and refilled their water glasses.

  “I doubt that, but go ahead and tell me how different Luke and I are,” said Tucker.

  “For one thing, you talk a lot more than he does.”

  “Not sure how that counts, but okay.”

  “You say most of the stuff you’re thinking.” Birdie fished in her pocket for her lipstick. “Sometimes I don’t know what’s going through Luke’s head.”

  “He’s stoic?” Tucker turned to look at her. “Still not convinced.”

  “You’re a vegetarian. He and his family run a cattle ranch.” Birdie swiped the pink bullet over her lips and pressed them together.

  “Thought they were your family, too, Birdie? To quote the great Birdie Black, a chosen family is still a family. Try again.” Tucker crossed his arms over his chest.

  “He wears hats.” Birdie smirked.

  “Oh no. A hat. I’m not going to like this guy at all, darling.” Tucker chuckled. He leaned over and kissed her neck. “Seriously, quit worrying.” His breath tickled her earlobe and he tugged gently at the gold hoop she wore through it with his teeth.

  A shiver ran from the top of Birdie’s head straight down her spine and between her legs. “Are you trying to get into the mile-high club?” Birdie asked, voice husky with want.

  “Not with three TMZ photographers and a reporter flying coach.” Tucker righted himself in his seat and began scrolling through emails on his phone.

  “Tease,” Birdie said under her breath.

  Tucker winked at her.

  Birdie stood up from her seat and stretched her arms over her head, loosening the stiffness in her lower back brought on by sitting too long. She headed to the rear of the plane to the bathroom. She may have been flying first class, but the lavatories were all on the other side of coach. Walking as quickly as possible, her head down, and silent prayers that she wouldn’t be recognized, Birdie made it down the narrow aisle without getting stopped. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her fans, she was grateful for every single one, but sometimes she wanted to move through life like an average non-famous person.

  Birdie had barely sat down on the toilet when someone knocked on the bathroom door. “Somebody’s in here,” she called out. Fuck me sideways, can’t even take a piss. She finished her business, washed her hands, and stepped out of the tiny bathroom.

  A teenage girl leaned against the opposite wall, waiting for a free stall. She looked up and her mouth fell open. “Your majesty!” She breathed the words out, a soft, thrilled tremble. Without missing a beat, the girl asked, “Are you really Birdie Black?”

  Birdie nodded. Birdie Black, her professional name—and legal one as soon as she found a damned moment to get to the Social Security office and start changing it—was how she was credited in TV, Film, and hopefully one day as a director.

  “I love Gilded Swords,” said the young lady. She grinned, practically vibrating with excitement.

  Birdie smiled politely and gestured over her shoulder. “Did you need the bathroom?”

  “Will you take a selfie with me, please?” The girl blinked rapidly, her brain catching up with what Birdie had asked her and her gaze moved back and forth between Birdie’s face and the lavatory. “Just one picture?” The girl’s face fell with the disappointment of being forced to choose between hob-knobbing with a celebrity and her own bodily functions.

  “Sure, what’s your name?”

  “Stephanie.”

  “Well, Stephanie, you go ahead and do your thing and I’ll wait right here for you so we can get that selfie,” said Birdie, stepping aside so the girl could get past her.

  “Oh my God, really?” Stephanie asked excitedly.

  Birdie nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  Birdie leaned against the wall and waited for the kid. If Birdie had been one of her costars, she might have used the opportunity to dash back to her seat.

  “My sister would die if she didn’t get to meet you too.” The door to the lavatory swung open.

  “Is she on the plane with you?” asked Birdie.

  “Yes. We’re up front in the handicapped seating.” Stephanie motioned for Birdie to follow.

  “Madison, look who it is,” Stephanie squealed excitedly as soon as she reached her seat.

  Madison appeared to be slightly younger than her sister, with a short, blond pixie-cut and large, horn-rimmed goggles-more-than-glasses. She languidly turned her head and stared at Birdie, blinking several times before her lips turned up into a grin.

  “Hello, Madison. It’s nice to meet you.” Birdie smiled. “Stephanie told me you like watching Gilded Swords.”

  “Yes,” said Madison emphatically, clapping her hands together several times, garnering the attention of nearby passengers.

  Oh crap. Birdie could hear the clicking of cellphone cameras like the dull hum of a fast approaching swarm of bees. Panic crept into her throat and as much as she adored her fans, being trapped in metal cylinder hurtling through the atmosphere with a potential hoard of them was not something she wanted to deal with. Where was her Personal Assistant, D’Andre, when she needed him? Oh yeah. His honey moon in Cancun. “So how about that pic, Stephanie?”

  “Can you take the picture?” Stephanie asked a flight attendant who happened to be passing by at that exact moment.

  “Sure,” he said, taking the girl’s cellphone.

  Birdie knelt next to Maddison’s chair and Stephanie leaned in close. The phone’s camera shutter clicked four times. Other cameras were clicking as Birdie leaned in and gave Maddison and Stephanie each a hug.

  “Thank you,” Stephanie said.

  “You’re welcome,” said Birdie, easing up slowly. In her peripheral vision, she noted the line form, the TMZ people with their cameras and tape recorders at the ready pushing past other passengers in the aisle. “It was so nice to meet you.” Her gaze darted over the gathering crowd, smiling to hide her discomfort with the swiftly forming mob.

  “Ms. Black…” The TMZ people had reached the front of the crowd and thrust a slim silver digital recorder in her direction as his colleague snapped photographs. Birdie wondered how the photographer had managed to get his camera out of the overhead compartment so quickly—maybe he’d stashed it under his seat instead.

  Someone touched her upper arm. Birdie turned her head, grateful to see the flight attendant who’d taken the photo for Stephanie now standing at her right elbow. “The captain would like everyone to return to their seats and fasten their seatbelts. We will be experiencing some extreme turbulence for a moment or two. Let’s return you to your seat, Ma’am.”

  A disappointed sigh rippled through the crowd. “Thank you all, but captain’s orders.” Birdie said giving a small wave with her free hand and allowing the flight attendant to lead her through the curtain into first class. “We’re not hitting any turbulence, are we?” Birdie asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

  “Nope.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem. You should’ve seen my crowd control skills when that British guy who’s in all those superhe
ro movies was on one of my flights.” He winked at her and then went back to work.

  “I was wondering what took you so damned long,” said Tucker as soon as Birdie sat back down. His lips were turned up at the corner in a half smile, his left earbud pinched between thumb and forefinger.

  “I think I’m going to stay off the internet for a while.” Birdie fished through her bag for her own earbuds. She found them at the bottom of the largest pocket, chord tangled and snarled around a half-used Bic ballpoint. “I can see the headlines now. Gilded Swords Star, Birdie Black, Takes Photo with Disabled Fan. Like I’m Mother Theresa or some shit.”

  “You’re a saint, Love. Got those sunglasses, I bought you?” Tucker asked, referring to the Givenchy mirrored aviators with the star detail on the top outside of the lenses that he’d given her as a Christmas gift last year. Birdie had had to replace them twice, once because she’d left them on the roof of her BMW before driving away from the Starbucks one morning and then again when a coat checker in New York stole the case from the pocket of her Burberry trench coat.

  “And my standard issue black baseball cap.” Birdie rolled her eyes.

  “Good,” said Tucker, leaning in and kissing the side of her throat.

  * * * *

  Luke lounged in the plastic, butt-hugging chair and leaned his head against the wall, his Stetson pulled down low over his brow. He had almost an hour to kill before Birdie’s plane landed and he’d already bought and finished a fifteen-dollar coffee from the Starbuck’s kiosk and got bored looking at the magazines and books they sold in the “convenience” stores dotted along the airport plaza. Folding his hands on his chest, Luke closed his eyes.

  You should have told her when she called this morning. If he had, though, Birdie might’ve canceled her whole trip. Luke hadn’t seen his girlfriend for a couple of months, in person at least. Streaming episodes of Gilded Swords while he was puttering around the house didn’t count.

  It was a generally known fact that long distance relationships sucked and Luke was lucky enough to be in two of them. Birdie spent most of her time in either some part of New Zealand, Los Angeles, or wherever else she had to be for filming and Luke’s boyfriend, Greyson, lived in New York, but he didn’t stay there much as he was usually off gallivanting in battle zones under the banner of photojournalism. Greyson was damn good at his job and so was Birdie. Sometimes Luke wondered what the hell those two saw in a cowboy like him.