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Carrie looks past me towards Asher, then back at me with a professional nod. “Go ahead. Make sure he stays calm. We can’t have him start hyperventilating and attempting to get out of the plane.”
“Thanks,” I say, and rush back to Asher’s side. I slide into the seat next to him, the warmth of his body radiating through the thin barrier of our clothing. “I’m here,” I say softly. “You’re not alone.”
He nods, exhaling slowly. “I just… I’ve always had a fear of flying.”
I smile, hoping to ease his tension. “You’re doing great. Just breathe with me.”
We do a couple of breathing exercises together and I stroke his hand, my fingertips accidentally brushing against his wrist but his pulse is even to my surprise. It should be racing, judging by the way he’s breathing and his unyielding grip on the armrest. I glance at him and his eyes are darting. No, he’s definitely freaking out and I let out a slow exhale. I need to distract him, take his mind off his unpleasant thoughts.
”Did you know that airplanes are the safest means of transport?” I begin, proceeding to tell him about the anatomy and function of a plane, how secure everything is and how he has nothing to worry about.
It seems to work for a bit, but he’s not really engaging in the conversation and I worry I’m blabbering his ear off.
"Tell me about your upbringing," I say instead, trying to keep my voice light and conversational. "Where did you grow up?”
Asher looks at me, his pale eyes meeting mine and the pupil’s dilated. "I grew up in this small, postcard looking town. We spent the summers at the lake, winters on the slopes. My parents were wonderful people who loved me deeply. It was an idyllic childhood, really.”
His voice is smooth, convincing and I find myself drawn into his story. I can almost picture it: a quaint house, laughter echoing through the trees, the warmth of a loving family. No wonder he turned out as well as he did.
”That’s nice," I say. ”But I don’t know of many small towns like that in New York? Which one is it?”
He tenses and I realize I’m snooping. And I can’t believe I just let him know I registered the name of the town he was born in. Besides, maybe he was born in one town and grew up in another. Sheesh…he probably thinks I sounded like a detective just now or something.
I shrug myself, quickly deciding to switch up the conversation. ”So, are you going to Colorado for business or pleasure?”
”Business,” he replies and I shoot him a smile.
”What do you do for a living?”
His smile returns, though there's a slight edge to it now. ”I’m glad you asked. I write books.”
"Really? That's amazing. What kind of books?" I ask, genuinely excited.
"True crime," he replies, his gaze steady on mine and the reply burns me out a bit because I’m not a fan of true crime. "Specifically, books on serial killers.”
I feel a shiver run down my spine, the warmth of the earlier conversation dissipating. "Oh," I say, unable to hide my surprise. ”that’s so…unusual.”
He chuckles softly, the sound rich and comforting despite the unsettling topic. "Most people think it’s morbid but not me. I’m fascinated by it. There’s nothing better than diving deep into a killer’s mind, understanding his motives.” He glances at me. ”It’s a lot more compelling than you might think.”
I nod, though my mind is whirling. The contrast between the idyllic childhood he described and the darkness of his chosen profession is jarring. I force a smile, trying to mask my unease. "I suppose it is.”
Asher leans back slightly, his grip on the armrest loosening. The turbulence seems to be calming, but the turbulence inside me is just beginning. True crime. I would’ve preferred it if he’d said he writes horror or why not wholesome romance? I’ve never understood why people watch real life crime shows or read about it.
But maybe people who’ve had a wonderful life like Asher are drawn to that stuff, because it’s so far from what they usually come in contact with. I can’t relate though, because I’m not like that. I grew up sheltered too and my life has always been pretty much picture perfect, and I’ve never had any intentions of stirring things up.
I can’t imagine ever being interested or even going anywhere near that other stuff, but that’s just me. I shouldn’t judge anyone who’s different.
Besides, it’s just books. It’s not like he’s running around, murdering people. He just writes about it.
***
Asher
The moment I mentioned true crime, something shifted in Solange. Her body is still tense, her smile paler, and the warmth in her eyes cooler. It annoys me, the way she’s pulled away, putting up walls because of her own preconceptions. I take a deep breath, reigning in my frustration. I need to draw her back in.
“Just because someone writes about true crime,” I say, keeping my tone gentle and compelling, “doesn’t mean they have the same sick minds as the ones they write about.”
Her eyes flick back to mine, a hint of embarrassment in them. Good, I’ve got her attention. ”I was just thinking that,” she breathes.
