Page 146 of Carnal Wagers

I focused on the envelope, on Cillian’s shoes, his legs, and then back again. What was it about me that was so unlovable?

Someone shook my shoulder, and I startled. My tandem instructor stood over me, helmet and sunglasses already fitted on.

“Let’s get you rigged,” he shouted over the roar of the wind as he directed me to straddle the bench, then sat directly behind me.

He tugged at the hook over my left shoulder and clipped it to a ring on his harness. It drew us closer, close enough to feel his body heat. This I was used to, having done a couple of tandem jumps in France before switching to solos, though I didn’t have more than thirty jumps total under my belt. It didn’t make it any less uncomfortable to be attached to a total stranger, especially when Cillian’s parachute-tampering threat lingered in the back of my mind. The instructor hooked my right shoulder to his harness.

“Hey, no worries, loosen up,” he yelled. “If the parachute fails, at least the last thing we’ll think about is each other.”

Way to make things awkward. I cracked my neck and rolled my shoulders, not in the right mindset to deal with whatever that was. I felt the pull of the harness against my right hip.

“One more,” he yelled in my ear as his hips hugged mine. It was necessary for the jump, but not particularly comfortable. Especially not today. I shifted in place.

I chanced a glance at Cillian on the opposite bench over my shoulder. I expected him to be looking out the window, but his piercing glare was laser-focused on the points of contact with the instructor. His eyes flicked up to my face, and I bared my teeth at the menace in them. Screw him.

His nostrils flared, and his mouth twitched over clenched teeth. He shot up, one hand thumping against the low ceiling, his torso leaning over us.

“Get off her,” he roared over the engine droning, the rattling of the rolled-down door, and the wind.

The instructor yanked the hook on my left hip, undeterred.

Cillian dove at the man. He pushed Kevin against the wall, dragging me with them. I dangled off the bench by the attachment points, my legs caught beneath me at weird angles.

“I said, get away from my wife.”

“Whoa, Cillian, man, this is necessary for the jump.” Fear tinged his yelled words. “You know that.”

“She’s not jumping with you,” my husband roared in his face. “Take it off. Now.”

“We’ve got less than twelve minutes until the jump run.”

“Now eleven and fifty-five seconds. Get moving.”

“Cillian,” I cried out, “Stop this. I’m fine where I am.”

“’Course you would be. Well, I’m bloody well not.”

“Dude, man,” Kevin tried to appease. “That’s not how it’s done. We can’t simply change the harnesses mid-flight.”

Cillian grabbed Kevin’s shoulder strap and yanked, which hauled me along with them.

“Tell me again that’s not done.”

The instructor lifted his hands in surrender. “Whatever. Fine. It’s your jump, man. You’re certified. It’s not my problem anymore.”

Kevin unhooked me in quick succession, and I tumbled to my hands and knees on the deck.

“You two need some serious therapy,” he yelled.

Honestly, after today, I wasn’t so sure there’d be anything left to salvage for therapy to piece back together.

Kevin shed his harness and parachute off, then passed the loosened rig over to Cillian, who set his own aside. I guessed that answered my question about a possible tampered chute. The relief I felt failed to overpower the stitch in my chest.

“I mean it, man.” Kevin slapped my husband dearest on the shoulder. “Wife. Ex-wife. Whatever she is to you, get your head on straight before you exit.”

“I think I would rather not jump,” I voiced, completely over this shit.

“Too fucking bad,” Cillian shouted. “You’ve no choice in this.”