Fighting for Flight JB Salsbury (room on the broom read aloud .TXT) 📖

are surprisingly gentle for their size, and I wonder how many women have felt their tenderness in better places than their hands. Thousands would be my guess. My stomach twists with painful jealousy.

“You’re good at this. I guess you’d have to be in your profession.”

“Yeah, I get a lot of practice.” He finishes with my hand and throws out the wrappers.

I want to thank him for taking care of my wound. I’ve been on my own for so long I don’t remember the last time someone took such care with me. The gratitude I feel for his kindness makes me want to throw myself into his arms and kiss him. Gratitude, yeah right, that’s what I’m feeling. Instead, I change the subject.

“What got you into fighting? Were you a wrestler in high school?”

He clears his throat. “No, I started street fighting first.”

With his knuckles on the workbench, he drops his head for a moment before bringing his eyes back to mine. For the first time, there’s sadness there.

“My dad died when I was twelve.” The words come out forced, like he’s not used to the feeling of them on his lips. “I became the man of the house way before I was ready. I started getting in fights at school, getting in trouble all the time. My mom,” he pauses to run both hands through his hair, “she was destroyed when my Dad died. I just made things worse.”

His dark eyebrows furrow over his deep-set eyes as he looks past me.

“At fifteen, I got busted while kicking some kid’s ass at a park by my house. The cop pulled me aside and said that if I didn’t get my shit together I’d end up in jail. He told me I could use my anger to better my life.” He shakes his head with a wistful smile. “It didn’t make sense at the time.” His last words are said under his breath.

He’s next to me physically, but his eyes are far away. “He gave me the address of a Boys’ Club, told me they taught karate, jiu-jitsu, boxing—stuff like that. The way I saw it, beating the shit out of people wasn’t doing anything but making my mom cry. May as well take his advice.”

He shrugs and his eyes meet mine, no longer troubled. He studies my face

“I’m sorry about your dad. You must really miss him.” I know the feeling. Although, how can I miss what I never had? I banish the thought as soon as it forms.

“Yeah, he was cool. He worked hard, but found time to throw the ball with me or get down on the floor with my sister and play Barbies.” His lips upturn warmly and his eyes go soft. “He was a big guy as you can imagine, so that was no small task.”

My heart swells with appreciation that Jonah was able to experience a good dad, even if only for twelve years. The fact that he has good memories to carry with him is more than I could hope for. “He sounds amazing.”

“He was.”

“How did he die?” The question is airborne before I realize the boldness of my intrusion. I drop my gaze, immediately wanting to take it back.

Silence fills the space between us, sucking the oxygen from my lungs. I shouldn’t have asked such a personal question. Knowing someone for three days hardly constitutes this type of soul exposing confession.

“I’m sorry, it’s none of my—”

“Hit by a drunk driver.”

I meet his gaze and almost stumble backwards at the agony in his eyes. He’s not angry. He’s heart broken. My eyes burn and I swallow hard.

“He was killed instantly. I was so pissed off. It seemed so unfair. I thought if I could beat the shit out of someone, make them hurt as badly as I was hurting, I’d feel better.” Shaking his head, he takes a deep breath. “Didn’t work.”

My hands itch to soothe him with my touch, even if only to grab his hand and let him know I’m here and that I understand.

According to the local media, he’s a private guy. He never exposes information about his family or personal life. Sharing that with me took a lot of courage. For all he knows, I could run out and sell his story to the papers. But he trusted me. And the best way to pay him back is to trust him in return.

“My mom moved here from Colombia with her parents when she was eight.” I clear my throat. I’m nervous. I’ve only told this story to Eve and Guy. My palms sweat and I busy my hands picking at a shop towel. “I guess they came here for the job opportunities that Las Vegas had to offer. My grandparents were working at the MGM when a fire broke out in one of the restaurants. Back then, there were no sprinklers in that part of the casino. Eighty-five people died, including them.”

“I’ve heard about that fire. They call it the worst disaster in Las Vegas history.”

“Yeah, that’s the one. My mom was fifteen. She had no family here and wasn’t a legal adult so she had to go live in a group home. At eighteen she had to leave and find a job and somewhere to live.” I take a deep breath as I prepare for the final blow.

“That’s when she met…” I’m afraid to say his name. If Jonah knew whose blood runs through my veins, he’d probably never speak to me again. Deep down I know that our working relationship will end someday, but I’m not ready to give it up yet. “She took the first opportunity she could find.”

“Oh, did she get a casino job like—”

“My mom’s a prostitute.” Hearing the words out loud sound so much worse than they did in my head. I drop my gaze to the floor, afraid to look up and see the disappointment—or worse, disgust—in Jonah’s eyes.

Seconds pass. He’s completely silent. So much for not losing his friendship.

~*~

Jonah

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to