Continued from Chapter One
Farewells are never easy in the Keady clan. I blame our Irish roots, a penchant for family gatherings, and a matrilineal line of great cooks making leaving days such sorrow. After announcing my intention to make a life-affirming journey to Italy, a farewell banquet was swiftly arranged, and I was press-ganged into attendance.
Grandma, Mom, my aunts, and some cousins showed up the night before my send-off at our twelve-bedroom, wooden frame house built long before I was born. We could have fed the whole neighborhood with half the food they churned out, and after I left on my adventure, Mom probably did.
Pies, quiches, stews, champ, and a multitude of desserts weighed down our sixteen-seat dining table that once hosted a family reunion post World War II with all but two Keady men returned alive.
I coursed briskly through the living room, kitchen, and dining room, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, and patting children’s heads, ticking off more than sixty people who shared my DNA.
A skinny, pasty-faced man in his mid-twenties stumbled out of the buffet with errant pork pie crumbs lodged in a scruffy, goatish beard. Cousin Finbar stumbled directly into my path, halting further progress on my exit plan.
“Fancy a goodbye shag, Carla?”
“For fuck’s sake, we’re cousins. Behave yourself.”
“Ah sure, I’ll finger bang ye. Come on, Carla. It’ll hold you back five minutes, and the pleasure will last hours.”
I squinted disapprovingly at a cousin on Mom’s side of the family, wondering how many stab wounds Finbar would receive if he ever actually sexually accosted another family member.
“It’s a delightful proposal and very tempting, cousin Finn, but I’d rather massage my tits through a meat grinder than have any part of your body touch mine.”
Fingers Finbar grimaced before moving on to try his luck with another family member. I tagged along to stop him from shagging someone I cared about or anyone who might be underage.
Eventually, my wayward, drug-abusing cousin realized he wouldn’t get pussy of any age with me lurking menacingly, so he left the house to meet his dealer for a score. No doubt he’d spend the night sleeping amid trash, piss, and rats in an alleyway somewhere, but I didn’t care.
I couldn’t wait to get out of the door, so I lied about my flight timings, bid tearful farewells, kissed Mom fifty times, and ran for the taxi cab Sam Riley had arranged as my getaway.
My flight was the next day, so I overnighted at an airport Holiday Inn, told everyone I was delayed and headed for the shower after unpacking what I needed.
I used a complimentary chamomile shampoo to wash my ex-boyfriend and former job out of my hair, shaving stubble I’d allowed to grow on my legs. While lingering under the ever-hot monsoon rain, I rifled through a bed of soft whorls protecting my under-appreciated pussy. For a fleeting moment, I considered sending a fresh blade into my lady garden for a tidy-up.
Nah, you won’t get any action soon.
Doesn’t stop you from a bit of self-pleasure, though.
I leaned heavily against the toughened glass wall of the shower with one palm holding my weight while the other sent two fingers deep into my pubic bush on a proper reconnaissance mission to locate the clitoris that Dave had never found.
My knees buckled slightly when a digit caught a sensitive tip, and I smiled, suddenly feeling incredibly lifted about my whole life.
Yes, it’s still there.
I dragged the hard pearl gently from side to side, biting my bottom lip while fantasizing about when Sam used to lick my pussy after a hard day of shitty lectures.
We were insatiable and fortunate that our periods were aligned, so we only skipped one week of shagging each other every month. Our trusty strap-on dildo, Percy Jackson, the orgasm chief of staff, was almost rubbed out after three years of sliding inside one or both of us nightly.
I closed my eyes, allowing the shower jets and my digits to work their magic, remembering one time when Sam had fucked me on our balcony at midnight while I noisily gripped and shook rusting iron railings. Passersby on the sidewalk below heard us, looked up, and caught an eyeful of my proudest moment while I screamed for joy to the universe.
As my finger slid across the hard, slick tip of my clitoris and my knees buckled in the shower, I imagined Percy Jackson’s eight inches sliding deep inside my pussy, stretching my soft tissue walls wide while crushing my cervix.
I squatted for better stability, spread my knees wide, and let my pussy lips drape down, then face-planted my forehead into the glass while wanking myself furiously. I heard someone moaning loudly and realized it was me, so I dropped a few decibels in case I disturbed the neighbor.
I dipped two fingers inside my pussy, finger fucking myself as deeply as possible, clenching hard with an underused fuck hole. When a rush of warmth and delightful tingling in my womb surged, my fingers returned to a swollen clitoris, circling its base roughly.
When my orgasm struck, I squirted unicorn pee on my fingers, sucking them to enjoy the sleazy flavor of lust while wringing out more waves of intense pleasure just thinking about my tawdry behavior.
My head tossed wildly when I ascended onto climax ridge, finally free of a useless cock and its owner who never performed.
“Argh! Argh… f-f-fuck y-y-you, Dave.”
I slumped onto the wet tiles under a warm monsoon, sobbing the tears of an emotional tsunami, neither happy nor sad. My body shuddered through lonely post-orgasmic bliss, and I felt relieved by a massive release of tension that a little personal care had achieved.
After drying myself and finally taking time to condition and moisturize my skin, I realized how little I’d cared about myself for so long.
While laying out travel clothes for the morning, I lifted my tattered, tightly rolled-up knife bag with ragged strings tied in a neat bow.
Thank you, Daddy.
I unfurled my pride and joy, then ran four fingers across the backs of my knife collection that was once his.
Dad had engraved his name on each knife handle when he bought them, adding mine a few months before he died, shortly after a terminal cancer diagnosis was confirmed.
Jack Keady did the same for everyone he loved. My cousin got Dad’s classic Dodge Charger, and Mom got everything else.
Through my formative years, Dad told me stories about his life before meeting Mom and having us. He’d started as a pot wash at Harry’s Bar in Venice, eventually becoming the lead pastry chef in Claridge’s, London.
He met Mom, who enjoyed a high tea at his London hotel restaurant one day while visiting there with her mother. Nana was so affected by my father's pastries that she demanded to meet the chef responsible. Cue Dad reluctantly paraded in front of the restaurant as the maître d’hôtel trotted him out.
A round of applause, started by Nana, quickly rippled around other appreciative diners. My mother was besotted at first sight, Dad admitted that he was too, and the Keady family story began.
He could bake a croissant that would melt anyone’s heart.
A few dates after their meet cute, the independent Irish-American world-traveling chef became hooked on his new girlfriend, who was visiting London from New York.
After a two-week romance snatched between kitchen shifts, the traveling girl left for home, and Dad scooted after her a few days later, chasing marriage, kids, and a wholesome life with his bride, our mom.
I sat on the edge of my bed stroking the steel blades that nurtured my chef's journey, bittersweet that it had ended so abruptly at Judy’s.
He couldn’t even grill a fucking steak, Daddy.
In the morning, I rose early, dressed casually, and repacked everything in my cases three times. I settled for a bowl of fruit and fresh coffee at the breakfast buffet while reviewing Mrs. K’s foodie and erotic lit blog.
I confidently reminded myself that my treasured chef blades would be safe in the aircraft hold. When my suitcase slid up the baggage escalator and free from my clutches, I felt the heartache of a girl whose only physical manifestation of her father was drifting away.
I tore myself away from check-in and joined the line at security with a small Ziplock bag filled with toiletries and a MacBook tucked under my arm. I felt irritable and without good reason.
The guy in front of me in the queue provided endless entertainment because, and this always happens to me at airports, he got to the X-ray machine completely unprepared.
A beefy gulag commandant standing on the other side of our luggage scanning machine handed him a hard plastic tray, but he just stared at her like a lost puppy without a cute face.
This should be fun.
She circled her victim like a starving bird of prey that had just seen a mouse limp through its favorite cornfield. I smiled inside, wanting him to get fucked over as retribution for a ninety-second delay caused by his lack of preparedness.
She took on a sweet and helpful disposition, drew talons, and began her dive on his unsuspecting soul.
“Are you waiting for me to help you, honey?”
“Umm, yes, what should I do, sorry?”
He seemed polite, but it wouldn’t save him because the universe had signaled its intention to humiliate the poor man. Signs pinned on walls everywhere told him and everyone else precisely what to do, so I had no sympathy.
“Well, honey, if I’m gonna help, you’d better take off your belt and pass it to me.”
“What for?”
“I’m sure gonna whip ya with it like yo mamma should have for being so dumb.”
“W-w-what?”
She passed me a plastic tray and thumbed for him to move away.
“Stop wasting everyone’s time, get to the back of the queue, and read the damn signs before you get to me next time.”
I glanced back while walking away from the security pod and glimpsed him being taken away for a strip search. I felt smug and satisfied that justice was served.
That was better entertainment than usual.
My flight would be a breeze because I’d carefully prepared for the long haul to Rome. I packed smoked salmon and my specially prepared dill mayonnaise with two slices of home-baked wholemeal bread. Airport security sniffed suspiciously at my bag of delicious paradise before handing it back to me disapprovingly.
I’m not eating the congealed turds from the aircraft menu.
While sitting near my departure gate, reflecting on life, I felt guilty at the vitriol I’d aimed at the unfortunate man in my security queue. With Dave in my rear-view mirror, it was time for me to quit the tantrums that a shit relationship had fueled, or I might never have another regrettable love affair.
With a classic romance story, William’s Tragedy by Kate Granger, downloaded to my phone, along with Ella Fitzgerald’s Greatest Hits, for when my eyes grew tired, I was ready for take-off and felt glad when they called us to board our aircraft.
I arrived at my seat to a surprise and chuckled because the X-ray expert traveler was seated beside me. When I sat down, pretending to be busy messaging and talking to friends, he ignored me, for which I was thankful.
My desire to be invisible to him didn’t last once the cabin crew requested all mobile devices be switched to aircraft mode, and he tried to engage me politely. On closer look and surreptitious girl study, I noticed he was gorgeous and within my preferred age range of mid-twenties to early thirties, but I immediately shut down any potential romance, reminding myself of how woeful he’d been going through security.
I ignored his attempts to make eye contact during pre-flight and take-off, but my luck ran out somewhere above thirty thousand feet. My OCD-style unpacking and the assembly of lunch for one caught his attention, and my enemy soon cornered me.
“Are you a chef?”
I stared blankly at him, then down at my tray table where a small pot of dill mayonnaise, two rounds of wholemeal bread, and several slivers of smoked salmon were arranged like a formula one pit-stop, ready for me to assemble rapidly, then enjoy silently, accompanied by a barely chilled Chardonnay from the hospitality trolley.
I smiled, knowing my expression must seem mildly peevish to him. Transparency of emotions to the point of disrespect had always been my greatest weakness. All of my friends said the same thing about and to me, and I tried hard to stop seeming like an irritable bitch but couldn’t because I just can’t hide my feelings.
“Yeah, how did you guess?”
Oh Carla, don’t be such a nasty bitch. He’s only making polite conversation.
Yeah, but he wants to fuck you, and six months from now, you’ll be rubbing one out while he rolls away on your bed, sleeping, having got his orgasm.
Fucking hell! I’m bitter.
His expression sharpened, and my heart raced because this was not the same man who bumbled through the airport like a fool.
“You looked irritable, aloof, intolerant, and spiteful, so I figured you must be a chef. Are you any good? I’ve heard the more horrible you are, the better the food is.”
I reeled in horror when his words sliced through a calm disposition more easily than my blades would have. A weak moment of sympathy dissolved, and my disdain for the X-Ray fuckwit man returned like Mount Etna erupting.
“Fuck off you sassy bastard.”
I recoiled from his assessment and felt enraged because he’d sideswiped my composure, wrenching me from a culinary ascent to heaven.
Wanker!
He returned to reading his book Things We Never Got Over, one I’d enjoyed by author Lucy Score. My guilt washed over me almost instantly because, despite a harsh exterior and being quick to anger, I’m very gentle inside.
I’m being fucking horrible, so I guess that was his retaliation.
I briefly considered my behavior, grimaced at my shameful internal monologue about him, and then figuratively thrashed myself for being so unkind to someone I didn’t know.
Maybe I deserved it, and he’s quite accurate about chefs, to be honest.
When I’d replayed our short quarrel from memory several times, grunting at my shame, I carved my sandwich into four, determined to reach an entente with my traveling companion.
“Peace offering?”
I placed a quarter sandwich on a napkin and slid it to the edge of my tray table, offering my precious dinner to the man I’d so poorly treated, convinced he had no idea how much of my soul he’d be munching on shortly.
“Not if you’re going to be horrible to me again after you discover the bread you baked is slightly damp.”
“It won’t be. I don’t make mistakes with food.”
Only in love.
“Apology accepted then. The sandwich, too, thank you. I’m sorry if I upset you.”
He picked up one-quarter of my cherished dinner, and I intently, almost to the point of being a stalker, watched his mouth set up for the first bite, praying for his approval.
He stared at me, petrified, with the sandwich barely touching his lips as I squinted at him. I realized my obsessive behavior too late because a deeply furrowed brow and pursed mouth had already put off the stranger.
“Are you sure I can have this?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you look intimidating with that serrated plastic knife poised to take out my jugular.”
“Oh no, sorry. I just… no, it’s nothing, sorry. I’m obsessed.”
“With plastic knives?”
“No, with food.”
I laughed, and he did too, dispersing an electrically charged cloud of tension that could go either way to friendship or, well… let’s not consider the alternative and its subsequent broken plastic knife sticking out of his jugular.
I set aside my utensils and watched him intently for a reaction to my genius. My relief was conspicuous when his teeth carved through the sandwich, and he smiled.
Thank fuck he finally did it.
A crumb rolled off his chin as he bit into the heady, yeasty bread I’d baked the night before leaving home.
You’ll hunt that crumb down later buddy.
He chewed, then smiled, staring at my sandwich in amazement, and I knew I’d secured a fan for life.
Carla shoots, and she scores!
He glanced at me, then back at the sandwich, amazed by the effect of such a small package.
“This is exquisite. I mean, it’s… it’s-”
“Yes, yes? Go on.”
Please finish the sentence, for fuck's sake.
“It’s absolutely delicious and probably the best sandwich I ever ate.”
I’m having an orgasm.
I machine gun tapped my feet rapidly on the floor under the seat in front, exalted by his reaction. I bit into my portion of the sandwich, enjoying it immensely, doubly so now that I was sharing with another, because that’s the whole point of food besides its capacity for our survival.
I shunted another quarter over to his tray table, happy to share with anyone who appreciated my art as much as he seemed to.
“I’m Carla.”
“Liam, hi.”
Oh, Mom would love you. Handsome. Irish name and probably with ancestors that go back to living somewhere near ours in the home country.
“Are you staying in Rome or going on from there, Liam?”
“I’m learning philosophy. Florence, Venice, and Sienna are on my itinerary.”
“Are you studying at a university?”
“Not formally studying… no. I’m trying to become a better person on my own.”
“Oh, come on!”
“No, really.”
“Please don’t feed me a pickup line after I shared my sandwich.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very sharp?”
“That depends. Sharp how?”
“Somewhat acerbic.”
At least he didn’t say caustic, bitter, or toxic.
“It’s been said, yes, but in my defense, I prefer direct people in my life. I’m not sure you’re being honest with me.”
“Okay, try this for honesty.”
He turned completely in his seat until his eyes locked with mine. I felt a smidge of interest when powerful hormones tried to drop my pants, but I held myself together amid dampening panties, waiting for his revelation.
“My wife was killed in a car accident eighteen months ago. If aliens came down to earth and granted me a wish aside from undoing that tragedy, it would be to end humanity and me with it.”
“Oh wow, I’m so sorry.”
Oh dear god, no.
“Yeah, she was eight months pregnant, too, and no, our baby didn’t survive.”
“I don’t know what to say. I’m horrified.”
“I’m coping with loss, but I drift off sometimes to a place where I just want to cry.”
I stopped eating and watched him carefully. Tears welled in his eyes, and he looked sad.
“Is that what happened to you at security? You drifted away?”
“Oh god, you saw that humiliation? Sorry, yeah, my mind got lost, thinking about how I should be taking this trip with my family.”
Oh, Carla, you’re going to hell for all the nasty things you thought.
“I’m really sorry.”
I’m so fucking sorry; I’d probably shag you in that chair if you forgave me for being a twat.
“It’s okay. Sarah inspired me to be a better man in life, and she continues doing that now. I’m holding on to a great deal of hatred because of the injustice, and that’s what I need to fix.”
Jesus fucking Christ, could you be any more emotionally available?
“Hence, you’re learning philosophy?”
“Yes. The stoics specifically.”
I thought about that momentarily, trying desperately to recall a few late-night philosophy lectures I’d sat in on that helped with insomnia.
“Hold on, shouldn’t you be on a flight to Greece, then?”
“I’ll go there eventually, but I wanted to start with the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius before delving into Zeno and Epictetus.”
“I wish you luck, Liam.”
I wanted to fuck him, if only as a favor and as a fitting memorial to his wife. I wasn’t an actual slut, but like many girls with secrets, I could be one in theory and especially during a fantasy playbook.
I’d attended gangbangs, threesomes, and done anal, all in graphic, mind-numbing, masturbatory fantasy while lying in bed alone or next to my sleeping deadbeat ex-boyfriend.
“What about you, Carla?”
“What about me?”
“Where will this journey take you?”
“How do you know I’m on a journey aside from this flight and maybe a few nights in Rome?”
“Are your knives in the aircraft hold?”
“Umm, yes. Why?”
“Do you think any hotel will allow you to cook your own meals, then?”
I chuckled, and he did, too. I stared at Liam, regarding him anew as a decent guy who wasn’t hitting on me. He had a gentle demeanor, with eyes that sparkled and an expression flickering with high emotions. I saw fear, delight, and tragedy etched in fluid moments across his face and wondered if, or how much he was still broken.
You’ll be some lucky woman’s project fixer-upper boyfriend soon.
“I’m retracing my father’s footsteps. God rest his soul. He was a chef and started a career and love affair with food in Venice. He’s not recently deceased, so there’s no need for sympathy.”
“I prefer calling it empathy.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sure he’d be proud of that sandwich.”
We chatted for a while before both of us fell asleep. At some point, I woke with my face inches from his and Liam’s hot breath, warming my cheeks. We’d leaned towards each other and were separated by a thin armrest.
His hand had inadvertently clenched mine while we slept, and I felt his fingers tremble as he whimpered softly.
“Sarah.”
I watched tears roll gently down his cheek while he sobbed, deep asleep but horribly tortured.
I don’t know why, but I leaned in, brushing my lips against his, desperate to salve his painful loss. My tongue slipped gently inside Liam’s mouth for a few seconds until he settled, and I withdrew.
“There now, sweet Liam, you sleep, my baby.”
Amazingly, he settled down from a bad dream, even smiled, and gripped my hand more tightly. I stayed awake, vigilant for an opportunity to protect him from another night of terror, but Liam remained calm.
I hope I did that.
The cabin lights came on about thirty minutes before we landed, and Liam woke up, stretched, and snapped his head towards me. I stopped reading and set down my phone, giving him the kindest smile possible without seeming like a serial killer.
We exchanged cell numbers, promising each other to check in soon.
After deplaning, we stuck together through immigration and into the baggage collection hall. With no further reason for our continued traveling partnership, we said goodbye, which felt almost affectionate, and I left Liam, exiting the airport to a warm sun and a fresh start to my best life.
Here we go, Dad!
Next Chapter:
I vaguely remember reading the first chapter before but really like this version and happy to have one more Kate story to follow!
Here we go is a perfect ending. Now we are getting off the plane with baited breath awaiting the next masterpiece into this saga.