âIâM SORRY, sir,â said the gate agent, who didnât look remotely sorry. âThe flight is full. We have you on standby for the next flight.â
Tom struggled to keep his voice even. âI was on standby for
this
flight.â
âYes. But itâs full. Weâve put you on standby for the next one.â
âWhich is when?â
She click-clacked at her computer for several moments. âFive thirty-five tomorrow morning.â Her face and voice were so expressionless that Tom seriously wondered if she might be a robot.
âTomorrow?â
âIâm sorry, sir. We donât have many flights to Cedar Rapids.â This time she did show emotionâdisdain, because he didnât live somewhere more exciting and better served by air traffic.
He was still keeping a leash on his temper. âThen book me on another airline.â
âThatâs against company policy.â
âLook, miss. Iâve already been here since noon.â He checked his watch. âThatâs almost eight hours. I donât want to spend the night.â Especially since heâd spent the previous night crammed into a coach seat, first waiting forever on the tarmac in San Francisco, then bumping through the air to Minneapolis. He was never booking a red-eye again.
âYou missed your connecting flight, sir.â
She knew perfectly well that hadnât been his fault. The first flight was delayed due to an equipment problemâhe really didnât want to know the detailsâand although heâd sprinted through the Minneapolis airport like an Olympic medalist once theyâd landed, heâd still missed the flight home by ten minutes.
He wanted to cry. Since the direct approach hadnât worked with her, he tried sexy instead. He crooked his lips, tilted his head slightly, and gave her the eye. It was a look that used to work well for him in clubs and bars. âPlease. I need to get home.â
âWe have you on standby for the next flight,â she answered coldly. Either her gaydar had told her The Look was a ruse, or else he couldnât pull off sexy after twenty-four hours of air travel.
Pathetically trailing his wheeled carry-on, he trudged off in search of customer service. The desk near his gate was abandoned, which meant he had to wander all the way to the end of the concourseâwhere there was a line, of course. He took his place behind a young couple with a hyperactive toddler. An older couple stood behind him, arguing with each other in a foreign language. Russian, maybe.
When it was finally Tomâs turn, he saw that the customer service rep was nearly the same model as the gate agent. Sure, this ladyâs carefully styled hair was brunette instead of blonde, but she had an identical facial expression that said
I will never give a fuck about you and your problems
. Her greeting was strictly utilitarian. âYes?â
For probably the tenth time, he repeated his story: broken plane, late landing, missed flight, failed standby. She listened blankly before demanding his useless boarding pass and poked at her keyboard for at least three minutes. Her printer whirred and Tomâs hopes rose. She returned his boarding pass, along with a another ticket-sized paper.
âWhatâs this?â he asked, squinting at the tiny print.
âA meal voucher. You can use it anywhere in the airport.â
She had a stupid little scarf around her neck, and he staunchly resisted the urge to strangle her with it. âI donât want a meal voucher. I want a flight home.â
âWe have you on standby for the five thirty-five flight, sir.â
It wasnât until he left the counter and took a more careful look at the voucher that he saw its value. $6.50. At airport prices, he could probably score a candy bar.
He sat down in a nearby chair to consider his nonhomicidal options. His credit card was already screaming in pain, and his bank
Sharon Kleve, Jennifer Conner, Danica Winters, Casey Dawes