Whatever Will Be

Michael Clancy slammed the door shut. Walking down the narrow path to the gate, a suitcase in each hand, he could still hear the bitch crying. Fuck her! He was free.

He sat in the car, its engine revving, and smiled. It's done. Finally, he'd told his wife it was over. She hadn't taken it well, in fact she'd taken it very badly, but he didn't care. She'd get over it. And if she didn't? Fuck her.

For the past three years, he had been living a double life. He'd kissed his wife and children every morning, before leaving for work. He'd arrived at work, cheery, good willed, putting on a good show for all that saw. He'd finished at 4 PM every day, and spent two hours in a hotel room just around the corner from the bank, with his secretary, Samantha. Then he'd drive home, kiss his wife and children, complain about the extra work the bank forced him into, and by 10 PM he'd be lying in bed, exhausted.

Every now and then, he would create a weekend seminar, or team building exercise, which all employees had to attend, of course, and dutifully phone his wife every night he was away, and even read the kids a bedtime story over the phone. All the while enjoying the company of Samantha, either in her home, or in a hotel he'd paid for to impress the young girl.

He'd married Rebecca ten years previously. At the time she was quite the catch, with her crystal-blue eyes, glorious blonde locks, and a pair of lips that would have any man straining against his jeans. Her 38DDs were pretty impressive too. As beautiful as she was, though, the deciding factor for signing the marriage certificate had been her father's position in the bank. The decision paid off, and only a year after they were married, Michael found himself shot up the ranks and pulling in almost $244,000 a year. He was now on three times that.

He had it all. Money was no issue. His secretary was 21 years old, perky, buxom, pretty, and willing. A stark contrast to his wife, who after giving birth to two children, wasn't quite the stunner she'd once been. In fact, it had been after the birth of their second, Rosemary, when Michael had first fucked Samantha.

A few too many drinks at the bar, whilst attending a bona fide staff weekend away, and the offer to help her back to her hotel room had been just enough to get him into her room, to take advantage of her. Of course, the girl was ambitiously driven and had expensive tastes, so the next morning, rather than horrified to wake up next to a 41 year old, slightly balding, overweight executive, she ordered a bottle of the best champagne from room service, and rocked his world. She'd since fallen for him in a big way, against her intentions.

The jet black BMW cut through the empty streets, the early morning sun no match for the sleek, tinted windscreens. Michael grinned, looking like a cat who'd just worked out how to get the cream from the refrigerator. He slowed the car, pulled up outside a large apartment building, and leaped out.

Samantha was packed, made-up and practically opened the door before Michael had knocked. She looked up into his eyes, pushed herself close and kissed him. The embrace was long and gentle.

She pulled back, momentarily. “Did you tell her?” Samantha's question hung in the air for long seconds, as her eyes widened and her mouth froze in anticipation.

“Yeah,” he started, his voice low and steady, “she's a mess, but you're MINE now!” He was laughing before the sentence was finished, and pulled her back into his strong, secure arms.

She giggled and shrieked as he cupped her ass. The corners of her mouth plunged deep into her flushed cheeks, as her grin enveloped the rest of her face.

Michael returned his lips to hers, and eased his tongue inside her inviting mouth.

They kissed, fondled and swooned in each others arms for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Michael managed to pull his lips free long enough to remind her of the flight.

There wasn't much time to waste. It was 5 AM. Their flight would be leaving at 7:45 AM. A few hours later, they'd be in Los Angeles, California. The journey to Logan International Airport would take around an hour.

Michael picked up her bags and pulled her out through the door before she could pack anything else.

At this time of the morning, the traffic in Boston wasn't in full swing yet. A few expensive cars dotted the roads, inhabited by middle-aged men in business suits, wide awake, but far from joyous, at best, and at worst, ready to pop from high blood pressure, as they gesticulated and screamed into cell phones. Michael and Samantha glided through their journey like a pair of newly weds, about to set the world on fire.

The plan had been set in motion for a few months. They had both booked the time off at the bank. Six weeks paid holiday. Sun, sea, shopping and salaciousness. Michael knew it wouldn't come cheap, Samantha could spend small fortunes in mere minutes, but by God she was worth it.

They found a spot at the back of the long-stay car park. Only a few steps away, a line of trolley's spilled out onto the tarmac, and Michael quickly retrieved one and packed the bags onto it. They headed for the main doors to the Airport, with an obvious bounce in their step.

The display informed them the flight would be on time. Michael pushed the trolley to the check-in desk, handed in the bags, signed in, and sighed a sigh that perfectly expressed the warm, wide-eyed grin etched across his face.

Samantha took his hand in hers, like a child before crossing the road to a fairground. Her eyes bulged in their sockets, her smile looking as if it was about to expand beyond the sides of her face, and her nipples taut against the fine fabric of her pale pink top.

There was enough time for a coffee. In all honesty, even if there hadn't, Michael would have found a way to make time. He hated flying. The hustle and bustle of the café would be preferable to sitting in a departure lounge, with the planes toing and froing just outside the large observation window.

Samantha rushed off to get the beverages, and a few pastries.

Michael took out his cell phone. There were “14 Text Messages” and “23 Voice Mails”, the LCD display informed. He knew the texts would be work related, no-one else he knew bothered with them. He dialled in the number to listen to the voice mails.

He recognized his wife's voice in the first message, her words masked behind her crying and hysteria. Something about love; need; an offer of forgiveness. He exhaled through limp lips, switched the phone off, without listening to the rest of the messages, and discarded it in his shirt pocket.

His smile returned, as the welcome sound of Samantha's heels tipped and tapped at the marble floor of the café. He cleared a few items off the table and helped her with the tray.

They chatted, ate and took sips of coffee for a good twenty minutes. Each boasting of the things they would do once in Los Angeles. The places they'd visit; the tours they'd take; the shops they'd spend Michael's money in, and the things they'd get up to in their lavish hotel room. All the while, their hands gesticulated through the air, like those of excited children, planning their itinerary for a holiday at Disney World. Their eye contact unwavering.

“American Airlines flight 11 now boarding. Boston, Massachusetts to Los Angeles. Gate 26.” The tannoy boomed in a polite, well spoken female voice.

“That's us, baby!” Michael motioned for Samantha to get up, took her petite hand in his and walked her toward the terminals.

Samantha almost skipped along side him, the shaking of her hand not going unnoticed, as he held it tight and secure.

They reached the Departure lounge. Boarding passes in hand. Eyes sparkling, smiles unfaltering, illuminating the room.

“This is it, Sammi. September 11th, 2001, the beginning of our life.”

They both sighed, long and deep.


THE END.