Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

though I was years out of practice. There’s a certain level of courage gained by pretending to be someone you’re not.
    “Whatcha wanna hear, sweetheart?” I lifted the guitar and took a seat in a nearby folding chair.
    “‘American Pie’?” He laid belly-down on the floor and straddled his folded nylon parachute cells. He pressed as much air out of the fabric as he could and began to compress the canopy into an S-pattern.
    I played, and Scud sang along badly. We finished while he muscled his canopy into its D-bag and stowed the lines. When the song ended, he shouted across the room, “When are we getting married?” I felt myself blush.
    The woman with the Fritos said she was having a mellow day and asked for a ballad. I chose Marty Robbins’ “Don’t Worry ‘Bout Me” and sang that moody, soulful old song while I watched the group finish packing. It was hard to believe any of them could have something to do with Casey’s disappearance, but that was a hunch based on intuition alone. As far as facts went, I realized, the only thing I knew with moderate certainty was that nobody so far worked for NASA. I didn’t imagine Richard would find that very useful.
    Part-way through the song, I glanced out the front doors of the hangar and watched a modern day cowboy approach from the parking area with a sack of fast food in hand. His plain white tee showed off a strong chest and well developed arms, and Jeannie would have said his jeans fit “mighty fine.” He walked into the hangar in a pair of dusty, brown boots. A black Stetson hid his eyes.
    Jeannie would never believe my luck, meeting two men that good looking in the same day.
    The song was over fast; the old ones always are. I kneeled to put the Martin back in its case, and when I stood again I was face to face with the sexy cowboy.
    His eyes, still in the shadow of his hat, were cast to the floor. You don’t find too many shy people at drop zones.
    He spoke with a light accent, softly enough not to be overheard. “Damn, girl,” he said. “You made your first million yet?”
    I laughed. “Hardly, but thanks.” I offered my hand. “I’m Emily.”
    When he took my hand, the contact was electric. I mean, it was literally electric—we both got shocked. I looked at the carpet beneath us and felt my smile get bigger. When I raised my eyes again, I got my first look at his smile and it was beautiful.
    “You have an amazing voice, Emily, and a good way with a guitar too. Name’s Vince.”
    I glanced at his guitar case. “Caught with my hand in the cookie jar.”
    “My guitar never sounded so good. Was beginning to think something was wrong with it.”
    I forced my eyes away from his chest, finding irony that such efforts usually go the other way around.
    He started to speak again, but Rick brought someone over. It was Billy, the rigger, and I brightened at the prospect of being in the air again soon. I excused myself from Vince, and followed Billy to the office. When we passed through the door, I tried to sneak a final look over my shoulder, but I got caught. Vince tipped his cowboy hat at me and grinned, and then the door snapped closed between us, leaving his image sharply focused in my mind.

Chapter Six
    Billy was in no hurry. I followed him into the rigger’s loft, a glorified walk-in closet that opened off the drop zone office. When I handed him my rig, he put it beside five others and sat down to enjoy a pinch of Skoal. “Sometime this afternoon,” is all he would promise. Even his voice was a slow drawl. His easy smile told me any attempt to hurry him would only make him take longer.
    I felt stymied about what to do next. Without gear, I’d have to go back to the hotel or invent a reason to keep hanging around the drop zone. Going back to the hotel wouldn’t help find Casey, but making up an excuse to stay seemed dangerous, considering my ineptitude at lying.
    A third option was to rent student gear. It wouldn’t be pretty—student rigs are like your dad’s station wagon—but at least it would keep me at the drop zone for the rest of the day. I paid Rick his thirty-dollar per jump rental fee and he handed me a 170 square-foot Manta in return. I’d be falling from the sky under enough fabric to cover the old Astrodome. I heaved the giant rig over my shoulder and toted it out of the office like a pack mule.
    I couldn’t find Marie, but managed to line up a jump with her friends. Their names were Linda and Beth. Linda seemed too