Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

do,” he said with a dismissive wave. “In fact, we think a girl should sing for her supper.” His lips curved into a smile and he nodded toward the guitar.
    Was he serious?
    Cindy gave a friendly tail thump and sniffed the Burger King bags hard.
    Vince reached into a bag and tossed her a couple fries, unwrapped a Whopper, and took an ungentlemanly huge bite. I looked from him to the guitar, and finally to the dog, who focused intently on Vince’s food.
    Vince ate his burger as if sitting there all alone.
    “Cat got your tongue?” He finished up a bite.
    He squinted at me, the shadow from his cowboy hat not quite shielding his eyes from the noon sun. Looking at him too long felt a little bit like flirting. I glanced away and planted a hand on my hip.
    “Come on,” he said. “Play us a song. Have lunch with me.” He punctuated the last sentence with another enormous bite of Whopper. A mayonnaise-coated chunk of tomato fell into his lap. Cindy took care of it.
    “You want me to play a song for you, and then you’ll share?”
    Still chewing, he only nodded. Cindy looked back and forth between us, panting.
    “How about lunch first?” I said.
    He held out his carton of fries and I grabbed more than a polite ration.
    “There. Now please sing. Don’t be difficult.”
    He smiled again. I tossed my jumpsuit onto the floor of the truck bed and climbed up. I tried to scratch Cindy behind her ears, but she’d only sniff my hands, searching for a handout.
    I wiped my hands on my shorts as best I could and picked up his guitar. Perched on the side of the truck, I made an unfortunate discovery in Vince’s rear window—my reflection. I was in desperate need of a hairbrush and make-up. Beyond my pitiful image was Vince’s glove compartment. I wondered what Craig had been looking for.
    “What’ll it be?”
    Vince wadded his burger wrapper and shoved it into an empty sack. “Another ballad.”
    He leaned back onto Cindy’s abdomen and used her as a pillow. Then he pulled his hat fully over his face, stretched his legs, and crossed them at the ankles. He reached up with one hand to scratch Cindy’s chin, nuzzled very near his own, and I noticed the second fast food sack clutched in his other hand.
    I sang Patsy Cline’s “Leavin’ On Your Mind” while load four droned overhead, and when I finished, Vince didn’t speak or move. Was he rude enough to fall asleep? I played another song. He still didn’t move. I nudged him in the ribs with the toe of my sneaker.
    “You dead or what?”
    He handed up the bag of food without moving off the dog or adjusting his hat. “Hardly. Was hoping you’d do one more.”
    I returned the guitar to its case and unfolded the sack. “Maybe if you’re nice.”
    He shifted onto an elbow and pushed his hat back into position.
    “Hey,” I said, “you friends with Craig, the new guy?”
    “Don’t reckon we’re friends, just work together. Why?”
    “I saw him out here with Cindy earlier,” I said. I decided to leave out “he was nosing through your stuff.”
    Vince shrugged. “Everybody likes my dog.”
    He turned his attention to the sky, where canopies circled. For the first time, I noticed lines by his eyes. Laugh lines. Jack once said laugh lines were the mark of trustworthy people.
    I asked him what he did at the drop zone.
    “Help in the office. Fly for Rick when he’s in a pinch.”
    “A pilot?” I’d seen Vince’s name on the payroll, but it hadn’t occurred to me he was a pilot.
    He nodded. “Only part-time. I’m trying to get a construction business off the ground.”
    I reached for a napkin. “Takes guts. Good for you.”
    He picked up the empty lunch sacks and squirted water from a sports bottle into a dish for Cindy. He snapped his guitar case shut and moved it into the cab of the truck, out of the sun. I was disappointed when he pulled his rig from the front seat. Lunch was over.
    Then he said, “Wanna jump?” And it was like being asked to dance.
    ***
    Afterward, Linda took our picture with my disposable camera. Ours was the first photograph taken on my Spy Roll.
    Marie asked for Vince’s help so he left and I mingled. A few jumpers were visiting from nearby drop zones, but several were regulars I was meeting for the first time. I wormed my way into as many skydives with the locals as I could. By dinnertime, I’d managed four more jumps. I took a post-dive photo with each of my groups and no one seemed to think anything of it. One girl