Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

I bought the jet—a vintage 1987 McDonnell Douglas MD-87—at an
auction a few years back, but since I rarely visit the island, I haven’t had
much of a chance to use it.
Mostly, it sits in the private hangar I rent while I take public
transportation from one jobsite to the next. Other than short flights from the
usual crew and tune-ups, this is the plane’s first actual voyage.
Seems fitting, I suppose, using it as a way to transition my old life into
the new.
Cocking an eyebrow, I fold my magazine shut and set it on the
conference table between us. “Do you have a problem with private jets,
Elena?”
“Aside from the fact that they’re toxic to the environment? Not
particularly. I just wouldn’t expect someone like you to own one.”
“What, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?”
One golden eye pops open, sizing me up slowly, before snapping shut
again. “Seems like something that would put you on the map, and isn’t that
what all of my father’s men typically try to avoid?”
“I’m not some sort of vagabond. I do have material possessions. A house,
even, as I’ve said before.”
“Does anyone else know about it?”
My eyebrows knit together above the bridge of my nose as I study her
still form. There’s something off kilter about her, something broken and timid
that wasn’t there just moments ago. Her hands clutch the armrests, knuckles
bleaching as she tightens her grip, carefully drawing in deep, shuddering
breaths.
I recognize fear without even having to witness it. The pheromones
released when a person feels threatened are minimal, but when you spend
enough time studying them, noticing the slight change in scent and behavior
becomes second nature.
It’s musty and damp. Soaked in sweat, it bleeds from our pores, affecting
the chemical makeup of our brains. Makes us do and say crazy, unpredictable
things.
And right now, Elena is afraid.
“Elena,” I say slowly, carefully pronouncing each syllable. “Are you all
right?”
She remains perfectly still. “I don’t like planes.”
“You don’t?”