Hayes Honeypot
"After his car breaks down near Heathrow, pilot Kevin finds mechanic Donna's garage—and discovers the thick Jamaican-British woman can fix much more than engines."
The engine died a mile from Heathrow. Kevin had thirty-six hours before his next flight. Plenty of time.
Donna's Garage was the closest. The owner was closer to a dream than reality.
Thick in coveralls that showed everything, dark skin gleaming with grease, competence radiating from every movement.
"Dead alternator. Give mi six hours."
"I'll wait."
"Suit yuhself, flyboy."
Watching her work was meditation. Strong hands knowing exactly where to go. Body bending in ways that made him forget about his car.
"Yuh watching mi," she observed.
"Better than anything on my phone."
"Smooth." She wiped her hands. "Yuh married?"
"Divorced."
"Flight attendant?"
"How'd you know?"
"They all are." She grinned. "But yuh stayed. They never stay."
He helped. She taught. The car became a project, then an excuse.
"Almost done," she said at midnight. "But mi think yuh should test it properly."
"How?"
"Stay the night. Make sure everything... works."
Everything worked. Especially Donna.
"Yes! Kevin! Right there!"
In the apartment above the garage, engine oil and perfume, her thick body turning him inside out.
"Harder! Show mi that flyboy stamina!"
He showed her. All night. Multiple test drives.
"The car's fixed," she said at dawn.
"What if I don't want to leave?"
"Then yuh stay." She kissed him. "Mi have more things need fixing."
Kevin bid for Heathrow routes exclusively now.
Thirty-six hour layovers spent at Donna's garage.
Flying became secondary.
Landing with her became everything.
Hayes honeypot.
Where pilots find home.