11. Eleven
Eleven
8-31-2024
I’m powerful.
-Jasmine
“Rise and shine!” An irritable voice yells, and suddenly, I’m being bombarded with bags, making me grunt from beneath the covers. Sleep evaded me as expected after…
“What the—” I start, but cut myself off as I hastily throw the items off my wrinkled blankets. I flick my gaze to the chair in the corner and then back to Sharkie. Of course, he isn’t here. Yet a small part of my chest yearns to peek around her body to check again.
“Today is the day!” Sharkie sings, and my stomach drops. No, not yet. I’m not ready.
“Wait—”
“You guys are going to kill it! I know it's a few days early, but I can’t wait to see all my training pay off. I feel like I’m finally doing something right, you know? Don’t worry; I’ve double-checked everything from layouts, time frames, and supplies.”
Everything she’s saying starts to jumble; it’s too damn early. I press my fingers to my temples, trying to push away the creeping thoughts of everything that can go wrong.
“You will have everything from debuggers and hidden earpieces to some other cool stuff. I know we already went over a lot of this, but…” I groan and throw my head back onto the pillow, using the one beside me to cover my face. I just need her to quiet down for a moment.
The bed jolts with her weight as she jumps on it. “I mean, look at this! It's chapstick, right?”
I lift the pillow just enough to see Sharkie holding a Nars tube high in the air.
“Lipstick,” I correct her.
“Whatever, just look.” She opens the tube; just like I said, it’s lipstick. I nearly scream when she rolls it up and grips a thin white plastic piece at the bottom to remove the beautiful maroon shade. “It’s a hidden USB! You can easily pop the color back on and conceal it. The lip gloss is real, too, so you can use it!”
“Lip- stick ,” I say slowly again. She should understand the stress and worry of being in my position, along with the anger that simmers beneath the surface when a solution seems out of reach. I throw my covers off and grab my clothes in my duffel bag. Of course, she knows. She just doesn’t know that I know.
“At least it’s not a tampon,” she says.
I’m about to laugh at her comment, but my heart races when I can’t find my note bag. I grip my duffle and toss it around, hoping it will magically appear, but it’s gone.
My notebooks. All my writing…
“Don’t worry about your backpack; it’s already on the jet, which is fancy!”
A breath of relief escapes me, easing the tension in my chest.
I can't keep doing this. I hate having secrets, especially when they're so close to people I care about, but I can't tell anyone either. Oh God, I think I'm going to be sick. I glance at Cordelia with a raised brow, hoping she’ll leave so I can have a mental breakdown alone.
She mimics my gesture but doesn’t move, so I turn my back to her.
“So,” she drags the word out, but for once, her voice isn’t confident; it almost sounds like she’s scared to speak. “Last night… Moe barged into our room– again –and said something surprising.”
I strip off my shirt, and she throws a soft white sundress over my shoulder. I know she’s hesitating because she doesn’t have the best track record with friendships. But I’m not like her past friends. There’s that sick feeling stirring inside me again. I guess I kind of am.
Stepping into the fabric, I pull the thin straps over my shoulders, not bothering to look in the mirror.
“He saw Sam, didn’t he?” I ask, reaching my arms behind my back to try to zip up the dress.
“It’s not the first time. Seriously, girl, what the hell is so tense between you two? What happened? Is it rude for me to ask for details?” I laugh as she steps behind me and pulls up the zipper.
“He kissed me—wait, what do you mean it’s not the first time?!” My anger flares, overshadowing the butterflies that unintentionally fluttered in my abdomen when I mentioned our kiss.
The room goes completely silent, prompting me to pick up my bag, close it, and turn toward her. The genuine smile stretching across her face isn’t what I expected, and it’s unsettling.
“You look like you’re going to bite me with all those teeth.” I deadpan as I grab my brush, trying to focus on pulling it through my hair.
“Don’t put your hair in a bun; it’ll pull out your social skills.” she teases back, and suddenly, my chest feels lighter, even though I can tell she’s covering for Sam.
“How was it?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows. I turn toward the mirror, hoping she doesn’t notice the blush creeping into my cheeks.
“It was…” My brows furrow as the image of his pained expression crosses my mind. I shrug and brush through my hair again, concentrating on the motion rather than my face. “He looked in pain, so obviously it wasn’t that good, but I think I can work with it.”
After ensuring everything is in order and that my appearance is presentable, I move towards the door but freeze when Sharkie blocks my path with a hard stare and a furrowed brow as she studies me.
What? Did I smear my lipstick? Do I have sleep lines? Does she know there’s more to it, so she’s preparing to interrogate me?
“Your lip has a cut,” she says, stepping closer and poking a finger into my chest, interrupting my internal freakout.
“And you always have hickeys.” I retort, prompting her to laugh. It’s like a breath of fresh air with her; in a twisted way, her crazy tendencies balance out my proper ones. Knowing her secrets are out without any issues eases my mind about how mine might affect my future.
She gives one of her famous cocky grins and opens the door to my room.
“Fine, I see how it is. Don’t give your best friend the nitty-gritty details.”
I huff as the door closes behind us, making the air cling to my freshly shaved calves.
It's easy to slide into this role without even realizing it. One foot in front of the other—face neutral. Never show your weakness. Always display the power that follows in your shadow. Look pretty, but don’t speak. My mother's voice echoes in my head, loud enough that it feels like she’s talking over my shoulder. I shiver as a chill runs down my spine.
“God damn, I feel like I should be asking for your autograph.” Moe whistles as he steps out of his room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. That's the confidence boost I needed. So what if Sam didn't like the kiss?
I’m powerful . So powerful that I could make the demons that haunt me bow at my feet, and I could burn the world down with a snap of my fingers.
“Back off, that’s my friend.” Sharkie hisses, and I laugh as we exit the corridors onto the landing pad. The jet sits idling, sleek, and white in the center of the large opening. I raise my arm to shield my eyes from the sun's dazzling glare.
“I thought you’d never get her out here,” Tide grumbles as he steps beside Sharkie, wrapping his arm around her waist and kissing her temple. I want to gag at their affection simply because I don’t have that–I have something fake that feels real.
As if summoned by my thoughts, Sam ducks his head under the aircraft's door and walks down the steps, running his hand down the front of his white button-up until his fingers hook into the waist of his black slacks.
My tongue darts out to wet my bottom lip as he tilts his head in acknowledgment toward a soldier. His hair is freshly buzzed at the sides, leaving the top slicked back and longer. His arms bulge from below the cuffs rolled up to his elbows.
He thinks I'm the devil? Has he looked in the mirror?
“We need to get going if we’re going to make it to our dinner reservations.”
He may look different, but his tone is still as cold as ever as he extends his hand toward me. I raise an eyebrow at his gesture and place my bag in his palm. They want a trophy wife, and they already have one.
I’ve always said that I learned from the best, but it was never my father I referred to. He could never stand how my mother held herself. He expected her to be quiet and proper, but he never realized she wielded power with just a tilt of her nose and a wave of her hand. I’ll gladly act like her, but I refuse to become her.
As I reach the top of the stairway, I flash a bright smile at the captain, who takes my hand to guide me through the luxurious white leather interior. In an instant, Sam's hand finds its way to the small of my back, and he clears his throat.
“We need to stay on schedule, which means we should be taking off,” Sam says as he guides us to two seats opposite each other, with a tray in the middle. It's clear that I'm not the only one picking up on the undertone of danger in his voice; even the pilot backs away with a nod and says, “Please enjoy your flight.”
“We’ll get there long before scheduled. It should only take three hours to reach New York from here,” Sam rambles. A woman strides up with a tray in hand, giving us both a glass of champagne, and the grin I didn't even realize I was wearing drops as we lock eyes. Not just any woman– Lacy . She is the one person I try to avoid at all costs because she is the reason I found out I might have a slight jealousy problem over things that aren't mine.
“I'm not drinking that soddin’ stuff.” Sam grumpily refuses with a wave of his hand. This isn't happening again . I drag my gaze from her black heels up her pantsuit to her features. Her eyes squint with how wide her smile goes as he finally glances in her direction with a raised brow.
“He’ll have whisky,” I say without thinking, but I don't let my sudden anxiety about opening my big mouth show. Instead, I flash her a smile and hold out my hand, expecting her to place the glass in it. I focus extra hard on the crook in her nose.
“A fuckin whisky sounds amazing,” Sam says, oblivious to how thick the air has turned around him. The tension only grows when he's the one to lift the glass off the tray and place it in my hand.
“That’ll be all.” I purr, and Lacy simply huffs in response as she turns to walk back down the narrow aisle. I sigh and lean back into the plush cushion, tilting the flute gracefully.
I’ll just blame my behavior on my nerves. Like a Godsend, Sam reads my thoughts and taps his fingers to the table with a quiet, “Relax for a bit; you're too tense.”
“I think you're the one who needs to relax ,” I mutter, clearing my throat from the potency of the alcohol. Sam’s silence draws my attention to the smirk that deepens his smile lines.
“Are you offering to help?” The huskiness in his voice makes my throat constrict.
“What if I said yes?” I purr, attempting to gather my composure.
His eyes narrow in amusement, and my smile grows as he leans his elbows on the table, interlacing his fingers, and tilts his head thoughtfully.
“I’d warn you that I haven't been with a woman in eight years.” he grins, though he conceals it by gliding his tongue across his canine.
He hasn’t? It's hard to believe that with how he looks and how women look at him. I grin, glancing at Lacy, making Sam drink with a tremble in her hand from the turbulence. It brings me an odd sense of relief to know that, even though I haven’t been allowed to appreciate the scarred flesh I know lies beneath his clothes, no one else has either. However, now my mind is spiraling into more sinful territory.
What would he be like after being deprived for so long? Would he savor it–make it slow and sweet? Would he be so eager–ripping at clothes and devouring skin like a man starved?
I turn my attention back to his laid-back posture—one arm on a rest and the other pulling at the collar of his shirt, exposing the chain of his dog tags beneath–and my heart rate skyrockets.
How loud would he moan? Would his muscles ripple and tense when he gets close?
The clanking of those stupid heels against the floor pulls my thoughts, and I fight to relax my body. It’s nearly impossible, though; my thighs have clamped shut, refusing to budge.
Clearing my throat, I raise my champagne as Lacy hands Sam a short glass of whisky.
“Stop lying. We had a great time last night.” I draw, and Lacy freezes. My jealousy may have been misplaced initially, but we don't have to talk about that, especially since she's still looking at Sam with eyes way too hooded for my liking.
“How could I forget, Darlin’?” He plays along with a ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth instead of giving me the real thing and mimics my motion.
“If that’ll be all—” Lacy starts, but Sam waves his hand dismissively, never tearing his gaze from mine.
“By the way…” His brows pull inward while digging into his pocket, but I can't focus on the motion–too entertained by Lacy's bunched shoulders. I cover my mouth with my glass, hoping to hide my amusement, but he extends his hand, catching me off guard. I'm at a loss for words, choking on my champagne. A gorgeous carbonado tear-shaped diamond sits in the middle of a steel band. I refuse to admit how many times I googled different wedding rings in the past, knowing that I possibly would never have the chance to see a man get down on one knee.
I always came back to the exact one or others that are similar.
With a low huff of air from my silence, Sam sets down his drink and pulls my hand into his.
“It’s your favorite color,” I murmur. I'm sure the shade resembles nothing to him, and it was just the best thing Tide could find on short notice. That thought is eased away when he lifts his hand from mine so I can see the gorgeous matte black band with a thin strip of tiny rubies running through the middle.
“You remembered?” He grins.
“You did, too,” I whisper. My chest warms to the point that I want to smile but can't because...
This is fake; it was just a brilliant idea on my superior's part.