14. Kendall
Chapter 14
Kendall
On my distinctly non-private flight to Florida, I sit in the middle seat between a woman with a screaming baby and a guy who must be allergic to soap.
I blame Ashton for this misery. If it weren’t for him, I’d be on a private plane. The gentlemanly thing to do would’ve been for him to refuse to fly private, not the other way around.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is your flight attendant speaking. Boarding is now complete.”
Yep. It’s officially too late to escape. Maybe I can hold my breath for the duration while plugging my ears?
My phone rings.
“Hey, Ems!” I exclaim after gladly fishing it out of my bag. “What’s up? They’re about to ask us to turn off our phones.”
For whatever reason, the baby stops crying long enough to give me a dirty look.
“Oh, you’ve boarded,” Emma says. “I was hoping I’d catch you before you passed security.”
“Why?”
“As it turns out, Ashton is not going with us, so if you want to join us, you can.”
Crap. “It’s too late. They won’t let me off now.”
“Oh,” Emma says. “Well, that sucks.”
I blow out a frustrated breath. “If I’d known sooner?—”
“I just found out,” she says. “Apparently, Ashton just told Marcus today.”
“What an asshole.”
“Actually, Marcus thinks Ashton bailed for your sake.”
“Yeah, right.” That would make him a gentleman, but I doubt he knows the definition of the word.
Unless… he wants to avoid me. Which would be extra assholey of him.
“Well, I have to run,” Emma says. “See you later.”
“Yeah. Looking forward to it.”
I hang up and take the next few breaths through my mouth—a bad idea because now instead of smelling my neighbor, I’m tasting him.
Miserable, I sit and watch the clouds cover the disappearing ground beneath us as the plane takes off.
As soon as the captain turns off the safety belt warning, the stinky guy leaps to his feet and heads to the bathroom—where he’ll hopefully wash some part of his body for the first time this year.
I get up to stretch my legs and decide to use the bathroom as well. All the ones in economy class are occupied, so I confidently walk—a.k.a. sneak—into the first-class section of the plane.
Confidence is key here, and designer clothes help as well. Nobody stops me as I walk past the first-class passengers. That is, until a deep, impossibly familiar male voice says, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
I freeze and whip my head to the left. I’m hoping I’m mistaken, but I’m not.
A pair of blue-gray eyes stares at me out of an annoyingly handsome face.
It’s Mr. Manwhore himself, sitting with an open laptop on the table in front of him.
What the fuck is he doing here? And how did I not see him first?
“You’re here?” I manage through clenched teeth.
His expression is just as displeased. “Clearly,” he says, and now that I know that it’s there, I can totally see the old money upbringing as he narrows his eyes at me. “And I could have been on Marcus’s plane, which has a pool table.”
I put my hands on my hips. “So it’s true. You tried to avoid me?”
“It’s not all about you. I didn’t go because that seemed like the easiest way to avoid you spoiling the upcoming nuptials.”
“Me?”
If I were Superman, I’d totally be shooting lasers from my eyes right now.
“Remember the cringy brunch?” he says. “And just look how you’re acting right now.”
I have to remind myself that violence is wrong. “I can obviously pretend not to hate you for a few hours.”
“Hate?” He arches an arrogant eyebrow. “What did I do to you to warrant such strong feelings?”
I roll my eyes. “That’s just a figure of speech. I don’t know—or care enough—about you to actually hate you. I just despise your type.”
He bangs his laptop shut. “What, exactly, is my type?”
“A pretty fuck boy who’s spoiled by women always falling at his feet. And who’s not used to someone seeing through his fake-charm act.”
His slow clap is drowning in sarcasm. “Judgey much?”
Me, judgey? “Are you saying you didn’t sleep with half of Manhattan?”
My voice rises, and I realize the other passengers are staring at us open-mouthed.
He narrows his eyes. “Unlike you, I don’t have one-night stands.”
I’m so shocked by the blatant lie that I take a step back—and smash right into a flight attendant. After mumbling my apologies, I turn back to him. “Are you actually serious right now?”
“Madam, please take a seat.”
I whirl on her. “Madam? Me? Do I look like I run a brothel?”
Ashton chuckles, damn him.
The flight attendant stiffens. “If you don’t take a seat, I’ll have to get the Air Marshal.”
“Fine. I’m going.” I turn back to glare at Ashton one more time. “I hope you can at least act cordially at the wedding.”
“Pot,” he says with an infuriating smile. “Meet kettle.”
Worried I’ll get cuffed by the Air Marshal if I speak—or more precisely, scream—my mind, I stomp away and wedge myself into my middle seat.
At that moment, the baby who had finally fallen quiet resumes crying with renewed vigor. My stinky neighbor returns to his seat, and in addition to his prior stench, he now also smells like the blue liquid in plane toilets.
Oh, and speaking of toilets, I never got the chance to use one, and now it would be way too awkward to go again.
Fuming, I suffer for what feels like a hundred hours until we land. As soon as my malodorous neighbor gets up, I squeeze past him and tug on the handle of my carry-on, which appears to be stuck between two other suitcases.
Suddenly, a long, muscular arm reaches past me and carefully extricates my luggage.
My brain gives my mouth the command to say thanks, but then I see that the helper is Ashton, which might be why what escapes my lips is, “Thank fuck you.”
“I’ll pass,” he says, holding my (quite heavy for its size) suitcase in the air, like it weighs nothing. “If I accept that ‘thank you’ fuck, you’ll disappear without a trace again—and Emma wants you at her wedding.”
I jerk my suitcase away from him, and it nearly lands on my foot. “Don’t touch my things ever again.”
Grunting in frustration, he turns on his heel and pushes through the people nearby back toward the front of the plane.
That’s better.
I get off the plane, finally use a bathroom, and then summon an Uber. According to the app, my ride is right next to the airport and therefore five minutes away.
When I get to the curb, a passing-by limo stops in front of me, and one of the blacked-out windows rolls down, revealing Ashton. “You want a lift?”
I adore limo rides, but not at the cost of his company, so I shake my head.
“We could just sit in silence,” he says. “Or discuss how we’re going to make sure we don’t spoil the wedding.”
“The strategy is simple: don’t get in my way,” I snap. “As to the ride, no thanks—I’ve got my own car on the way.”
His jaw ticks. “Come on. Get in.”
“No.”
He sighs. “You seriously would rather ride with a stranger? Alone?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
“Fucking fine then.” He rolls the window back up as the limo pulls away.
Five minutes later, the limo returns, apparently having made a circle around the terminal, and the window rolls down again.
“Get in,” Ashton says curtly. “Come on. Stop being so stubborn.”
I glare at him. “My car is less than a minute away. The only way I’m going with you is if you strongarm me into that limo—and believe me, I will scream my head off if you try.”
He rolls his eyes. “Suit yourself.”
The limo pulls away again, hopefully gone for good.
Thirty seconds later, my ride shows up—a pick-up truck decorated with a sticker that proudly states: “Driver Carries No Cash, Only Ammo.”
I get inside, and I guess the driver wants to stay consistent with his sticker because as I buckle in, he loads a giant handgun and tosses it into his glove compartment.
“Don’t worry,” he tells me. “That’s Betty. She’s here to protect us.”
Uh-huh. I feel super safe. Also, I’d better give him a five-star review, just in case I ever happen to run into him and Betty again.
“You motherfucking fucker!” the driver roars when a Tesla Y cuts us off—and I can see his hand twitch toward the glove compartment. Luckily, he thinks better of that impulse, instead finishing with, “I hope your wife loses the microscope that she needs to find your dick!”
No comment. Nor do I comment when a minivan in front of us makes a sudden turn without signaling. The curses my driver showers him with are even more creative, and once again, he almost reaches for Betty.
Taking my phone out, I put in the search bar: “If a cab driver shoots someone, does that make the passenger an accessory to the crime?”
Turns out, the answer is no. Not unless I were to assist him. Good. I keep that thought front and center as we narrowly avoid several more potentially deadly altercations before arriving at our destination: a mansion at a gated beachside community.
“Thanks,” I say to the driver, sounding as convincing as I do when I thank Tierre for critiquing something about my outfit.
The guy grunts something unintelligible and gets my suitcase from the trunk.
To my relief, Betty stays in the glove compartment.