Chapter Nine
Addie
Creed is dressed by the time I’ve sealed my suitcase and slid my phone into my pants pocket. I glance at the clock. “I have to hurry. I’m so late.” I head for the door.
Creed catches my arm and turns me back to him. “I couldn’t tell you. It would have put you at risk.”
“Creed—”
“I’m telling you this because you’re about to be with Brock. You’re readable, Addie. You have to try hard not to be.”
My heart thunders in my chest. There is so much between us to be discussed, but I have to live through the next few hours to ever allow us the chance. “Yes. I will. Okay. Creed, I have to go.”
“I fucking want to kiss you so badly it hurts, but I’m afraid of turning your eyes again.”
“It will, but I wish you could, too.”
He folds me to him, pressing his forehead to mine. He is warm and right in every way, and I cannot believe I doubted him. “I’ll be close,” he promises, his hand stroking my hair, and I swear I feel him everywhere, and it’s dangerous. My eyes… “I’ll be listening,” he adds.
“Good,” I whisper. “I need you to be close.” I push out of his arms. “I’ll see you soon.” I open the door, and I don’t look back.
Once I’m in the hallway, I’m darn near running toward the elevator, determination in my steps. I will not cower or hide from Julian. I will help end him. I will copy Brock’s hard drive, no matter what it takes to make that happen.
Halfway down the hallway, I manage to hoist my computer bag on my shoulder, and nervous about my eyes, I dig my sunglasses from my purse, just for safety measures. I slide them in place just as the elevator opens, thankful to step inside, but any relief I feel is doused by the sudden feeling of nausea that washes over me.
Oh God. This is not good.
It’s the lifebond illness, and based on documented histories, it’s brutal. It also suggests my body wants to bond with him without the blood exchange. It appears inevitable, which is a whole complicated sidenote.
The car zips quickly to ground level, and I rush to the bathroom to check my eyes, and thankfully they’re still looking normal and green, albeit a bit glassy. I’m okay. I’m okay. I can do this. I exit the bathroom and rush to the lobby, quickly spotting Brock standing near the bell desk, and in typical him style, he’s dressed in tan slacks and a button down with a military-issue tan tie.
I walk toward him, forced to endure the far-too-intimate inspection of a man who plans to kill me. Bastard. At this point, my sunglasses are in my hand, but I yearn to place them on my face and hide my eyes. But I also fear how suspicious that might look.
“Morning,” Brock greets as I join him, pushing off the bell desk as I step in front of him. “You look like walking death.”
My face goes slack at the comment—and the obvious double meaning he won’t know I understand. And it pisses me off to no end; my reply is barely outside of hostile. “I thought they taught you military men more manners than that,” I say, shoving my sunglasses onto my face, my nerve endings prickling with the sudden awareness that Creed is nearby. “Migraine,” I explain. “And no, it’s not a good morning. Not a good night, for that matter.” I crinkle my nose. “I left my drugs at home too, so it won’t be a good ride home either. Pity for you, sitting next to me. I’ll try to use the doggy bag and not your lap . ” I’m definitely aiming for his lap , I think.
“You won’t mind giving up the window seat then, I guess,” he comments dryly.
He’s really such a bastard. A lying, arrogant bastard. A fool, too, if he thinks he’ll be using my father for his own good. No one gets anything over on that man. They might think they are, but they always end up playing his game, his way.
Brock flags a bellman and hands him a bill. “We need a cab ASAP.” He shifts his attention back to me and motions me forward. “Shall we?”
We exit the hotel and claim a post by the cab line, at which point Brock inspects me with a glint of suspicion. “Weren’t you after pain medication when you went out so late last night?” he inquires, setting a duffel bag on the ground. You can take the honor out of a soldier, but never strip him of his duffel bag. Even ex-soldiers and jerks like Brock love their duffels.
“Could have sworn I said toothbrush,” I say, casting him a sideways look and offering nothing more, remembering my father’s frequent warning over most of my life. Your words can be the enemy’s weapons . In short, keep my mouth shut more often than not.
Well-timed, the cab pulls up in front of us, saving me from his further prodding, and I quickly scoot into the backseat and as far to the opposite side as possible. If Brock dares to sit too close to me, I might just use my foot as a weapon.
Thankfully, he smartly maintains his distance and spends the duration of the ride talking on his cell phone—to my father, of all people. Meanwhile, my stomach rages the entire trip.
Minutes later, standing at the curbside airline desk, there’s a clawing sensation in my belly I can’t dismiss. I swallow against the bitter taste in my mouth, willing myself to just push through it. There’s no time for this. Not now.
Inside the airport, it’s game time, and I quickly step into the security line that Creed had designated for the laptop switch.
“That one is shorter,” Brock argues over my line choice, pointing to the next line over.
“This one is closer to the restroom,” I counter, and with a grimace, Brock thankfully follows my lead.
Soon, I’m tossing my shoes in the plastic tray on the conveyor and then setting my computer in one as well. Beside me, Brock does the same thing. Nerves churn in my stomach as I shove my sunglasses into my purse, my gaze downturned as I worry about what color my eyes might display.
I pass through the metal detector without challenge, but behind me, Brock sets it off with a loud buzz. He grumbles, checking his pockets as I move forward, retrieve my sunglasses, and slip them into place. The female security guard behind the conveyor shoots me a weird look.
“Migraine,” I explain, as the buzzer on the metal detector goes off again for Brock.
“Wand check!” yells a guard.
“Oh, hell,” Brock complains rather loudly. “I’m Army. We protect the nation, not blow it up.”
“Sir,” the guard chides. “I don’t make the rules. I just follow them. Please step to the side.” The man walks to the plastic trays and motions toward Brock’s computer and bag. “Is this yours?”
“Yes,” Brock confirms grumpily. “Now, can we get on with this?”
The male guard picks up Brock’s bag, and as is set-up by Creed, with a quick shift of his body to block the view, snags my computer rather than Brock’s. Adrenaline rushes through me as I toe on my shoes and then stuff Brock’s computer, rather than my own, into my bag and zip it closed.
Shoving my purse and briefcase over my shoulder, I turn to find Brock’s back to me, his arms outstretched as he endures the wand inspection. No doubt this would be when the guard would place my computer inside his bag so he wouldn’t know there was a mix-up.
“I’ll meet you at the gate, Brock,” I call out. “I’m going to the restroom.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says as the wand buzzes near his knee, indicating a need for further inspection. “You have got to be kidding!” he grumbles.
“Please raise your pants leg, sir,” the guard orders.
I don’t wait to hear more. I’m already rushing toward the bathroom sign, unzipping my purse as I do, and retrieve the hard drive. Twelve minutes. I only need twelve eternal minutes.
Rounding the corner of the restroom, there are rows of stalls, and I head to the furthest corner and lock myself behind the door marked handicapped. I’m so freaking sick, it’s ridiculous, but I hold it together, shoving the baby changer down and removing the computer from the bag. Somehow, I manage to get the drive working on the download before I hang over the toilet and dry heave.
Thank God, and by some miracle, the toilet and floor appear clean. My empty stomach wrenches in hard spasms, and it feels as if my insides are being ripped out. Finally, finally , the nausea subsides.
I push to my feet, hook my glasses on the top of my blouse, and unroll some toilet paper to dab my mouth, my hand shaking in the process. I check the hard drive, and damn it, it’s not all the way connected. I’ve wasted valuable time. I fiddle with it, and damn it, it slips from my grip. I watch in dismay as it hits the ground and bounces under the door.
Inhaling a calming breath, I yank open the stall door only to be greeted by a short, gray-haired woman wearing a badge and holding a cleaning rag—clearly this is the restroom attendant. And she’s far more attentive than I hope for anyone to be right now.
“Is this yours, honey?” she asks, holding the hard drive up between two fingers and peering over my shoulder at the computer open on the changing table.
“Yes,” I say quickly, snagging the stick. “Thank you.” I hate to be rude, but I shut the stall door and lock it again, quickly inserting the stick again, this time firmly.
It’s right then that the announcer’s voice sounds over the intercom with my name, warning that my flight is boarding. “Damn it!” I murmur, aware I will not have time to finish the process. Think, Addie.
Think.
I grab a wad of toilet paper and place it over the latch on the computer so it won’t fully close and power off. I shut the lid over the paper and then shove the computer back into the bag. Please don’t let the stick come out. I’ll head straight to the airplane restroom when I board and then remove the paper and the stick before claiming my seat.
I slide my sunglasses back in place, gather all my items, and exit the stall before half jogging toward the exit.
I round the entryway and come toe-to-toe with Brock, all but barreling into him.
“You have my computer,” he says. “I need it back.”
My heart jackknifes. “I do not have your computer,” I assure him, trying to step around him.
Brock moves with me in front of me. “Yes,” he says. “You do. The security guard remembers mixing them up.”
My lips purse. “If so, it’s not going anywhere.” I motion toward the gate. “And a boarding call has already been issued. Besides, I’m way too sick to deal with this right now. You can switch them on the plane where I can sit down before I throw up yet again.”
His jaw clenches, suspicion in his hard stare. “Since when does a migraine make you throw up? I thought it was a headache.”
“It is a headache,” I grind out between clenched teeth, thinking how offended my mother, a sufferer of migraines, would have been at that comment. The man excels at being a jerk. I can’t imagine how he treats someone he isn’t trying to fuck. “Migraines are the volcanic eruption of headaches. Of course, they make you throw up. And any kind of light is almost as much of a bitch as you’re being right now.”
He barks out a shocked laugh and scrubs his jaw, holding up his hands in defeat. “Okay. I get it. I’m an asshole. I will admit you seem to be blowing me off, and it riled me up. Male egos really can be monsters.”
His apology reeks of insincerity and a ploy to slide into my good graces. He can forget it. “No one fakes looking like walking death.”
“Again. The ego monster.” Last call to board blasts over the intercom, saving me from any more of him, at least in the moment. “We better get going.” He reaches for my bag. “Let me carry that for you.”
“No, no,” I say dismissively. “Really. It’s fine.”
His hand remains on my bag. “I insist,” he says, refusing to let go. “You’re sick, Addie. I’ll carry the bag. It’s what any gentleman would do.”
I reluctantly allow him to pry the bag from my hands, aware I’ve just been well manipulated. He wasn’t going to let me take my bag to the restroom, so how the heck am I going to get the hard drive out of the computer without him knowing? I’m not just sick right now. I’m panicked.