Chapter Ten
Addie
I follow Brock onto the plane, managing to maintain a remarkably calm fa?ade. Relaxed even. As if I am not about to be found out by my would-be murderer. Creed knows what’s going on. Of that, I’m certain. The wind is with me. He’s with me. I don’t have to try to look nonchalant sending him a suspicious-looking, panicked text. Of course, he’s pissed right now and cursing me for talking him into this, but he’ll live. And so will I, because of him. But damn it, we need that hard drive. I’m so close to holding it in my hand.
I pass an alcove where a flight attendant greets me, when a plan hatches in my mind.
“Hi,” I say, stopping to chat with the woman. “I’m battling a migraine, and it’s really making me sick. Any chance I could talk you into bringing me a Sprite before takeoff?”
The twenty-something female is quick to help. “Oh, my sister gets those, and they’re absolute hell. We’re running late, so let me give it to you now so you have time to drink it.” She motions me out of the aisle so those behind me may pass, and then pops some ice into a glass and fills it with Sprite. “Make sure it’s empty before liftoff. What seat are you in? I’ll check on you once we’re in the air.”
I reach for my ticket and show it to her before accepting the drink. “Thank you very much,” I say, and then rush after Brock, praying I get to him before he manages to open that briefcase. I arrive at my seat just as Brock buckles himself in, my case at his feet, ready to open.
With a silent prayer that my plan is going to work, I move to sit and accidentally, on purpose, dump my Sprite in his lap. He curses and jerks about in shock, ice and cold liquid all over his pants and shirt.
I, of course, react with instant shock. “Oh no! Oh, Brock, I am so very sorry. I’m a mess today, I swear.” I hand him the glass. “Put the ice in this.” I reach for the computer bag. “I stuffed some tissue in here while I was in the airport restroom in case I got sick.” I unzip the bag just enough to reach inside, fumble around, remove the hard drive, and try to conceal it with the tissue.
“Miss,” a flight attendant says, stopping beside us. “The bag needs to go under the seat for takeoff.” Her eyes widen with understanding. “Oh no. Do you need help here?”
Brock drops ice into the cup and hands it to her. “You can take this and bring us some napkins.”
While he’s busy being him, basically obnoxious, I discreetly maneuver the tissue and the stick into my lap. With the briefcase as cover, I slip the stick into my pocket. “Here you go,” I say, offering him the tissue as I zip the case closed and then slide it under the seat. “I’m really sorry, Brock.”
He accepts the tissue and starts wiping down his shirt. “It’s fine,” he grumbles, his tone saying it really isn’t fine at all. “I guess we can swap computers once we are in the air.”
“I guess so,” I agree, leaning back in my chair and closing my eyes, ridiculously pleased with myself right now. I dodged a bullet. Now, if I could get away from Brock without getting myself killed, I’ll call this a good day.