Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
H arper
The few times I flew on a plane before my mom met Ethan and our fortunes changed, I’d imagined first class being this glamorous place where they served champagne in crystal glasses, played subdued comforting music, and the seats were like thrones.
Turns out first class is nothing like that. Sure there’s champagne, but it’s served in plastic beakers and tastes like crap. The smells are all the same, the chairs aren’t that much bigger and today there’s still a kid kicking my seat and a couple sitting across the aisle having a noisy argument.
And we haven’t even taken off yet.
The combination is not helping the woozy feeling in my stomach. I’m wondering if it’s not a virus after all but just nerves. I’ve never been a good flier. It doesn’t matter how many times people try to explain it to me, I can’t understand how such a big heavy object can remain floating in the sky and not hurtling towards the ground.
Usually, I’d pop a Xanax to calm my nerves. That or down a couple of shots of tequila. This morning I’m feeling too queasy. I didn’t even manage to eat any breakfast.
Is it because not only am I nervous about the flying, I’m also nervous about this decision? What if NYC is a disaster? What if NYC galleries are even more snooty than Parisian and nobody wants to hire me – especially when they learn I’m an omega? What if Janis and I fall out and I end up sleeping on the streets? What if I really am kidnapped and sold into slavery?
Who am I kidding?
There is something much bigger bothering me. A million times bigger – what if I'm making the biggest mistake of my life?
Owen’s words and Wyatt’s letter resonate in my head. I haven’t been able to put them out of my mind. Doubts niggling away at me.
What if the thing I think I’m doing to protect the men I love is actually the thing that will hurt them the most?
What if I’m throwing all our chances of happiness away?
But then I circle right back to last night. Daxton hung up on me. Not once. Twice. He doesn’t want to talk to me. And despite Owen and Wyatt’s words about love, there haven’t been any grand gestures like in the movies. No dashes through the airport to stop me boarding this flight.
Not even a text or a call.
Does that mean they don’t care after all?
I’m so confused.
And so damn sick.
I close my eyes and try to breathe.
It doesn’t help. The couple are now close to shouting, the kid behind is kicking me every couple of seconds and is singing too, and I swear someone has opened a can of goddamn sardines.
My stomach bubbles. My mouth waters. Bile swims in my throat. I try to swallow it down.
It doesn’t work.
I think about running to the toilet.
No time.
I yank out the sick bag from the seat pocket and vomit straight into it.
It stops the couple from arguing and I hear the boy behind me say, “Ewww gross.”
So much for privacy in first class.
The sick keeps coming which seems a freaking miracle considering I didn’t eat anything this morning. But, finally, when it seems there is nothing left but my actual stomach to throw up, I slink back in my seat panting to find an air hostess hovering above me.
“Are you okay, Ma’am?” she says, eyeing the bag of sick on my lap with disgust.
“Yes, thank you,” I reply, even though I want to be left alone. “Just a little travel sickness.”
“We haven’t taken off yet.”
“It’s the smell of the aircraft.”
“Ma’am, if you are feeling unwell you won’t be able to fly with us today. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“What? No! I’m just a little nervous about flying.”
“You said you were travel sick.”
“It’s a bit of both. And the smell.” I screw up my nose.
“I’m afraid it’s company policy. We can’t let someone travel who is obviously unwell.”
“I’m not unwell,” I say, trying to pull a cheerful and definitely not sick expression onto my face. “Just a little nauseous.”
The air hostess peers down at the bag of sick, grimaces and says, “I’ll call someone to help you off the plane.”
“But I don’t want to get off the flight,” I call after her as she heads towards the front of the cabin and picks up the phone. “I want to go to New York.”
“And we don’t want to get ill,” the woman across the aisle says, leaning away from me.
I glare at her. I didn’t really want to listen to her argue with her husband about who forgot to pack the toothpaste, but you didn’t hear me complaining.
“My son has a very sensitive immune system,” the mom behind me says.
“It’s just a bit of travel sickness,” I protest.
“Never seen someone yack so much from travel sickness before,” the husband (who I’m certain was the one who forgot the toothpaste) chimes in.
I glance down. The bag is really full. It also smells revolting and I dry-retch into my fist.
“She’s going to be sick again! She’s going to be sick again!” the boy screams from behind me, bouncing up and down and rocking my seat.
“Ewww, he’s right!” the argumentative wife says, jumping to her feet. “Air hostess!”
The air hostess, followed by another, comes running down the aisle. The bag of sick is swiftly whipped away and an empty one replaced on my lap.
“Do you have a bag, Ma’am? A coat?”
“Did you tuck anything into the seat pocket?”
“Here, I’ll take your things for you.”
“If you’d just like to follow me.”
All the noise is making my head swim and I feel even sicker than I did before. A pair of hands grips my elbow and attempts to drag me to my feet.
Maybe getting off this aircraft isn’t such a bad idea.
I stand up.
My vision swoops.
My head spins.
And then everything turns black.
I come to sitting in a wheelchair in the tunnel that connects the airport to the aircraft.
“Ahhh, there she is,” a voice says and I focus in on a man dressed in a hi-vis vest crouched in front of me. “You’re okay, miss. We’ve called an ambulance. Going to get you taken to hospital.”
“Hospital?!” I cry out, attempting to stand and flopping straight back down when another wave of nausea hits me. “I can’t go to hospital. I’m meant to be going to New York.”
“Flight’s gone, Miss,” the man says, thumbing in the direction of the end of the tunnel.
“How long was I out?”
“About three minutes.”
“Shit, those bitches move fast.”
“Got to keep to a schedule. Here.” He hands me a bottle of water. “Now, if it’s okay with you, I’m going to start wheeling you towards the exit.”
“I don’t need wheeling. I can walk.”
“Best to be safe, though, huh?” he says, nipping round the back of the wheelchair and whisking me along before I’ve had the chance to jump back on my feet. I look down at the swiftly passing ground and decide I’m not going to risk it now. I’m going to have to live with the humiliation of being wheeled through the airport like a criminal.
Mom thought the rumors were bad before. Wait until everyone starts saying her daughter was caught as a drugs mule.
I sink into the chair and attempt to hide behind the collar of my jacket.
“How about my luggage?” I ask the man behind me.
“We’ll have your luggage sent to your home address. And I have your handbag right here.” He motions to the handle of the wheelchair. “Right, just through here. Ambulance should be here waiting.”
“I really don’t need an ambulance. I’ll just catch a taxi home.” Or maybe I could try and get on another flight.
“Sorry, Miss, company policy. You fainted, we have an obligation to ensure you’re seen by a doctor.”
“Isn’t there a doctor here who could see me? There really isn’t anything wrong with me. Just nerves. I don’t like flying.”
“No doctors here, I’m afraid. There are usually two on duty but they both called in sick today.”
“Excellent,” I say as he wheels me out to a waiting ambulance and hands me over to two paramedics.
“She threw up and then fainted,” the man tells them.
The paramedics, both men, take one look at me and don a face mask each.
“I’m not ill,” I protest.
“It’s just a precaution.”
They wheel me onto the ambulance’s elevator and then I’m slowly raised up into the rear.
I groan. This is so embarrassing, but at least no one saw my moment of shame.
The journey back into Rockview and to the city hospital seems to be unnecessarily bumpy and I nearly vomit all over again.
By the time we eventually arrive, I feel so awful from actual genuine travel sickness, that I’m happy to be wheeled out of the ambulance and into the ER – this time on a bed rather than in a wheelchair.
“Right, Ma’am, we’re just going to hand you over to one of the doctors, and then we’ll be on our way.”
“Thank you,” I say weakly, glad to be on ground that is no longer moving.
“Ahh, here he comes now – Dr. Stanton.”
Dr. Stanton?
Please no, please no.
But seems I’m going to have absolutely no luck today.
I lift my head and find Daxton staring right at me.
Shit.