20. Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Day 7 San Bernardino, California
Demi took a step toward the plane, only to remember Trident’s medication. She’d stuffed the two plastic bottles into her purse just before Tag rushed her out of her condo. Tram’s SUV was parked next to her, its passenger door still open, her purse in plain sight. Three long steps later, she reached into the back seat and grabbed her bag.
By the time she turned to follow O’Neill, he was already charging up the jet’s staircase. The steel steps clanged and shook beneath each fall of his boots. She followed him up the stairs, pausing at the top to look behind her. Aiden and Cosky were halfway to the plane with Stick Man. They’d each wedged a shoulder beneath her would-be kidnapper’s armpits and were half-dragging, half-carrying him across the gravel lot. Little puffs of dust stirred beneath their boots. Aiden’s head rose, his gaze catching hers. She was too far away and at the wrong angle to see the expression in his eyes, but his face looked the opposite of friendly.
She jerked her chin up and squared her shoulders, holding his intense gaze. It was his fault she couldn’t care for Trident from the comfort of her own home. So, he could suck it up and let the cat on board. She held eye contact until he scowled. Certain he’d received her mental screw you, she turned and sauntered into the jet.
She paused at the mouth of the cabin to appreciate the view. The interior of the airplane was the personification of luxury. Rows of oversized, cream-colored leather chairs, the upholstery soft as butter beneath her fingertips. Plush carpet the color of a robin’s egg cradled her sneakers. The walls shimmered with a pearl sheen. Even the air smelled expensive—fresh and floral.
O’Neill had seated himself at the back of the plane. But from her position, she didn’t see the cat’s carrier. At least until she reached the last two seats and found he’d tucked the crate next to his chair against the wall.
“How’s Trident?” She dropped into the seat across from him.
She bent to look inside the crate. The cat was curled in a tight ball at the back. No growling, howling or rocking and rolling. The duct-taped plastic looked bizarre now that the cat wasn’t trying to rip the kennel apart.
“Trident?” O’Neill scoffed. “What kind of pussy name is that?” He lifted the kennel until the grated gate was directly in front of his face. “Is that what has you so cranky? You’re pissed because the chosen one named you after the symbol of dirty, nasty squids? Can’t say I blame you, buddy. Not one bit.”
Demi’s mouth fell open in surprise. The shock quickly morphed to pissed. “Excuse me! The chosen one? A dirty, nasty squid?” Her voice turned shrill. “I didn’t choose any of this. And I don’t appreciate being called a squid.”
Let alone a dirty, nasty one.
O’Neill’s head snapped up. Startled green eyes collided with hers. “I wasn’t referring to you.”
“No?” Demi frowned, studying his face. With his eyes so wide and horrified, he looked almost comically contrite. “Then who?”
“Aiden.” He said the name with a pucker to his lips, as though it left a foul taste in his mouth.
“You call Aiden a dirty, nasty squid?” Her lips twitched.
He shrugged. “Not just him. All SEALs.”
Ah. There was obvious rivalry there.
With a tired sigh, she leaned back. “Aiden didn’t name him, I did. I haven’t had him long and hadn’t settled on a name when those two assholes pounded on my door.”
O’Neill frowned over that as he settled the crate between his knees again. “How did he end up with Trident?”
“I needed a distraction to keep the assholes occupied until Tag arrived.” Demi offered a wry smile. “I chose the cat, pretended he was Aiden’s beloved pet. And, well…Trident seemed like something a SEAL would name his pet.”
Muffled footsteps and voices at the front of the plane caught her attention. Aiden and Cosky appeared at the head of the cabin with Stick Man. They dragged him to the first chair and forced him down.
A sneer spread across O’Neill’s face at her explanation. “You chose well. That’s exactly the kind of ridiculous name a special operator would name their pet.”
Okay. That wasn’t sarcastic at all.
She glanced toward the head of the plane. Aiden was scowling—no surprise—at either her or O’Neill. Probably both. He took a step in her direction, only to stop short as Cosky’s hand descended on his forearm.
“He needs a more appropriate name.” O’Neill lifted the kennel from his lap and carefully swung it to the left, setting it down beside his chair again. “Something that doesn’t conjure up candy-assed wannabe warriors.”
Demi’s lips twitched. Unlike Aiden and his three friends on board, O’Neill had obviously never been a SEAL. She could just imagine the amount of razzing that went on between the five men. Military dudes were notorious for hazing members of other commands. Although, she hadn’t realized such intense animosity existed between them.
A horrendous clanging—much like the noise that had accompanied O’Neill and Trident up the jet’s staircase—came from the front of the plane. Zane and Rawls staggered into the cabin with a writhing, struggling Muscle Man. When the fake priest tangled his legs with Rawls, tripping him, Zane hauled back his arm and drove his fist into their captive’s face. Muscle Man went limp.
Seriously, hadn’t anyone explained to the asshole that smart people picked their battles? Trying to free himself when he was bound by his ankles and wrists, surrounded by a horde of SEALs and stuck on a plane didn’t seem particularly bright. Rawls and Zane shoved their captive into the chair in front of Stick Man and buckled him into place.
O’Neill had laid his head back and closed his eyes, the picture of relaxed insolence. Mimicking his vibe, she leaned back, too, sighing as her butter-soft chair’s upholstery accepted her weight, cradling her exhausted body like a fluffy, yet supportive cloud.
Oh, my …
Before long, curiosity infiltrated the contentment. Trident was oddly silent. Had he died in there, suffered a heart attack after all his caterwauling and cage rattling? Demi leaned over, tugging the front of the crate toward her so she could check on him. A brilliant green eye glared back at her and a low, rumbling growl vibrated through the crate.
“None of that,” O’Neill muttered without opening his eyes.
The growling stopped in mid rumble.
Huh. She straightened, her eyebrows rising. “What are you, the cat whisperer?”
With a heavy, put-upon sigh, O’Neill opened his eyes, which were green and bore a remarkable resemblance to the single eye glaring at her from Trident’s cage. What a weird coincidence.
“Cat’s like me.” O’Neill shrugged.
Demi digested that before asking tentatively. “When we land, could you help me give him his medicine? He missed his morning dose. He can’t afford to miss his evening one, too.”
O’Neill tilted his head, looking down at the travel carrier. “What meds?” He paused before looking up. “What’s wrong with him, anyway?”
Demi leaned back, sinking deeper into the cloud surrounding her. Lord, this was the most comfortable chair in the history of comfortable chairs. “He was hit by a car. The vet had to remove his back leg, tail, and eye. He’s on an antibiotic and anti-inflammatory. But he’s feral and hates people, which makes it hard to get him to take his medication.”
O’Neill’s thoughtful gaze shifted to her arms and lingered. A hint of softness touched his face. “That’s where you got the scratches? From trying to give him his meds?”
Demi froze, considering the man across from her with caution. O’Neill was the best option she had for getting the meds into Trident. She couldn’t afford to scare him away.
His narrowed gaze lingered on her face. He scoffed softly. “Relax. Once the Citation’s in the air, I’ll take him back to the head, lock us inside, and get the meds into him.”
Unless the jet’s bathroom was bigger than a normal airliner, there wouldn’t be room for him, her, and the crate. “There won’t be room for—”
“You’re not invited to this party.” The curve to his lips took the sting from the comment. “One more set of scratches on your arms and Aiden’s gonna drop kick this old warrior out the emergency exit.”
Demi wasn’t sure whether the old warrior O’Neill referred to was himself or Trident. Guilt stirred. Her seatmate had no idea what he was getting himself into. “He’s difficult to handle—”
“Like I said,” he held her gaze, “cats like me. He’ll take his meds. No problem.” But then disgust crossed his face and his lips twisted. “Now, if he was a bird, we’d have a situation.”
Confused, she shook her head. What did birds have to do with anything? “What do you mean?”
“Birds hate my guts.” He shrugged, as though it was no big deal.
But judging by the tightness around his eyes and the furrow above his eyebrows, the avian reaction did bother him.
Weird.
But what was even weirder was how he twisted in his seat and glanced toward the front of the plane. When he turned back to her, his mouth was a thin line and frustration lit his green eyes.
Weird. Weird. Weird.
With another unconvincing shrug, he sprawled back in his seat. “Yeah, our feathered friends hate my guts.”
Had she heard regret in his voice? No, that couldn’t be right. Why would anyone feel regretful that birds didn’t like them? Seriously, why would that even matter?
She had to be reading him wrong. Except she was almost certain she wasn’t.