Chapter 10 #2
But when I reach the tiny lavatory, the door is locked. What the hell? Who had time to beat me here? I jumped up the second we were allowed! The injustice of it burns almost as much as my screaming bladder.
I shift from one foot to the other, doing an unmistakable pee dance in the narrow aisle.
A flight attendant gives me a sympathetic smile as she passes with a drink cart, probably seeing this exact scenario play out dozens of times a day.
After a few agonizing minutes of waiting—each second stretching into eternity, my bladder sending desperate SOS signals to my brain—I can't take it anymore and knock.
"Occupied," a man's voice calls from inside, sounding irritatingly relaxed.
"I'm sorry, but I'm about to pee my pants," I blurt, dignity completely abandoned at this point. This is what I've been reduced to—begging a stranger to hurry up their bathroom business.
"One second," he replies, and then I hear the toilet flush followed by running water. The sound nearly breaks me—my bladder contracting painfully at the cruel audio torture. I bite my lip and cross my legs tighter, bouncing slightly.
Finally, the door opens and an older, stumpy guy with thinning hair walks out. "Better hold your nose," he warns with zero shame, ambling away like he didn't just commit a war crime in there.
I take a desperate deep breath and dive in.
The smell is an assault, like something crawled in there and died after eating garbage.
Closing the door behind me, I barely get my shorts down in time, hovering over the toilet seat as my bladder finally releases.
The relief is so intense I almost cry, but I can no longer hold my breath.
My god, the smell is rancid. I pull the front of my hoodie over my face, trying not to breathe too deeply while my stream keeps going and going and going.
Seriously, how did I even hold that much liquid?
When I'm finally done, I wipe, flush, and crack the door open to let it air out while I wash my hands.
The tiny sink sputters lukewarm water over my fingers as I try to wash away both the germs and the memory of that smell.
Emerging from the tiny hell chamber, I spot the stinky culprit sitting a few rows ahead.
I glare at him while passing, then reach up for my overhead bag, digging frantically for the travel-size body spray I packed.
Thank god for my paranoid packing habits.
I spritz my hair and hoodie just in case I smell like that man's shit, then slide back into my seat.
"Damn, you took forever. Did you drop a deuce in there?" Harper asks, eyebrows raised, her green eyes sparkling with amusement.
"Not me, but someone did, and it was rank," I groan, sniffing my sleeve suspiciously. "I think I've been traumatized."
She laughs, her head tilting back, hair cascading over her shoulders.
"It's not funny! I think it stuck to me," I protest, smacking her arm. "I might never recover from this experience."
She laughs harder, shoulders shaking. "I don't smell it. I think you're good."
"Good," I mutter, turning to look out the window for the first time since takeoff.
"Oh wow," I breathe, momentarily forgetting the bathroom trauma.
The world below has transformed into a patchwork quilt of fields and forests, tiny houses and winding roads, all bathed in golden sunlight. "This is so cool."
"It is, isn't it?" Harper agrees, leaning over to peek out, her freckled face close to mine as we both take in the view.
I must have dozed off because the next thing I know, Harper's soft voice is calling my name and her hand is gently shaking my shoulder. The cabin light has changed, and my neck has a painful crick from sleeping at an awkward angle.
I jerk upright, disoriented. "Did I drool?" I ask, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, feeling the telltale dampness.
"Yep," she says with a smirk, pointing to a damp spot on my hoodie that looks embarrassingly like I spilled something down my front.
I groan, looking down at the evidence. "Your dad is going to think you brought an untamed stray to his house." Just what I needed—to meet the intimidating Dominic Grayson looking like I can't control my bodily functions.
She laughs. "Nah, you're good. He's used to me bringing home disaster cases."
Fifteen minutes later we're filing off the plane.
As soon as we reach the terminal, I pull off my hoodie, worried it stinks of the bathroom disaster and dried drool.
I tie it around my waist, hoping my white tank top looks presentable enough for meeting Harper's father.
I run my fingers through my hair, trying to tame what I'm sure is a spectacular case of airplane bedhead.
We make our way to baggage claim, and I'm practically dragging Harper along while she texts her dad letting him know we made it. We stand watching the empty carousel, waiting for our bags to appear, when suddenly Harper squeals and runs off.
I watch her sprint toward someone, and then freeze when I see the man she hugs.
"Fuck me," I groan and turn around, trying to hide even though I know I have to meet him eventually.
I busy myself getting our bags from the carousel, keeping my back strategically turned toward Harper and her father. How is this happening? How is the arrogant asshole from the dinner the other night Harper's dad? The universe has a seriously twisted sense of humor.
My mind races as I grab Harper's suitcase—the expensive one with her monogrammed luggage tag—and set it beside me, still avoiding looking their way.
The worst part is I can't even tell Harper what happened.
What would I say? "Hey, so your dad is the one who bought me at an auction and was a total dick at dinner?
" Yeah, that conversation would go great.
I spot my beat-up duffle and lunge for it, nearly knocking over a small child in my desperate attempt to look busy. "Sorry," I mumble, cheeks burning as the kid's mom shoots me a dirty look.
I keep hiding from the big dick over there.
"Big dick," I whisper to myself, then snort inappropriately at my own joke.
The sound escapes before I can stop it, and I clamp my hand over my mouth.
God, I'm hysterical. I'm losing it. My tank top suddenly feels too thin, like it can't protect me from what's coming.
The reality crashes down on me like a physical weight: I'm going to be living in Dominic Grayson's house for the entire summer.
The man who looked at me like I was beneath him with those intense dark eyes, then disappeared without a word after that awful dinner.
The man whose commanding presence made every nerve in my body light up even as he was telling me exactly why I wasn't good enough.
My fingers find my nose ring, twisting it nervously as I try to breathe. The airport carousel continues its endless rotation, luggage appearing and disappearing like my chances of surviving this summer with my dignity intact.
"Skye!" Harper calls out, her voice cutting through my panic spiral. The sound bounces off the high airport ceiling, impossible to ignore. "Come meet my dad!"
I freeze, my hand still gripping my duffle's worn handle. The moment I've been dreading since I spotted him across the baggage claim area has arrived, and there's nowhere left to hide.
I take a deep breath, plastering what I hope is a normal smile on my face as I turn around. Harper is waving me over, her arm looped through her father's. His back is to me, but I'd recognize those broad shoulders anywhere.
As I approach, dragging our bags behind me, my stomach twists itself into complicated knots. Harper's beaming, completely oblivious to my internal meltdown.
"Dad, this is my best friend Skye," she says proudly as I come to a stop in front of them.
Dominic turns, and for one glorious second, I hope he won't recognize me. Maybe I looked different that night. Maybe he meets so many women he won't remember.
But the moment his dark eyes land on me, they widen with unmistakable recognition. His jaw clenches, and something that looks like horror flashes across his face before he schools his expression.
"It's nice to meet you, Skye," he says smoothly, extending his hand like we've never met before.
I have no choice but to take it.