Chapter 27 - Reed
REED
Ialways thought if I was going to make the news, it would be for my business achievements or, at the very least, for saving a cat from a tree like some local hero.
When you search Reed Thompson online now, hundreds of news articles and video reports from all over the world document the destruction of Wendell Blitz’s Jackson Hole compound and the unsuspecting house sitter who miraculously escaped the shocking blaze.
My phone pings with yet another news alert for my name as I settle into my plush, roomy first-class seat at the Denver International Airport on the second leg of my four-flight trip.
It’s yet another article discussing the ongoing feud between Wendell Blitz and Elton Mills, and the massive settlement payout Elton made to both Wendell and, by association, me.
The article calls me “lucky to be alive,” but they don’t know the half of how truly lucky I am.
Through Dax’s connections, we got the earrings evaluated by a professional known for doing off-market deals on the side.
He confirmed for us that the sapphires were genuine Kashmir sapphires and that they were unheated, which made them even more valuable.
Along with the gold and the diamonds—all sold separately to avoid any traces of the original pieces Wendell Blitz may go looking for—the earrings netted us over four million dollars, split down the middle.
For Dax, the money doesn’t look suspicious because he’s already overseas, living under a new name with offshore accounts.
For me, the Elton Mills settlement had already startled my bank, which was used to my balance being in the low four digits with a decimal point in the middle.
An extra two million—in cash, I might add—was nothing to bat an eyelash at. I was a high-baller now.
A brown-haired white man in his mid-twenties pauses at my row and points beyond me toward the window seat. “I think that’s me,” he says. The aisle is wide enough for him to pass without turning sideways. He thunks down a hefty tote bag with a bookstore logo printed on it.
A minute or two later, a flight attendant with chestnut hair and almond-shaped eyes comes by and tries to hand me a packet of luxury items. An eye mask. Earplugs. Slippers. Lip balm. “Oh, no, thank you,” I say. I’ve already splurged on ticket upgrades. I don’t need to be that pampered.
“They’re free,” the man in the seat next to me says, reaching out to take his own.
Embarrassed, I sort through mine once the flight attendant has gone. “Can you tell I’ve never flown in first class before?” I ask.
Looking around, it’s pretty obvious. Everybody else up here has at least fifteen years on me, wears some unpronounceable designer brand, and sits straight-backed with an air of belonging.
Meanwhile, I’m in joggers, a white T-shirt with a small iced coffee stain on it from rushing through the terminal, and old wired headphones spill out of my pocket.
When the money started pouring in, I thought about spending some of it immediately, making the last months of my Wyoming life more comfortable, but I decided against it.
I sold my mom’s old car for parts, sold the trailer to a nice family in need for much below its value, and gave everything left in the storage unit away to charity, except Wendell Blitz’s book, which I burned in the fire pit before driving away from Mountain View Trailer Park for the last time.
Somewhere on the far side of the world, Dax Sharp was securing me a new identity and finding us a home in a country where we could start fresh and nobody would ask questions.
The money would be better spent building a future.
I’d gone so long without the finer things in life that I could wait another few months to treat myself.
I’ve gone so long without true care in my life, too, but now I have Dax.
We haven’t seen each other in person since that stressful, fateful night at Wendell’s compound.
We’ve been using secure messaging apps to keep in constant contact.
Just the sight of his face on my phone screen via video call brightens my spirits and reminds me how worth it this will all be.
“This is only my second first-class flight,” the guy next to me says. “My first was the one I took from New York to here two hours ago, so I’m right there with you. I turned down champagne that I didn’t know was free, and I’m not even the one paying for any of this.”
“Work travel?” I ask, changing out my sneakers for the pillowy white slippers I removed from their crinkly wrapping.
“Yeah, you?” he asks.
“Vacation,” I say. I can’t very well confess that I plan to drop off the face of the earth and subsume a new name and life with my Dom Daddy. “So, pleasure,” I add. At least that part’s not a lie.
Six months without Dax, without sex with another person, period, means I’m going to put us in a sex lockdown for at least forty-eight hours when I arrive at our new place.
Blinds closed, doors locked, clothes banned.
I want to be bound, pounded, and drained until I’m cross-eyed and branded by Dax Sharp.
The airplane taxis to the runway and the flight attendants perform their safety dance, which cuts off our conversation.
I’m a nervous flier, mostly because I’m out of practice.
It’s been ages since I’ve flown anywhere.
I white-knuckle the armrest our whole ascent and my ears pop despite the spearmint gum in my mouth.
To combat some of my anxious energy, I interrupt my seatmate, who has been staring at his computer screen since we hit cruising altitude without hitting a single key. “You must have a pretty high-powered job if they’re paying for this. What do you do?” I ask.
“I’m a writer,” he says, face crumpling as he stares at his blank white page. A writer with writer’s block is obviously what he meant to say. But I don’t comment.
“What kind of writer?” I ask.
He pauses for a moment, almost as if he’s deciding how much he wants to divulge. “I used to write books. Thrillers,” he says.
“Get out. What’s your name? Maybe I’ve heard of you,” I say.
His cheeks redden. “Ryle Chambers.”
“No, sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell,” I say. His face takes on an even darker scarlet shade. “But I mostly read comics anyway, so…”
“No, no, you’re so fine,” Ryle says, offering me a sheepish smile and a small wave. “I was no Liane Moriarty.”
“What do you write now?” I ask.
“I’m on my way to Los Angeles to be the head writer of a new TV show called Killer Campus: The Next Generation,” he says.
This time, it’s clear he expects no recognition from me, but I squeal a little. “Is that the new Maxflix horror show they announced with Chase Miller?”
“It is,” he says, shoulders falling back a bit. “Are you a Killer Campus fan?”
“Not really,” I say, sorry to disappoint him again. “I’ve seen the movies. They’re cool if you like teen slashers, but I’m a huge Chase Miller fan. He’s my favorite actor to have ever played Nova Ranger. Plus, he is so hot.”
“Yeah,” Ryle says awkwardly in agreement. I guess you shouldn’t really be calling your coworkers hot. A writer-actor relationship seems like it’s probably off-limits.
“Have you met Chase? Is he nice?” I ask, wanting all the juicy details. Chase Miller was such a huge part of my coming of age. He was my first celebrity crush. I stashed pictures of him that I cut out from my mom’s magazines under my bed.
“Only virtually, but yeah, I think so,” Ryle says.
“You are so lucky,” I say. “That sounds awesome.”
“I hope it will be,” he says with an uncertain shrug. “If I can get these scripts finished.”
“Good luck,” I say, connecting my headphones to the entertainment console and cueing up the Nova Ranger animated movie they made a year or two ago.
When we land, I turn my phone back on. There’s a message from Dax waiting for me.
In the picture he’s sent, he is shirtless, chest hair matted with sweat, a smile on his face. Behind him is the smallest glimpse of our new home.
The house is ready for you…
“You weren’t kidding when you said pleasure,” Ryle jokes, clearly having seen over my shoulder. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to look. I’m nosey.”
“All good,” I say with a laugh.
Below Dax’s first text is a second photo. It’s a waist-down shot of him in his thin white linen shorts. A noticeable boner tents the front, and my mouth waters with anticipation for our reunion.
I’m ready for you too
I lock my phone and pull my carry-on out of the overhead bin. As I exit the plane and thank the pilot, I grin to myself, knowing Dax isn’t as ready for me as he thinks he is.