Chapter 8 – Marlowe
Chapter Eight
MARLOWE
On a normal day, I hate airplanes. No, that’s not quite right.
Hate is too mild. What I feel is complete, unequivocal terror.
The kind of terror that coils deep in my gut and sinks its claws into my spine.
And this thing I’m flying in? It’s not even a real airplane.
It’s a toy. A miniature model someone decided was capable of catapulting into the sky.
It barely seats six people, and to even get to it, we have to trudge through what looks like an abandoned hangar, the kind where horror movie survivors find a blood-streaked warning on the wall.
Branches and brown shrubbery hang off its wings.
The whole thing feels like the opening scene of a low-budget disaster flick.
By the time I step inside, my anxiety is already rising.
Swollen like a balloon stretched too thin.
There’s no flight attendant delivering a cheerful safety spiel, no reassuring hum of a commercial airliner.
Just a cramped, coffin-like cabin and a single broom-closet-sized compartment in which to shove a bag.
I suck in a breath, but it comes back out shallow and shaky. I’m low-key hyperventilating.
Damian gestures for me to sit, and I barely get my seatbelt across my lap before the plane jolts forward, groaning like an old man. The walls rattle. The floor vibrates beneath my feet. Then, without warning, we’re hurtling into the sky. A drunk pigeon in a hurricane.
I double over, pressing my forehead to my knees, gripping the seat so hard my knuckles ache.
My breaths are fast, labored, each one scraping against my ribs.
The plane wheezes and moans, every creak and metallic groan amplifying the chaos in my head.
I can’t tell if it’s the aircraft protesting its own existence or if my anxiety has given it a voice, an audible, rattling manifestation of my impending doom.
The plane lurches violently, and a banshee-like scream tears from my throat before I can stop it. My chest heaves, my fingers dig into the armrests, and when I dare to glance up, I find Damian and Bridger both staring at me. Bridger nudges Damian, silently telling him to sit beside me.
Damian mutters something under his breath and pointedly turns away.
It’s a gut punch of rejection. Sudden and unexpected. A sharp, humiliating sting that explodes behind my eyes. I don’t even know why it hurts, but it does. I blink hard, fighting back tears. Why am I always attracted to the wrong kind of guys?
Bridger sighs, unbuckling his seatbelt, then clambers across the tiny walkway with an ease that makes my eyes sting more. He drops into the seat beside me, his lips curving in a smirk. “Having fun yet?”
I glare at him, my voice clipped and unsteady. “I feel like a sock in a washing machine.”
He chuckles, completely unbothered by the chaos rattling around us. “It’ll even out in a few minutes,” he says, reaching over to place a steadying hand on my trembling arm.
Whoa. That’s… unexpected.
My gaze drops to his hand, and I mentally brace myself for the worst. For another Joel, with a loaded gun and vile intentions. But this Bridger guy doesn’t have a loaded gun against my face, so if he touches me the wrong way, I’ll rip his eyeballs right out of their sockets.
"You're shaking," Bridger observes, his gaze steady, concern flickering behind his eyes. "Are you really that scared of flying?"
I hesitate, searching his face, wondering if he actually cares or if he’s just making conversation. Finally, I exhale, deciding to tell the truth. "Flying. Crashing. People pulling guns on me. People getting shot. It’s all too much."
Bridger doesn’t flinch. He leans over, pops open a small cabinet beside the row of seats, and pulls out two miniature bottles of whiskey. He hands one to me. “Drink. It’ll calm you down. Maybe help you sleep.”
Sleep? Not a chance in hell. But I twist the cap off anyway and tip the bottle back, the amber liquid burning a path down my throat. I cough and swallow back the flames.
Across from me, Damian lets out a scoff, tugging the hood of his sweatshirt lower over his face. He stretches his legs out like he owns the space, then drifts off within seconds, as if none of this affects him at all.
Bridger nudges the second bottle toward me. I take it without hesitation, swallowing it down in one go. Warmth spreads through my belly, dulling the sharp edges of my nerves.
I glance up at Bridger, my tongue loose from the whiskey, and wince. “Were you the one who called Damian last night when I answered? Jackass?”
Bridger’s expression falters, a flicker of pity crossing his face. "Yeah . . ."
Regret gnaws at me instantly. "Sorry. I’m not usually . . . I didn’t . . ." I sigh and shrug, giving up. Heat bites at my cheeks.
I want to ask questions. I want to understand everything I don’t know about this situation with the money, about Damian, about why the hell my father thought I would have that kind of money lying around.
But when our eyes lock, reality hits me like a lead weight.
These aren’t friends; these two massive, Viking-looking men were in my bakery not even an hour ago, armed with crowbars.
I need to keep my mouth shut. My head clear. My thoughts and fears locked up tight. Neither of them is here to help me, especially not Damian. No matter how fun last night was.
And he was fun. He knew exactly how to make a woman—
No. Stop. Lo, stop thinking about it.
I force myself to sit up straighter, clearing my throat. "I’m just going to try and sleep now. Thank you."
Bridger hesitates. His lips part like he wants to say something, but then, just as quickly, he snaps his mouth shut. Without another word, he rises and makes his way back to his seat beside Damian.
I close my eyes, trying to will myself into a blank, weightless void but Damian’s voice slices through the air like a blade.
"Don’t fall for it, Bridge," he growls, low and venomous. "She isn’t worth it. Trust me."
The words stab right through my chest. My pulse pounds in my ears. My breath catches, sharp and painful. Tears press at the backs of my eyelids, but I refuse to let them fall.
I cycle through every breathing exercise I know. Nothing works.
I don’t deserve that. And, more importantly, I refuse to believe it.
I won’t sit here and pretend last night meant nothing to him.
I saw the way he looked at me. I heard him ask me to stay.
My worth isn’t for him to decide. And if he thinks his shitty opinion defines me, then that says more about him than it ever could about me.
I get it. It was just a hookup. But that doesn’t mean I’m worthless.
Oh, when we get to my father’s place, when I get that money, I’m going to make Damian eat his words. And Joel? Something has to happen to that asshole. He can’t just get away with how he touched me and what he’s doing.
But right now, there’s nothing I can do except press my forehead against the cold window and disappear inside myself.
My therapist says I do this when my thoughts are stuck on an endless loop, when my mind becomes a cage and my body has no other way to cope.
Whatever. It’s the only thing keeping me together as the flight drags on, the plane rattling through the night sky. I zone out completely.
Then, slowly, the horizon begins to glow.
Sunrise.
I should be at work right now. I should be in the kitchen, pulling trays of pastries from the ovens, the scent of butter and sugar filling the air.
Instead, I’m trapped in this tin can, hurtling toward a future I don’t understand.
And I can’t even call in. My phone is gone, and without it, I know nothing. No numbers, no way to reach anyone.
Arlene is going to lose her mind. I’ve never missed a day in all the years I’ve worked there. A frayed thread of panic tightens in my chest. My phone is my lifeline. It has everything, my contacts, my baked goods orders, my medication alerts.
Shit. I didn’t take my meds this morning.
What time is it?
I pull my gaze away from the window, ready to ask, but the words die in my throat. Damian is watching me.
The moment I meet his stare, my pulse stumbles, then takes off at a sprint.
His gaze is thick, weighted, almost tangible in the dim light of the cabin.
It coils around me, stealing the air from my lungs, pinning me in place.
The space between us hums, charged with something electric, something I don’t know how to name.
It crackles over my skin, burning through my nerves, setting every inch of me on high alert.
Seconds stretch into eternity, and he doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
I’m not worth it, huh?
A shrill ringtone shatters the silence, cutting through the thick air between us. The moment is gone so fast, I almost question if it ever happened at all.
Bridger swipes at his phone, his voice clipped and sharp as he speaks. “Where the fuck can she be? Did you check?”
A chill ripples across my skin at his tone.
Whatever this is, it’s serious. My attention flicks between him and Damian, my thoughts scattering.
Something is definitely going on. The way they exchange glances, rapid, tense, shifting from worry to fury and back again, makes the air inside the small cabin feel heavier.
I lean toward Damian, who’s listening without a word, his face impossible to read. “What’s happening?” I whisper.
He doesn’t respond.
“Good talk, thanks,” I mutter.
He still doesn’t respond.
Bridger stands abruptly and begins pacing though the cramped space of the cabin. He can barely take three steps before he has to turn around. “Yeah, okay,” he grunts. “We’ll be on the ground in about forty minutes.”
Forty minutes, then this will be over. I’ll find the money, buy a return ticket, and go back home on a real airplane. A commercial one with flight attendants and free snacks. All I have to do is pray my credit card has enough room to cover the cost.
I snap my fingers in front of Damian’s face. “What time is it?”
He grunts, rubbing his temple. “Six fifteen.”
I lean forward, unlatching the small compartment where my backpack is stashed. I yank it out, gripping it tightly.
Damian drags a hand through his hair, his expression dark. Bridger keeps pacing, muscles taut, lips tight.
Something definitely happened. Something bad.
Maybe at the bakery. Maybe Taylor got away. Good. I hope she did.
Maybe she’s on her way to help me.
I unzip the front pocket of my bag and pull out my meds.
Maybe, just maybe, Taylor made it to the police.
Maybe those assholes, my father included, are already cuffed and crammed into the back of a squad car.
I hope Joel gets a full-body cavity search.
The thought makes me smile as I swallow my pill dry.
Damian is in my space before I even have time to register his movement.
I jerk back, startled.
“What did you just take?” His tone is clipped, sharp, laced with suspicion.
“Um. Paxil.” I instinctively lean farther away. His breath smells like coffee. I’m instantly pissed that no one thought to offer me any.
He straightens, towering over me with the kind of presence that should be impossible on a plane this small.
And yet, despite the way the cabin jolts and shifts with every pocket of turbulence, he remains steady.
Not so much as a stumble. Oh, what I would give to witness this huge man fall on his ass right now.
“What the fuck is that?” he demands.
“It’s an SSRI.”
“And what the fuck is that?”
“A selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor,” I say, tucking the bottle back into my bag.
His face darkens, a vein pulsing at his temple. Great, now I’ve got his blood pressure up. I bite back a smirk.
“And what the fuck is that?”
“I have anxiety,” I say simply. He doesn’t get to know anything beyond that.
“Doesn’t everyone?” he scoffs.
“Uh, no.”
“What did you really just take?”
I sigh, already exhausted by this conversation. “Honestly? I have an anxiety disorder, and my meds help me manage it.”
“There’s nothing honest about you,” he says, his gaze narrowing. “They get you high?”
“No. No way. I can’t do drugs. That would make my anxiety worse. The pills aren’t habit-forming. They just stop the nerve cells in my brain from reabsorbing serotonin, so my mood stays regulated. So I don’t always think so loudly that I can’t listen to reason.”
“Whatever. I don’t care.”
“Obviously, you do.”
“I don’t,” he snaps. “I just don’t want to have to carry you off this plane high—or deal with any more of you or your father’s bullshit.”
“You’re not going to have to carry me,” I say, sitting up straighter, folding my arms across my chest. “Now, what’s going on? Did Taylor get away?”
“Who?”
I roll my eyes. I’m getting tired of his games. “My half-sister, Taylor. Is she the one they can’t find?”
He lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Wow. You really think everything is about you, don’t you?”
I stare at him, deadpan. “So you’ve got multiple women held hostage in bakeries along the East Coast? Good to know.”
He blinks at me, his expression shifting from disbelief to outright disgust. Then, in a voice dripping with venom, he mutters, “How the hell did I ever find you attractive last night?”
The words bruise deep.
The memory of last night, the heat, the way he touched me, the way I felt, all of it twists into something ugly, something he now sees as a mistake.
An inconvenience. A surge of anger rises in my chest, but I shove it down, locking it away.
I won’t let him see how much it bothers me.
Instead, I meet his glare with a steady, unshaken voice.
“Maybe for the same reason I found you attractive before I knew you were a burglar and a kidnapper.”
A flicker of something crosses his face. Surprise, maybe uncertainty. But he smothers it quickly, masking it behind an arrogant, distant expression. “I guess we’re both shitty people,” he says.
“No.” My response is immediate, unfaltering. “The difference between us is that when we find that money, you’ll know I had nothing to do with this. But you? You’ll still be a shitty person.”
His eyes glower, his lips curling slightly as he leans in just enough to make his presence suffocating. “Well, for the sake of your pretty little neck, Angel, I hope you’re right.”
“I’m not your Angel,” I snap.
His smirk turns cold. “Oh, I fucking know.” His voice drops to a quiet, cutting rasp. “You already proved that to me.”