Ethan
There’s a ding that jolts me awake, and I find myself looking blearily at a dark, small screen in front of me. I’m… on a plane. To my left, I see the clear blue sky. To my right, I see nobody. There’s nobody in this cabin but me.
It takes a moment for me to realize I… passed out during the flight. I passed out during the flight? I don’t understand why no one woke me up—why they left me here instead of kicking me off the plane.
Panic buzzes in my chest when I yank at my seat belt and it won’t budge. The buckle won’t unclasp regardless of how hard I tug at it. My mouth runs dry. My throat becomes tight. I reach up and hit the call button. Repeatedly.
“How can I be of assistance?” comes a whispery voice, and I’m so fucking thankful I’m not left here on this plane by myself.
“I think the belt’s jammed,” I say, looking to my right only to get an eyeful of cleavage. An obscene amount of it. In the most sheer blue dress shirt I’ve ever seen. One that’s unbuttoned. With the bottom half of the shirt tied into a bow.
My gaze slowly drags up to meet familiar brown eyes. Her lips are painted bright red. Her hair’s purposely messy. Her giggle is… wrong.
There’s no warmth to it as she slaps her palm against my shoulder and—somehow, in the tight, knee-length skirt she’s wearing—lifts one leg and climbs over my lap.
“What are you doing?” I grit out, barely twisting my head so that I’m staring pointedly at the window when she frames my face with her hands and somehow manages to grind against me.
“What does it look like?” she breathes out. “I want you to fill me in.”
“I don’t think this is appropriate,” I say, which is ironic given everything that happened in the elevator.
“Why not?” She swivels her hips in a slow, languid movement, and a string of incoherent words in both English and Spanish escapes me. I make a silent prayer to Saint Michael while she unbuttons the only button on her shirt. “Just like my schedule, my legs are wide open for you.”
“Yeah, that’s not appropriate, either.” My throat bobs reflexively. “Also, I don’t think your legs are wide open. If we’re being factual here.”
There’s that girlish, soulless giggle again. Her head tips to the side, her hair flinging over one shoulder as she strokes my biceps.
“You are so right,” she fawns, then thrusts her tits into my face. They’re a really nice pair—products of my imagination, but still. I’m trying to behave here. Even if it’s my subconscious, I don’t think anything about this is appropriate. “But they can be.”
I avert my eyes to the ceiling. “HR wouldn’t approve of this.” It’s the one thing that wouldn’t stop weighing on my mind all night.
“Approve of what?” she whispers. “We don’t work for the same company. I’m Stewardess Barbie, not Business Barbie, and unlike Business Barbie, I want to take a ride on your plane all night long.”
I hack out a cough. “I kind of want to get to know you, first—”
“Biblically?”
“Spiritually.” I cough again. “My mother’s Catholic, you know?”
“Oh. Well, see… Here’s the thing about me,” she says in a breathy drawl. “I’m quite agreeable and can be anything you want me to be.”
“You are definitely not Business Barbie,” I deadpan. “Can you be Chatbot Barbie for me?”
“How about I be your Dreamgirl Barbie instead?” she suggests.
“Oh, Ethan, I’m so sorry you had a rough day.
” I’m uncertain how to respond to whatever this is when she winds her arms around my neck and pulls me flush to her body.
“How about we call out sick and sleep in today? Later on, I can make you pancakes with the blackberry jam you love.”
I wrench myself out of her grasp and stare at her in confusion. “What is this?”
“And then we can go check in with your mom and sister. I adore them both so much,” she goes on. “I don’t think it’s weird at all how protective you are of them. I certainly don’t think your sister’s a little bitch. Or that your mom should get over it already.”
I recognize this conversation—the references she’s making, to be exact. “Can you stop—”
“Stop what?” There’s a grim, mocking stretch to her lips. “I’m only the girl of your dreams.” Her body presses into mine, her open mouth suctioned to my ear, and I don’t know where this is going when she lets out a series of screeching, inhuman noises.
I jolt awake, smacking my head against something padded, and muffle my curse with a pillow. It takes a few seconds for me to gather my bearings and realize I’m in the hotel room. On the couch. With my alarm going off.
Sitting up slowly, my spine feels like it’s been in a fender bender. My neck is stiffer than ever, even after a couple of stretches I do to alleviate the pain. I grab my phone from the nearby table and silence it, then realize I have a few more hours before we’re to meet up with Ed.
Across from me, Barbie is sprawled like a starfish on one side of the massive bed, breathing evenly into a pillow—no ridiculous stewardess costume in sight.
Since I don’t want to sleep on that cursed couch for another second, I decide to head out early, see what’s open, and pick up some coffee in preparation for today’s conference.
And to keep myself distracted from my weird-as-fuck dream.
Coffee is a good call. She won’t stop chirping over the Cuban espresso I picked up for her, which is better than the other two alternatives that could have happened: awkward silence or arguing over spreadsheets.
Ed had already given us a briefing on what the B her lips are a muted pink color; and her hair’s neatly pulled back into a simple ponytail.
Yet my subconscious refuses to cooperate with me and acknowledge the truth. I’m apparently into businesscore. It’s something I never wanted to discover about myself, such as enjoying a nice, long bath or worse, liking space jazz.
“Did you hurt your neck?”
“They taught you human anatomy in your marine biology classes?” A hiss escapes me when her fingertip prods a tender spot on my neck.
Her gaze searches mine, imploring. “You did, didn’t you? On the couch? Why didn’t you tell me?”
I lift my shoulder, wincing when I feel a sharp, prickling pain.
“Oh my God.” Her eyes go wide. “Carter, you should have told me.”
“It’s fine. It’s just a strained muscle,” I say. “I can handle it. By tomorrow morning, it’ll be as good as new.”
She huffs out a wry laugh. “Every time you’ve said those words? It always takes a turn for the worse.”
I groan. “Barb, we’ve gone one hour without arguing. Don’t you want to see if we can last two hours?”
“Now’s not the time to bait me with how long you can last,” she grumbles. “Oh God. I did this to you.”
“I didn’t realize I’m talking to the couch right now,” I say dryly.
“Come on.” Her fingers wrap around my arm. “Ethan, let me check it out.”
“They taught you massage therapy in these marine biology classes, too?”
“I’ll let you have the final say on the cover sheets if you can look to your left in the next five seconds,” she says without skipping a beat. “Well, Carter? I’m waiting.”
Only my eyes slice to the left, but my neck stings regardless. She touches me again, her fingers poking me with no rhythm whatsoever.
“I’ll be fine. Just gotta sleep it off.” If looks could kill, my body would be obliterated into smithereens.
“Is your mom okay?” she asks. Seeing the frown on my face, she tacks on, “You said she went to the hospital. Just hip surgery.”
It takes a few seconds to remember I told her about Mom’s surgery. I’m genuinely surprised at the sight of her eyebrows knitted in concern. “Bee, you can stop now. I know you’re trying to butter me up—”
“I’m not buttering you up,” she says matter-of-factly. “If I were going to do such a thing, I’d—”
“Send my family another fruit bouquet?” I cock my head—a move I regret yet again when met with another round of stinging pain. “How did you find out where my family lives?”
“I’m a bot, Carter,” she says dryly. “Computers are supposed to know everything. Beep. Boop.” I have to fight my smile when she gently kneads my shoulder. “Aaron.”
“What about him?”