Chapter 26 Tessa #3
A flash of anger shot through his eyes, but then he gave me a toothy grin. “I’ve always liked a girl with a little fight in her. Makes it interesting. Reminds me of the wild broncos at the rodeo. Give them a little kick, and they damn near buck you to heaven. Bet you’d do that too.”
Behind him, Mitch smirked before pulling the cigarette from his ear and shoving it between his lips. The flight attendant’s mouth fell open in surprise. She didn’t say anything, as if shock had frozen her.
“Bet you’ll never find out,” I snarled. It wasn’t the strongest comeback, but it was enough. Darryl kicked the chair in front of me and then stomped off the plane. Mitch loped behind him, lighting up the cigarette. Before he de-boarded, he gave me a final, appreciative glance.
The flight attendant rushed forward, gesturing to someone outside the plane before pulling the door securely into place.
When she came back, she apologized profusely for the men’s behavior.
I told her it wasn’t her fault, but she made sure I knew that she’d report it to The Eros Institute.
She was an employee too. The plane belonged to The Institute.
The pilots were on the payroll. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Eros eyes everywhere.
I went to push the hood off. Though I could breathe through it, I was feeling claustrophobic. The woman stopped me. Apparently, it needed to stay in place until I was in the client’s possession.
Eros employee or not, the woman was incredibly sweet and accommodating.
By the time the pilot started the customary, pre-flight announcements, I had a fluted glass of champagne in my hand.
The pale liquid bubbled gently inside the faceted crystal.
I only half paid attention to the voice streaming over the speakers, or the way the flight attendant demonstrated required safety features.
I disassociated, sipping slowly and hoping I’d get a buzz quickly to dull the pain that had been building for hours.
No, building for days. No, building for weeks. No… building for fucking ever.
Every single second since the moment I’d found out my entire life was destroyed had been a second when agony was multiplying inside of me. I’d kept it at bay. I’d pushed it down into the soles of my feet, hoping it would stay there. But… not anymore.
I hated take-off. I’d always been terrified of it.
But once the plane was in the air, floating lazily, I felt better.
Though it may have been the second and third glasses of champagne the flight attendant provided, not even waiting for me to ask.
She just seemed to appear the instant one glass was empty, replacing it wordlessly with another.
I wondered how much she was allowed to give me; I doubted a client would appreciate it if their ‘product’ arrived shit faced.
When the seatbelt light pinged off, I unbuckled and stood, pacing the wide aisle trying to work off nervous energy. The red envelope fell to the floor when I stood, whispering against the carpet before settling on the other side of the aisle near Josie’s chair.
The plane interior was lush. Every surface seemed to be a combination of cream leather and gold trim.
I moved around, peering through windows and exploring every inch of accessible space.
It wasn’t a big plane, so it didn’t take long, and the flight attendant kindly redirected me when I pushed through thick velvet curtains, intruding into her prep space.
I retraced my steps. Checked over everything again.
Used the small, but well-appointed bathroom.
I even stood over the cat carrier watching Josie for eons, like she was better entertainment than the romance movie that had started auto-playing after take-off (I’d immediately asked the attendant to mute the television.
The last thing I needed was some cutesy, ‘happily ever after’ reminding me that my own story was no fairytale).
Eventually though, I ran out of things to do.
And my eyes caught sight of the red envelope.
With shaking hands, I picked it up and sat back down. I had to work up the nerve to break the envelope's seal. I hated the crimson hue; it felt ominous.
I’d expected an instantly exploding atom bomb inside.
Instead, I’d simply found a copy of my contract, along with another, smaller envelope marked ‘client letter’.
My eyes roved over the contract, reading it more carefully this time.
There weren’t any surprises now. Everything I’d willfully ignored that first day at The Institute had jarringly come to life after I’d scent-matched.
Curiously, I turned the client letter over, slipping my index finger beneath the flap to tear it open.
Swooping, sharp script ran in neat, regimented lines.
There wasn’t a greeting, no polite ‘dear’ or ‘hello’.
The message was only a paragraph. They hoped I wasn’t too nervous.
They looked forward to meeting me. They.
.. they? The client wasn’t one Alpha. I locked onto the bottom of the narrow page where four signatures ended the message.
That first name, if I was reading it correctly, was such a coincidence.
But Tray Rivers probably wasn’t such an uncommon moniker.
My pulse quickened as I read the next. Then the third.
Yet it was the final, and fourth, name, with the sharp R and the too large H which somehow swooped into the adjacent e. Messy and deliberate. A signature I’d seen a million times. He’d written this letter himself. Ryder. Hendrix.
It couldn’t be.
It wasn’t possible.
This plane wasn’t heading just towards Los Angeles. It was headed towards my worst memory.
Who were now my mates.