Chapter 16
BYRON
Colton,my security guard, is losing patience with me.
“I’ll be fine. I doubt anyone will even recognize me.”
Even over the phone, I can tell his laugh is mocking. “You’re known worldwide, Mr. Hendricks.”
I tug my cap lower to shade my eyes. “I’ll be incognito,” I tell him. “Besides, I only booked one ticket, so you’ll have to trust me on it. I’m already at the airport.”
“Part of my job is protecting you from yourself,” he mutters. “Book me a ticket, even if I have to sit in the luggage compartment. Why does your family have a private jet if no one will use it?”
“A great question that my sister-in-law can answer.” I grin as I recall my conversation with Penny. She wanted to kick my ass when I considered buying another private jet. “I’ll be gone a couple of days and don’t intend to be in busy places.” The hotel bedroom with Giana is my only destination of interest.
“Fine. If you feel threatened while you’re over there, call me. I’ll contact a friend to come to you.”
“Deal.”
I hang up and keep hold of my cell as I stand in the longest freaking line to board the plane. Christ, I could age years waiting to board.
The airline employee checks my name, then hesitates. He stares at me for a few seconds before reading the seat allocation.
“Is there a problem?”
“No, Mr. Hendricks. Next.”
Filing along in the line, I walk at a snail’s pace to the back of the plane. Travelers shove their overhead luggage into compartments, others groaning as they hold up the line. I’m in the back section of the plane, near the restrooms and kitchen, and already, the smell is nauseating. I fold myself into my seat, despairing at the lack of space between my knees and the seat in front of me. I won’t be able to stretch my legs without coming into contact with the feet of the person in front.
“I can’t wait,” the girl sitting opposite me says to the guy sitting beside her.
“You have to wait until the plane is in the air,” he snaps.
“I can’t.” She stands and when no one is looking, disappears into the restroom.
Fuck me. Are we there yet?
Minutes later, she emerges, and a waft of a putrescent, rancid smell assaults my nostrils. I hold back the urge to heave and try to discreetly cover my nose and mouth with the material of my shirt.
Keeping my eyes forward, I watch the other passengers find their seats and pray no one takes the seats on either side of me. I’m not so lucky.
A teenage girl chewing gum pushes past my long legs, the words “Excuse me” apparently not known to her. She flops into her window seat, clicks her belt, and then gives me a side-eyed look. “Hi.”
What I wish to say is, “Could you please stop chewing like a cow eating grass?” but instead, I say, “Hi.”
She pushes her feet up onto the chair in front to stretch her legs. The passenger in front groans and turns to look between the seats.
“Sorry,” she mutters, munching away. She curls up in her seat, on her side facing the window, and shuts her eyes. Her Doc Martens push into my thigh.
Don’t choke on your gum.
The flight attendants assist passengers, and before I ask to sit in the spare aisle seat beside me, a guy with long hair and an equally long beard slides into it.
Terrific.
“Hey, man. You traveling the world?”
“No. Just in Rome for a couple of days.”
“Business?”
“Yes.” I’m on a mission, and Giana is my business. “You?”
“I’m traveling to Venice. My flights have been rerouted more times than I can count. I was lucky to get this seat.”
“Some of us are lucky,” I mumble.
“Seriously, I’ve been in the same clothes for two days.” He lifts his arms for emphasis, and his body odor hits me.
“You must be dying for a shower.”
“A change of clothes would be good. My luggage was lost on the flight from Vietnam to Miami.”
Trust me, it’s not the clothes. Pushing away the thought of giving him the shirt off my back with the hope it would dull the smell, I process what he said. “Vietnam? How was that vacation?”
“I reside there for most of the year.” He grins at me, his dried, cracked lips almost splitting. “I teach English and tutor children, then travel for a couple of months every year. It’s the best life.”
While I can’t imagine it, I like this guy. “It sounds like an adventure.”
He raises his arms again. “The stories I could tell.” His long arms fall safely by his sides, and I let out the breath I was holding.
“Keep the stories for the other end of our flight, when I need to stay awake. Like our friend here.” I jab a thumb toward the girl whose shoes are leaving a tire-like imprint on my thigh. “I need to catch some z’s.”
“Well, I’m Vince.” He holds out a hand. I stare at his long, potentially germ-covered fingers. Where has he been the past two days?
“Byron.” Out of an abundance of politeness, I shake his hand and almost immediately regret it. I subtly wipe my now moist palm on my pants.
As I close my eyes, I’m vaguely aware of the plane taking off and then leveling in the air. A voice interrupts my dozing with an offer of food.
“Man, I am starved,” Vince comments.
“You can have mine,” I tell him. “Do you drink whiskey?”
“Do pigs fly?” He laughs. I shake my head. So, it’s a no? “Sorry, I’m delusional.”
“Yes or no, Vince?”
“Yeah. I could do with one.”
“Then I think I’ll order us enough to get through this flight.”
Three hours later, I regret ordering the whiskey.
Vince’s head is tilted back on the seat, his mouth wide open as he snores louder than a freight train. The man needs a mandibular advancement device. Every time he winds up, I give him a gentle nudge, and he makes a gargling, choking sound before stopping for a few minutes. And emo girl beside me now has those fucking boots stretched across my thighs. I need to piss, and yet, I don’t want to move either one of them. While I don’t know their stories, I’m not oblivious to the fact they both clearly need to rest.
An hour later, I remove my cap and scratch my scalp. I have to move. All I fucking need is a blood clot in my calf. “Hey,” I whisper to Vince. “Sorry, man, I need to get up.” There’s no way I can squeeze past him. Vince nods wearily and stands so I can slip past. I lift the girl’s legs slightly, and they drop back onto my seat. Great. I stare at the soles of her shoes, wishing my eyes could shoot lasers into them.
Praying for patience, I take one last clean breath and open the door to the lavatory, twist to step inside, and close the door behind me. Christ, how does anyone fit in here? I’m forced to hold onto the walls as turbulence hits. My stomach somersaults, and I narrowly avoid painting the seat with its contents. It reeks in here. I have to get out. Outside the cubicle, I take what I expect to be a clean, deep breath, only to be hit with hundreds of musky armpit odors.
There is no safe place.
As I hold onto the back of a seat, a guy goes to step around me.
I look at him to wait as the aisle is only wide enough for one.
“Hey.” His eyes go round. “You’re Byron Hendricks.”
“I think you have me confused with?—”
A girl pops out from behind him. “Oh my gosh, you are!Can we get a selfie?”
Before I have time to answer, her cell is turned, and they lean into me. I force a smile because the camera is in my face.
“Why are you traveling to Rome?” the guy asks. “Don’t you have a game? Wait, is Jye or Brandon playing your spot?”
This dude knows our roster.
“Both will rotate.”
“Selfie? Can we have a selfie?” More people ask from the aisles beside us. “Can you sign my T-shirt?” A girl yells, “I love you!” and then giggles. Someone pushes, and the couple standing with me stumble.
“Everyone, please return to your seats,” the flight attendant says from behind me.
I am fucking trying.
“If it’s okay with you, Mr. Hendricks, I can get them to form a line…” the steward says, “… and I wouldn’t mind a picture with you myself.”
Fuck me.
For the next half hour, I pose for photos and sign freaking anything the girls can get their hands on, but I flat-out refuse to sign their chests.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Vince says, standing beside me. He’s surprisingly tall. “Let the guy get some sleep.”
“Thanks,” I whisper as I slide into my seat. “Any chance you want to stay near me at the airport?” Now, I regret saying no to Colton.
After going through customs, I say my goodbyes to Vince and wish him luck traveling. While waiting for my ride, I send Giana a text.
You looked beautiful onstage. I hope you are having a fabulous time.
She responds almost immediately.
I am! How was training?
The usual. What’s on your agenda today?
Today we are in the studio, and then I’m going to relax before getting ready for the gala tonight. I hope to get to my villa tomorrow.
Giana mentioned the hotel where she is staying before she left. While the nine-hour time difference has messed with my sleep, not getting any sleep on the flight over was torture. I have a newfound respect for coach-class travelers.
But it’s all worth it to see my girl.
As I sit in the back of the chauffeured BMW, my playlist sounds in my ears for the next forty minutes—a distraction so I stop thinking about Giana’s reaction. I wipe my palms on my trousers. It’s hotter than I anticipated.
“Excuse me,” I ask the driver. “Would you mind turning up the air conditioning?”
“Of course, sir.”
We pass weather-worn stone pillars, historical monuments, and the architectural-pleasing piazzas. I understand why Giana fell in love with Italy.
After tipping the driver and thanking him for the tourist-like commentary, I grab my suitcase before the concierge greets me. At first, they speak in Italian. I catch a few words and offer a friendly smile. “American.”
“Sì.” They take my bag and follow me to reception. As I look around me, I’m graced with the hotel’s beauty. I speak with the receptionist and ask her to call Giana to the foyer, telling her it’s a surprise. She points to a lounge to wait.
My heart skips a beat every time the elevator doors open. I check my watch. Three minutes. What is keeping her?