14. Morgan
Morgan
Conrad- A little bird told me you’re traveling today…
Morgan- What do you want?
Conrad- Why do you always assume I want something? Can’t a guy wish his older brother a safe flight? Oh, and tell your girlfriend I said hi.
I choose to ignore the last part of that text.
Mostly because the word flight literally makes my stomach turn.
So does the terminal, even if there is less traffic in the private jet wing than in the main terminal.
I can still hear the flight information, and there are still people bustling about.
I think I just saw Yungblud ordering a beer at the bar.
Obviously, I can hear planes landing and taking off about every two minutes.
I don’t answer my brother because I know he is just going to continue giving me shit. Which is only making me more annoyed. My initial annoyance is that our flight takes off in less than thirty minutes and Scarlett is nowhere in sight.
Half of me wonders if she is always late, because that is going to be a problem. The other half of me wonders if she’s even coming at all. If I scared her off with the new clause in our agreement.
“You look like you’re fighting some demons this morning,” Donovan says, pulling me out of my thoughts. Considering the state of my mind, he might as well have pulled me out of a hurricane.
“She’s late,” I state.
“She’ll be here,” Donovan says.
My phone buzzes with another text from Conrad.
Conrad- The internet is buzzing with your personal life, brother. I hope you’ve considered some damage control.
I scowl at that. It’s a passive-aggressive threat.
“The spare still being an ass?” Donovan asks.
He likes to use the phrasing, based on British gossip, no doubt.
The heir and the spare. Problematically, he is an heir too.
And the flood of legal papers in my email this morning are proof that he is trying to crown himself king.
He isn’t crying wolf anymore, which makes this project even more detrimental.
“Oh, you know Conrad,” I say, silencing my phone and shoving it back into my pocket. “He’s just looking for any way possible to climb above me on the ladder.”
“He’s going to fall off, you know,” Donovan says. “Is he still threatening to take you to court?”
“It’s not a threat so much anymore,” I tell him, taking a sip of my coffee and then tossing it in the trash. My stomach is too acidic for that right now, even if it is Colombian roast. “He’s pushing to go through with it.”
“Well, we can deal with that when we get back,” he says and I am very grateful I am dragging Donovan along with me.
For one, he’s my right-hand man. Where I go, he goes.
But also, I didn’t really have to drag him.
As soon as we booked the private jet, he was already packing his swim trunks.
Donovan is more of a vacation man than I am.
“Are you nervous?” he asks.
“That she won’t show? Hell yeah,” I mutter, checking my watch again. Twenty minutes. Where the fuck is she?
“To fly,” he says, and it feels like a stab in my already pissed-off stomach.
“Why would I be nervous to fly?” I snap.
But I know what he’s talking about. It’s no secret that I don’t fly. I haven’t been on a plane in years, and it was only because there was an emergency at our resort in Vegas. It’s half the reason Conrad is the man who does that part of the job. I don’t do planes. Period.
“Protocols have changed a lot in the last couple of decades,” he says. “And you know we’ve hired the best.”
“I’m aware,” I state.
And honestly, I hate that I feel this way. I hate that after what happened all those years ago, Conrad was able to go on with his life as if it had never happened. As if life hadn’t changed for either of us at all.
We were going to inherit the company either way; he argued.
But not like this. Not in a way that ripped our family in half.
Literally. The handing down of a company of this size should be a celebration.
A momentous event. Instead, it was dumped in our laps out of nowhere.
Tangled in tragedy and bad media coverage.
It was like being sixteen and finding out your parents bought you a car for your birthday, but their way of telling you was running you over with it.
It took years to recover both the company and our lives after that. Conrad and I recovered in different ways. Which is why we are the way we are now.
“Forget about him,” Donovan says. “And focus on the job in front of us. On how great this is going to look for Bale Resorts. And for you.”
“Yeah, if Scarlett ever decides to show–”
“I’m here,” her voice comes from behind me, and both of us turn around to find Scarlett hurrying towards us.
She is wearing an orange tank top that reveals about two inches of her waist and black linen pants that tie at the ankles and slit all the way to her thighs on the sides.
Her hair is in a loose, messy braid, and she has a messenger bag and a rainbow-colored blanket in tow.
She looks both exhausted and beautiful, and it’s almost enough to distract me from her tardiness. Almost.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says as she stops next to us, and I swear there is a literal cloud of her scent swirling around the air. Raspberry. Coconut. This girl is a cocktail of new fruits every time I see her. I’ve never been a sweets man, but fuck.
“You almost missed the flight,” I state.
“I had a hard time navigating the private terminal,” she admits, ignoring my tone entirely.
Meanwhile, Donovan is smiling, which is not helping.
“I actually went into the regular part of the airport at first, and then it hit me. Bale has a private jet,” she giggles.
“But don’t worry. I snagged some flight snacks while I was there,” she says, rattling a bag of spicy trail mix in our faces.
“There’s food on private jets,” I smirk, but it is no way a happy smirk. “Real food.”
“But do they have wasabi trail mix?” she asks, shaking the bag, and Donovan snorts, then bites it back.
“We have to go,” I state, and Scarlett gives me a two-finger salute.
This is going to be a long, long flight.
“Just breathe,” Donovan says under his breath as the plane taxis. It’s no secret that I am gripping the armrests hard enough to rip them off the seat.
“This is exciting,” Scarlett says. She is sitting on the other side of the aisle, staring out the window. “I’ve never been on a private jet before.”
“Really,” I say monotonously. “We couldn’t tell.”
“It’s so tiny,” she says. “Is it even a real plane?” she jokes.
“Alright,” Donovan says gently. “It’s not a baby bird.”
“Oh, I hope not,” Scarlett says. “Baby birds can’t fly.”
A ball of bile shoots up to the back of my throat, and I swallow hard.
“How about we don’t talk anymore until we are in the air, hmm?” Donovan suggests.
“Sure,” Scarlett says. “Is something wrong?”
“Morgan here is not a fan of flying,” he answers.
“Really? A man like him? Surely he flies all the time,” she says, and I finally speak up.
“You two do know I am sitting right here, right? And there is still time to kick either or both of you off the plane and send your asses to the stuffy continental flight.”
“Why are you so grumpy?” she asks. “It’s just an airplane.”
My eyes flash open and I jerk my attention over to her. “It’s an airplane that is about to be seven miles up in the sky. Seven miles. High enough that if a bird got sucked into the engine and we were suddenly nosediving, it would be enough time to imagine exactly how we were going to die.”
“Jesus,” she laughs nervously, glancing at Donovan with a look that says, is he okay?
Donovan presses his finger to his lips in a shushing motion, and Scarlett bites her lip.
“I have ashwagandha gummies in my bag if you’d like,” she says.
“You brought drugs,” I snap back.
“No,” she laughs. “It’s a supplement that helps with panic and anxiety. Like nature’s Valium, if you will.” Scarlett holds out a small bag of what looks like purple fruit snacks. Donovan takes it with a nod.
“The only thing giving me anxiety right now is your voice,” I tell her, and her mouth pops open.
“Are you going to be like this the whole trip?” she asks.
“Only if you continue to be like this the whole trip,” I tell her.
“Lovely,” she scoffs, shaking her head and looking out the window. Then she squeals.
“We’re taking off!”
The plane picks up speed, and I squeeze my eyes shut, leaning back into the chair. Lucky for me, I am so nauseous that everything from the acceleration to Scarlett’s noises is drowned out by my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Even as I feel the swoosh of the wheels leaving the ground and the plane lifting into the air, I still feel like I can’t breathe. And, like I’m going to be sick.
On cue, Donovan hands me one of the provided plastic bags.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, but he hangs onto it. That and those stupid gummies.
“This is beautiful,” Scarlett says, looking out the window. While she is facing away, I snag the bag, popping one of the gummies in my mouth and chewing it up. It tastes good, I’ll give her that.
Then I go back to strangling the chair.
“It will feel better when we reach altitude,” Donovan says calmly.
I doubt that. What will feel better is being back on solid ground.
Several minutes later, when we are still climbing, Scarlett unbuckles her seat belt, and I jerk my attention over to her.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“I have to pee,” she says.
“We’re still climbing,” I say.
“It’s fine. I do this all the time. No one ever stops me,” she says, standing up.
“I am stopping you,” I grit out.
“You’re not a flight attendant,” she says.
“No. This is my plane, and I am telling you to sit your ass down!”
Scarlett sinks back a little, and I almost feel bad for shouting. But seriously, she’s being irrational. A moment later, her shock turns to anger, and she sits down.
“Fine, but if I pee my pants on your Italian leather, it’s on you,” she says, and I sigh, closing my eyes again.
I will literally pay her more if she shuts up. I should add that to the contract before our next flight.
“Seriously. Why are you so disgruntled? I get that you don’t like flying, but you don’t have to be a dick,” she says. “Flying is perfectly safe.”
“Not always,” I argue.
“Mostly,” she says.
“Mostly doesn’t change–” I stop. And something about my tone seems to shut her up.
When we finally stop climbing, she gets up and goes to the bathroom. Donovan turns to me and lets out a breath.
“She is a lot,” he chuckles lightly.
“I don’t know why I expected differently,” I admit, my hands loosening on the armrests slightly. “She’s a travel journalist.”
“They are a bit wild,” Donovan says.
“You mean unhinged,” I mutter, and he chuckles. “With her Jasmine pants and her blanket and her wasabi peas. Not to mention her fruit snacks.”
“Are they working?” he asks.
“Are what working?” I ask, taking a sip from my water bottle.
“The ashwagandha gummies,” he says.
“What makes you think they’re working?”
“You’re a lot more chill than you were a couple of minutes ago,” he points out, and I roll my eyes.
“Because the air is smoother now,” I say, and he nods.
But honestly, I do feel calmer. I might have to add some of those to my carry-on.