Page 12 of Sinners Retreat

“Well, I’m sure your wife?—”

“We’re complete strangers,” he says with a wink that sends a bright flare of jealousy through my chest, even though he’s helping me.

The woman steps out of my way, and a breath of relief rushes out of me. Thankfully, it chooses my mouth as its exit. I clench my ass cheeks for the entire walk of shame to the toilet. God help anyone who enters the bathroom after me.

I squeeze into the tiny space and fumble with the braided leather belt pressed against my midsection. Goddamn my need to be fashionable, but also, goddamn my fingers for suddenly turning to putty. Or maybe it’s my brain that refuses to work correctly, because for the first time since I was in preschool, I have forgotten how a fucking belt works.

A hot wave of regret washes over me, and I grip the sides of the metal sink until the cramp passes. Sweat collects on my brow, and I stare back at myself in the mirror. Teeth gritted in sheer terror is not a good look for me.

The intense rush of pain recedes, and I return to the belt. I unfasten the buckle, lower my pants, and flop onto the toilet. What comes out of me can only be described as that pea-soup scene from The Exorcist, only out the other end.

The smell, however, is indescribable.

Any hope I had of playing this off disintegrates with each inward breath I take. Now I can only cling to the prayer that the ventilation is top-notch.

Once I’m certain I have nothing left to offer, I clean up and flush the evidence of my crime away. I turn to the sink to wash my hands, all while wondering if the lessening stink is because of the sanitation liquid that rushed my waste away or if it’s because I’ve gone nose blind to it.

Then there’s a knock at the door.

“Are you okay in there?” a voice says from the other side, and based on the British accent, I’m certain it’s Ezra.

“Yes, just washing my hands,” I call back.

“You might want to hurry,” he says. “The third passenger in our row arrived, and when they pushed their bag into the overhead compartment, your luggage started...buzzing.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I say under my breath as I swipe my hands across a few rough paper towels and toss them away. “I’m coming!”

“Judging by the sound of that thing, you probably will be later.”

Is there a word in the English language that is stronger than mortified? Because there should be.

I rush out of the bathroom and head right for my stowed bag. It isn’t hard to find. It’s the one that’s rattling the entire cabin with a low bass hum. With all eyes on me, I unzip the side pocket, reach in, and flip the switch. Only then do I look down and see who’s sharing our row.

A fucking priest.

I’m not a religious woman, but something about my sex toy randomly activating a few feet above a clergyman’s head fills me with an intense amount of guilt. It’s not my fucking fault. Blame the TSA. They’re the ones who require these things to go in carry-on only.

I slide past Mr. Judgement Journey and the British sex symbol, then flop into my seat and shrink as low as I can.The embarrassment is finally beginning to fade when Ezra leans closer and shoves something into my hand.

Looking down, I spy a packet of Imodium AD in my palm.

Just let me die.

“No need to be ashamed,” Ezra whispers close to my ear. If shame didn’t have a firm grip on my body, the brush of his warm breath against my ear would have sent goosebumps skating across my skin.

“For almost shitting myself? Or did you mean the sex toy going off above a fuckingpriest?” I whisper back.

Ezra stifles a chuckle. “For starters, everyone on this plane has had a case of the trots at some point. Even the priest has to exorcize the demons sometimes.”

“Even you?”

“Why do you think I carry a sachet of pills in my pocket?”

His admission—coupled with a smirk that shouldn’t be that sexy, considering he’s talking about explosive diarrhea—does the job and puts me a little more at ease.

“And what about the sex toy?” I ask. “How do I get overthat?”

“When you get off this plane, you’ll likely never see these people again, including the priest. You’ll be a funny story at a few office parties for a bit, but then they’ll forget all about it.”

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