Page 65 of The Wrong Move

“He’ll loan me the jet?”

“No. We’re being conscious of emissions when it comes to the jet’s usage. Jobe and Frank are being more practical. Buy the seat that’s available on tonight’s flight.”

I stand. “Coach? I don’t think I’ve ever?—”

“Go and pack, Byron, and stop being entitled. If you want to see Gigi, then do it.”

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 intoher 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.

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