Page 137 of Wildest Dreams

Ifloored it all the way from Bruce Marshall’s ranch to Irvine, relying on road signs since my internet was down, and so was my phone network. The tornado—mini or not, that motherfucker was not friendly—caught the Ram a few times, throwing me off the road twice and making me skid into the opposite lane once. Luckily, I was the only insane bastard on the road and therefore didn’t collide with anyone.

Since I wanted to arrive in New York in good enough shape to take care of a toddler, I had to pace myself and drive at a reasonable speed to avoid veering off to the next planet. That added forty minutes onto my journey to the private airport. Once I got there, I found out my phone network was still down in the majority of the Dallas-Fort Worth area due to the weather.

I cursed in seven languages, even though I was only fluent in one, and asked a random airport worker for his phone to callDylan. Her phone went straight to voicemail. I checked the time. She was due to leave for the concert in two hours. I was failing her.

But I still wanted to get there as soon as possible so I could grovel into the next lifetime.

“Mind if I text my girlfriend?” I held the guy’s phone in a death grip. By the look on his face, he minded very fucking much.

“Actually…” He was rubbing the back of his head, thinking of a plausible excuse, when I saw Tate’s onyx-black private jet rolling across the tarmac.

I chucked his phone back into his hands, already walking in that direction. “Never mind. Keep your iPhone 13, cheapo.”

“Hey!” he called after me. “It’s called vintage, okay?”

I practically ran across the tarmac like a madman. I forgot my suitcase in the Ram I discarded in the parking area of the airport. I had a one-track mind, and it was to get there as fast as I could.

Leaping onto the plane, I took the steps two at a time, foaming at the mouth when I walked inside. There was a landline phone there, and I immediately tried to use it before realizing it wasn’t working.

Two Blackthorn Company flight attendants and a pilot greeted me at the door.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Coltridge. It is a pleasure to have you—”

“Yeah, yeah, just floor it.” I collapsed onto the couch, staring blankly at my phone and waiting for the signal to return. This was what it felt like to live in the Middle Ages, I assumed.

I keeled over with my elbows on my knees and gripped the back of my head.

I wasn’t going to make it.

I was going to disappoint the only woman I’d ever wanted to impress.

All while trying my hardest not to.

The plane took off, and I spent the majority of the time pacing from wall to wall, waiting for my signal to return. According to one of the flight attendants who’d arrived here from New York, the signal should be restored in about forty minutes. I waited with bated breath. And when the signal finally returned, I immediately called Dylan.

She didn’t answer. I called again. Nothing. I started sending her text messages.

Rhyland: I’m sorry I missed the show. I can explain.

Rhyland: There was a tornado.

Rhyland: I drove inside it for two hours to get to a private airport.

Rhyland: I sold Tate 25% of my company so he’d lend me his plane to get to you on time.

Rhyland: I will never, ever, EVER disappoint you again.

Rhyland: I love y

My phone died.

And I didn’t have my charger, since I’d discarded my suitcase in the Ram.

With a howl of frustration, I hurled the phone at the wall. It shattered on the floor, splitting into all the small pieces that made it work.

Great fucking going, idiot.

Suddenly, I was claustrophobic.

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