Page 12 of Our Little Cliche
With frustration at an all time high, I huff “I need a drink” under my breath, taking my bags and finding a route to the nearest airport bar. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know what I said:I’m never drinking again, but this doesn’t count.
It’s just shy of 3 A.M. and finally an announcement calls over the airport speakers. “All passengers traveling from Sydney to Los Angeles on flight Q078, your flight is ready to board at Gate 8.” I’ve wasted my sparse cash on three red wines just to calm down after ten panicked, stressed and painful hours of waiting.
Ten!
Though, calm isn’t at all how I’ve been feeling—I’m hot, boiling,andvery flusteredno thanks to this manuscript and damn wine. I made the most of it by charging all of my devices at the docks. And I don’t know how, but I managed to work on my client’s manuscript, which I’ll post to her once I get to LA. To my surprise, I didn’t cry or wallow over the sweet, little love story.
Maybe not, but tears still ran from… elsewhere.
It was by far the hottest story I’ve had the pleasure of working with. Saying that it made me feel a little flustered and warm between the legs would be the understatement of the year. The red wine didn’t help either. Involuntarily, my thighs pinch together. Nope. Let’s not lose ourselves in horny land. Now is not the time.
Damn you red wine! It always does that—makes me flushed, and horny.
The good feeling fades very quickly, nerves and panic taking charge because I’mactuallyabout to do this. I’m about to board a humongous airplane, spend the next fourteen or so hours flying over the ocean with no land in sight andactuallyleave my country. I’ve even had a couple days for that reality to sink it, but it hasn’t.
With a sweaty, shaky hand I grab my tote, and hand my ticket to the attendant by the desk. “Welcome aboard, have a s—” The lady pauses, grabbing a small plastic pack of tissues from one of the cupboards and hands it to me with a genuine, empathetic smile. “Have a safe trip.”
“Thank you.” I shakily take the tissues from her, feeling another round of tears dripping down my cheek, and board themassivedouble decked plane to Los Angeles, praying to whatever Gods exist that it stays up in the air for the next fourteen hours.
The captain announces that it’s nearly ten o’clock on a Tuesday night, and somewhere around fifty five degrees Fahrenheit—whatever that converts to I don’t know, but it sounds cold—as we hit the tarmac at LAX. How strange, it doesn’t feel like 10 P.M. Traveling backwards in time is weird and now my brain doesn’t know day from night.
Since I don’t have the funds for international data roaming, I leave my phone on airplane mode and follow the signs until I reach an area to sit down with WiFi availability. When I do, I find whatever accommodation nearby that I can afford with a free shuttle bus to get me there.
My next flight isn’t until Friday, so I can spend the next few days walking around LA and see what the celebs get up to downthat famous street they always show in movies and stuff. At least walking is free.
“Ow!” I squawk, rubbing my now tender arm from some guy bowling past me. I’m just trying to get outside of this darn airport and everyone is running around like maniacs.
What’s with that?
When I reach the doors, it occurs to me the sheer size of this place. Los Angeles’ airport is at least three times the size of Sydney’s, and ten of Gold Coast’s. The air outside is much brisker than what the captain said, but if I want to get to this hotel I have to face the chill like a woman.
The shuttle ride was short, as was the time I spent at the kiosk for my room key. The hotel is run down, but still standing. There is mold on the walls, random dark patches on the furniture in the lobby, as well as run marks in the carpet. There is a smell coming from somewhere, but I don’t know what, and I’m fighting—with an incredible amount of willpower—my gut to not vomit. But with all of that being said, I at least have a bed to sleep in, and food to eat in the morning.
By the time I reach my room, my eyes are burning, and my body is aching. Sitting for 24 hours isn’t a thing I’d recommend. I try to run a shower to soothe my bones as I’ve not had once since I left the hotel in Sydney, but the water may as well be cold, so I give up and curl under the blankets. I drift into a disturbed sleep, accompanied by no other than more tears and gloom.
Chapter Six
CYRUS
The crowdat Trixie’s Bar in Canmore has simmered from several hundred reading fanatics to under fifty or so within a few hours, so I take advantage of the free second and stretch my arms behind my head, decompressing my spine after sitting and signing books for so long.
The place had been packed. Booming with girly giggles, laughter, glasses clinking and semi-decent music in the background. Now I’m finally given a moment to breathe and rest my voice after repeating the same monotonousHello, what’s your name?Thanks for coming,since I got here.
“Congratulations again, Stone,” Quinn says, slapping the back of my shoulder.
I repeat the same gesture with the same amount of pressure, almost sending the old bastard flying across the room. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
The launch ofIn The Shadowshas been a knockout, and we only have three books left in the pile. These readers have come from far and wide for a copy of my book, most of whom are now enjoying their night drinking bar side or in the restaurant with their book-ish friends.
“Don’t mention it. Want a martini while it’s quiet?” he asks.
My mouth salivates, and I flex my brow playfully at him. “Do I look like someone that would ever say no to a martini?”
He scurries off and no sooner a stray approaches my table. She’s a combination of nervous and excited. Her face flushed like a tomato. “Hello there,” my voice is deep from overusing my voicebox, and I can tell it makes her even more nervous.
“Hey handsome.”Oh here we go, again, another thirsty one.“Just this one please. Can I ask if you can customize who you sign it to, please?”
“Sure…” I hesitate saying it since I have a rough idea where this is going.
