Page 33 of Dirty Roxie
Quinn
EARLIER THAT DAY
“Tell me one more time how you got this information?” I ask Daria.
“A friend of a friend. Someone who slips me information I may find useful. In return, I grease their tires.”
“You grease their wheels.”
“That’s what I said.”
“You said tires.”
“Tires, wheels, same thing.”
“So, you give them money?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you just tell me you paid someone for information on where Mack and Reed are and that we are following the lead.”
“Because I like my way better.”
“We haven’t gone on a trip since Maldives.”
“Let’s hope this one goes better.”
“Agreed.” We continue packing, each lost in our own thoughts. Daria expected Mack would be gone for a few days, but it’s now been about a month, and she’s ready for him to come home.
We’ve both recovered since everything went down at Andrei’s compound. I’m healed physically from my time spent locked up in the basement—mentally, I’m working on it with a little help from my therapist. Daria’s feeling better too—no lingering effects from the concussion, the cast on her arm should come off in another couple of weeks, and the bar is running itself. Truth be told, I think she’s a little bored. Frankly, I am too.
I’m just excited she’s letting me go with her.
We aren’t taking a private plane this time, but Daria is flying us first class. First class from Santa Caranina to Miami, Florida, and then directly to Medellín, Colombia. I’ve never flown first class. Now in a matter of months, I’ve gone from flying in a private jet to a remote island that most people only dream of vacationing on to flying first class to South America. Everything I know about Colombia, which truth be told isn’t that much, I learned from Jean Wilder inRomancing the Stone. I googled a little about Colombia, but most of what surfaced were stories about drug cartels and coffee. But I know from the movie it’s lush and green, with lots of tropical forests. Or at least Cartagena is. I’m guessing Medellín will be similar, and I pack one of my spy outfits, some shorts, T-shirts, sundresses, sneakers, and sandals.
I like arriving at the airport early. Not that I’ve done that much travel, but the travel I have done, I’ve made sure I got there early. Because: airport drunk. I enjoy being airport drunk. Not so drunk they don’t let you on the plane, but enough that I feel loose and comfortable.
Our flight to Miami is early, I sleep most of the way there. But we layover in Miami for four and a half hours, which is more than enough time for me to drink just a little too much. Work up too much courage and confront Daria.
I bring it up like an afterthought and not like something that has been brewing just under the surface for weeks and bubbling over the entire flight here.
“So, my therapist has an interesting theory.”
“What’s that?”
I dip another chip into the syrupy cheese that’s gathered on the sides of the plate.
“It’s okay to be mad at you for not rescuing me sooner.”
She looks at me, her face blank, eyes blinking.
“Mad at me?”
I nod, my head dropping a little too sharp and bobbing back up a tad too fast.
“For not rescuing you sooner?”
“Yep!” I put unnecessary emphasis on theP,which feels nice as I say it, but I immediately regret once it’s out. And it’s not so much that I don’t want to confront Daria with this, because I do. I want nothing more than to be honest with her and let her know how I feel.
