Page 4 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“Oh, hold on,” I tell her. “This one’s for me.”

The voice is crisp and professional. “The following announcement is for passengers on flight UA523: your new boarding time is 1:15. We apologize for any inconvenience.”

“Oh, fuck me,” I groan.

“What’d they say?” Mia asks. “I didn’t quite catch it.”

“It’s a five-hour delay.”

“Nooo!” she says with more than her fair share of melodrama. “What are you going to do?”

“It’s okay,” I say hastily, trying to find the silver lining. “I’ll just hang around in the airport until I have to board.”

“For five hours?”

“It doesn’t make sense to go back home,” I say. “With traffic, it’s going to take me at least an hour and a half both ways. I might as well wait it out here.”

“Okay, fine. But at least make use of your damn delay and flirt with some cute stranger.”

I roll my eyes. “Right, I’ll be sure to do exactly that. You know me so well.”

“Stop rolling your eyes and live it up, Olivia,” Mia says.

“How did you—”

“I’m your big sister. I know everything,” she says. “Just like I know that you only pick men you’re not actually attracted to and can’t possibly fall in love with because it means you’re in no danger of having your heart broken.”

I reel like she just slapped me in the face. Not because she’s wrong. The exact opposite, actually.

“Well… shit.”

“See?” Mia deadpans. “I know you.”

“Maybe you should be my shrink.”

“You couldn’t afford me.”

“There’s no family discount?” I gasp in mock horror.

“A girl’s gotta eat. And my loft ain’t cheap.”

“I can’t wait to see you,” I say with a laugh.

“Same, kiddo. Same.”

We say goodbye with a promise for me to update her if the flight time changes again. Once I hang up, I take an aimless walk through the airport. Amongst the grab-and-dash options, I find a cute little bakery that overlooks the tarmac. The black-and-white tiled floors and metal cafe chairs lend an air of elegance—so long as I ignore the bedraggled woman in a dirty muumuu and no shoes huddled in the corner.

I turn away from her and choose a stool at the bar. The waiter brings me a coffee, and I sip on it as I watch every plane except for mine get ready to take off.

Everywhere I look outside is a beehive of activity. Men waving those glowsticks in every direction, chucking luggage into the underbelly of the planes with no regard for “Handle Carefully,” speeding around the grounds on those little motorized carts. It’s kind of Zen, in a weird sort of way.

I’m so involved in people watching that I jerk violently when someone takes the barstool next to me.

“Are you okay?” a deep voice asks in amusement. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh, no—I mean yeah, I’m—”

I stop short as I look at the man who has just sat down next to me.

---