“Thanks,” I say as we pass a bathroom—which reminds my body that it needs to use the facilities again. “Give me a minute,” I say gesturing to the door.
She nods, granting permission.
When I come back out, she’s on her phone.
“I can take it from here,” I say, eyeing the fast food place across the way. “I want to eat before I get in the car.” My stomach rumbles as if it heard me.
She looks up from her phone. “I was told to take you to the car.”
“And do you always follow orders?” I ask.
“From Mr. Maxim, yes.”
“Tell him I told you to leave me alone.”
Her phone rings and, glancing down at it, she laughs. Then holds it up for me—Robert Maxim flashes on the screen.
“Mr. Maxim, I am with Mrs. Maxim. She is asking me to leave her alone. Claims she can make it to the car on her own.” She listens for a moment and then continues. “Yes, sir.” She holds the phone out to me.
“Hi, Bobby,” I say.
“Sydney,” he says, sounding less sleepy than the last time we spoke. “How are you?”
“Great,” I answer. “My lawyer, whose name I still don’t know by the way, got me out of there in two seconds flat. She’s very good.” I smile over at her. She gives me a tight-lipped smile back. “But she won’t leave me alone now.”
“Her name is Luisa Sologar. And I told her to get you to the car, darling.” I let that endearment slide; at least it’s not baby. “You know how I worry about you.”
“That’s so sweet. And I appreciate all that you do for me.” I mean it to come out teasing and condescending but my voice sounds serious…like I really do appreciate all that he does for me. Clearing my throat, I go on. “But I’m pretty sure I can get some food and get in the car.”
“When did you last eat?” he asks.
“LAX.”
He sighs. “You must eat. Luisa will join you.”
“Seems below her pay grade.”
“Don’t argue, Sydney,” Robert growls, sending a shiver down my spine.
“But it’s so fun.”
He laughs at that. “Give Luisa back her phone.”
“Always nice to hear your voice,” I say, again meaning for it to sound teasing and fake but it comes out all sincere. Dammit.
“I miss you,” he says. “Come back to me soon.”
“Your patience is legendary, Mr. Maxim.”
“As is your ability to try it, Mrs. Maxim.” There is a subtle threat in his tone and I grin. There is the devil I know. I hand the phone back to Luisa and she speaks to Robert for a few seconds while I again eye the fast food place across the way, my mouth watering as my mind imagines the amount of french fries I can eat in one sitting.
Blue’s low growl pulls my attention from the restaurant, and I see Air Marshal Petey heading our way. He smiles at me and I can’t help but smile back—the guy is cute with his sports sweatshirt and superhero jaw.
“Can I speak with you for a moment?” he asks.
“No,” Luisa answers for me.
His gaze flicks to her and then back to me. “Not about the aviation incident.” He smiles at me like that term is our inside joke.
“Give me a few,” I say to Luisa.
“No,” she says again.
I turn fully to her, meeting her gaze. I drop the mask that I usually hide behind—the one that makes me look normal, like a person who is sane and can be fucked with—and I show her my truth. That I am crazy and willing to prove it. That ordering me around is not possible. She swallows and nods. “I’ll be quick,” I promise her. “And I’ll stay where you can see me.”
Taking Petey by the arm, I pull him toward the fast food place. “Talk while I wait in this line,” I say, stepping into place behind six other people.
“You have to let me buy you a drink.” Air Marshal Petey grins, his straight, all-American smile sparkling at me.
I laugh. “This is a pickup? You know it’s not even lunchtime, right?”
“It’s after 1pm in Los Angeles, and it’s not a pick up, just a thank you.”
“I’m not drinking right now,” I tell him. He cocks his head, my syntax confusing. Am I an alcoholic on the verge of a relapse? “I’m pregnant,” I add, the words still strange. Do they ever feel normal? Is nine months long enough to get used to growing a whole new person inside of you?
Air Marshal Petey’s smile falters and his gaze leaps to my stomach—the bulge still invisible under my loose sweatshirt. Blood drops spattered across the bright blue velour look like red wine spillage. The bruising around my throat could be mistaken for hickies. Funny how the markings of a mile-high fight are so similar to those of a mile-high fuck.
“But you can buy my food,” I offer.
