Ripped (Real, #5)(28)

“Whiskey, sugar. And bring her the same,” he says, gesturing at me as he pushes his seat back. The manual says that during takeoff, the seat must be in an upright position, but he clearly doesn’t give a shit.

He never coddled me. Even when we were kids. He treated me as an equal. I rarely cried, but when I did, he just waited for me to stop. If I fell, he just pulled me up and acted like I wasn’t supposed to cry, so I didn’t. He knew I had trouble expressing emotions, and when my father died, I bottled them up completely. I stopped crying at all, and Mackenna was all right with it.

I think.

He never pressed me to talk about it. He’s staring at me now, and I can see him trying to assess the situation, without pity and clearly without any intention of coddling me, so I blurt out, “I still hate airplanes.”

His eyes gain a concerned glimmer. “I have an idea for you. Tell Lionel to f*ck off and get off the plane then. We can both forget about this.”

He’s wearing probably the most serious expression he has, and for a moment I consider it. We kissed in the closet—then I pretended to be asleep so he could spoon me last night. Things are awkward today. I really don’t want to have the temptation of him all day, every day, for over three weeks. But the money could get me independence and Magnolia a secure future.

“I won’t back out. I signed a paper. Like I told you, I’m poor and purchasable,” I grumble.

“Then I’m disappointed. If anyone seems unconcerned with worldly goods and the mundane, it’s you.”

“Spoken like a douche bag who swims in dollars.”

He lifts his whiskey to his lips, and I realize he’s holding out another glass for me. I take it from his grip, making sure our fingers don’t touch. He lifts one finger, though, as if to purposely make sure we do.

I scowl. He smiles. As if he knows that little touch sent a current racing through my bloodstream, vein to capillary.

On the other side of the plane, Lionel stares at me like he’s seriously in love with me, and then, unfortunately, the plane starts moving. I have no idea how long it takes the pill to kick in, but I better down it. I’m so nervous, my body feels charged and buzzy.

My dad. I imagine him in a seat like this one. He was flying back home under perfect conditions, and he never arrived. I was staring at my homework when we got the call.

“Want to talk about it?” Mackenna asks.

“Not with you,” I mumble, grabbing and skimming through a catalogue before jamming it back into the pocket of the seat in front of me. I wish Mackenna would go away right now, when I’m not at my best. “Please go away,” I breathe.

“Please just let me be here for you,” he says. There’s no mockery in his voice. Nothing but sincerity in his eyes.

The fortress guarding my emotions goes rubbery, and this frightens me so much, I nearly beg, “No, you. Please. Go away.”

We engage in a staring contest.

For a moment I think I’m going to lose.

Then he murmurs, “You can count on me, Pandora.”

Before I can remind him why I don’t anymore, he unlatches his seat belt, and I want to take it back when he stands up and crosses the aisle to another seat.

This is why they say you have to be careful what you wish for.

I mourn the loss of human life next to me the instant he’s gone. Not human life—him. The loss of his challenging, exciting, and infuriating presence.

He knows how my father died. How he was on business and the plane just crashed. Like in a movie, and in your worst nightmare. He’d been with his assistant. Not on business. I lost my father the same day my mother realized he’d betrayed her. Betrayed us.

With another woman.

I couldn’t mourn, because my mother felt I was betraying her. Because he’d betrayed her. The only emotion she was okay with me feeling was anger. If I started to get a trembly chin, my mother would snap, “Don’t you dare cry over him! Look at how he left me! Look how he abandoned us!” And so I always made sure I snapped my mouth shut and never did cry. Anger was safe. I was allowed anger. Lots of it. And when Mackenna left me too, it became all I knew.

The nerves have my senses hyperaware as the plane turns to takeoff position. I hear every sound of the engines roaring, the clink of ice in Mackenna’s glass several seats away. His smell lingers in the empty seat, strangely comforting me.

I pop the pill into my mouth, grab the whiskey glass, and down it.

One cameraman is up in front, watching me, moving his camera. I swallow and stare out the window, my nails digging into my seat as the plane positions itself on the edge of the runway. I feel the camera on me when I hear a voice murmur, “Give her a f*cking break and aim that somewhere else,” and then I feel the lean, hard body of Mackenna plopping down next to me.

“Suppose it does fall,” he says.

“Excuse me?” I sputter.

“Suppose the plane can’t lift and falls.” He cocks an eyebrow at me.

I glare at him, and he remains sober, his eyes roaming my face. “I wouldn’t mind dying today.”

“I would. My father died this way. It’s my worst death imaginable.”

“Worst death would be alone, with no one to even listen to your last words. Or drowning, that could—”

“SHUT UP!”

He stretches out his hand. “Take my hand, Pink.”