Uncharted(9)

He’s spotted me.

This alarming realization is accompanied by the sound of heavy male footsteps crossing the room. Moving closer… closer… and still closer, before coming to a definitive stop at the edge of the coffee table, mere inches from where I’m sitting on the floor like a child. Maybe if I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend he’s not there, he’ll disappear.

Don’t look up, don’t look up, don’t look up.

He waits for a moment, then lowers his duffle bag down into my line of sight, until it’s nestled beside my backpack. My eyes lock on the green canvas. My fingers have grown so clammy I can barely keep hold of the crayon in my hand. Sophie colors on, unaware of the adult drama unfolding around her.

The silence grows so prolonged, the air between us turns stale. I hardly dare to breathe, let alone move. I can feel his eyes on me, waiting for me to glance up. My heart hammers like a blacksmith with an anvil.

“Watch that bag for me, will you?” he asks the top of my head in a strangled voice. “Last time I left it unattended, some girl tried to steal it from me.”

He turns on his heel and walks off without another word.

The sunset orange crayon snaps in half in my hand.

Suddenly, my perfect trip to paradise is beginning to resemble hell on earth…





Chapter Four





T U R B U L E N C E





“Can I get you anything? A snack? Something to drink?”

“No, thank you.” I hold up my diet soda can. “I’m still working on this one.”

…and I’ve already stockpiled two in my backpack for later.

The cute male flight attendant nods and moves on through the cabin, checking to see if anyone else needs a cocktail refreshed. I turn my eyes back out the nearest portal.

I’ll admit, I was upset about not having the window seat on my first flight. Unnecessarily so, it turns out — there’s not all that much to see at thirty-five-thousand feet. Just a whole lot of billowy cloud-tops and an endless spread of ever-darkening horizon. The Pacific is somewhere far below us, growing dimmer with each passing hour as we chase the sunset across the sky.

I’ve been monitoring the growing darkness with keen attention, since I don’t dare cast my gaze elsewhere. Not when there’s a certain undesirable character who shall-not-be-named sprawled in the seat directly across from mine, just waiting for another chance to mortify me.

I sigh and rub my sore neck. It may have a permanent crick from craning away from him for the past five hours. When we boarded the small jet, I was hopeful I could avoid him. I thought there’d be a seat at the back, far away from the rest of the passengers, where Sophie and I could continue coloring in peace.

No such luck.

The jet is much smaller than I’d anticipated. After my inaugural voyage on a 747, it seems more like a levitating tin can than an actual aircraft. It can’t be more than forty feet long, and most of that space is taken up by the cockpit at the front, the flight attendants’ galley at the back, and the two bathrooms. What little space remains for our group of ten was designed with social passengers in mind — rather than standard row seating, an open plan of couches and comfortable bucket chairs line the walls of the plane, clustered together for maximum fraternization and in-flight networking.

As soon as we stepped aboard, Seth and his fellow Flint Group executives dispersed in the main lounge section at the front. They all look so similar I can’t keep them straight — five carbon-copy men in their mid-forties, with standard haircuts and forgettable names.

The rest of our party was relegated to the section by the tail, a cozy arrangement of four recliners around a communal coffee table. Much to my horror, as I strapped Sophie into the seat beside mine, Samantha settled across from her daughter…

Leaving just one open seat.

Directly across from me.

One guess who’s sitting in it.

Perhaps the arrangement wouldn’t be so bad, if Samantha hadn’t sucked down a sleeping pill along with her glass of chardonnay about ten minutes after takeoff. She’s been drooling onto her neck pillow ever since, a sleep mask fixed firmly over her eyes. Sophie is out cold as well, curled in a small ball with a fuzzy white blanket cocooned around her. The anti-nausea supplement she swallowed knocked her out almost as soon as we boarded.

Like mother like daughter.

Even the Flint Group drones eventually give their business ventures a rest — a few hours into the flight, I spot Seth snoozing in a benzo-induced stupor, his face pulled tight with stress even in sleep. His colleagues bear similar expressions. They probably dream about profit margins and business mergers.

I know I should get some rest but, try as I might, I can’t force my eyes to close, even when the sky outside my window falls dark and the flight attendants dim the cabin lights. I almost wish I’d taken Samantha up on her offer when she extended an extra sleeping pill in my direction, so casual you’d think it was a breath mint.

Every so often, I hear the sound of the man across from me shifting in his seat or sighing lightly. The faint illumination of his laptop screen is the only light in the entire jet. I haven’t turned my head forward in five freaking hours, for fear he’ll strike up another oh-so-unpleasant conversation, but even ignoring his presence can’t remove the odd currents running through the cabin. There’s something strange about being the only two left awake, trapped together in strained silence. A charge of lingering animosity from our earlier interaction still buzzes between us, along with something else, something I can’t quite define. A tangible tension.