In Flight (Up in the Air #1)(86)

One site claimed I was part of a high-priced flight attendant prostitution ring, and that James obviously needed to ask for his money back.

I was almost flattered for a moment as I read the headline of one article. It claimed I was a ‘Swedish Bikini Model’. That sounded complimentary. Until I scrolled to the bottom of the article, which had a link it claimed went to a  p**n o, starring me. I didn’t bother to click on it. I knew for a fact that it wasn’t me, and I didn’t want to see what it actually was.

Another said I was a cocktail waitress, and yet another said that I was a stripper with the stage name ‘Glory Hole’. The slurs went on and on, and I felt humiliated, angry, and heartsick.

This was the price I had to pay for one week of pleasure? I thought in disgust. I was going celibate for the rest of my life.

And I hated myself, for being just as upset that James and Jules had still gone out together that night as I was by all of the horrible lies being spread about me…

I got my phone out of my bedroom, finally turning it on after days in the off position. I went straight to Stephan’s name in my texts, completely ignoring all of the other messages and calls that I had missed. I’d missed one from Stephan as well. It had been sent twenty minutes ago.

Stephan: Buttercup, I’ll be home soon. Finishing up lunch now. We need to talk. Please don’t look at anything online until I get there.

I snorted. He should have known better. If I hadn’t already looked, his odd message would have sent me straight to my computer.

I heard the doorbell ring.

That was quick, I thought, as I strode directly to the door.

I wondered why he didn’t just let himself in. He was rarely so formal. He even had my alarm code.

A cold shiver ran through me. I couldn’t place why. Cautiously, I checked the peephole. It was covered.

By a hand, I thought. It made me angry.

I swung the door open, ready to chew Stephan a new one. “You know better than to mess with me like that, Stephan. It’s a mean prank-”

I couldn’t finish as a huge hand seized my throat, shoving me back into the house. I couldn’t even scream as the hand tightened. I blinked, trying to focus on the coldly furious face in front of me. The familiar pale-blue, bloodshot eyes. I could do nothing as the huge blond man picked me up by the throat, and shoved me across the room, my back hitting the wall with a jarring thud.

I clawed at the giant hand that held me suspended like a rag doll. It had no effect. My throat burned, and the impact with the wall had knocked the wind out of me, but the pain was secondary to the terror that gripped me.

A question consumed my thoughts. It was an old familiar pattern for me, when this madman, who exercised so little control over his rage, held me in his grasp. The question circled my brain like a persistent cancer. Would he kill me this time? He always threatened to. Ever since I had stood, not more than four feet away, and watched in horror as he pushed the gun my mother held into her mouth, and pulled the trigger. I had watched in helpless horror as his finger covered hers on that trigger, and pulled so slowly.

Blood had splattered all three of us, but he hadn’t seemed to notice.

At the moment, his words were a confusing tangle of Swedish and English, and I couldn’t for the life of me understand it. I had never been fluent in Swedish, but I’d had to understand it as a child, since my father stubbornly insisted on using it at home. But, either from terror or disuse, any ability to understand it was failing me. I tried to speak, to tell him that, but his hand was still at my throat, cutting off my ability to speak.

His hand relaxed on my throat just enough for me to take a breath. I gasped, then grunted and whimpered as his fist made hard contact with my ribs. I sobbed in another breath, still desperate for air.

He spoke again. This time it was a heavily accented but understandable string of English. “Don’t get the idea that a rich boyfriend will keep you safe from me. If you even think about speaking to the police, I will still kill you. Do you understand?”

I couldn’t speak, but I tried. God, did I try. Finally, I just nodded, but it wasn’t enough. One of those massive fists made contact with my stomach once, and then again. I started to crumble, but he pushed my shoulder into the wall hard enough to keep me upright.

“Look at me,” my father’s cold voice ordered.

I did, getting a good look at him for the first time since he’d charged, like a madman, through my door. It had been six years since I’d seen him, but he’d aged twenty. He was even heavier now, his face dissipated with the signs of a life lived in excess. He was a drunk, a smoker, a chronic gambler, a murderer, and God only knew what else. It had all taken it’s toll on his once handsome face.

I called myself a thousand kinds of fool. I’d known he would never leave Vegas. He had gambled to stay afloat since his parents had disowned him at least twenty-four years before. I had prayed that his destructive lifestyle would take care of him on it’s own, but it had been too much to hope for.

Thinking it was Stephan at my door was no excuse. I was an idiot for letting my guard down for even a second. But he had somehow known when to strike. I was so depressed and despondent that my brain wasn’t working properly. The thought of a real threat had been so far from my mind…

“People have been asking about me, people I don’t know. What did you tell your rich boyfriend about me? Did you tell him about your mother’s death?”