Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3)(65)

Greg glanced at the cover, then shrugged. “Probably. You weren’t reading it. You’re never at our rooms anyway. You’re always with Cook.”

“So you just took my book? Jackass, hand it back. I wasn’t finished with it.”

“Oh my God, stop it, both of you. You’re like freaking two-year-old twin brothers. What f*cking book could even be so important you’re going to bicker like babies about it?”

Greg held up the front cover. “Sandbox Seven. Military thriller. Marines, natch, given we are the best. Guy who wrote it was a Marine, too, I think.” He flipped to the back cover jacket. “Yup. Jeremy C. Phillips.

“I read that.” Tressler popped his head up again, like a f*cking groundhog who was begging to be exterminated. “It’s good, especially because the guy actually knows his terminology. I met his wife once last year. She’s a Navy nurse.” He grinned. “And hot.”

“Go away, Tressler.”

He rolled his eyes and flopped down again.

Another few minutes passed, with less and less people walking past, and then Marianne approached. “Hey, boys. Sorry I don’t get to sit with y’all.”

Brad grabbed her hand and pulled her down for a quick kiss before she passed by. “Don’t have too much fun back there with the coaches.”

“Oh, it’ll be a challenge,” she said, then looked behind her with a sigh. “If Levi doesn’t get on this plane soon, I’m going to lose my second intern. That can’t look good for future employers, can it? Hi, I’m Marianne Cook, the intern slayer.”

“He’s a big boy. If he can’t figure out how to time his potty breaks like an adult, that’s on him, not you. He done being pissed about Nikki yet?”

“He doesn’t seem to be mad at me specifically, just the world in general. He really liked her. I’m sure it was puppy love, not the real thing. But in the throes of it, puppy love feels just as real.”

“If he has bad taste, there’s not a whole lot that you can do about it,” Greg pointed out.

Graham just grunted and did his best not to moan when he felt something shift under them. Closing the cargo door, likely.

“Wow, you’re really looking raw, Graham.” Marianne crouched down beside him, then felt his forehead. “You okay?”

He let his eyes close and held up the packet. Currently, he wasn’t sick. This was simply the anticipation. His body’s instinctive reaction to knowing what was going to happen next.

“Oh. Sorry. Water, small sips, something dry without a lot of flavoring to keep in your stomach. It’s counterintuitive but keeping something in there makes you retch less than an empty stomach.”

“God, you’re actually going to throw up? I thought you just got a headache or something.” Greg looked panicked at Brad. “Trade me seats.”

“Fuck no.” Staring straight ahead with a smirk, Brad shrugged. “You wanted a window seat.”

“I want one that will smell less like barf.”

“I’m not going to throw up,” Graham said through clenched teeth. “Unless you annoy me so much I decide to make myself, just for spite.”

“Keep your head back, and—oh, thank God. Levi, you made it. We’re all the way in the back.”

He slitted his eyes and saw the lanky male intern walking—more like stomping—up the aisle as if he were storming the castle. He waited for Marianne to move aside—which she did by scooting in front of Brad and sitting on his lap for a moment, then kept walking back.

“This will be a fun plane ride,” she muttered, then rubbed Graham’s upper arm. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

He waved without talking. Make the plane move so I can take the pills.

“Why don’t you take them now?” Greg wondered.

“Because if something happens at the last minute and we have to deplane and wait—like mechanical problems or weather—I’m passed out cold and can’t do it. If I wait until takeoff then we’re set and it’s safe.”

“Makes sense. Just . . . here.” He dug through his front seat pocket and handed Graham the air sick bag. “Have a second one in case. And make sure you aim that way.”

Brad simply flipped him off.


*

THREE days. Three days without seeing or hearing from Graham, and she was ready to scream. She sat in her lawyer’s conference room, drumming her nails and staring at her silent, dark phone.

Okay, fine, so she’d heard him, but only in text. He’d called once, but she’d been teaching a class, so it had gone to voice mail. Plenty of chances to return the call later in the evening, but she hadn’t. Even when Zach had begged her to call Graham to wish him luck “just one more time.” He was busy, she rationalized, and a distraction could hurt his chances. He needed his space.

She needed hers.

She still couldn’t escape the idea that he’d gone behind her back and approached Henry without telling her. Oh, sure, he’d told her soon afterward. And he’d done it with the best intentions. But he’d still tried to save the day, when she didn’t need saving. This had been her battle to fight. Her battle to wage. She’d wanted support, not a shield.

Now she’d never know if she could have won without him. She’d never know if she were strong enough, powerful enough. It was as if he’d taken that feeling of power she’d carried with her into his home in a tight dress and pricked it with a needle. Pop.