Chapter Two
I wake up in the air.
Heading for…God knows where.
A seat belt is fastened around my waist and voices are mumbling behind me.
“…’bout the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen him do, man.”
“No kidding.”
“What’s he gonna do with her?”
Three different voices. Three unfamiliar voices. American.
Good news? Hopefully.
“Isn’t he the one always reminding us that abduction and hostage-taking aren’t part of our job description?”
A scoff. “Yeah.”
A mildly amused, mocking fourth voice. “Our aim is to complete the mission in a neat, clean fashion. Without leaving a trail.”
The other three voices joined in, reciting those last words in unison.
“What do we even know about this chick? She could be undercover. She could—”
The speaker cuts off abruptly.
A long pause ensues.
Someone coughs.
A door clicks open and shut.
Someone whispers, too low for me to hear.
I’m guessing a new character has entered. Possibly the subject of their conversation. Or rather, the other subject, considering I’m also a subject of their conversation.
With nimble hands, I unfasten my seat belt and shove up to my feet. Whoa…too fast. A woozy haze passes over me and leaves me gripping the back of the seat for balance.
The last thing I remember doing after climbing into that vehicle in Paris was accepting a bottle of Perrier from Frosty.
Rookie move.
“Um, excuse me,” I say once my equilibrium is found, my body turning to face a motley cohort of five. “I’m not an undercover anything trying to bust anyone. I don’t even know you. Him?” I point at Frosty, who is standing down the back of the aisle, a pencil and notepad in hand. “I know him. Actually, no. I know his eyes. They are striking and unforgettable, and have been etched in my memory for twelve months. You—” I point to a muscle-bound black bloke with groomed dreadlocks and big lips. “I do not know. You—” I point to a lanky Hispanic bloke with high cheekbones, razor-sharp jaw, and percipient dark eyes. “I do not know. You—” I point to an overly inked and pierced tomboy with jet-black pixie hair and brooding, thick eye-lined eyes. “I do not know.” My finger makes a final jab at a smirking heartthrob with sharp gray irises, platinum-blond hair, and a playboy wink. “Nor do I know you.”
All stares.
“Incidentally,” I add, “I was fine with helping Mr. Frosty Blue Eyes down there escape, but I did not ask to be drugged and loaded on a jet and illegally transported to…somewhere else.”
More stares.
“That said, I think this is all…pretty thrilling.” The stares turned skeptical, so I kept talking. “I’m excited to see what you band of morons will do next. Where are we headed? Aren’t you freezing? It’s cold as a bat’s arse in here. Rad jet, by the way. I’ve never been inside one this fancy. And I’ve been places. Lots of places. Can I get some water, please? No drugs this time. I’m parched.”
As if I’m nothing but a big red question mark in a frilly pin-up dress, they all just stare and blink at me, stare and blink.
The silence is finally broken by the lanky Hispanic. “Dios. Mami didn’t even take a second to breathe.”
“Did this nerd-face just call us morons?” This from the inked-up tomboy. “Us, morons? You look like a Big Bang Theory reject.”
I wave her off as if she is but a gnat. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. Can someone please get me some water? Even a glass of blood would do right now, I’m so thirsty.”
All the seats in this section face each other in a semicircular fashion. And all are taken. But no one moves.
Smirking Playboy is monopolizing an L-shaped sofa that is meant to fit more than one, so I wobble my way over to it and prod his thigh. With an amused grin, he shoots a glance down the aisle to the silent and expressionless Frosty, then shifts over to make room for me.
I sit primly and cross my legs, ladylike. My dress falls over my knees. Hands clasped in my lap, I sweep my bespectacled gaze around, observing each one in fascination. “So, what do you call yourselves? The Power Five? Urban Takers? Cons on a Plane? What?”
At this, Frosty moves up the aisle, his lean, towering frame too tall for the jet. He’s ditched his suit jacket and tie, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. His hair, which had been flawless perfection at the gallery, is now an unkempt mess of thick layers, flopping down his forehead and ears.
As he passes, his eyes flick over me for half a second, then dismiss me, before he disappears behind a sliding partition at the front.
My ardor has cooled somewhat. He’s odd, that one.
“So?” I prod the group when everyone just continues to stare at me as if I’m speaking Dothraki. “What are you called?”
More silence and staring. This was getting old.
“Nada, mami.”
I make a face. “Your crew is called Nothing? Well, that’s lame.”
Smirking Playboy chuckles. “No, we’re not called Nothing. We don’t have a name.”
I frown. “Why not? You’re more than a duo, and clearly successful professionals. You should have a rad name.”
“I think so, too,” Smirking Playboy says with another wink.
“Would you idiots stop talking to her?” snaps the tatted tomboy. “She could be bugged, the law could be listening in, and you’re all blabbing like hyenas.”
I shift toward her. “Hi. What is your name?”
“Don’t talk to me,” she spits out.
“Okay, Don’t Talk to Me,” I say, and Smirking Playboy snickers. “Your ire is understandable. You have every right to be leery of a stranger who was impermissibly drugged and forcibly dragged onto your jet. Your stupidity, however, is confounding. For one, it’s wildly impractical to have anyone ‘listening in’ from well above forty thousand feet in the air. Second, judging from my lingering grogginess, I deduce I’ve been out for at least four hours. And during those hours, neither you, nor any of these other four lummoxes, I surmise, took the opportunity to strip me down and search me for possible wires, a chip, or any other disguised recording devices?”
“Damn,” mutters the black bloke. “You’re kinda obnoxious for a nerd.”
I’m not. Melanie is. I’m the nice one.
What will he say when he meets her?
The partition at the front slides open. All I get is a glimpse of his tall frame before something is hurled straight at my head.
“Violence is never the answer!” I scream as I duck.
There’s a thud. Something cold barrels down to my lower back and nestles there. Amid a wave of chuckles, I reach behind me and curl my fingers around the missile.
A cold bottle of Evian water.
“All that talk, and she’s afraid of water,” Don’t Talk to Me mocks with a bitter laugh. “Maybe we should torture her with a cold bath.”
Ignoring the little bitch, I look up to find Frosty’s blank eyes on me. He stands just inside the open partition, and I glimpse something akin to a portable bar behind him.
I hold up the bottle of water between my finger and thumb. “Seriously?”
“You asked for water.” He shrugs. “You were supposed to catch it.”
I let my eyes go wide. “Sorry, but were you all raised by hooligans? I’m not like Don’t Talk to Me, here. Look at me, I’m wearing a dress. When a lady, an intelligent lady, is in your presence, and she asks you for a drink of water, you do not hurl a bottle at her head. You get a clean cup, pour the water, and hand it to her with a polite smile.”
Frosty inhales a deep, impatient breath but nods at Smirking Playboy beside me.
Smirking Playboy is reluctant, but eventually he stands, takes the bottle from my hand, and brushes past Frosty to disappear behind the partition.
Frosty goes back down the aisle, dips his head to get through a door at the back, and closes it firmly behind him.
I ask the black bloke, “So, what’s your name?”
He gives me no attitude. Just a smile. “Kavon.”
“And Don’t Talk to Me?”
“Jo.”
Jo throws a pen at him. “Dickhead!”
“The Hispanic?” I push on.
“Eduardo.”
“And Smirking Playboy?”
Kavon bursts out laughing. “Collin.”
On cue, Collin returns with a glass of ice water and hands it to me. “Collin Cumberland, at your service.”
Parched beyond sanity, I down the water in zero-point-five seconds.
His smirk is no longer there when he reclaims his seat beside me and shoots a displeased glance down the aisle to the door Frosty has disappeared behind.
“And my abductor?”
Kavon is hesitant, his gaze flicking to Eduardo.
Collin answers, a bite to his tone, “Jaxon. With an x.”
Of course, with an x. Fitting. A name as pretty as his face.
I pop an ice cube into my mouth and point at each of them, one by one. “Kavon, Jo, Eduardo, Collin, and”—I jab a thumb down the aisle—“Jaxon, yeah?”
No response.
“But no name for the gang?”
“We’re not a fucking gang.”
“Okay…” I crunch the ice cube with my teeth. “How about we brainstorm a name for you thieves?” I tilt my head to think, tonguing around the crushed pieces of ice. “What about…Incognito? Or…Without a Trace? Or…the Five Disciples? Or…” I keep rattling off possible names, my words getting slower and slower, my mind foggier and foggier.
Jo’s voice sounds far away when she grumbles, “Is this chick ever gonna shut up?”
“She will.” Collin’s voice. “In a min.”
As I attempt to bring another cube of ice to my mouth, it falls from my fingers, along with the glass.
You’ve got to be kidding.
A warm arm wraps around me and urges my head to a hard but comfortable chest.
“Whatever,” I mumble into the person’s chest. “You smell glorious.”
The last thing I remember before I trip and tumble into oblivion is Collin’s voice whispering at my temple, “Sorry, Nerd Girl.”
From now on, I’m pouring my own damn water.