Once we land in Paris, we exit the plane and we’re together. Take note because, in a minute, it’s about to change.
I’ve never been more exhausted in my life. And that includes the time I drove from Seattle to the Gorge to see Dave Matthews, partied all weekend without sleep, and then drove back. I think I calculated it a few days later and I had been up for twenty-nine hours without sleep.
Just so you know, I like sleep. It’s actually a hobby of mine and when I don’t get it, I get mean.
Do you see me there? I’m the one with the frizzy as fuck blonde curls, wildly trying to keep them contained underneath my trucker hat.
Do you see Shade? He’s the one with the sunglasses on, again, walking ahead of me, staring at his phone in his hand while looking sexy as hell. Are you watching his ass as he walks like me?
Thought so.
Tiller and Roan are behind me. Or so I think. This will, however, come back to bite me in the ass. Just wait.
So there we are, walking through the airport after a twelve-hour flight, hungry, cranky, and ready for bed. The moment a group of girls—and I say girls because to me they don’t look like women, they look to be jailbait—anyway, the moment they spot Shade, who happens to be on a goddamn billboard they’re standing near for an underwear ad, they surround him.
You can literally see the tension building in his eyes when they swarm him. This isn’t something he enjoys, and until now, I’ve never seen this side. Before today, I was one of those girls thinking seeing Shade Sawyer up close was a dream come true.
The thing is, he’s a real person and they don’t treat him like one.
At the baggage claim, that’s when I realize I don’t know what I’m doing as a personal assistant, as if you thought otherwise at this point.
Shade’s standing next to me and gives an angry nod to the luggage at our feet. My bag, Tiller’s, Roan’s. . . but one black bag isn’t there. “My bag’s gone.”
Do you see the panic on my face? No?
Must be because you can’t see through my hair to find my face. At this point, it looks something similar to Mufasa from the Lion King.
“No, it’s here.” I motion around the bags circling around, refusing to believe this is happening. “Just look.”
Shade won’t even look at me. He’s staring at his phone again, and I want to ask him what’s so fucking entertaining on his phone that he can’t look up and actually find his own damn bag. “Nope. Gone.”
Did your blood pressure rise like mine just did? Do you laugh nervously to disguise the internal groan you’re wanting to make like, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me?
I rub my sweaty palms down the front of my jean shorts that are wrinkled beyond belief from sitting on a plane for twelve hours. “What?”
His sunglasses slip intimidatingly down the bridge of his nose, and he shoots me a cold nod. “Do something, assistant.”
I close my eyes drawing in a careful breath, willing myself not to lash out at him. Remember when I was so in love with him and thought he was the best person ever? It’s gone now. I no longer like him.
I’m just kidding, but seriously, what a dick, huh?
“What would I usually do in this situation?” I ask, blinking rapidly.
He begins to pace, his jaw clenching. “I have you for that. I need my bag. It has my helmet in it.”
He probably needs that, doesn’t he?
Nervously, I break out in a sweat, glancing around the airport. That’s when I notice that one of the three hoodlums is missing. Who do you think?
Yep. Exactly who you think. “Where’s Tiller?”
“I’m not his babysitter,” Shade growls, refusing to look at me. He could be looking at me, but I wouldn’t know because despite us being in an airport, he’s hiding behind his black lenses.
“He was just here a minute ago.”
“Focus, my bag!” Shade shouts, startling me when he kicks over Tiller’s bag beside him. “My helmet is gone, and if I don’t have it, I’m not competing. It’s my lucky helmet.”
I know enough about Shade, through research—stalking—his helmets are important to him. This is a bad thing.
Roan, who’d been right beside us, somehow has a cup of coffee in hand and I want to take it. But I don’t. His questioning eyes dart from mine to Shade’s. “What’s wrong?”
“Tiller’s gone,” I mumble, feeling like I’ve fucked everything up.
“Who fucking cares about Tiller. My goddamn helmet is gone,” he snaps, his voice belligerent.
Okay, I can do this. I can take control and manage to do this. It takes me a moment, but I formulate a plan of action. “Go find Tiller. I’ll go check on your bag.”
Do you think they go find him?
Once again, you’d be wrong. They sit down and stare at their motherfucking phones. I swear they’re all addicted to them.
I find a customer service desk for the airlines in search of Shade’s bag where they tell me it went to India. Fucking India. Shade doesn’t take it well.
He stares at me. “Where is it?”
“Your bag went to India,” I tell him, right away. “They’ll ship it back to LA.”
Naturally, he jumps to his feet as though he’s on fire. He is. With anger. “That’s just fucking great! Now what the hell am I going to do? My helmet was in there.”
“Chill out, man.” Roan groans. “You can borrow one for the event tomorrow. I’m sure Reece has a spare with him.”
Shade knocks his coffee out of his hand and to the ground. “Go fuck yourself. When you lost your helmet in Barcelona, you didn’t talk to Tiller for a week.”
Roan stares at his coffee that’s now a puddle on the floor, then raises his unamused eyes to his younger brother. “I didn’t lose that helmet. Tiller stole it and pissed in the fucker.”
I’m surprised Roan didn’t blow up on Shade for spilling his coffee. If he would have knocked my coffee out of my hand, I probably would have ripped his dick piercing out with plyers.
“Whatever,” Shade mumbles, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest. “This is fucking stupid. Fine, I’ll borrow one. Why are we still standing here?”
Awesome. The sooner we get to the hotel, the sooner I can sleep. But then I realize Tiller’s still gone. He’s like a motherfucking ninja disappearing all the time.
“Where’s Tiller?” I dare to ask, feeling about as useless as can be.
“Who fucking cares at this point?” Shade adds, acting like a spoiled brat. “Leave him.”
If he wasn’t so adorable mad, I’d smack him. Look at him, he’s actually pouting over this. I get that he’s pissed off. I’m beginning to understand this helmet means something to him.
“You two don’t move. . . just keep staring at your phones,” I order, knowing my directions mean absolutely nothing to them. At this point, I’m tempted to say fuck it and lose the shits. I could totally stay here forever and start a whole new life in Paris.
Let me ask you something. Where do you think I find Tiller in an airport?
My guesses are the bar, which I check every single one of them we passed from the gate to baggage claim, or the bathroom.
Where I find him in a stall with a bartender. So apparently he started in a bar, then found a bathroom to fuck her in.
I literally kick the door open, and I’m not exactly sure what has their eyes widened more. My hair, or the fact that I kicked the door in wearing flip-flops.
Tiller laughs, winking at me. “Damn, you’re a little late to the party, Northwest. We could have had a threesome.”
I grab him by the shirt and yank him out. “Get the fuck out of here.” I glance at the girl, who strangely looks like a French maid on duty, then back to Tiller. “Come on, we have to go fill your antibiotics.”
He zips his pants and slings an arm around me. “The meaner you are to me, the hotter you are.”