Beyond the Sea (3 page)

Paula said, “This is going to be a huge scandal. Their world tour isn’t over yet. They still have Asia to get through.”

“
You really do know an alarming amount about this boy band.” The man spoke with mock solemnity. “Captain, you know we have a strict policy against sexually harassing our passengers. Just for the record.”

Going up on her tiptoes, she mimed pouring her coffee over his dark, neatly trimmed hair, garnering a low chuckle. They both wore the standard uniform of navy pants and jackets over white shirts. Troy wondered where their hats were as his mind whirled with half-formed thoughts.

God, it really was going to be a scandal. The band might be on the other side of their popularity peak, but they still had millions of fans. Before he’d turned off his phone to avoid the cavalcade of texts and voice mails—from everyone but Tyson, Nick, and Savannah—his Twitter had blown up with get-well messages. Apparently Ty had announced from stage that Troy had the flu, but that excuse wouldn’t hold up for long.

Before shutting down, he’d texted the same message to Joe, Greg, and Tomas:

Ty and Nick are addicts. If they don’t get into rehab, I’m quitting the band for good. Ask Savannah if they won’t tell you the truth. She knows the score. I’ll talk to you soon.

The guilt at bailing on the concert roiled his empty stomach, but he undoubtedly had the label’s attention now. There was a week before their next show and the start of the Japanese leg. Troy would go home, get his mother, and bring her to Tokyo to confront Ty. He’d call Nick’s parents too and see if they could do a group intervention.

Next Up would have to postpone the Asian concerts, which really sucked because they had so much family coming to see them in Manila, but getting clean was way more important.

“
I wonder if something happened with his girlfriend. You know, Savannah Jones? Has that song about texting that gets stuck in your head for days.”

“
I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“
She’s a stunner. Great looking couple. He’s never been with a girl this long before—more than a year. He was so heartbroken after Delia Tate dropped him for James Franco, the poor thing.”

Troy resisted the urge to snort. He’d dated Delia for a couple months, and it had been fun. But when she’d fallen for Franco, Troy had wished her well. Lara the PR guru had created a fiction about Troy’s broken heart, which of course appealed to all the women in the world who wanted to kiss it better. Troy had been quieter than usual in public, wearing sunglasses everywhere, even inside. He’d felt like such a douche, but he’d done as he was told.

“
Okay, we should be ready to go.” The man snapped the folder shut. “As soon as our passenger and his entourage show up.”

“
Right here.” Troy stood and turned. “No entourage, I’m afraid.” He ignored Paula’s reddening cheeks and extended his hand with a smooth smile. “It’s nice to meet you.” He’d played the role so many times over the years it was second nature. Always polite, but never revealing too much. Staying quiet and letting Ty have the spotlight.

Clearing her throat, she took his hand with confidence. “Captain Paula Mercado. A pleasure to meet you. This is my first officer, Brian Sinclair.”

“
Thanks for doing this on such short notice.” Troy turned to the other pilot. The slim man was roughly mid-thirties and a little taller than Troy, probably just over six foot. He had a firm handshake and the calm, in-control demeanor Troy associated with pilots.

Paula said, “Happy to help. It’s just you tonight? We assumed you’d have a few people with you. Let’s take care of your baggage and get going.”

“
So we can leave now? They said they weren’t sure…”
Thank God.
By morning he might have lost his nerve or be busted by Joe.

“
No curfew on jets this small, so you don’t have to wait. We just needed to rustle up a first officer since it’s a long hop.” She motioned toward Brian. “Lucky for us, we’ve got the best in the business. Far too talented a pilot to play second fiddle if you ask me, but he never does.”

Brian ignored her teasing before leading the way with a polite nod to Troy. Troy followed them through the back corridors of the terminal and across the tarmac to the private jet. It was far too much money for him to spend, particularly since he’d just lost his source of income and would likely be sued by the label for breach of contract, but the thought of flying commercial to LA was unbearable. All the questions and photos would be too much. He had to get home under the radar and talk to his mother. Calling her wouldn’t work—Troy had to be there so she couldn’t hide from this.

They climbed a little staircase up to the small jet, and he got settled in the large lounge area. There were padded chairs with seat belts in groups of two along the sides of the airplane. He’d asked for the smallest plane they had, and this one sat eight. When the record label footed the bill, he’d flown on private jets plenty of times, but it felt a little ridiculous and stupidly extravagant to have the whole plane to himself. But he couldn’t back out now. He chose a seat by a window, watching the hint of orange on the horizon as the sun disappeared.

The cockpit door was still open, and Paula called back, “All buckled up, mate?”

“
Yes. Thank you.”

“
Won’t be long now.” She closed the door.

As the jet powered up and taxied the runway, Troy gripped the armrests. He was really doing this. He was leaving the band. Leaving Tyson. Savannah. The press were going to eat him alive. Fuck, was he doing the right thing?

This was the first time he’d made an actual decision about anything more important than fries or a baked potato. He hadn’t protested when they’d cut his hair and dressed him head to toe in black. He hadn’t argued when he wasn’t allowed to go bowling because it wasn’t cool or mysterious enough. When they insisted to the media that his dad’s death was a heart attack, he toed the party line.

He’d drifted along, performing like a trained seal. It was time to take control of his life.

Over the years, he’d ridden a hundred planes. Probably a thousand. But this time, Troy paid attention, savoring the little details as the wheels left the ground—the whir and
clunk
of the landing gear as it retracted into the plane’s belly, the little dips of turbulence as they rose, the lights of Sydney receding as home beckoned.

“
Can I get you a beverage? Something to eat? We have quite a few selections.”

Blinking, Troy turned away from the oval window where he’d pressed his forehead, watching the world go by even though it was black outside. Brian stood by his chair with a bland, vaguely pleasant expression—not a smile, but not a frown. Troy recognized it as the mask he often wore so he wouldn’t look unhappy or pissed in paparazzi photos. It’d taken a couple of years to train himself out of his resting bitchface.

“
No thanks. Not right now.” He should probably eat something, but didn’t know if he’d keep it down.

“
Are you sure?” Brian’s expression didn’t change, but he lowered his voice a notch. “You look like you could use a drink.”

“
Thanks, but I’m good.” Troy supposed since he’d said he didn’t need a flight attendant, the copilot was stuck doing the job.

“
Please let us know if you need anything. We’ll be stopping briefly in Honolulu to refuel on the way to LA. Can I give you a tour of the plane? There’s a sleeping area, and of course a bathroom, shower, and—”

“
I’m good. Thanks, though.”

With a nod, Brian disappeared back into the cockpit and closed the door behind him.

After a while, Troy chugged a bottle of water and ate a package of cookies that sat in a basket in the little kitchen. Normally he watched TV shows or movies on his iPad on planes, but after trying three different episodes of
Modern Family,
some terrible CW show about teenage sea creatures that Savannah had told him he “must see,” and a movie about a space disaster, he gave up and changed into track pants and a T-shirt before settling into one of the sleeping berths and pulling the curtain.

He normally only drank beer, but maybe he should down a couple little bottles of vodka to knock himself out.

A memory of the gust of alcohol on his dad’s breath filled his senses. A few extra drinks every night had started it all. No, he’d stick to beer.

Closing his eyes, Troy tried very hard not to think about anything at all.

His heart seizing and a gasp on his lips, Troy crashed back down to the mattress. There had been some turbulence for a little while, but nothing like this. As the plane shuddered and took another dip, adrenaline-fueled fear evaporated the cobwebs of the dumb dream he’d been having about not being able to go down a staircase. He reached for the curtain, tearing the fabric as he tumbled out, jolted to the floor.

Seat belt. Seat belt! Fuck.
As the plane veered from side to side, shaking and creaking, he crawled to the closest chair and dragged himself up. Fingers trembling, he braced his bare feet and yanked the seat belt around his waist, struggling with buckle. He couldn’t quite—

Troy slammed onto the carpet. Pain radiated from his cheekbone, and he scrabbled for something to hold. The plane bumped and jumped like an old car speeding over potholes, and he swallowed a scream. Another violent rattle tossed him to the foot of another chair. He hauled himself up, his whole body seizing and bile rising in his throat.

He was screaming now as he searched for the seat belt. Troy’s fingers closed over one end of it, and he bit his tongue, tasting coppery blood as he fumbled for the other half. Panting, he realized he wasn’t screaming after all—it was the shriek of alarms beyond the cockpit door.

Troy’s ears popped. The plane was descending. No, more than that, it was
nosediving
. Muffled shouts from the pilots joined the ear-splitting sound of the alarms. His heart was going to explode. He couldn’t breathe.

Get it, get it, get it!

He barely heard the
click
as the belt finally locked around his hips. Tugging on the strap, he made it so tight his legs tingled. He whapped his forehead against the window, squinting desperately in the early dawn light, breath coming in little gasps.

He could only see gray, an awful metallic screech filling his ears as they plummeted.
Going to die!

Squeezing his eyes shut, visions of family tore through his mind. Mom the last time he’d seen her, pinching his cheeks and saying he was too skinny: “
Payat payat ka, no? Kain na tayo!”
Auntie Gloria and Uncle Jojo giving him the guitar his father had later taken away. Dad on a good day, driving up the 101 with the top down and the Stones blasting. And he saw his baby brother, shrieking with laughter and gripping his arm as they reached the top of an old wooden rollercoaster.

I’m sorry, Ty. I love you.

The air felt paper thin, his lungs not working. The plane shuddered, making an ungodly sound. Alarms wailed. As they plunged back to earth, he did the only thing left.

“
Our father, who art in heaven…”

Move. Move!

Blinking, Brian lifted his head. He could only see a wall of thick gray rain in the gloom of dawn. The wind howled, vibrating through the fuselage. In a sickening rush of adrenaline, it all came back. The plane was on the ground. They’d made it. They’d managed to land on the beach on the speck of an island. They’d—

He turned to reach for Paula on his right, but his hand scraped across a rough rock face where her seat should have been. Brain spinning, he stared. His neck screamed as he turned to look behind him. More unforgiving stone and ripped metal.

Oh God, no. No!

The beach had been their only shot, but it hadn’t been long enough. It narrowed at the end, where a cliff towered over the sea.

A cliff that had sheared off part of the plane as if it was a tin can.

“
Paula.” It was little more than a croak. He flattened his palm on the wet stone as if he could push it away and reveal her. There was something pale on the floor, and he reached down—

Gasping, he dropped Paula’s arm and retched all over the yoke and dashboard. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, bile and puke putrid on his tongue. Something was dripping down his face, and his fingers came away red, but he wasn’t sure whose blood it was.