Hate (19 page)

After more than my fair share of time in line, I got called past the yellow line, showed my ID and boarding pass, and made it to the
next
line. People filtered through the full body scanner at a relatively steady pace, and I prepared myself to do the same by kicking off my flip flops, taking my laptop out of my bag, and searching the bottom of said bag’s contents for my plastic baggy full of liquids. Once my fingers wrapped around it, I clutched them tighter, pulled it out, and tossed it into the bin with my laptop.

I know instinctually that laptops and liquids don’t mix, but in this case, my plastic baggy was zipped nice and tight. And my liquids weren’t what I would actually consider liquids since the contents were limited to lip gloss and lotion.

But more importantly, having something else that you own in the bin with your laptop always made it easier to sort out of the landfill of them on the other end of the x-ray conveyor.

Realizing how complicated all of this was, I wondered how Gram would do on the flight back.

Shit.

She would probably joke about packing some sort of contraband, refuse to take off her shoes, and attempt to pants the TSA worker.

I was going to end up in federal prison somewhere with a crude, hand-carved bitch tattoo.

Shaking the nightmares out of my daydream, I came back to reality just in time to hear the woman on the other side of the scanner prompt me, “Step in.”

I obeyed immediately, dutifully placing my feet on the painted-on guide feet inside of the scanner, raised my arms above my head, and stayed as still as humanly possible for the two seconds it took the scanner to whoosh from one side to the other and back again.

“Step out,” the same woman instructed, holding me there in front of her until my scan processed completely and showed no hidden knives or shivs.

“You’re good,” she said, clearing me to head to the crowd at the end of the line, redressing and gathering shuffled belongings.

Thankfully, as I’d planned for this, my time there was short, just a quick step into my flip flops and a grab of my bag, lip gloss, and laptop were all I needed to be ready.

I glanced at the gate on my boarding pass (B9) one more time and decided to head straight there. I wasn’t running that late, but the one-pot-wonder security method had taken more time than normal and it wouldn’t be too long before we started to board.

Food was a hard temptation to resist, but I turned my head the other way and held my breath to stave off the enticing smells as I passed the food court. I told myself the extra twenty pounds I was carrying was quite enough. Each pound had a buddy, ensuring no fat loneliness, and the feeling of exhaustion that exertion brought was already at a peak.

My thirty year old body just didn’t burn fat the way it did when I was seventeen. As I got lazier with age, so did my metabolism.

Still, I was happy with my looks and comfortable in my skin. Something millions of women weren’t. For that, I was thankful.

Dozens of seats were occupied as I finally spied the gate sign for B9. People were antsy, shifting and shuffling, and making sure to gather all of their belongings without encroaching too much on the personal space of those around them.

Airports were funny like that. People either avoided one another completely or chatted up every person who came within a fifteen foot radius.

Much like I always had, I was one of the ones who preferred to keep to herself.

I moved my eyes from one area to another as I approached, hoping to find a seat far enough away from the chaos to avoid sustained interaction, but close enough to know what was going on. While I wasn’t big on talking to people, I certainly liked to watch them.

Finally, the magic seat appeared, at least three empty chairs away from all surrounding people, toward the side, but with a view of the television screen that displayed gate information.

It was like a sweet spot.

Stepping over coffee cups and adolescent limbs, I scaled my way to freedom with precision and caution. If I wasn’t careful, the bag on my shoulder just might swing around and nail an unsuspecting passenger in the face.

I was just settling into my magical seat when the gate attendant called me up to the podium.

“Passenger Lenox, National Airways Flight 498 to Tampa, please see the gate agent.”

Grabbing all my stuff to make sure it remained untouched, I climbed my way back over to the counter, propped my elbows up with my ticket in hand, and informed the extremely pretty, somewhat exotic looking agent, “I’m Whitney Lenox.”

She politely grabbed my ticket out of my hand, looked it over, and then proceeded to wreck my good attitude.

“Yes, Ms. Lenox. I’m so sorry to inconvenience you, but we overbooked and had to reassign your seat.”

Great. Why am I not surprised?

Please tell me it was at least first class like I paid for, and please, sweet baby Jesus, let it still be in the aisle. I got way too claustrophobic in the window or middle seat, even in the bigger, more spacious seats of the rich and famous. As for being in first class, I’d decided to treat myself. Kind of like a reward advance for the hell Gram was sure to put me through.

“What?” I semi-shouted, drawing the attention of several people I didn’t want to. Read: Anyone who wasn’t me or the lady with the bad news behind the counter.

Okay, time to take a deep breath. I was starting to turn into a real diva, and if I wasn’t careful, I was going to end up the star of my very own Snicker’s commercial.

“But I’m checked in. It gave me a seat.” Reaching over and pointing at my ticket until she gave my hand a scathing look, I argued, “Shouldn’t it be the other person who gets bumped? I thought that was how this worked.”

She continued to stare at my hand until I retracted it, set my new boarding pass on the counter in front of me, and vaguely apologized, “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

All explanation stopped there, and her face told me not to push my luck. Her eyebrow was raised, a perfectly sculpted arch, and I could have sworn I saw her glance at the phone as if to say,
“I could have you strip searched within an inch of your life.”

It’d probably be best if I didn’t push my luck. I liked the idea of a strip search, but not the kind they had in mind—something that no doubt involved an extraordinarily robust woman.

Expelling a big breath, I looked down at my ticket and noticed I was only one seat over, in 2B, rather than 2C. Unfortunately, that meant the middle seat.

My psyche was thrilled.

However, I had hope that the person next to me would be willing to switch. I knew the likelihood of someone wanting to go from the aisle to the middle was slim, but I wasn’t bad at selling. And if the occupant was male (and straight), my shirt might come in handy.

After all, this was why I wore it. And, lucky for me, three of my extra twenty pounds lived in my boobs.

My seat beckoned, but before I’d made it two feet from the desk, my new best friend was starting the boarding process. And, for once, I wasn’t one of the little people. Those people that got to board first because they were better than everyone else—I was one of them!

Holla!

Pulling a Missy Elliott, I flipped it and reversed it and headed straight back toward the entrance of the jetway.

When I met my former foe at the ticket scanner, I tried on a much more pleasant personality for size. “Hey. Me again,” I fumbled like a dweeb before realizing she was there for a very specific purpose, as was I, and I wasn’t making it easy on either of us. I handed her the ticket quickly, and she scanned it just as fast. “Thanks so much!” I tried again as she handed it back with a stoic expression.

Crap. Just put me out of my misery.

This shade of overly-polite wasn’t really my color. It washed me out. All that sunshine I was blowing was yellow, which is hard for anyone to pull off.

Making quick work of traversing the jetway, I climbed aboard the plane and greeted the flight attendant with a much more believable tone.

“Good afternoon,” she said with a nod.

“Hi,” I answered with a small smile.

Looking to my right, I saw the carefully styled top of a brown-haired head in the seat that once was mine.

Score!

Male.

“Excuse me,” I said sweetly, hoping to grab his attention and use a little flirting to assess how effective my shirt would be.

What I wasn’t prepared for were the hauntingly familiar blue eyes that met mine. Blue fucking torture devices I hadn’t even
thought
about in over ten years.

And that was the truth. It’d been hard work, but I’d effectively shut him and any feelings I had for him way the hell out. I’d categorized a relationship with him as “never gonna happen” and attempted to move on.

“Elbow,” he forced out, his features elongating noticeably, clearly just as shocked as I was. His hand went straight to his hair, gliding backwards effortlessly through the imaginary tresses. It was exactly what he used to do, only now, he had no excess hair to arrange.

I clenched my eyes shut and convulsed as that one annoying word slammed into me, fighting through the skin and flesh, gnawing at my bones, and coursing through my veins with the intensity of Niagara Falls.

Years of armor—penetrated in an instant.

All the hurt and longing—palpable. The soul-crushing, unrequited love—there and debilitating.

Fuck.

“What are you doing here?” I wheezed, forcing my eyes open again.

He looked around comically before feeding me the sarcasm I hadn’t even realized I’d missed. “Um, flying?”

Angry and frustrated from all of my no-longer-contained decade worth of suppressed emotion, I released it on him, accusing, “You’re in my seat.”

“This?” he questioned with a point to his jean-clad lap. “This is your seat?”

“Yes,” I bit out.

“Hm. That’s funny. I’m pretty sure this is my seat. Can I see your ticket so we can clear this up?” he offered, extending his hand in anticipation.

“Ha,” I laughed with a caustic smile. Ruefully, I shook my head. “Fine. It
used
to be my seat. But I want it back. Switch with me.”

Enter trademark smirk. “Sorry, pretty girl. No can do.”

“Come on. I’m right next to you. 2B.”

“The middle seat?” he said through a laugh. “Nice try. Haven’t you noticed my long, muscular legs and sizable wingspan?”

“No,” I lied, averting my eyes to keep from giving it away. Five seconds after getting over my initial upset, I’d started ogling every inch of him my greedy eyes could find, wingspan and legs included.

“Pity,” he mused. “I wish you had.” Shrugging, and then gesturing to the seat in question, he remarked, “Regardless, I won’t fit comfortably in there. You, on the other hand, with your petite figure, will fit perfectly.”

“Petite? Now I know you’re just bullshitting me.”

“Whit?” he called, ignoring me.

“Ugh,” I grunted, annoyed. “Yeah?”

“You’re completely messing up the flow. You’ve got a backup a mile long behind you, and Missy’s giving you the bitch face.”

I looked over my shoulder briefly before asking, “Missy?”

“The flight attendant. Sit your cute ass down.”

“
Missy
,” I mouthed scathingly to myself, wondering just how well he knew the slutty tart.

I pictured his long fingered hands on her ass, her thigh hiked up and around his hip. She’d be moaning for sure, and his soft lips would no doubt be working the sensitive spot right underneath her ear. Most men couldn’t find it to save their lives, but Blane would be able to.

Definitely.

Running my eyes over the sinewy veins in his forearms, I followed them up over his shoulders, along the enticing column of his neck, and ended at the gentle curve of his smirk.

Ugh. I considered violence, but our location pretty much ruled that out. And unfortunately, all that left me with was annoyance.

As I grumbled, “Can you at least get up?” I realized that my irritability from Blane’s fictitious affair with the harlot was real despite its lack of basis in reality.

“I rather like the idea of you having to climb over me.”

“What the fuck, Blane? Get the hell out of your seat and let me through.”

A smile transformed his face, and a bright light filled his intoxicating eyes as he unbuckled and climbed effortlessly from his seat.

“There she is.”

“Who? Missy?”

“No!
You
. What have you been doing to damage your brain cells for the last twelve years? I could have sworn you were smarter than this the last time I saw you.”

“Ha. Ha. Fuck you,” I spouted childishly while sliding into the row and settling into my seat.

“You curse more too.”

I hated the middle seat and all of its claustrophobic qualities.

And I hated Blane Hunt.

But most of all, I hated that no matter how good I had been at convincing myself of the opposite, I still loved the bastard.

BLANE HUNT.

He thought he knew so much about me.

Well, he
didn’t
.

I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in twelve freaking years and had done most of my growing up during them.