Hate (21 page)

BLANE KEPT GLANCING FORWARD TO where a man with a lightweight jacket appeared to be arguing with Missy.

His face grew cloudy, and it was clear his attention was officially off me.

For some reason, that riled me.

I don’t know if it was some base instinct kicking in—a man, the one I’d been lusting after since I was seventeen years old, was single, against all odds, and my subconscious was completely unwilling to accept any situation where I let that opportunity slip through my fingers—or if I’d just reached my tolerance level for all annoyance for the day, and I decided it was my turn to do something about it.

“Enough,” I hissed, standing from my seat and crawling over Blane. He’d requested it earlier, but I can guarantee this wasn’t what he had in mind.

“What are you doing?” he asked quickly but quietly.

“Ending this,” I said simply, my meaning clear despite the vague booking.

“Whitney, sit down.”

I kept moving, prompting his hand to grab me by the forearm gently.

“Listen to me. Sit. Down.”

“No,” I argued, twisting my arm free from his grip.

I have no doubt that if he’d applied the pressure he was capable of, I’d still be clenched firmly in his grasp. But he didn’t want to hurt me.

I stepped away quickly, taking several power strides forward to the galley where they were arguing.

Blane called out behind me, but once again, I ignored him.

“Look,” I said as I approached and the man started to raise his voice. I spoke over him. “I don’t know what your beef is, but why don’t you just head back to your seat and treat Missy with some respect.”

I may have been figuratively soaked with envy, but I still chose Missy over the mystery man. You know, the sisterhood and all.

Before I could react—before I even realized what was happening—the guy had me turned around, an arm around my throat, and was jabbing something pointy scarily close to my jugular.

Using humor as an avoidance technique, I huffed out a breathy, sarcastic, “Well, fuck.”

Inside, I was scared. Truly frightened. Something I hadn’t been since one of the girls I was counseling left a suicide note at the shelter and then disappeared. I had been frantic, devastated that I could let another person be ripped from my life too early by their own demons.

But we’d found her. And I had to have faith that I would find a way out of this as well. And there was hope. Zero hope would have been if he’d killed me on the spot. But he hadn’t. I drew air into my lungs and felt the thrum of my heartbeat within my ribs.

Life and vitality still existed, and where there were those, there was possibility.

Quickly, he backed away from the flight attendant, dragging me along with him. Frankly, I would have gone easily, the sharp instrument at my throat plenty of incentive, but he moved too fast, at an angle that drug me backward, for my feet to keep up.

My eyes flicked up to Blane’s seat, but I found it empty. My brain knew the answer to this mystery was easily solved under normal circumstances, but now, it felt sluggish, weighed down by the overwhelming invasion of my adrenaline.

My eyes bounced rapidly from one shocked face to another, the passengers of the plane all locked in a moment of disbelief.

Several of them would take action, I was certain, but right then, in that instant, none of them could really believe what was happening. And I couldn’t fucking blame them. I was the one in an unknown assailant's arms, the very real feel of his threat digging into the sensitive skin of my neck, but I still hadn’t come to grips with the reality of the situation.

Even the smartest of us have at least a small sense of invincibility. Until we get our nose rubbed in the evidence of just how mortal we are.

Nose.
Rubbed
.

Finally, I found the reason for Blane’s empty seat, his tall frame filling up every inch of the space in the aisle way next to our seats.

He looked calm and collected, and his face bore none of the signs that I, someone he had to at least care for
a little bit
, was in the arms of a
fucking madman
, with a box cutter to her throat.

Nope. He wasn’t freaking out. He looked like he was about to take a relaxing walk on the beach. Perhaps knock a few cold ones back.

Thankfully, I was occupied, acting as a pincushion for Tommy Terrorist, so I couldn’t stomp my way all the way over to Blane and slap the palm of my hand across his face.

But before I could bolster my anger enough to talk myself into thinking that a little cut to the throat my be worth it to see his head whip to the side, Blane’s arm raised, his hand wrapped around something I’d only seen in movies.

Shit.

Why hadn’t I grown up southern? On a farm with an Uncle Wyatt who taught me to shoot and load and unload a shotgun within a matter of seconds?

Instead, I’d grown up in
Jersey
, where the closest I came to firearms experience was watching the occasional hunter enter the woods from the side of the road where’d he park, his shotgun slung over his shoulder.

My vision tunneled as I stared down the muzzle of Blane’s gun, shock and fear a potent, almost overwhelming concoction in my blood.

I didn’t know what he was doing with a gun on a plane, but my heart was working too hard, pumping my blood much too fast to allow me to process it.

He was pointing a gun at me! At least, that was what it looked like from my very unfortunate vantage point. Meanwhile, the point of the knife—or some other sharp object—at my throat dug deeper, a droplet of blood forming and trickling down to wet the collar of my white shirt.

Ugh. Of all the days to wear white. I’d never get the blood all the way out of this. Yet another reason to hate terrorists.

Time slowed, and Blane’s intentions to shoot around me became painfully clear. My survival instincts kicked into overdrive, fueling the movement of my eyes down my body and to the weaponless hand of my captor.

Uncertainty churned in my gut, and the feeling that Blane shooting him was a bad idea overwhelmed me. Sure, part of it was visions of an apple on top of my head and the whole scenario going terribly wrong, but the other part went deeper. To my base instincts.

Something wasn’t right, and I searched my catalogue of thoughts to find the answer. Suddenly, the curve of the terrorists lips against my hair became obvious—and obviously out of place.

He was happy. And not just in the sense that he was half way carrying out some psycho plan and fulfilling his psycho dreams. He was happy in the sense that things were going just how he wanted them to.

There had to be more to his plan. He had to know that he wouldn’t be able to breach the cockpit—not anymore—and as a last resort, a revolution of passengers would take him down if we had to. We were living in a post 9/11 world. So there had to be more.

Finally, it hit me. His hand wasn’t empty, unoccupied, and focused on containing me. It was hiding something. Something that would be the difference between life and death.

I felt it on a guttural level.

“Blane,” I mumbled, trying not to startle the guy with my jugular at the end of his shiv (or whatever). “Don’t.”

“Ah, yes,
Blane
. Don’t,” he mocked disgustingly close to my ear.

Blane never flinched, and his weapon didn’t lower. For a few terrifying seconds, I just
knew
my life was about to end.

Slowly—painfully—Blane’s arm descended, his finger still poised close to the trigger, but the immediate threat gone.

Trying not to hyperventilate, I pulled deep gulps of air into my lungs, feeding oxygen back to my starving brain.

I was alive. And I still had a chance to keep it that way.

If I could just figure out what the
fuck
Tommy had up his sleeve.

Literally.

For the second time during this flight, I found myself fighting unwanted tears. I wanted more out of this life before it was over. I wanted love and kids and, hell, a real chance to
find myself
. Unfortunately, at thirty, I still felt like I hadn’t. I was happy, I liked what I was doing, even found real purpose in it, but I wasn’t
content
. The kind of happiness you found when everything was right. When nothing felt like it was
missing
.

God, I wanted the chance to find it.

I wanted the chance to
live
it.

Just one traitorous tear escaped, and without any hands to stop it, it ran freely down my cheek, to the cliff of my jaw, and fell. The sound was silent, but it
felt
thunderous.

All of those things I wanted, I could have them.

I just had to
fight
for them.

Channeling my upset into anger, I resolved to make it out of this. I resolved to take control of my own destiny, and if I couldn’t, go down trying.

Immediately, I sought Blane’s eyes.

I thought I’d have to struggle to get their focus, somehow gain his attention when it really needed to be on Tommy behind me.

But I was wrong. Because his eyes were already on me, and they were smoldering. Fiery in both emotion and pure force of will.

He was determined, and he had it blazing in his eyes, exposed for all to see.

But it wasn’t for all to see.

It was for
me
.

His eyes were on me, holding mine with a ferocity I’d long since forgotten existed. Time faded memories and brought about great knowledge, but none of it was strong enough to contest the fact that I had never met someone like Blane Hunt.

Not before him, and certainly not after.

He was the kind of guy who said what he meant and meant what he said. When he committed to something, he did it fully, and now, on this plane with my life in the balance, was absolutely no different.

If anything, it was more.

I felt my eyes glaze over as more tears rushed forward.

I would have never thought I’d turn out to be such a cry baby. God, every time I turned around, I was crying. It was all his fault.

“Whitney,” he called softly, trying to bring me back into focus.

I ignored him, but not by choice. I was just having a hard time getting my act together, and tears were a better outlet that gasping sobs. Those tended to move your throat dramatically, and one might wager that that wasn’t the best course of action when one had a shiv to their all important vein.

“Whitney,” he called again, this time more forcefully. “Look at me,” he instructed.

“No,” I denied him. “This is all your fault. You turned me into this…this…this fucking girl. Up until seventh grade I was a goddamn force of nature. Then you had to waltz in with your stupid blue eyes and quick wit, demanding that I be your friend, and look where it’s gotten me. Look what you’ve done!” I carried on hysterically, the pitch of my voice reaching damn near shriek factor fifteen by the time I was finished.

Blane didn’t smile, not even a little. But his eyes got even brighter. “To be fair, we haven’t been friends in a while.”

“No shit!” I exclaimed, all but forgetting the threat to my jugular. “And whose fault is that, wise guy?”

“Quiet!” Tommy demanded, shoving the sharp point further into my skin, nicking it deeper and freeing a small drop of fresh blood.

Taking him seriously, I sealed my lips and bottled up all of that useless decade old emotion in a hurry.

Blane didn’t abide quite so quickly. “Mine. I know. It’s all my fault.”

Widening my eyes, I gave him a look that said, “Are you crazy?”, but he just ignored it.

“It’s time I did something about it.”

NOW?!
my subconscious shouted in my head. But I didn’t say it out loud. Oh no, I had learned my lesson on that front. My neck was sticky and wet to prove it.

Instead, I stood perfectly still, staring aggressively at the crazy, beautiful man in front of me.

He took one stepper closer, but that seemed to make Tommy panic.

Or did it?

Finally, a little later than I should have, I started paying attention to the terrorist at my back.

He was trying to cover it up, but it felt like he wanted Blane to come closer. Like, as crazy as it sounded, he was trying to draw him in.

Since verbal cues were out, I tried my hand at a slight shake of the head, hoping Blane would see it and know that he shouldn’t approach. And if I was lucky, I’d manage to keep the rest of my throat in tact while I was at it.

Something just wasn’t right here, but I was struggling to figure out what it was. I was really starting to regret spending all that time in school to become a counselor when I could have been studying counterterrorist techniques.

Krav Maga.

Karate.

Hell, I could have been a female MMA fighter by now. Sure, I might have a little cauliflower ear, but no doubt I wouldn’t have blood on my blouse.

But no. I wanted to help the girls.

Cripes.

“What’s your name,” Blane asked over my head. I had a feeling he wasn’t asking me.

“Right,” Tommy snapped with mirth. Like he was going to tell him his name.

Sure, they’d find it on the flight manifest, but making it easy on Blane by telling him wasn’t on his to do list today. Apparently, it was all filled up with a few other things. Number one: Instigate a crisis on my flight from Philadelphia to Tampa. Number two: Take a hostage. Number three: Carry out hijacking of some sort.

To be fair, it was a pretty extensive list. The kind of thing that took not only time but focus.

He didn’t have the convenience of making new friends.

I had to laugh to myself. Who would have guessed? Apparently, when facing an almost certain death situation, I reverted to basic, childlike humor.

I was a regular stand up comedian in my own head.

How completely…not useful.

“I have a bomb,” Tommy announced. Mentally, I shrugged. I would have thought he might like to keep something like that a secret, but what did I know.

And evidently, content on continuing my audition for Last Comic Standing, I couldn’t help myself. “How’d you get a bomb past security?”

“That’s easy, Whitney. There are plenty of places security doesn’t search. Appropriate behavior, political correctness, and the attempt to uphold freedom are a great restriction on effective security.”