Looking in the mini fridge, I grab a cold water bottle and put it right next to the pills. Feeling satisfied that she’s safe, I exit the room.
Hearing the click behind me, I start walking down the hall yet again. Pulling my phone out of my pocket I open my messages.
Landing on Xavier’s contact, I start typing.
Me: If she asks, you were the one who took her up to her suite. She would feel uncomfortable otherwise.
Seconds after, he responds.
Xavier: Okay boss. Just know that if you took something out of the mini fridge, she will never believe me. That little ice box is a scam.
I laugh.
Turning my phone off, I enter the elevator and press the penthouse button. Rubbing my hands over my face in exhaustion.
ChapterNineteen
Maria Alejandra
Ifeel my brain pounding against my skull, and the sound of Elektra’s private jet isn’t helping. I blacked out last night and don’t remember anything that happened after the whole dancing on Mr. Donatello thing. All I know is that I woke up with a massive hangover and a bottle of Advil next to a cold bottle of water at my side. I wonder who dropped me off in my hotel room last night. It definitely wasn’t Xavier because he wouldn’t have taken anything out of the mini fridge. It could’ve been Ren. I know him better than Amir, so that’s the only plausible option.
Walking into the all-black interior of Elektra’s jet, I see the sheer curtains that open up into the bed area of the plane. Mr. Donatello is the one who prefers to go back there, so I never do.
I take a seat in one of the black leather seats designated for Xavier and me. I keep my huge sunglasses on as well as my black Yankees cap. If I look at the light for too long, I feel like someone is giving me laser eye surgery. At this point in my hangover, I want to pull a Cristina Yang, screaming, “somebody sedate me.”
I pulled my hair back after taking a shower this morning. No vomit was in sight which gave me a sense of relief. The dinging flight noise goes off before the attendant starts talking.
She talks for what seems like hours. Blah, blah about the safety protocol that I hear every time I go on a plane. Blah, blah, if we crash and land in the water, the life jackets are under your seat. Blah, blah, our destination is Monte Carlo, Monaco, which is going to be an hour flight with no turbulence.
She’s done talking, thank God.
Monaco. The one race that’s known for its glitz and glamour. This race is a part of the Formula One legacy. It will always be a race location for as long as Formula One keeps going. It’s that iconic.
I, for one, hate that race. It may be challenging in more ways than one, and if you win, it is definitely one of the highest honors. I’ve never seen the point, though. Yes, most people love Monaco, but there’s literally nothing to do there. You can hike, see the coastline, and gamble at the only casino in practically the whole country. It’s so small and there are only like one or two clubs. I always feel claustrophobic when I’m there, not only because the country is so tiny but also because the pressure of the race within itself makes you feel small.
Yes, Monaco may have all the funding, but I hate the track. It’s a street circuit, meaning that it’s almost impossible to overtake. Most of the streets are blocked off, which means that the grid is tighter when it comes to the width of the track. A lot of drivers have crashed in Monaco, which is why it’s known for its extreme difficulty.
It’s not like I don’t like the fact that it’s a challenge, it’s more about the fact that drivers drive dirty when it comes to tight spaces. This shows you why it’s so popular; people like the thrill. But it’s not interesting to me in any way. I mean, no one can pass anyone, so what’s the fun in that? It’s just like every other Grand Prix, but seen as something more than it really is.
Grabbing my Bose noise-cancelling headphones, I put them on, hoping to block out any noise. Taking out my Louis Vuitton blanket and pillow, I make myself comfortable in the chair, then pull out the recliner.
Before I fall asleep, Mr. Donatello walks into our part of the plane.
This never happens. He apparently likes to be alone in his pity land which resides at the back of the plane, nowhere near my personal space.
I think he’s going to walk past me, but instead, he turns around and faces me directly. I just stare up at him, confused. He starts talking. All I see is his mouth moving.
Why can’t I hear him?
Hungover me is stupid, he reaches over and takes my headphones off.
“I’m taking time out of my schedule to ask you how you feel.”
“You don’t have to take time out of your precious schedule for me. You have two eyes, I’m alive, that’s all that should matter to you.”
“I’m being nice for once, and you decide to berate me yet again with your stubbornness.”
“If you would have formed your words in a friendly and caring way, I probably wouldn’t have been stubborn,” I continue to mock him in a butchered Italian accent. “I was taking time out of my precious schedule to do the bare minimum.”