Generally speaking, I’d done my best to talk to her as little as humanly possible after she caught me mid-act. I’d watched as she squirmed, trying to make ends meet with her flimsy daily budget, which I’d cut in half from the original sum Anthony Thorne had named. Last night, Brat had to resort to making her own acai bowl, because she didn’t have enough to DoorDash and leave a twenty-five percent tip.
“Subhuman,” she had complained to the vast, ugly space she called home as she sliced a banana into thin pieces. “That’s what I’ve become.”
To Brat’s credit, she, too, seemed wildly uninterested in me. That was refreshing. Usually, straight, unmarried women I worked for wanted to climb me like a tree. But she seemed so disoriented, so uneasy in her doodled skin, sex didn’t seem high on her agenda.
A week after the note from Kozlov had arrived, Brat and I boarded a plane to Dallas. First class. Not as good as flying private, but I was relieved to leave Los Angeles behind.
We settled into our respective reclinable pods, which faced each other. I didn’t need to look at her more than absolutely necessary. Brat made a show of snapping open a glossy magazine and crossing her legs in her head-to-toe pink Juicy Couture sweats. She frowned in concentration during takeoff, but her eyes were not moving along the text.
I answered emails and reveled in the fact that in a few short hours, I would get to meet a former president. Anthony Thorne hadn’t exactly left a lasting impression on me during his administration—I wasn’t even in middle school during that time—but he was well-loved enough.
After takeoff came an endless stream of snacks and alcohol. I refused everything the flight attendant offered. Something about eating during flights unnerved me. Brat said yes and even asked for seconds. She loved snacks, and the little pillows they gave you, and chitchatting with the staff. In fact, I was pretty sure the only extraneous object she didn’t like in her vicinity was yours truly.
Deciding it was time she got a perk after everything she’d been through, I allowed her to have a drink during the flight.
She polished off three glasses of wine—the first time she’d drunk alcohol since I’d arrived in the picture—before smacking her lips and announcing, “I’m going to the restroom. Be right back.”
I stood up before she did, cracking my knuckles.
She tilted her head up in confusion. “I’m not the queen. You don’t have to stand up when I do.”
“I’m tagging along.”
Was it absolutely necessary? Probably not. But it wasn’t superfluous, either. I didn’t know what I was dealing with when it came to Kozlov. I didn’t know how much he knew about our whereabouts. And I didn’t want to take any chances.
“No, you’re not,” she said firmly, standing up and taking a step sideways. I rounded my pod, blocking her way to the bathroom.
“What if you use drugs?”
Of course, I was fucking with her.
Tilting a thick eyebrow, she said, “Then at least one of us would be in a good mood. Move out of the way, assface.”
I didn’t budge.
She stared at me, wide-eyed and exasperated. The plane hummed as it charged through the sky. People around us napped or worked on their laptops.
“Random,” she said slowly,again with this stupid nickname. “I need to go number two.”
She let the words settle between us and I decided I was going with her to the bathroom, after all. I did not believe her for half a second. Not even a quarter. And I’d force her to call my bluff.
“I cannot afford to take my eyes off you,” I said shortly.
“Wow. That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever told me, and it’s coming from a guy I would likely stab if I could guarantee there wouldn’t be any criminal repercussions,” she bristled.
I almost let loose a smile.Almost. I had to admit, even though she was a royal pain in the ass, and likely the most self-centered person I’d ever met, she was mildly entertaining.
“Move it, or your bladder will burst with all that wine,” I barked.
She rolled her eyes but charged forward, muttering profanities all the way there. She didn’t put up a fight, and in doing so I knew she was planning something that would piss me off.
We both entered the tiny lavatory (why were they always the size of a matchbox?) and Brat got to business immediately, pulling her pink, studded sweatpants down and squatting in an angle toward the toilet seat, without actually touching it with her thighs.
I turned around to give her some privacy. I was an asshole, not a creeper.
“So, tell me,” she started, a solid stream of pee as our musical background. “Do men pay less attention when they pee in public places? Like, do you care less about aiming when you’re on an airplane?”
“I’ve always been a good shot.” Both with my dick and pistol.