Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 55599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
The plane’s exterior is impressive, but it’s got nothing on the interior. Legroom? Several feet for every passenger. Leather? Covering every extra-large seat. There are a couple of built-in tables with four seats each, and those were the first ones players took, a card game already in progress at one. A flight attendant in a purple uniform passes out bottled Fiji water.
When we got home last night, Dane went straight to bed. Today, we’ve hardly spoken. He showed me how to use his washing machine and I mentioned on the drive here that I would probably get sick on the flight. That was it.
“Excuse me,” Dane says to the flight attendant, whose nametag identifies her as Janet.
“Yes, Mr. Foster?”
“Can my bodyguard get some barf bags? She gets sick on planes.”
Janet gives me a confused look, probably over the bodyguard thing, and then smiles brightly at Dane. “Of course. We also have Dramamine if that might help.”
“You don’t by any chance have any tranquilizers, do you?” I ask, half joking.
More like thirty percent joking. I hate flying more than just about anything. I hardly slept last night because I kept envisioning dying in a fiery plane crash over this stupid assignment I should have let Monica have.
Janet gives me a sympathetic look. “I’d bring you a drink, but you shouldn’t have alcohol with motion sickness medication. Let me grab that so we can get it in you before takeoff.”
“Thank you.”
Dane slides into a window seat, and I take the seat next to him, clutching my backpack to my chest and resting my head against the seat back, my eyes squeezed shut.
“I take it you don’t fly much?” Dane asks, amused.
“I’ve flown twice and it was awful both times.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve the first time, twenty the second time.”
I swore after the second flight from Minneapolis to Washington, DC, for a class in college that I’d never set foot on a plane again. We hit major turbulence and I was so sick on the flight there that I called my dad and he rented a car for me to drive home.
And now, here I am, not just on an airplane, but on an airplane next to Dane.
“I really like this suit; don’t puke on it,” he says, void of empathy.
I can’t even focus on sparring with him right now. It’s all I can do to breathe in and out.
“Here you go, hon,” Janet says from beside me. “I brought you water and apple juice because sometimes juice helps when people are feeling nauseous.”
She passes me the drinks, a packet of Dramamine and several large white bags.
Even the barf bags are better than the ones on commercial airplanes. I thank Janet and open the bottle of water. Dane tugs on my backpack.
“Stop,” I tell him, holding on to it.
His trademark glare appears. “It has to go under the seat. Let go.”
Reluctantly, I release my hold on the only security blanket I have. A memory pops into my head uninvited: on the flight to DC in college, I sat next to Jack Smallwood, a guy I was interested in. He was interested back until I threw up my bacon-and-egg breakfast in his lap.
The absolute mortification I felt hits me all over again. A flight attendant moved me to another seat so they could clean Jack up, and through my continuous vomiting, I could hear Jack’s disgusted comments about bacon chunks.
“Take the medicine, Nosy,” Dane urges impatiently. “We’re taking off soon.”
I’m dizzy. My heart is racing. I don’t want to endure the humiliation of puking in front of an entire professional hockey team.
“Why is it so hot in here?” I ask weakly.
Dane takes the packet of pills from my hand, tears it open and dumps the pills out.
“Take them,” he orders.
I take the pills, put them in my mouth and chase them with a sip of water, my stomach churning. My hairline is wet with sweat and I don’t even want to think about how pathetic I must look.
Someone cheers loudly from the table where the card game is being played.
“Pay up!” a male voice yells.
“You’re the luckiest son of a bitch I’ve ever known,” someone grumbles.
I lift my head from the back of the seat and a powerful wave of nausea hits. We haven’t even taken off yet, and I’m already sick. Frantically, I open a bag and bring it up to my mouth just in time to hurl into it.
“That’s helpful,” Dane grumbles. “You just puked up the medicine.”
Like I did it on purpose or something. I want to punch him. Right in his smug face.
“Can you not?” I snap as Janet crouches beside me.
“What can I do for you?” she asks, passing me a wet washcloth.
I smile weakly as I take the washcloth and clean my mouth. “I don’t know. I’m hot and dizzy.”