Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 64702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
“You won’t mind giving up the window seat then, I guess,” he comments dryly.
He’s really such a bastard. A lying, arrogant bastard. A fool, too, if he thinks he’ll be using my father for his own good. No one gets anything over on that man. They might think they are, but they always end up playing his game, his way.
Brock flags a bellman and hands him a bill. “We need a cab ASAP.” He shifts his attention back to me and motions me forward. “Shall we?”
We exit the hotel and claim a post by the cab line, at which point Brock inspects me with a glint of suspicion. “Weren’t you after pain medication when you went out so late last night?” he inquires, setting a duffel bag on the ground. You can take the honor out of a soldier, but never strip him of his duffel bag. Even ex-soldiers and jerks like Brock love their duffels.
“Could have sworn I said toothbrush,” I say, casting him a sideways look and offering nothing more, remembering my father’s frequent warning over most of my life. Your words can be the enemy’s weapons. In short, keep my mouth shut more often than not.
Well-timed, the cab pulls up in front of us, saving me from his further prodding, and I quickly scoot into the backseat and as far to the opposite side as possible. If Brock dares to sit too close to me, I might just use my foot as a weapon.
Thankfully, he smartly maintains his distance and spends the duration of the ride talking on his cell phone—to my father, of all people. Meanwhile, my stomach rages the entire trip.
Minutes later, standing at the curbside airline desk, there’s a clawing sensation in my belly I can’t dismiss. I swallow against the bitter taste in my mouth, willing myself to just push through it. There’s no time for this. Not now.
Inside the airport, it’s game time, and I quickly step into the security line that Creed had designated for the laptop switch.
“That one is shorter,” Brock argues over my line choice, pointing to the next line over.
“This one is closer to the restroom,” I counter, and with a grimace, Brock thankfully follows my lead.
Soon, I’m tossing my shoes in the plastic tray on the conveyor and then setting my computer in one as well. Beside me, Brock does the same thing. Nerves churn in my stomach as I shove my sunglasses into my purse, my gaze downturned as I worry about what color my eyes might display.
I pass through the metal detector without challenge, but behind me, Brock sets it off with a loud buzz. He grumbles, checking his pockets as I move forward, retrieve my sunglasses, and slip them into place. The female security guard behind the conveyor shoots me a weird look.
“Migraine,” I explain, as the buzzer on the metal detector goes off again for Brock.
“Wand check!” yells a guard.
“Oh, hell,” Brock complains rather loudly. “I’m Army. We protect the nation, not blow it up.”
“Sir,” the guard chides. “I don’t make the rules. I just follow them. Please step to the side.” The man walks to the plastic trays and motions toward Brock’s computer and bag. “Is this yours?”
“Yes,” Brock confirms grumpily. “Now, can we get on with this?”
The male guard picks up Brock’s bag, and as is set-up by Creed, with a quick shift of his body to block the view, snags my computer rather than Brock’s. Adrenaline rushes through me as I toe on my shoes and then stuff Brock’s computer, rather than my own, into my bag and zip it closed.
Shoving my purse and briefcase over my shoulder, I turn to find Brock’s back to me, his arms outstretched as he endures the wand inspection. No doubt this would be when the guard would place my computer inside his bag so he wouldn’t know there was a mix-up.
“I’ll meet you at the gate, Brock,” I call out. “I’m going to the restroom.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says as the wand buzzes near his knee, indicating a need for further inspection. “You have got to be kidding!” he grumbles.
“Please raise your pants leg, sir,” the guard orders.
I don’t wait to hear more. I’m already rushing toward the bathroom sign, unzipping my purse as I do, and retrieve the hard drive. Twelve minutes. I only need twelve eternal minutes.
Rounding the corner of the restroom, there are rows of stalls, and I head to the furthest corner and lock myself behind the door marked handicapped. I’m so freaking sick, it’s ridiculous, but I hold it together, shoving the baby changer down and removing the computer from the bag. Somehow, I manage to get the drive working on the download before I hang over the toilet and dry heave.
Thank God, and by some miracle, the toilet and floor appear clean. My empty stomach wrenches in hard spasms, and it feels as if my insides are being ripped out. Finally, finally, the nausea subsides.