Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Since I wanted to arrive in New York in good enough shape to take care of a toddler, I had to pace myself and drive at a reasonable speed to avoid veering off to the next planet. That added forty minutes onto my journey to the private airport. Once I got there, I found out my phone network was still down in the majority of the Dallas-Fort Worth area due to the weather.
I cursed in seven languages, even though I was only fluent in one, and asked a random airport worker for his phone to call Dylan. Her phone went straight to voicemail. I checked the time. She was due to leave for the concert in two hours. I was failing her.
But I still wanted to get there as soon as possible so I could grovel into the next lifetime.
“Mind if I text my girlfriend?” I held the guy’s phone in a death grip. By the look on his face, he minded very fucking much.
“Actually…” He was rubbing the back of his head, thinking of a plausible excuse, when I saw Tate’s onyx-black private jet rolling across the tarmac.
I chucked his phone back into his hands, already walking in that direction. “Never mind. Keep your iPhone 13, cheapo.”
“Hey!” he called after me. “It’s called vintage, okay?”
I practically ran across the tarmac like a madman. I forgot my suitcase in the Ram I discarded in the parking area of the airport. I had a one-track mind, and it was to get there as fast as I could.
Leaping onto the plane, I took the steps two at a time, foaming at the mouth when I walked inside. There was a landline phone there, and I immediately tried to use it before realizing it wasn’t working.
Two Blackthorn Company flight attendants and a pilot greeted me at the door.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Coltridge. It is a pleasure to have you—”
“Yeah, yeah, just floor it.” I collapsed onto the couch, staring blankly at my phone and waiting for the signal to return. This was what it felt like to live in the Middle Ages, I assumed.
I keeled over with my elbows on my knees and gripped the back of my head.
I wasn’t going to make it.
I was going to disappoint the only woman I’d ever wanted to impress.
All while trying my hardest not to.
The plane took off, and I spent the majority of the time pacing from wall to wall, waiting for my signal to return. According to one of the flight attendants who’d arrived here from New York, the signal should be restored in about forty minutes. I waited with bated breath. And when the signal finally returned, I immediately called Dylan.
She didn’t answer. I called again. Nothing. I started sending her text messages.
Rhyland: I’m sorry I missed the show. I can explain.
Rhyland: There was a tornado.
Rhyland: I drove inside it for two hours to get to a private airport.
Rhyland: I sold Tate 25% of my company so he’d lend me his plane to get to you on time.
Rhyland: I will never, ever, EVER disappoint you again.
Rhyland: I love y
My phone died.
And I didn’t have my charger, since I’d discarded my suitcase in the Ram.
With a howl of frustration, I hurled the phone at the wall. It shattered on the floor, splitting into all the small pieces that made it work.
Great fucking going, idiot.
Suddenly, I was claustrophobic.
I wanted out of here. To claw my way out of this flying airplane, to hurl myself into sure death, to run away from my own consciousness to avoid the consequences of what just happened here.
Losing the deal with Bruce Marshall would’ve been disastrous.
But losing Dylan was un-fucking-fathomable.
I couldn’t allow it. Wouldn’t. I would do anything I needed to regain her trust.
But trust was an abstract idea; it wasn’t wealth, fashionable clothes, or an expensive vacation. Unlike materialistic things, it wasn’t something you could accumulate once you’d lost it.
“Sir?” One of the flight attendants put a tentative hand on my shoulder.
I stared at her, unblinking. Her gawk shifted from my shattered phone back to me.
“Is…is there anything I can get you? A drink? Something to eat? A blanket?” A fucking Valium? I was sure the words were on the tip of her tongue.
“Your phone.” My baritone was so low it sounded like it was emerging from the depths of hell.
“E-excuse me?”
I uncurled my fingers, opening my palm in her direction. I suddenly understood with sharp clarity why Tate was as ruthless as he was. When you wanted something—really wanted something—you stopped at nothing to get it. “Phone. Here. Now.”
“I…” She stumbled back, her spine hitting the wall. Her eyes kept skirting from my broken phone to me.
“I’ll get you fired if you don’t,” I warned evenly. “I’ve done it before. Ask your boss.”
She flinched before withdrawing her phone from the pocket of her uniform, slowly placing it in my hand.