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5
MADDIE
I feellike I blink and we're at a small private airstrip tucked conveniently off of the road on the way back to the city. Private planes aren't new to me, but helicopters are. And so are five-foot-seven pilots with strawberry blond updo’s, dressed in slinky white evening gowns. That's definitely a first for me.
Butterflies take flight in my stomach, following our ascent into the air, rioting at the absurdity of what I’m doing right now. My hands are clammy with fear, my right leg bouncing up and down in quick, small movements.
Aries settles his hand on my leg, the heat from his palm seeping through the fabric of my dress. His fingertips sneak underneath the slit in my skirt and softly brush across the sensitive skin of my bare thigh.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
The butterflies in my stomach start to swarm for an entirely different reason. Goosebumps crawl across my skin with his touch, and suddenly, my nerves melt to the background as anticipation tastes thick on my tongue.
Protective headsets rest over our ears, hindering conversation, but when he taps my thigh twice with his index finger, I arch a brow in his direction. He settles his palm more firmly on my thigh, gripping it instead of resting against it, holding my gaze the entire time.
I’ve got you, his eyes say.
I bite the inside of my cheek and nod twice. I trust you, I say back.
We stay like that, staring at one another with his hand on my thigh and my hands wrapped around his arm until my stomach dips as we descend back to land.
We weren’t even in the air that long, but his presence soothed my already fried nerves, making the short trip much more bearable.
The exterior door opens, and Aries immediately grabs my hand, barely leaving me with enough time to remove the headset. He nods at Fiona but doesn't offer any words as he hustles us down the stairs, across the tarmac, and into a side door.
It’s a small airport, and more private planes than commercial ones sit taxied up to jet bridges. I’m not sure what to expect, but I feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Cool air that smells like roasted coffee beans and hand sanitizer rolls over us as we walk down a terminal. The staccato of my heels echoes as I feel eyes linger on the two of us. Paranoia itches underneath my skin, but I shake it off quickly.
“People are staring at us.”
He glances at me, his mouth pulled into a half smile. “You’re gorgeous in borrowed, oversized tees. But in this? You’re breathtaking.” His smile slips from his perfect mouth as his gaze smolders. “Let them look. They can’t have you. No one can.”
I don't know if it's motion sickness from the quick ascent and descent or just the events of the last however many hours it's been or Aries’ words, but nausea churns low in my belly. I cling to Aries’s hand as sweat dampens my brow. We weave in and out of people through the surprisingly crowded terminal. I expected less travelers at this time of night, but there must be some red eye flights.
“You good, Raven?”
I glance from the polished floor to Aries’s face and nod, a couple of quick motions of my head. “Yeah, I just think I need to use the restroom.”
He glances at his watch before he wordlessly guides us to the nearest restroom up ahead. A few feet away, he pulls his phone from his pocket and slows his pace until he stops altogether. A white glow illuminates his face as he reads whatever it is on his screen. “Fuck.”
“What’s wrong?”
He darkens his phone before he slips it back into his pocket. “They’re running a little late. It’s fine. We’ll grab something to eat and maybe a change of clothes while we wait.”
A wry smile tips up the corners of my mouth. “What happened to let them look?”
“That was before I remembered I don’t want anyone else’s eyes on you like this.”
I smooth my palm down my hip, marveling at the softness of the fabric. “Like what? We give off quite the white wedding vibe right now.”
He smiles, flashing me a peek of genuine joy on his face. “Yeah, yeah, just call me Billy Idol. I’ll be right here, yeah?” I leave him at the entrance with his head held high, an open challenge to anyone who might look at him the wrong way.
I splash some water on my face and run a damp paper towel along the back of my neck. My reflection stares back at me, and while I look mostly the same, I don’t feel the same. I’m not sure how to marry the idea of the person I thought I was to the person I’m turning into.
Murderer.
My subconscious whispers the accusation, the cruel word coated in sin and shame. It feels harsh and I force myself to hold my own gaze, to look into the eyes of someone who did what she had to do to survive.
And when the dust settles, will I look at myself differently even then? Will they?
