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Not that it matters, my subconscious reminded me, pulling up an image of O’Keefe’s snarling face.
If he had his way—and at the moment, I had no idea how he wasn’t going to get it—all the planes in the room would belong to him. I should just take a crow bar to all of them and tear them down to nuts and bolts and scrap metal.
Then again, that was likely what O’Keefe was going to do with them anyway. No need to give him a head start. A memory tugged at me, back from the day he and Talia had come to the museum. As we’d gone around the museum, O’Keefe had displayed at least above average knowledge of planes. Perhaps his whole aviation interest wasn’t pure bullshit. Maybe there was hope the aircraft would end up with proper homes, displayed like the beauties they were.
I could only hope.
I shook the depressing thoughts as far from my mind as I could manage, locking them down in a far corner, and turned my attention to getting in a good day of work. It was likely the therapy I needed to get myself back together again.
My plan quickly went south.
Working on the plane was more challenging than I’d anticipated. With only one good hand and the fingertips on the other hand as they stuck out from my cast, it was nearly impossible to get anything done. At least, not in a hurry.
Not to mention the part where anytime I twisted or contorted, my body left me gasping for breath from the sharp stab of pain in my side as the stitches pulled tight.
When the screw in my hand slipped for the third time, I lost it.
“Fuck!” I roared, screaming so loud my lungs burned. I channeled my voice into action, chucking the wrench in my hand so hard it banged into the opposite wall with a loud, pinging, thud of metal on concrete.
I raked my hand through my hair as the sound echoed and died. My eyes burned but I wouldn’t release the hot tears that sprung up.
Instead, I stalked back to the light switch, smashed my hand against the row of switches and watched the room get swallowed back up by darkness. I was done with the museum for the day. Between the angry horde outside, the red canceled signs on the schedule, and the empty, echoing showroom, I was over it.
I sneaked out the side door, locking it behind me, and crossed over to the house, hustling as much as I could to avoid detection by the protesters.
I wondered if O’Keefe paid them extra if they managed to get me on film. I snorted at the idea. God only knew what O’Keefe had paid them to picket the museum. He was a dangerous man with seemingly endless resources.
It was a real shame that his specialty was fucking shit up.
I bypassed the house and went into the free standing garage my father had built with his own hands as an addition several years ago. Inside, I climbed into my old Army Jeep that I’d rehabbed and tinkled the keys around on my master key ring until I found the right one. I jammed it into the ignition with the lingering frustration that I hadn’t worked out in the garage and fired up the engine. The familiar hum settled over me, and to my surprise, I felt my heart rate slow and even out.
I sat there for a long time, staring blankly over the dash, out at the long driveway. I hadn’t driven since the crash, and although it was vastly different than a cockpit of a plane, I found myself frozen in place. I mentally cussed myself out, my mind screaming at me to push the shifter into gear and move. I knew that staying still wasn’t going to help, but it didn’t matter.
I was locked.
Trapped inside my own tortured mind.
As my fingers reached for the keys, ready to admit defeat, go inside, take meds, and pass out, my phone buzzed from inside my jeans pocket. I fished it out and saw an unlisted number flash on the screen. “You can go fuck yourself, O’Keefe,” I muttered, silencing the call. “I have two and a half more days until I have to deal with you.”
I pushed the phone back in my pocket and killed the ignition. A new buzz alerted me and I pulled the phone back out.
Whoever it was had left a voicemail.
I dialed in and pressed the phone to my ear. “Hey, Aaron, it’s Gemma…from the hospital.” I smiled at the sound of her voice and the way she reminded me who she was. Like I could forget. “I was hoping to catch you. I’m going to that place you recommended. Harley’s? No, Harvey’s. Yeah. That was it. Anyway…uhm…I just wanted to see if maybe we could get a drink or share a basket of wings. Call me back.”
