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She’s deeply asleep, her eyes fluttering behind closed lids, so I know she’s dreaming. Or, should I say, dealing with a nightmare.
“I won’t eat the cake. I won’t.” She whimpers the plea, the words all the more impactful because of the softness of her voice.
I’ve had nightmares like that. You could be shouting to the heavens that you didn’t want something in that dream state but, in reality, all you’re doing is moaning and crying and whining.
I’ve done my fair share of that.
When your brother dies and it’s partially your fault, you get handed a lot of bad dreams as a punishment.
Tears fall from behind those closed lashes, and I watch as they roll over her cheeks. Should I wake her? I hesitate until the soft keening sound she releases next has me placing my hand on her knee. Gently, I stroke her thigh then lean over her, chanting her name as I press a kiss to her temple.
She stirs, faster than I expected, and her eyes are drenched when they open.
She might be impulsive and it’s a trait she might believe we share, but some of my impulsiveness is an act to get her ass back to the city. Only, I can’t stop myself from blurting out, “Are you Antoinette?” When Belle freezes, I reach up and tug on a soft blonde curl that’s clinging to her damp forehead. “Or, I guess, is that story you told me actually yours?
“You don’t know me, honey. This is a crazy thing we’re doing together, and I’m all for that—carpe diem, you get me? But that’s the best part. We can share shit because opening up to a stranger is easy as hell.”
Belle surprises me by snagging the whiskey glass from my grip and placing it to her lips. “I’ll tell if you tell.” When she sinks back a finger of the good stuff without a cough, I know this isn’t her first time with hard liquor.
Still, that childish deal of hers has my lips quirking at the corners. “On a level of one, trauma, and ten, a day at Disney, how bad is the story we’re sharing?”
Her pupils dilate. “Bad. One.”
Slowly, I nod. “Okay. One.”
I release a breath, reach for my glass again, sink the last gulp back, then hit the button to call the flight attendant over. I don’t start speaking until I’ve asked for two more glasses and we’ve got them sitting on the trays in front of us.
“Are you scared?” she whispers.
I cast her a surprised glance. “Of what I’m about to tell you? No. Ashamed, yes.” Sucking in a breath, I confess, “My brother and I used to joyride when we were younger. We’d jack cars and drive around our neighborhood. At first. Then, we started getting cocky. Too fucking cocky for our own good.” I sip at the whiskey when I want nothing more than to drown in it. “I liked breaking into the alarms, especially of the top-end rides, but Vinny loved street racing. We used to egg each other on. It was dumb. So fucking dumb.”
Her voice is a whisper. “He died during a race?”
“He did. The car burst into flames when he crashed into the side of a building.” I can still see the blaze when I close my eyes.
The heat is as raging as the grief I feel at his loss.
I figure it’ll be eternal.
Pretty fitting considering I’m Catholic.
“You blame yourself?”
“How can I not? He was only using that car because I’d cracked the alarm.” My fingers tighten around the glass. “I as good as killed him.”
“He didn’t have to race that day,” she points out softly, her gaze downturned.
“Vinny and me,” I mutter, “we were too alike. My older brother—”
“Lucas, right?”
I blink. “You remember that?”
She shrugs. “Sure.”
“Well, Lucas is the good son. He’s the eldest and he always does everything right and never misbehaves and always got great grades. Our, I mean his, boss”—Jesus, I almost fucked up there—“trusts him with shit he trusts no one else with. He’s responsible. It’s how he is.”
“Sounds like a stick-in-the-mud,” she mumbles, making me snicker.
