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“Wait, I can get into the cockpit?”
“This is not a commercial flight. We don’t even have cockpit doors.”
I look down at where he is pointing. I can just about make out the control panel and a tanned arm, but that’s all. “I didn’t realize that was a thing. After 9-11, I thought all cockpits were locked up tight.”
“On commercial flights, they are. And they should be. But it’s different on smaller planes like this. Are you gonna be okay now?”
“I think so.”
“Well, just yell if you need me.”
I smile and tug my hand free. When he stands and heads toward the cockpit, I stand too, making my way back toward the shower. I step inside the room, and my breathing picks up a little, but having the door wide open helps a lot. I peek my head back out and see the back of Oz as he disappears into the cockpit with his brother.
“Okay, Salem. You can do this.”
I turn on the shower and strip out of the dirty clothes while the water gets warm. I tug open the cabinets above the sink and find a few unopened toothbrushes and tubes of toothpaste, as well as full-sized bottles of shampoos, conditioners, and shower gels. I take out what I need and move to the next cabinet, where I find a razor, some shaving foam, and some over-the-counter painkillers. I take the razor and shaving foam before opening the last cabinet under the sink. In there, I find some trash bags, a few bottles of sunscreen, a couple of boxes of tampons, which makes me pause, and some baby wipes.
Shrugging it off, I take my haul and climb into the shower. The water pressure is almost nonexistent, and yet I swear it’s the best shower I’ve ever had in my life.
I don’t know how long I stay in there, but it’s exactly what I needed to feel more like myself. I shave my legs, armpits, and bikini line and scrub my body until it’s pink and the water runs clear. I wash and condition my hair three times, and I finally feel clean.
When I climb out, I wrap a towel around myself and toss all my clothes into one of the trash bags. There is no way I’ll ever wear them again. I brush my teeth and run my fingers through my hair to untangle it before I peek out the door again.
When the coast is clear, I hurry into the bedroom and stop when I see a pair of men’s boxer shorts laid out on the bed, a large black T-shirt that will most likely go to my knees, and a pair of white socks. I’m not going to win any glamour awards, but when I pick them up and smell the fresh scent of laundry detergent, I have to fight back tears.
Obviously, I’m losing my mind. I shake it off and dry myself before pulling the boxers up my legs. They are too big, but after rolling the waist over a few times, I deem them safe enough to sit on my hips without risk of them falling down. The T-shirt is soft on my skin, and when I slide it over my head, I feel somewhat human again.
On the floor, at the foot of the bed, is a pair of pink running shoes. I sit on the edge of the bed and pull the socks on before slipping the shoes on and lacing them up. They’re a little big, but better than running around barefoot.
I stand up and smooth out my shirt before looking down at the bed. It looks all kinds of inviting right now, but I know I need to eat something. And despite how gentle the guys have both been with me, I’m still not crazy about sleeping while they’re here. I can’t protect myself when I’m asleep.
I walk toward the front of the plane and hear them talking to each other quietly as I approach. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but they seem agitated, which makes me nervous. They must sense my arrival because they both turn when I’m a foot from the cockpit entrance.
“Hi.”
“Damn, pretty girl. You look good in my shirt.”
There’s a heavy pause before I crack up.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Oz,” Zig growls, but I just shake my head.
“It’s fine. Honestly, it’s nice to be treated normally instead of like I have the plague or I’m broken.”
“You’re not broken,” Zig snaps at me, making me jump.
Oz stops smiling and glares at his brother, who softens his fierce look.
“I don’t like you talking about yourself like that.”
“I… Okay.”
I hover in the doorway, not sure what to say.
“Are you hungry?” Zig asks, his eyes moving over my body in a clinical way, but it still makes me flush.
I nod.
“When was the last time you ate?”
