Page 105 of Shade
Once we land in Paris, we exit the plane and we’re together. Take note because, in a minute, it’s about to change.
I’ve never been more exhausted in my life. And that includes the time I drove from Seattle to the Gorge to see Dave Matthews, partied all weekend without sleep, and then drove back. I think I calculated it a few days later and I had been up for twenty-nine hours without sleep.
Just so you know, I like sleep. It’s actually a hobby of mine and when I don’t get it, I get mean.
Do you see me there? I’m the one with the frizzy as fuck blonde curls, wildly trying to keep them contained underneath my trucker hat.
Do you see Shade? He’s the one with the sunglasses on, again, walking ahead of me, staring at his phone in his hand while looking sexy as hell. Are you watching his ass as he walks like me?
Thought so.
Tiller and Roan are behind me. Or so I think. This will, however, come back to bite me in the ass. Just wait.
So there we are, walking through the airport after a twelve-hour flight, hungry, cranky, and ready for bed. The moment a group of girls—and I say girls because to me they don’t look like women, they look to be jailbait—anyway, the moment they spot Shade, who happens to be on a goddamn billboard they’re standing near for an underwear ad, they surround him.
You can literally see the tension building in his eyes when they swarm him. This isn’t something he enjoys, and until now, I’ve never seen this side. Before today, I was one of those girls thinking seeing Shade Sawyer up close was a dream come true.
The thing is, he’s a real person and they don’t treat him like one.
At the baggage claim, that’s when I realize I don’t know what I’m doing as a personal assistant, as if you thought otherwise at this point.
Shade’s standing next to me and gives an angry nod to the luggage at our feet. My bag, Tiller’s, Roan’s. . . but one black bag isn’t there. “My bag’s gone.”
Do you see the panic on my face? No?
Must be because you can’t see through my hair to find my face. At this point, it looks something similar to Mufasa from theLion King.
“No, it’s here.” I motion around the bags circling around, refusing to believe this is happening. “Just look.”
Shade won’t even look at me. He’s staring at his phone again, and I want to ask him what’s so fucking entertaining on his phone that he can’t look up and actually find his own damn bag. “Nope. Gone.”
Did your blood pressure rise like mine just did? Do you laugh nervously to disguise the internal groan you’re wanting to make like, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me?
I rub my sweaty palms down the front of my jean shorts that are wrinkled beyond belief from sitting on a plane for twelve hours. “What?”
His sunglasses slip intimidatingly down the bridge of his nose, and he shoots me a cold nod. “Do something,assistant.”
I close my eyes drawing in a careful breath, willing myself not to lash out at him. Remember when I was so in love with him and thought he was the best person ever? It’s gone now. I no longer like him.
I’m just kidding, but seriously, what a dick, huh?
“What would I usually do in this situation?” I ask, blinking rapidly.
He begins to pace, his jaw clenching. “I have you for that. Ineedmy bag. It has my helmet in it.”
He probably needs that, doesn’t he?
Nervously, I break out in a sweat, glancing around the airport. That’s when I notice that one of the three hoodlums is missing. Who do you think?
Yep. Exactly who you think. “Where’s Tiller?”
“I’m not his babysitter,” Shade growls, refusing to look at me. He could be looking at me, but I wouldn’t know because despite us being in an airport, he’s hiding behind his black lenses.
“He was just here a minute ago.”
“Focus, my bag!” Shade shouts, startling me when he kicks over Tiller’s bag beside him. “My helmet is gone, and if I don’t have it, I’m not competing. It’s my lucky helmet.”
I know enough about Shade, through research—stalking—his helmets are important to him. This is a bad thing.
