Page 106 of Shade
Roan, who’d been right beside us, somehow has a cup of coffee in hand and I want to take it. But I don’t. His questioning eyes dart from mine to Shade’s. “What’s wrong?”
“Tiller’s gone,” I mumble, feeling like I’ve fucked everything up.
“Who fucking cares about Tiller. My goddamn helmet is gone,” he snaps, his voice belligerent.
Okay, I can do this. I can take control and manage to do this. It takes me a moment, but I formulate a plan of action. “Go find Tiller. I’ll go check on your bag.”
Do you think they go find him?
Once again, you’d be wrong. They sit down and stare at their motherfucking phones. I swear they’re all addicted to them.
I find a customer service desk for the airlines in search of Shade’s bag where they tell me it went to India. Fucking India. Shade doesn’t take it well.
He stares at me. “Where is it?”
“Your bag went to India,” I tell him, right away. “They’ll ship it back to LA.”
Naturally, he jumps to his feet as though he’s on fire. He is. With anger. “That’s just fucking great! Now what the hell am I going to do? My helmet was in there.”
“Chill out, man.” Roan groans. “You can borrow one for the event tomorrow. I’m sure Reece has a spare with him.”
Shade knocks his coffee out of his hand and to the ground. “Go fuck yourself. When you lost your helmet in Barcelona, you didn’t talk to Tiller for a week.”
Roan stares at his coffee that’s now a puddle on the floor, then raises his unamused eyes to his younger brother. “I didn’t lose that helmet. Tiller stole it and pissed in the fucker.”
I’m surprised Roan didn’t blow up on Shade for spilling his coffee. If he would have knocked my coffee out of my hand, I probably would have ripped his dick piercing out with plyers.
“Whatever,” Shade mumbles, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest. “This is fucking stupid. Fine, I’ll borrow one. Why are we still standing here?”
Awesome. The sooner we get to the hotel, the sooner I can sleep. But then I realize Tiller’s still gone. He’s like a motherfucking ninja disappearing all the time.
“Where’s Tiller?” I dare to ask, feeling about as useless as can be.
“Who fucking cares at this point?” Shade adds, acting like a spoiled brat. “Leave him.”
If he wasn’t so adorable mad, I’d smack him. Look at him, he’s actually pouting over this. I get that he’s pissed off. I’m beginning to understand this helmet means something to him.
“You two don’t move. . . just keep staring at your phones,” I order, knowing my directions mean absolutely nothing to them. At this point, I’m tempted to say fuck it and lose the shits. I could totally stay here forever and start a whole new life in Paris.
Let me ask you something. Where do you think I find Tiller in an airport?
My guesses are the bar, which I check every single one of them we passed from the gate to baggage claim, or the bathroom.
Where I find him in a stall with a bartender. So apparently he started in a bar, then found a bathroom to fuck her in.
I literally kick the door open, and I’m not exactly sure what has their eyes widened more. My hair, or the fact that I kicked the door in wearing flip-flops.
Tiller laughs, winking at me. “Damn, you’re a little late to the party, Northwest. We could have had a threesome.”
I grab him by the shirt and yank him out. “Get the fuck out of here.” I glance at the girl, who strangely looks like a French maid on duty, then back to Tiller. “Come on, we have to go fill your antibiotics.”
He zips his pants and slings an arm around me. “The meaner you are to me, the hotter you are.”
