His lips kick up at the corners, his presence like a thick fog of euphoria settling over me. “Whip cream and champagne.”
I jerk my elbow, smacking his in the process. “Ugh, you’re the worst.”
Low laughter shakes his chest but barely pushes past his lips. He looks bored to death sitting here, swirling the remnants in his glass. But then he raises a mischievous eyebrow. “Want details?”
My stomach flips and flops like I’m on a roller-coaster ride on the rise, waiting for the fall. “Does it involve me drowning you in the champagne?”
“More like you choking on my—”
Without thinking, I slap my hand over his mouth. “That’s enough.” And then I remove it just as quickly when I realize I’m touching him and shouldn’t be. Across from us, Cruz and Bella are staring.
Sinking back into my seat, I lift my drink to my lips, fighting the urge to lick my hand because it touched his mouth. Like it or not, Revel evokes a physical reaction inside me. The idea that he takes what he wants, and that might include me, makes me feel desired and wanted.
Can this flight get any worse? Or better? He’s sitting next to me and not saying anything rude? Well, that could be debatable. He is talking about me giving him a blow job. At least I think that’s what he’s referring to. Maybe it’s something else? Stop. Thinking.
Laughing nervously, my eyes skim his face as a dash of panic washes over me.
Revel leans his head back against the seat and laughs. I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s the first time I’ve ever heard the sound. Who knew he was capable of it?
Revel leans in again, our arms touching. “You hate me?” he whispers harshly in my ear. “I wish I hated you because this shit”—he gestures with a flick of his wrist toward me—“it’s killing me.”
I look at him like he’s lost his mind. “What are you talking about?”
His throaty gruff laughter fills the space between us, and without missing a beat, he says, “I think you know,” winking at me playfully.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Feeling rebellious, I take a drink of the clear liquid he gave me. Turns out it’s vodka, and I’m not sure, but it could have something crushed up inside it. What if he’s poisoning me? Have you heard that saying ‘he’s poison and I’d still drink from the cup’? That’s my logic. Stupid scary, huh?
My eyes stare, my mouth tightens, refusing to give up. Some would say I’m being ridiculous, fighting for something I shouldn’t be, but I’m as stubborn as they come. “Whyare you sitting here?”
His jaw clenches ever so slightly. His gaze is long and hard, and even though I want to look away, I can’t. He’s rough and ruthless and interests me. “I find you fascinating.”
“Why?” I don’t know which one of us looks away first, but my eyes are suddenly on the pamphlet in front of me, outlining the water landing protocol. I wonder if they make a pamphlet on how to survive Revel Slade. If they do, I totally need that. It needs to be more like a journal so you can document it and give it to others who dare to be in his presence.
After clearing his throat, he finally speaks, his provocative throaty voice dancing over my skin. “Because perfection doesn’t exist.” He half scoffs. “But for some reason, you seem to bleed it.”
He keeps going back to how perfect my life is to him. If only he knew the truth. That I hate my life most days. I play the part because I have to. I’d come to terms with the fact that maybe my life would always be that way, until him. Until this rock god entered my life when I was barely old enough to understand his digs at me. And now that I do, I’m not sure how to change it other than with this tour. But still, how can he say that my life is perfect? “You don’t make any sense.”
Revel shifts in his seat. Leaning into me, he dips his chin down, a spiteful sneer on his face. Our forearms touch and I’d be lying if I said my heart and cheeks didn’t react. His lips pull back into a flat line. “Did you love Prince Charming?”
At first, I say nothing, bringing the glass to my lips, taking the smallest of sips, the bloom in my face deepening. The hairs on my arms stand on end. I never imagined having this conversation with him, and honestly, he doesn’t deserve to have it with me, but what the hell? Maybe if I answer his stupid questions, he’ll leave me alone. “I did. I thought we’d get married.” I don’t know if it’s the alcohol, the drugs I may have ingested or the fact that he’s asking what no one’s cared enough to ask about Breckin, but I feel the urge to know. “Did you loveher?”
I stare at his full lips. God, he’s beautiful. Harsh yet defined ruggedness and nothing at all like Breckin.
“True love doesn’t exist, Red.” His expression gets serious, and he holds my gaze for a long beat, strong and confident, and I imagine what it’d be like to be held by him. How the air would leave my lungs, my body turning to goo and the way I would curve into his like it belonged to him. His thumb brushes his bottom lip when he says, “It’s not fate or chance.”
“What is it then?”
His gaze falters just long enough for me to see his weakness. He downs the remainder of his drink. “Fuck if I know,” he states, his eyes teasing. I chuckle and glance away.
About the time I’m thinking he’s going to leave me alone, he pulls out his phone with his earbuds attached. Swiping his finger across the screen, he taps a few buttons and then places one of the earbuds in my ear.
My heart pounds before the words of Keith Urban’s “Blue Ain’t Your Color” pours through the speakers.
“You listen to country?”
There’s a shrug, followed by a careful exhale. “I suppose,” he says with amusement dancing in his eyes. Turning my head, I stare at the window, watch the darkness blur listening to a song describing a sad girl who deserves better. I pick songs apart. Constantly. I want to know what the writer was feeling the exact moment they poured their heart onto paper and put chords to it.
When the song is over, I hand the earbud back to him. We talk more, it’s easy and simple, and so unlike any interaction we’ve had so far.
