I reach for the phone. “Text me the address. Every detail you have.”
“She’s holding on. Just… don’t be late.”
The phone beeps, ending the call.
I turn to face them, my blood buzzing. “Pack your shit,” I say, looking between them. “We’re leaving on the next flight to Los Angeles.”
Reed nods immediately.
Maverick raises a brow. “This it?”
“This is it,” I grit out. “We’re getting her back.”
Maverick smirks, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. “Fuck yesssss, I already bought the tickets, fuckers.”
He throws down the tangled lights like they’re yesterday’s problem, clapping his hands together. “Alright, bitches, let’s ruin a wedding.”
I fucking hate airports.
There’s something about the musty environment, the recycled air, and the forced politeness of strangers dragging their luggage across cold tile that makes my fucking skin itch. I’m trapped at gate B22, with nothing but my thoughts and a gnawing fury that won’t quit.
She’s out there, somewhere behind estate gates and designer curtains. She’s alone and fucking isolated as she’s being prepped like a pawn for a man she didn’t choose, in a life that never asked what she wanted.
I’m stuck here, watching a fucking boarding screen cycle through delay notices while I burn alive from the inside out. I scrub a hand down my face, dragging it through my hair, as I press my fingers into the back of my neck to keep from exploding.
My other hand balls into a fist against my thigh, a pulse hammering in my temple with every beat.
“Dude,” Maverick’s voice cuts through the fog behind me, “you’ve circled that trash can six times. You flirting with it, or what?”
I glance back.
He’s grinning, duffel bag over his shoulder, backwards cap flipped like we’re headed to a game of his instead of saving the love of my fucking life. Reed trails behind him, silent and watchful as always.
“Don’t fucking talk to me,” I mutter, turning away.
Maverick laughs. “Jesus, you’re grumpier than usual. This must be love.”
“It is love,” I growl. “She’s locked in a mansion with a psychopath and a father who treats her like shit.”
“Fair.” He shrugs, then drops into a seat nearby. “Can you at least stop walking like you’re about to choke the next old lady who rolls past with a suitcase?”
I ignore him. My eyes stay fixed on the terminal door. The second that gate opens, I’m gone.
“You think she’s okay?” Reed asks quietly.
I pause. Swallow hard. “No,” I say honestly.
I’m pacing again. Back and forth in front of gate B22, my boots land hard on the tile with every step. I recheck the departure board—for the sixth time in ten minutes.
FLIGHT TO LAX – DELAYED. ESTIMATED DEPARTURE: 3:45 PM.
Fuck.
catalina
. . .
The room reeks of roses and hairspray. Too much of both. Artificial sweetness and chemicals thick enough to choke on. It clings to the back of my throat, coating my tongue like poison.
