Page 21 of Done with You

“I don’t want to kill her. I mean, I don’t like her. But I don’t want to kill her. I’m a cop, dude. One of the good guys.”

“And yet you two don’t get along. Something is off here. I can feel it.”

Yeah, Aiden could feel that something was off, too, and it was this melodramatic man in the baggy brown pants and freshly waxed skull.

“Even cops can have people they don’t get along with. Doesn’t mean they want to kill them,” Aiden protested. “We are human.”

This man was off his freaking rocker. He was going to get the whole plane grounded, maybe even get Aiden thrown off the flight.

“Sir,” Oona said, her voice cold but calm. “I’m a trauma therapist, and can assure you there is nothing to worry about. The other passenger and I may not see eye-to-eye, but there is no bad energy that will cause the plane to crash.”

The bald guy’s eyes went even bigger. “CRASH!”

People around them groaned.

“I’ll switch seats with the little guy if it’ll shut him up and get us in the air,” came a deep voice from the back.

The balding man’s expression lit up and he started to nod vigorously.

“But no middle seat. I want the aisle,” the guy said. “Too big for the middle seat.” And he wasn’t lying. When he stood up from his aisle seat closer to the bathroom, he revealed that he not only had height, but also breadth. No way could he cram his telephone pole legs and linebacker shoulders into a middle seat, and they were in the emergency exit row, too, since Aiden needed space for his legs, as well.

“Thank you,” the flight attendant said to the man who lumbered forward, then patted the balding guy on the head as he waited for Oona—who was glaring at Aiden like she did want to kill him—to move over to the middle seat.

Once the behemoth white knight from 32F took his seat and buckled up, all the passengers settled down. The guy had no hair—but it wasn’t like the previous man. This guy was completely bald and it looked like he preferred it that way. The back of his skull had those weird folds, too. He was probably in his mid-forties and had a dark scruff covering his angular jaw and chin. He turned to face Aiden and Oona. “Let’s have a smooth flight, hmm?”

Oona nodded. “Wouldn’t dream of anything else.”

Aiden merely jerked his chin at the dude, then turned to Oona, bringing his voice down to a whisper. “Why the fuck are you going to Vancouver?”

“To visit my sister,” she said, matching his hushed volume, her brown eyes hard and angry. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

He could see the curiosity burning in her gaze to know why he was going west, as well. But too fucking bad, he wasn’t going to satisfy this little split-personality kitten’s nosiness. All he did was go, “Huh.” Then he turned up the volume on his audiobook again, pulled his hood back over his head, and faced away from her.

She was just another passenger on this plane. He could ignore her like he would ignore the rest of them.

Only, he hadn’t had his tongue between any other passengers’ legs for the better part of a night, didn’t know the noises any of the other passengers made when they came, and sure as hell hadn’t had any of the other passengers’ lips wrapped around his cock.

So ignoring her wasn’t as easy as he thought it was going to be.

Particularly since whatever the fuck shampoo she used was driving his senses wild. Something floral, but with a nutty undertone. Almond, maybe?

Then there was the fucking arm rest.

Yes, he knew that the rule for air travel was that the middle person got both middle arm rests, but she seemed content giving the other one to the big dude on the aisle, and because of the man’s size, Oona was forced to lean a little toward Aiden—for the entire flight. Their arms and hands brushed more than once, which only made his entire body erupt into fresh flames.

Then, when the flight attendants came through with their drink carts and she ordered a ginger ale—what he was also going to order—he felt compelled to order something else and stupidly said, “Tomato juice,” before he could come up with something better. And honestly, anything would have been better than that metallic-tasting, thick, cold soup that resembled blood. Blech.

He also normally never pissed when he flew. He kept his liquid consumption to a minimum and just blocked out the world for the entire flight.

But fuck him and his bladder, because about two hours into the flight, he was going to fucking burst if he didn’t do something about it.

Pausing the audiobook, he pushed his hood off his head and put up his tray table, then glanced over only to find Oona gone and the bald monster in the aisle seat snoring.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Swallowing, he reached over and gently tapped the man’s shoulder.

It was made of goddamn titanium.

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