Page 19 of Renegade Ruin

WILLOW

This cabin isn’t big enough for both of us.

Between the panic slithering under my skin, making every breath stick in my chest, and Bishop’s continuous glares from where he’s sulking on the other side of the aisle, I’m seconds away from suffocating.

I’ve always hated flying. Something about being twenty thousand feet in the air, in a tiny metal cylinder, doesn’t sit well with me. I used to cling to the knowledge that aircrafts were statistically the safest mode of transportation. It’s what got me through every flight, but now that I know exactly hownotsafe they can be, there’s no rationalizing. Every bump, every sound has me wondering if this is it. Is this the moment we’re going to meet the same fate as my father?

Bishop lets out a sigh and gets up from his seat…again. I do my best not to peek out of the corner of my eye and notice the way the denim of his jeans hug his muscular thighs or where his long sleeve green Henley hits his wrists, giving way to his very capable hands. There are lines I can’t cross, and this is absolutely one of them. But I’m still a woman, and I can’t pretend I don’t know exactly what he looks like without all those layers on.

With the exception of takeoff, he’s been all over the place. Pacing the length of the plane. Flirting with the flight attendant in the small galley. Visiting the tiny bar my father insisted on having installed at the rear of the cabin.

I roll my eyes. I may have asked him to arrive sober when I texted him the flight details—which he did—but he reminded me as soon as he got on the plane he made no promises to stay that way.

Another reason I have to ignore him. Because remembering who he was hurts too much and leads to remembering why he’s not anymore.

This time, he heads to the restroom behind the workspace I’m currently occupying. He ignores me as he passes by, per usual. It’s infuriating, and I almost wish I could write him off like everyone else has.

Unfortunately, my bleeding heart won’t let me. That and a part of me understands why he’s become this shell of himself. The part of me that’s falling apart too. I just do so in the privacy of my office, where no one can see my tears or witness the crippling anxiety attacks.

It helps that I also have my therapist on speed dial. Honestly, Janet is probably the only reason I’m still standing. Where Bishop copes with booze and bad decisions, I’m a workaholic who crams my emotions in a box and cares too damn much about making sure everything is perfect. She’d argue neither is healthy, but at least no one has to babysit me on a daily basis.

Grief breaks everyone differently. The only constant is when she sinks her tendrils into your soul, you become her mistress. Something both of us know all too well.

I inhale a steadying breath—which is entirely for show if my quivering hands are any indication—and focus on my laptop and the full inbox waiting for me.

“Do you ever stop?”

I jump, Bishop’s voice catching me off guard. It’s the first thing he’s said to me the entire flight. Craning my neck, I look up at him. “What?”

“Working? Do you ever stop?” His voice is playful with a hint of mocking.

Ignoring his jab, I click on an email marked urgent, informing me that Renegade Hearts has been chosen by the commissioner as the benefiting charity for the Orange League Gala. It’s an annual event held for the Florida spring training league in which all the owners, managers, and star players attend to raise money for a charity usually associated with one of the teams. Fans pay big money to attend, rub elbows, and participate in the player auction for a chance to spend time with their favorite players.

I let out an exasperated sigh. Freaking Vaughn. This has him written all over it. After I explicitly asked him not to use my charity as a publicity stunt, he went and did it anyway. Once again, proving he’ll do anything to keep the crash narrative and our team in the headlines. Even if it’s at my expense.

My hands immediately find the keyboard and I work on crafting a response, not bothering to shy away from using my very best per-my-last-email tone.

“Willow.”

“What?” I snap, my annoyance hitting an all-time high. “It’s not like you have anything nice to say to me. We’re almost to Florida. Can we please just continue to ignore each other?”

“I just figured—Wait. What the hell is this?”

His voice goes from slurred and playful, to low, and dare I say, deadly. I glance up just in time to see his nostrils flare, his eyes darting over the original email.

Shit. This isn’t going to be good.

“It’s nothing.” I reach up and grip the top of the laptop with every intention of slamming it closed, but his hand snatches the top of the screen and stops me.

He yanks the laptop from the table and brings it up to his face. “Willow. What. The fuck. Is. This.” Each word is punctuated with rage.

At least he’s done trying to play nice.

Nice Bishop makes my knees weak. Asshole Bishop reminds me to keep my wits about me.

“I’m fixing it.” I growl, trying and failing to grab the laptop from his hands.

Bishop throws himself into the seat beside me and scrolls through the message. His jaw tightens and if there was an open window, I can almost guarantee my laptop would be taking flight.

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