Thirty Days: Part One (18 page)

“Abigail, where are you going? We need to check in for the flight in five minutes.”

“To pee,” I call back loud enough for everyone sitting there to hear.

“Don’t be long,” he shouts.

Looking over my shoulder, his expression is worried, which annoys me. It’s not like I have a choice to stay and cancel my flight. “Whatever.”

The restrooms are vacant apart from a cleaning lady in one of the stalls. My reflection looks completely lost as I stand there staring at myself. “I’m never going to be happy again,” I mutter before using the amenities.

As I return, Marcus waits with arms crossed.
Why is he waiting for me?

“You’re ready now?”

“Yes,” I reply quietly, mainly because my voice has lost any power, since I’ve concluded that this week is going to be even harder than first anticipated.

He takes each stride in time with mine. I want to scream, ‘Fuck off!’ but don’t. Marcus goes first and his check-in goes smoothly. Why wouldn’t it. When it’s my turn, of course security pulls me to the side, running that silly handheld machine they have over my person. The humorous expression on his face tells me he’s enjoying the fact that I was singled out for this procedure. I’m not really embarrassed, yet I feel my cheeks warming.
Blushing.
Finally, when I’m allowed to continue through to boarding, I can hear his laughter.

“Is it—” he starts to say, but I cut him off.

“Nope, not hot, I’m blushing, but only because that guard was incredibly attractive,” I lie.

He instantly stops his heckle.

We sit for about five minutes until the announcement from the speakers tells us it’s time to board. We say not a word, nor do I look at him as we board.

“Welcome,” the flight assistant says on my entry. “You’re in business class.” She points in the direction opposite to the one other passengers have already taken upon entry. I’ve never flown business before, so this part has caused some excitement. “Sir, you’re also in business class.”

“Thank you,” Marcus replies, following close behind me, too close.

Part of me wants to stop suddenly so his body presses against mine. The other part of me knows that if this were to happen I’ll be uncomfortable for the entire flight to Sydney, so I don’t.

“Seat 12 B, where are you...? Found it!” I mutter.

The seat is perfect, close to the front of the aircraft, a place I’ve always wanted to sit when flying. Plus, business class is much roomier than economy. Another feeling of satisfaction washes over me. I become even more delighted when my seat number is the one located by the window. A rare moment of good luck, so it seems. If only Sammy were here to celebrate this with me. It’s almost too good to believe.

Pushing my luggage into the overhead, I slide to the window and get comfy, looking back over my shoulder once settled. I notice Marcus has stopped a few rows back and is talking to an older gentleman in a swanky black suit.
Is that Mr. Klein? It must be.
My stomach begins to flutter. Any minute now, I’ll meet my new boss. I just hope my hex allows me a week off and that he is not a complete arse to work for.

Trying to dampen the nerves, I begin thinking about topics I could discuss on our flight. Politics? No. Football? Not a chance. Golf? Okay, golf is off-limits. The law? I know very little about the law. I became angry that Marcus distracted me at the airport. I’d planned to spend that time thinking about questions for the trip, as well as making an attempt to read that stupid binder Jasmine gave me. The binder that is now stowed under the airplane in my suitcase. Dropping my head in frustration, I try to think of appropriate topics of conversation, ones where I’ll seem like I actually have a fucking clue.

“The weather. Yes, that I can do,” I mutter, breathing a sigh of relief. Slowly I swivel my head just enough to catch a glimpse of the two of them talking easily and comfortably. They shake hands and then Marcus begins walking my way. The man in the suit heads back in the direction of the entry
.

What’s happening?

Marcus stops right beside me. He opens the hatch above the seat and pushes his carryon inside. It closes with a bang, causing me to jump. Casually, he lowers himself into the chair beside me.

My stomach instantly knots.
Marcus?
Why isn’t Mr. Klein sitting here? Did they swap seats? I will fucking kill him if they did. Two and a half hours beside this man is going to be torture, and I’m beyond frustrated.

“Excuse me. What do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting ready for the plane to take off. Why?” His eyebrows rise.

“You’re not sitting here with me…are you?”

He checks his ticket. “Yes.” The corners of his mouth begin to curl upwards.

“I’m confused.”

“Why?” He seems fine with this arrangement.

“Because I’m supposed to be sitting beside Mr. Klein. That’s what Jasmine said. I’m supposed to meet him on this flight to talk about our time in Sydney.”

“Oh,” he mutters amused.

“Are you sure you’re supposed to be sitting here?”

He glances at his ticket again. “That’s what this says.”

“Well, I guess I’m meeting him there.”

“What?” His eyes narrow. “What are you playing at?”

“Nothing. This is horrible. Why you? I don’t know how to get anywhere. I’ve never been to Sydney before.” My mind is suddenly all over the place.

“Really?” His eyebrows arch again.

“No. Melbourne, yes. Cairns, yes.”

He suddenly begins laughing loudly.

“What?”

“I’ll help you, don’t stress, you’ll have me.”

“I’m not stressed.”
And I don’t want you.

“You look it to me.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“If you say so.” He pulls what looks like a geographical type magazine out from the back of the seat in front of us.

“Why, God, why?” I question under my breath.

“Did you say something?”

“Nope.” I pull the seat belt around my waist and fasten it.

“Benjamin Bronson, long time no see,” Marcus says.

I look up just as a thin and balding man stops next to us.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

“Well, if it isn’t Marcus Klein. How long has it been?”

As I hear the name Klein come from the mouth of this stranger, every bit of noise disappears, and I’m isolated in complete silence.
What the actual fuck?
He’s fucking Mr. Klein’s son. This has got to be a joke.

“You’re joking,” I blurt out, shaking my head.

They both stop talking and look at me.

I glare at Marcus when his eyes meet mine. Instantly, contact is broken.

“I’ll talk to you in Sydney, Ben.” He shakes his hand.

“Yes, looking forward to it,” Ben adds before leaving.

Marcus’ head turns slowly to face me. “Abigail, what’s the matter?”

“Your last name is Klein?”

“Yes,” he replies innocently.

“You’re Mr. Klein’s son and you didn’t fucking tell me. Why?”

“What are you talking about, Abigail?”

“Who the fuck are you?” I yell as business class goes silent.

“Abigail, calm down. What has gotten into you? I’m Marcus Klein,” he says, “You know that.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Abigail, now I’m the one confused. Honestly, what has gotten into you?”

My blood boils with anger. Every part of me wants to slap his face before fleeing this plane. “Who are you?” I snap again, this time through gritted teeth.

“You’re being silly,” he scoffs, staring at me. “You really don’t know?”

“No!” I spit.

I can see him thinking, and he looks as though he’s trying to place pieces of a puzzle into the correct order. What puzzle, I have no idea. He turns his head.

“So when you said before you thought I was sick…” He stops. “Okay, when you said you thought you were supposed to be sitting beside Mr. Klein before, you weren’t joking, that wasn’t a charade?” He stops again as I continue to throw knives at him with my glare. “Abigail, I’m Mr. Klein, my assistants are sick, and you’ve been assigned to assist me this week. I thought you knew that.” He tries to place his hand on top of mine, the one that is violently gripping the handle of the chair.

Quickly, I pull it away.

My heart stops beating. My lungs stop breathing.

This can’t be happening.

7th of November 2012

Stuck between a rock and a hard place. A classic summation of a fucked situation seemly impossible to get one’s self out of. Right now you’d think this would be the perfect way to explain the current situation I’m in. Yet, I’d prefer to go with: Abigail McMillian stuck between the solid metal of a 747 aircraft and a handsome, yet masterful man of disguise.

Marcus.

“Abigail, speak to me.” His tone is stern as I try desperately to draw air into my lungs.

Get me off this plane,
my mind screams.

“Abigail, are you okay?” His voice quakes on this question.

Turning, I glare.

“I thought you knew who I was,” he whispers.

For me there are no words. My head, now dizzy, falls between my trembling knees as panic threatens to consume me.

Breathe, Abigail.

The floor begins spinning uncontrollably, and it takes every ounce of strength I can muster to keep myself from falling apart in his presence. There’s silence. Each voice—noise that filled the cabin only moments ago—now mute. Each breath that follows becomes easier to take.

“I can’t do this,” finally spills from my mouth as I manage to regain composure. “Let me out.” My request is delivered calmly, but my desperation to put distance between us quickly is apparent. “Please move.”

“Abigail, we’re about to take off,” he reasons, his gaze unwavering and intense.

“Move!” I scream. The sound of gasps follows as my body shoots upright.

“Okay, okay,” he replies, showing his palms defensively. He clears a path for my exit, stepping into the aisle. “Where are you going?”

“Off this fucking plane.” Stomping towards the stewardess, my mind abuses me for making such a commotion before a firm grip latches onto my shoulder. My body jolts backwards and I’m met with warmth. Burly arms wrap around me in an embrace, just as the smell of freshly picked mint fills my senses.

“Abigail, you need to stop this. I know you’re upset, but you’re making a scene. The doors have already closed. You’re taking this flight. Now be a good girl and sit back down,” he whispers, polite as ever. “Abigail,” he says as the tip of his tongue makes contact with the bottom of my earlobe, causing instant tingles to race down my spine. “Abigail,” escapes his lips again, softly. The way each syllable is articulated calms me, and my body betrays me by relaxing into his firm chest. “You’re all smoke and fire, aren’t you?”
God, he’s smug
. “I happen to love fire.”

Marcus’ grip holds me frozen. What is it about this man that makes me surrender? As quick as his arms release their hold, his hand clasps mine firmly, keeping me in place.

“Ladies and gentlemen, everything is under control. Please go back to what you were doing,” he announces with superiority before we resume our seated positions ready for take-off.