“But I won’t,” I insisted, turning in place and looking around for someone to ask luggage questions. “Hey, I’ve gotta go. The resort is sending a car to pick me up, and I don’t want to keep the driver waiting.”
Not that I was expecting a limo or anything, but I imagined one of those suited livery drivers was waiting outside, standing by his town car in the heat, holding a little sign with my name. It was so much more than anything little Mason Bloom, sleeping on the pull-out in his grandmother’s living room, would ever have thought to expect for himself, and I was gonna enjoy every minute.
“But if youdo—”
“Yeah, Micah. Fine,” I agreed impatiently. “If I join the mafia or end up on the news, I’ll definitely call you.”
But as we hung up, I vowed to myself I wasn’t going to request his help for anything short of that.
There was a little desk set off to one side of the baggage area with a JetSet airline logo hanging in front of it, so I headed in that direction, doing a push-pull routine with my luggage that occupied way too much of my brain for me to have situational awareness about anything else, which was why I didn’t notice the other guy standing in front of the counter until it was too late.
“I’m just asking you to do one simple little thing,” Serial Killer Guy was telling the pretty blonde behind the desk. His voice was gravel-rough, and it made a shiver dance up my spine. I could feel frustration pouring off him in dangerous waves, so I was pretty sure the woman could, too.
“So you’ve said, sir. Three times.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and pursed her lips. “And I’ve toldyouthat it’s against our policy to use the PA system for people who aren’t customers of our airline. I don’t have the authority to make an exception.”
The other person behind the counter, a man with ruthlessly styled hair and a perfectly knotted tie, nodded emphatically in support, which seemed to help the blonde stand a little taller.
Serial Killer Guy all but growled as he loomed over the desk. “But I’m looking for someone whoisa customer of your airline. Get it?”
The blonde’s voice quavered. “We can neither confirm nor deny whether any person has been a passenger of our airline.Sir. So I don’t have the authority to—”
“Make an exception,” he bit out. “Yeah. Got that. Loud and clear. So whocanmake an exception…” He looked pointedly down at her name tag. “Rachel?”
The woman looked down at her name tag like it had betrayed her somehow, then shot a glance at her coworker. “I suppose I could call Shirleen,” she said dubiously. “What do you think, Bertram?”
Her coworker shrugged agreement.
“Super! We’re making all kinds of progress now. Call Shirleen,” Serial Killer Guy instructed, nodding toward the phone on the desk. Then he added the world’s least polite “Please.”
While Rachel got on the phone, Bertram noticed me hovering in the background and gave me a wide smile. “Can I helpyou, sir?”
I pasted on an air of unconcern as I walked up to the counter, even as Serial Killer Guy’s attention swung in my direction.
“Good morning! I’m afraid there’s been a mix-up with my luggage. Here’s my claim tag.” I pulled a sheaf of tidily clipped receipts from my pants pocket, then dug out my wallet. “And here’s my ID. The bag looks exactly like these.” I nodded at my suitcases. “I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry. Traveling for work, you know?”
“Yes, sir.” The man’s smile grew warmer. “Thank you, sir. I’ll look into this right away.” He scurried off through a swinging door behind the desk.
I could feel Serial Killer Guy watching me through those stupid sunglasses again, and it made the back of my neck prickle with awareness. I tried ignoring him, drumming my fingers on the countertop and pretending I couldn’t hear the blonde arguing with Shirleen about corporate policy, but it felt wrong and dangerous. When you had a hungry hyena within biting distance, it wasn’t prudent to simply pretend he wasn’t there.
“Can I help you?” I asked, whipping my head around to catch him staring.
The guy didn’t so much as flinch. His head moved up and down like he was checking me out, and when he got to my face, his lips twitched like something about me amused him. “Nope.”
I set my jaw. I had never met someone so immediately and thoroughlyinfuriatingin my entire life. I got along with a wide variety of people—doctors generallyhadto. But everything aboutthisman—his appearance, his attitude, even the way he popped thepinnope—was precisely calibrated to drive me crazy.
And that was probably why, with no trace of reason or caution, I found myself shooting back, “Have you considered trying to be polite? I find a friendly smile and notloomingover people goes a long way toward getting them to help you.”
“Yeah? Have you considered minding your own business?” Serial Killer Guy shot back in his rough voice. “I find that when prissy little fuckers don’t judge people they’ve never met, that goes a long way toward me not wanting to kick their asses.”
He tilted his sunglasses down to give me a severe look, revealing a spectacular black eye that was painful to look at. Judging by the way purple-blue striations were leeching into the red, this guy had been in a fight mere hours ago.
Right, then.
I pushed my lips together and turned my attention toward the swinging door, praying Bertram would come back soon. As in, immediately. Picking fights with serial killers was nowhere on my plan for the day.
“But, Shirleen, you don’t understand,” the blonde was arguing into the phone, darting suspicious little glances at Serial Killer Guy, and I felt rather than saw the man deflate a little, like the air had been let out of him.
“People should do things because they’re the right things to do,” he muttered, “not because someone gives them a fake smile and dresses nicely. Not because they think they might get something out of the deal.”
