The reminder of what happened in that hotel room sends heat crawling up my neck and I turn to stare out the window instead of responding to him, watching the baggage handlers throw suitcases with concerning enthusiasm. Including mine.
"Oh my god, it's Whiskey!" a young woman squeals. "And Plague!"
"The one and only," Whiskey booms, his grin clear as day in his voice. "Well, the two and only. You want a selfie?"
I close my eyes. Of course he's engaging with fans. Of fucking course.
There's delighted giggling and the sound of phones being pulled out. I keep my face turned toward the window, hoping they'll leave me alone.
"Is Plague shy or pissed off?" one of them whispers loudly.
"Nah, he's just pretending he's too cool for this," Whiskey cuts in. "He's actually super sweet once you get to know him."
I turn to glare at him. "I am not sweet."
"See? Adorable," Whiskey says happily.
The fans laugh, and I resign myself to being part of whatever show Whiskey's putting on. He takes far too many selfies with the fans while I maintain what Whiskey calls my "resting murder face" in the background.
"Why are you guys going to Canada?" one asks.
"Business," I say curtly before Whiskey can elaborate.
"Hockey business?" she clarifies.
"Something like that," Whiskey says with a wink that makes them giggle again.
Finally, mercifully, they return to their seats as the flight attendants begin their safety demonstration. Whiskey actually pays attention, which surprises me until I realize he's silently joking around with the flight attendant, not listening to the instructions.
"You know, statistically, plane travel is safer than driving," I tell him as we taxi toward the runway.
"I know."
"Then why are you overcompensating for your fear by screwing around?"
He pauses, pursing his mouth like he's considering that. "I think I'm more worried about screwing up and getting kicked off the plane."
"Then don't screw up."
"Easier said than done."
The engines roar to life, and we're pressed back into our seats as the plane accelerates. Whiskey grabs the armrest—my armrest—his knuckles white.
"I thought you weren't afraid," I say dryly.
He squeezes his eyes shut tight and holds a finger to his lips. "Shhhh."
The plane lifts off, and my stomach drops in that familiar way that I've never quite gotten used to. Below us, the city shrinks to a grid of lights and shadows.
"Pretty," Whiskey observes, leaning across me to look out the window. His chest presses against my shoulder, and I catch his cinnamon scent. It reminds me immediately of the hotel room.
"You're crushing me."
"Sorry." But he doesn't move, even when he pulls his phone out. In fact, he crushes memore. "Gonna check if there's any updates on Valek's location."
"We're in the air. You won't have signal."
"I took hundreds of screenshots before we took off. I'm not an idiot."
