Shit. I’m not thinking straight. I battle the tidal wave of emotion battering my defenses. Later, behind closed doors, when I’m alone and safe, I can break down. Now, I need my brain cells to behave and start acting like this is a team sport, not a one neuron race.
“Also, I’m not stupid, Ghost. I know you were about to run onto the next flight out of here.”
See? Perceptive. Not good.
I huff and storm into the airport. I look through my lashes, spotting every piece of equipment I noticed when I arrived. There are cameras everywhere. I could wipe them, concealing the fact I’ve been here, but they might need that footage for actual threats, and it’s not in my nature to help criminals. I head directly to the storage desk. A woman with a no-nonsense blonde bun sweeps her gaze over my white bandage dress and leather jacket swamping my small frame, before lifting her chin at Hunter and narrowing her eyes. For that reason, I like her. Most people see the bad boy biker and swoon at his feet. Not Frances, as her name tag declares. She’s not fooled by long eyelashes and a smug smile suggesting he knows exactly how to make a woman scream his name. Wait, screaming his name? What is wrong with my brain right now?
Hunter hands me his phone as we reach the desk, the screen already unlocked.
“Hi. How can I help?” Frances asks.
“Picking up my bag. Give me a sec, and I’ll have the receipt for you,” I mutter as I log into my email and pull up the confirmation. I show her the confirmation number, tapping against the counter without realizing.
“ID?” she asks.
“It’s in my suitcase. I can show you once you retrieve it.”
“Okay, let me grab it for you.”
She disappears into the room behind her. Hunter turns to survey the airport, leaning against the desk and folding his arms. Panic worms its way through me as my thoughts flit through hundreds of possibilities, all of them leading me to one immediate destination. I have things in Chicago that would tip off anyone connected to Jonathan, proving I was hunting them. Best case scenario, Christopher loses interest and chalks me up as the one that got away. But if he gains access to my home, questions will be raised.
“Where would you go?” he asks, interrupting my doom spiral.
“What?”
“On a flight. Where would you go?”
“I need to make a pit stop at my apartment in Chicago before disappearing.”
“Hmm.”
“What does that mean?” I snap. I don’t have the energy to unpick people’s subtle cues.
“We can drive up to Jacksonville tonight. I have somewhere I can drop my bike, then we can get a flight to Chicago. Should be enough to put a little distance between them and us.”
“No.”
He cocks a brow. “No?”
“No, I don’t need you to hold my hand on a flight home. No, I don’t need protection to get to my apartment. Just no.”
“We can discuss it on the way to the airport.”
“We are already at an airport.”
“You’re funny.”
“Not intentionally.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose as Frances appears with my bag, side-eyeing Hunter like she’s debating on alerting airportsecurity to orchestrate some kind of epic take down. Alas, she chooses option B, a mean stare that conveys her displeasure that he’s in her space. I can understand. I unzip the front pocket and show her my passport. She nods, then Hunter swipes the bag and leads the way into the muggy night, knowing I will follow as he holds my possessions hostage.
“Are you attached to the bag itself? I need to repack the contents into the bike’s storage.”
I flinch as he unzips my case and pulls out my belongings, stuffing them inside the tail box. He arches a brow at my black lace panties before making a show of folding them and tucking them in his jeans pocket with a wink.
“Hey, those aren’t yours.”
He snorts as he tucks my electronics into another zip pouch. “Call it payment.”
