An unfamiliar voice said, “She said to tell you this is an intervention. Deshawn was happy to make sure everyone is covered. Whatever that means.”
I looked up and was mortified to discover we weren’t alone. A good-looking white guy was sitting a few rows closer to the front. His dark hair was pulled back into an artfully disheveled bun on top of his head, and he was dressed casually, like a guy who actually knew he was going on a transatlantic flight.
Unlike me.
My cheeks heated when I glanced down and realized I was only wearing Zane’s shirt, which thankfully came down to the middle of my thighs. Who knew what had even happened to my dress and shoes? And my panties. Where the fuck were my panties?
Zane nodded to the other guy. “Can you go hang with the crew for a bit?”
The guy picked up a book, and, on his way past, inclined his head. “I’m Kelly.”
I blinked at him, not sure what he expected of me, standing there half naked. “Cool,” I said more dismissively than I’d intended, nodding at him to keep walking.
I was so pissed at Zane, I was being a bitch to strangers now.
Awesome.
I turned back to Zane, ready to verbally eviscerate him. “You presumptuous motherfucker. I knew I should’ve left as soon as I saw it was you.”
“But you didn’t.” He plopped down on one of the chairs and took a bite of my eggs like we were dating and this was a casual conversation.
My hold slipped on all the things I wanted to yell at him about. “You know what? You wanna trap me on a plane? Fine. That means you’re trapped here with me and can fucking explain yourself for writing ‘You Deserve It.’”
He choked on the eggs as he smothered a laugh.
I narrowed my eyes in disgust, not sure I’d bother performing a Heimlich maneuver if he needed one.
“What makes you think it was about you, Maia? That’s a pretty big leap.” There was a hint of laughter in his voice.
“It’s not funny, you bastard. And let’s not even talk about your first Travesty album.”
“You seem to be an avid listener of my music. Had no idea you were a fan.”
I slammed my hand down on the back of a chair. “How dare you write about such private things without my consent?”
He started to speak and then stopped himself, assessing me. “There’s a writer I admire who says, ‘You own everything that happened to you. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.’ But you never were much good at behaving, were you, Maia?”
He took one of my wrists and, with a firm tug, toppled me onto his lap.
I struggled half-heartedly just to avoid giving him the satisfaction of going languid in his arms. Why did being held by him feel so good?
He ignored my struggles like he didn’t even notice, picking up a forkful of food. “You need to eat.”
“I have two fully functioning hands. If you’d let my arms go, I could do that myself.”
“There are lots of things you could do yourself. But you like it when I do them for you.”
He popped a bite into my mouth before I could point out how immature it was to turn everything I said into innuendo.
He eventually loosened his hold when it became clear I wasn’t going to get up, but he kept feeding me. And I kept letting him because I was too weak to resist his charms.
When I’d had enough, he quickly finished the rest.
I let my head sink back onto his shoulder, looking straight ahead as I said, “Why did you write it?”
Was he a callous asshole who hated me that much? If he was, I was getting on a plane straight home. I didn’t need any more drama in my life.
He was quiet so long I thought he wasn’t going to answer.
