Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
*
After getting off the plane, I realized I'd clearly underestimated the power of alcohol. I needed to take a piss, so instead of going straight home to the loft, I grabbed my bag and headed into the lounge where other rich fuckers were waiting to board their private jets.
I nodded hello to some industry folk I knew and ducked into the bathrooms. I'd barely zipped up my jeans and moved over to wash my hands when my phone went off.
"What the fuck is wrong with everybody today?" I muttered. The phone went silent as I dried my hands, only to ring again two beats later. "Jesus Christ." I pulled the damn thing out and barked out a "What?" before I could even look at the Caller ID.
"Where are you?" It was Tennyson, and he sounded out of breath.
"I'm in the private lounge." I exited the men's room and looked around. "I'll order car service. See you soon—"
"We'll be there in five," he said quickly. "Stay there, man."
I was in no mood for this. There was no goddamn rush, was there? But I saw the fancy bar some twenty feet away and figured I could keep working on my buzz while I waited.
Dropping my bag next to a stool, I sat down and ordered an Old Fashioned. The bar wasn't packed by any means, besides a few businessmen and one man who looked like a rapper without an entourage.
"Turn that up, please." One of the businessmen nodded at the flat screen behind the bar.
The bartender complied and then finished making my drink.
I removed the orange slice and threw half of it back, a nice burn sliding down my throat. The TV had nothing interesting to show. It appeared to be about whatever plane crash…
Wait.
I checked the headline scrolling past and felt bad for my folks. The plane had crashed near Orlando, so I could only imagine the delays they'd have down there.
Taking another swig of my drink, I listened to the reporters and the experts they'd already called into the studio. No survivors—that sucked. The footage showed a massive area of destruction. Debris everywhere. Experts were ruling out causes based on how the plane had gone down and how much fire there was.
And I was having a bad day? I felt like an asshole. Bitching about getting cheated on when whole families were being shattered.
"Jesus," the suit nearest me said. "An associate of mine was supposed to be on that flight, but he was delayed. Didn't even make it to Philadelphia before the plane took off."
"What?" I frowned at the screen. Philly-Orlando? That had been the route?
I coughed as a sudden burst of nausea did a somersault on its way up my gut to my throat, but I swallowed it down and shook my head. That didn't mean anything. There were several flights going to the same destinations every day. School was just out for the year; families all over the country were heading to Disney.
I retrieved my phone to check the flight details from the text Ma sent me when they'd booked the tickets. I only remembered the airline, and now I didn't wanna check the news to see if it matched.
With the flight number going on a loop in my head, I steeled myself and looked at the flat screen. A helicopter was flying over the area littered with fires, smoke, and debris.
There were only two pieces of wreckage that were big enough to contain people, but they were destroyed by fire. Close-ups showed blackened seats, plastic melted—fuck. People. Or charcoal.
The anchor repeated that there were no survivors just as the flight number scrolled past on the screen again.
My stomach dropped.
The onslaught of emotions came so fast and fucked with my head so much that I chuckled first. My mind couldn’t work it out. There was no way. No fucking way. Tears welled up in my eyes. I chugged the last of my drink and then laughed again.
This isn't happening.
One of the businessmen gave me a disapproving stare, and it pissed me off.
"Can I fucking help you?" I snapped.
A pounding headache settled in, and when I turned back to the screen, I had double vision. Fuck. No survivors, no survivors. Bile rose. My palms grew cold and sweaty.
Why does the flight number match?
"Jesus." I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling disoriented and sick. It can't be. This was the sort of thing you saw on the news, and you felt for the relatives of those lost.
My fingers shook as I searched my phone for numbers to my parents, sister, and brother-in-law. I could barely see the digits, and I swayed in my seat. Gripping the bartop, I pressed Call and placed the phone to my ear.
Mom would respond.
"Hi, this is Abigail Collins. I can't come to the phone right now…"
Fuck.
Next number.