I tilted my head back and looked up at him.
“We’re landing, we need to put the seatbacks up,” he told me quietly.
“Right,” I whispered and pulled away, pulled my hair out of my face and sat up.
Tate was on that plane with me for reasons known only to Tate. All I knew was, he managed to get me into the bathroom at the hotel and then he disappeared. By the time I was out of the shower, Betty was in my room, my clean clothes from the laundry folded on my bed. She coaxed me through my makeup and blow drying my hair drill and I dressed in an outfit she chose for me. She packed for me while I was doing this, grabbing my makeup and hair brush when I was done.
Then there came a knock on the door and, like I was a celebrity, Betty shoved my sunglasses on my nose and I was whisked from my room by Ned who guided me into a big, black Ford Explorer that had Tate at the wheel.
“What’re you doing here?” I asked Tate after Ned tossed my bag in the backseat.
“I’m your ride,” he replied and then we were off and I barely got a chance to wave at Ned and Betty who were both standing outside my room.
“Whose SUV is this?” I asked once we were out of Carnal.
“Mine,” he answered.
I looked at him. “You drive a Harley.”
“Not big on puttin’ bad guys on the back of my bike when I hunt them down, Ace. Fucks with my street cred.”
“Oh,” I mumbled, turned to face the road, black thoughts assailed my brain and I fell silent.
I found out after the silent ride but somewhat hair raising drive to Denver International Airport (I would understand much later that this was because my plane was leaving and Tate didn’t have a lot of time to get me to it) he wasn’t just my ride. This was because he didn’t drop me off. He parked in short term parking, guided me to the ticket counter, we checked my bag and got two tickets (though I didn’t know that) and we both got in line to go through security and throughout almost all this Tate had two bags, mine in one hand (my hand mostly held in his other), an overnight bag slung over his shoulder but I was too out of it to notice it was his.
“You can’t go through if you don’t have a ticket,” I informed him.
“I’ve got a ticket,” he replied, looking over my head and down the line.
“To where?” I asked stupidly and his head tipped to look down at me.
“Indianapolis,” he answered.
I felt my brows shoot into my hairline. “You’re coming with me?”
“Gettin’ you there, comin’ home tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Ace, you’re a fuckin’ mess. I’m gettin’ you to your family and I fly home tomorrow.”
“That’s insane,” I whispered.
“It’s what I’m doin’,” he returned.
“But –”
“Shut up, Ace.”
I stared at him.
Then I said, “Okay.”
Then I went through security with Tate and got on a plane with Tate.
Now I was landing in Indianapolis with Tate.
We landed. We taxied. We were let loose from our seatbelts.
Tate got up and was so big, still had his beard, his hair had grown longer and was not only curling around his ears but also his neck, he was wearing a skintight black tee, very faded jeans, motorcycle boots and had a very cool tattoo slithering down his bicep I’d never noticed before because he was always in long-sleeved shirts, and therefore he looked exactly like what you’d expect a bounty hunter to look like (but even cooler, scarier and more handsome) so the other passengers let him have his space as he pulled his black, leather overnight bag out of the overhead compartment. Then he grabbed my hand, pulled me out of the seats and pushed me in front of him with his hand in the small of my back.
We walked through the airport and I started running when I saw my sister’s partner Mack’s tall, dark blond head peering over the crowd at the end of the terminal.
I hit him straight on so hard he went back on a foot.
“Laurie, honey,” he whispered as his arms went around me.
I just started crying again.
He let me cry and had a man-style nominally syllabic conversation with Tate while he held me tight.
“You Jackson?”
“Yeah. Tate.”
“Mack.”
“News?”
Silence.
“Right.”
Mack pushed me to his side, slid his arm around my shoulders and he guided me to the escalator that would take us down to baggage claim.
“Got another situation,” Mack said when we’d exited the escalator and when he said it his arm gave me a squeeze.
“Yeah?” Tate asked and my head tilted back to look at Mack.
“What?” I whispered.
“Your Dad’s out of surgery, he’s in ICU. Only your Mom’s been able to see him. They’re keepin’ a close eye and they want him to rest,” Mack told me.
“Okay,” I replied.
Mack was silent and we stopped by our baggage claim.
Then he pulled in a breath. “Brad’s at the hospital.”
I tore out of his arm and took a step back, shouting, “What?”
“Laurie…” Mack said.
“Ace…” Tate said.