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The toilet was nothing to write home about, but moving around the plane gave me the chance for a good look. Slightly smaller than mine, it was fitted out to carry people, not be luxurious. It had no couches, no room in the back for a bed, no bar. None of the fun things.
"I won't tell if you turn your back," I said to the henchman.
He seemed unimpressed. "Hurry up, or I'll help you. I'm sure the boss won't mind."
I was almost certain the bosswouldmind. Dagen seemed like the kind of prick who didn't share his toys until they were broken and chewed. Unless he got something out of it.
I rolled my eyes and did what I needed to do as quickly as I could, glad the t-shirt was long enough to fall almost to my knees. If the goon thought he'd see anything, he'd be mistaken. Still, the lack of privacy was discomfiting, bordering on humiliating. Which was the point. They were trying to get to me. They'd have to try harder than that.
I stepped out of the tiny cubicle—without stealing anything, or ripping off the toilet seat, how amazing is that—to the murmur of hushed, concerned voices and the sound of a soft alarm from the direction of the cockpit.
I laughed softly. "That would be about bloody right. I get dragged aboard Dagen's fucking jet and then it crashes into the ocean. This is the most Mondayish Thursday I've had in a long time."
"It's Wednesday," the goon said.
"That figures." I shrugged. "Wednesdays are often disappointing. I was born on one."
"Quiet," the goon snapped.
I decided he looked like an Eric. He had a long face and a chin like a slide. His nose was also long and his eyes too close together.
He grabbed my arm and shoved me back toward my seat.
The beeping increased. I was no expert, but it sounded like a fuel warning. Or someone put their seat back too far and bumped someone else's knees. People on planes were so inconsiderate.
I added Eric to the list when he shoved me faster.
"Hurry up, bitch," he growled. He must have been taking etiquette lessons from Alistair.
"Don't call me bitch," I growled back.
Eric's face turned pink. I was almost certain he'd hit me if he had permission to.
"Bitch is appropriate," he said instead. "You murdered my parents and grandparents. If the boss let me, I'd open the door and throw you out."
I rolled my eyes. "Take it up with the boss. His family started the killing."
"You kept it going," Eric pointed out. "You could have just done as you were all told. Stayed out of the way. We could all have lived our lives."
"I have two words for you," I told him. I frowned. "Wait, is brainwashing one word or two? Whatever. What the Dagens did was little better than genocide. We weren't going to take that lying down."
Eric shoved me back toward my seat.
I half fell over both of them before I managed to scramble back and grab both sides of my seatbelt.
Dagen wasn't in his seat, he must be in the cockpit. How appropriate.
Eric looked down on me with eyes laced with barely contained fury. I had no doubt in my mind that if we weren't on a plane full of people, and if he wouldn't get in major trouble for it, he would take out his frustrations on me. Whether that would be with his fists or his cock, I don't know. Maybe both.
I clicked my seatbelt and tried not to appear rattled. It was easy enough to think Alistair Dagen was the enemy here, and he was. But I was also surrounded by men who hated me as deeply as I hated them. Men who were bigger and stronger than I was, especially if they worked together.
Eric flopped down beside me and placed his hands in his lap, over his dick.
Yeah, I figured that might be his weapon of choice.
I gave him a long look. "You'd regret it."
He shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe. Maybe not. Might be worth it at the time."
