“Can’t or don’t want to?” I ask her as she gets up.
“Can’t.”
Another piece in the puzzle, she is.
Her phone vibrates on the desk with the TV on. The very desk she licked me?—
My cheeks flush immediately just from the thought of it.
“What’s up?” she asks as she answers the call. I watch her standing there, naked, on the phone.
“Yeah, we’re alright, heading to Jacksonville and will fly from there, in case we can catch a plane.”
She leans on the desk and looks at me.
“No, you don’t have to,” she says, but I am too distracted to think about who that is and what she might be talking aboutwith whom. She is moving naked so naturally, so unconcerned. I could never. Would never. I am not particularly fond of my body; my mother made sure of that. But Amelie, she seems to love being naked. To show her body.
“Yes, ma’am,” she says, laughs, and hangs up.
“Get up,” she orders me. “We have a plane to catch.”
“Do we?” I say, not getting up, because it’s daylight and I am naked underneath the sheets.
“We do. You’ll like it this time.”
I know I won’t, but there is no point arguing with her, so I just lie back down and wait until she is in the bathroom to get up and dress.
Three hours later, after driving through destruction, chaos, and nothingness, we turn onto a road with a sign reading “JAXEX, Jacksonville Executive at Craig Airport.”
“What are we doing here?” I ask, already guessing the answer, but I need to hear it.
“Flying home,” she says, and parks the car in a reserved lot.
A man in a suit walks up to us.
“Miss Degard,” he says. Not a question, a fact.
“Our baggage is in the trunk; we also need this car returned to the rental in Orlando,” she says, handing him the keys.
“Of course, Ma’am. If you and your company would follow me, please.”
I have no words for what is happening. We are treated like the most important people in the world—a fact that makes me slightly uncomfortable.
A few minutes later, I follow Amelie up the stairs into a private jet. Not a small one, the complete opposite.
We are welcomed by a pilot and a stewardess.
“How?” I ask her as she sits on a white chair at a table.
“El,” she says. “It’s hers.”
“She owns a jet?” I ask incredulously.
“Amongst other things, yes. She’s Whitney-Morgan.”
“Who?”
Amelie scoffs, laughing.