Page 21 of Rescue

I feel a sudden stab of guilt. The last time I saw him, I lashed out at him because he had the audacity to bring up the stalking situation. He hadn’t deserved my ire—he was completely polite about it, and he clearly felt awful for bringing it up. I knew I’d behaved childishly by the time I got inside the club, but I was too embarrassed to go back out there to apologize. Which was totally like me—get pissed, go off on someone, feel bad about it. Some patterns are harder to break than others.

Lennon has turned his attention to the others, who are all looking up at him like he’s some kind of deity come to life. The patron saint of compassionate airline seating. “Come on,” he says, making a hurry-it-up motion with his hands. “We’re taking off soon. You need to get settled.”

My bandmates practically trip over themselves to get out of their seats and gather their things, thanking Lennon profusely as they do so. Even Dylan seems to have momentarily gotten over his fear of flying at the promise of first-class accommodations.

Lennon merely laughs off their gratitude. “It’s not really a big deal. Hurry up, come on.”

We dutifully file up the aisle behind him. I don’t see Louis, and I wonder if he’s being afforded the same courtesy. I hope not. It would serve him right to be back here all cramped while we live it up at the front.

“God, I feel like such an asshole,” James mutters behind me.

“You sounded like one too,” I say helpfully. He pokes me in the back, hard. I’m about to retaliate when we step through the curtains into the front of the plane.

The label has put us up in first a few times over the years—but never on an international flight. On those occasions we’d always joked around about how cool and high class we were. But those experiences had nothing on this.

“Did you know there would be beds?” Dylan hisses.

“God, play it cool, Dylan,” Layla says, flouncing toward the seat the flight attendant indicates. She perches at the edge, looking up at me. “I look good in first, don’t I?”

I laugh and take the seat across the aisle from her. “I guess this isn’ttoobad.”

James lets out a snort of laughter that sounds almost hysterical. Itiskind of funny, the five of us enjoying digs like this. We didn’t even have a proper tour bus the last time we were on the road.

Before I can tell him to get it together, the flight attendant comes over the speaker informing us takeoff is imminent and we need to buckle in. My friends quickly take the seats the other flight attendant indicates. We’re more spread out in this cabin than we were in coach, probably because our tickets were last minute add-ons. Layla is in an individual seat across the aisle, James one seat ahead of her. Dylan and Lance have disappeared somewhere up near the front. I catch sight of Cash Ransome a few rows ahead. Everyone else is hidden by the privacy booths surrounding the seats. I feel a little giddy—this is definitely cool.

Until someone slides into the previously empty seat right next to me. “Hey,” Lennon says, buckling his seat belt. “I guess we’re neighbors.”

I raise an eyebrow at him, wondering how much of a coincidence this can be. He definitely seems like the type to want to make amends for the awkwardness of our alley encounter.

“If that’s okay with you,” he says, sounding uncertain.

“Yeah, ’cause I’m going to tell the guy that got us seats in first class to fuck off.”

He grins. “I’m not above using my dad’s generosity to get on your good side.”

“You don’t need to get on my good side. You aren’t on my bad side.”

His face clouds over. “What happened at the party was—”

“Not a big deal. Really.”

His eyebrows go up. “It seemed like a pretty big deal when you stormed inside.”

I give him my most winning smile, the one I usually save up for meetings with the label or interviews. “I have a tendency to overreact.”

He smiles, starts to say something, and suddenly cuts off, gripping the arms of his seat a little. I realize that the plane has started to move.

“You okay?”

He nods, looking straight ahead. His face is almost blank, no obvious signs of fear like I could see on Dylan earlier. But he’s breathing through his nose, big, steady breaths that look very intentional.

I’m not sure what to say. Should I try to distract him? He looks pretty methodical in his breathing, like it’s a practiced thing. Maybe I shouldn’t interrupt him—

“I don’t really like flying,” he says, not turning his head.

“Don’t you do a lot of it?”

He nods. “I’ve gotten a lot better. It’s just the takeoff that bothers me now. And the landing.”