by Arell Rivers
“Fuck!” I bang my head against the headrest. Why is LA living up to its reputation as having the worst traffic?
With one eye on the clock, I look for an opening to change lanes, but one never comes. In sheer frustration, I flip on the radio and soon am tapping my fingers to the beat of an Aerosmith song. I move maybe a half a foot. Queen comes up next, but I can’t relax enough to enjoy my favorite song.
I need to get to Ems.
When the song ends and I’ve moved another ten feet, I want to leap out of my skin and teleport to LAX. I’ll never make it to the airport in time. Never.
“We interrupt our broadcast with some breaking news.” I reach for the dial to shut off the radio—I don’t need to hear whatever’s going on. I have bigger fish to fry, namely getting my girl back.
“A plane crash landed at LAX.”
My fingers fly away from the radio, which now has my full attention.
“A flight from Paris to LAX crashed…”
The announcer continues but I can’t process her words. A flight from Paris? My heartrate speeds up so fast that I could join Dad in the hospital with my own heart attack.
It can’t be her plane. It can’t.
My eyes bounce from my windshield to my rearview mirror, then side view mirror. When they return to the front, a plume of black smoke rises up in the distance. From the direction of LAX.
No. This is not happening.
My body tenses with the need to do something. Shutting off the radio, I put my blinker on and head to the shoulder, driving past the parked cars on the freeway and take the exit, not caring that what I’m doing is illegal. I pull into a grocery store parking lot and throw the Jeep into park.
With shaky fingers, I grab my phone and dial Ems. It goes straight to voicemail. Like when a phone is off.
I take a deep breath. Her phone can be off for any number of reasons. Maybe she forgot to charge it.
Maybe she had to turn it off during her flight.
I search for the airline’s number and hit “send.” I get a fast busy signal. Twenty times in a row.
Shit.
I run my hand through my hair, yanking at the short ends. Who else can I call? Think. I open my contacts and call Price Modeling Agency. A receptionist answers.
“Can you please tell me if Emilie Dubois was on the flight from Paris that just crashed? This is her bodyguard.” My voice cracks on the last word.
A whole lot of noise crackles over the phone line, as if several people are in reception answering the phones. “I’m sorry, but we do not have any information at this time.” My hand goes numb as the phone slips from my fingers. I stare at nothing, my mind completely blank.
Except for one thought that plays on a loop—Everyone you love dies. And I do love her.
The sudden need to move, to do something, overwhelms me. I need to get out of here. Go. Anywhere.
No, not anywhere. I need to be near Ems. Traffic on the freeway remains at a standstill so there’s no use in trying to get to the airport. I rub my hands on the steering wheel. Think.
A lightbulb goes off in my brain. I throw the Jeep in drive and speed off toward her house. As I pull into the driveway and hit the button to open the gate—thankfully, I programmed it into my Jeep—I remember the first time she practiced parking here. How proud she was of her small accomplishment. A smile tries to break free, which I squash. This can’t be happening. Again.
Once parked in the carport, I head out of my Jeep and walk up the stone pathway. Even though it seems pointless, when I reach her front door, I knock. She doesn’t answer. As I insert my key into the lock, the first of the paparazzi arrive. Vultures circling. Ignoring the truck, I let myself into her house and slam the door shut.
“Ems! Are you here?”
The cold, utter stillness of an empty house greets me.
This can’t be happening.
Screeching tires out front announce another vulture is taking up residence. I give them the finger before shutting the curtains to all of the windows facing the street.
I need to know what’s going on. Dreading what I may find, I turn on her television. An aerial view of LAX shows an airplane off the side of the runway, fire engines coating it with foam. The breaking news alert shouts, “PLANE FROM PARIS CRASHES AT LAX. MULTIPLE FATALITIES POSSIBLE. SUPERMODEL EMILIE DUBOIS CONFIRMED ON PASSENGER LIST.”
My entire being revolts, and I cover my mouth with my hand as a dry heave shudders through my body. No, no, no. Not again. Not my Ems.
Haven’t I lost enough?
Turning my back on the unbelievable scene unfolding on the TV, I leave the living room and head toward the kitchen. Cole and Rose’s wedding invitation sits on the counter. Shaking my head, I change course and find myself outside her bedroom. I take a couple of steps into the room, my eyes landing on her bed. Some discarded pieces of clothing are on it. I pick up her t-shirt and crumple it to my face, inhaling her lavender scent.
Suddenly, the walls close in on me. I race out of her bedroom, through the French doors and out onto the patio, collapsing down onto the chaise, her t-shirt still in my hands.
An unknown sensation pricks the back of my eyes. My vision becomes so cloudy that the pool swims in front of me. Wetness splashes onto my cheek.
“Emilie.”
“Ems.”
“Angel.”
“God, I need you. You can’t be gone. I haven’t told you that I love you yet.”
I swipe the first tears I’ve ever shed off my cheeks, only to have them replaced with more. I close my eyes and let grief wrack my body.
31
Emilie
I retrieve my passport and make my way toward baggage claim. My heart has not stopped racing since the captain told us to brace for impact. I say another prayer of thanks for her skill in landing the plane.
A man in an airline uniform approaches me. “Miss Dubois, please follow me. I will get you to your driver with minimal interruptions.”
I am numb. I nod and follow him into a maze of backrooms, where I point out my luggage they were able to retrieve from the fallen plane. When I tell him I parked my own car in the lot, he leads me to a private waiting room and takes my keys. “I’ll be back with your car in a jiffy. Please wait here.”
Swallowing over my distress, I sit. The last few panicked hours replay in my head. The fearful screams. The hard landing. The rush to disembark, followed by the police getting all of our statements. Thankfully, no one died in the crash. But, several passengers were taken to the hospital for broken bones, scrapes and bruises. I am lucky—I bear no physical reminders of the engine failure.
Emotionally. Different story.
Things could have turned out much worse, and I am deeply grateful for my second chance. Maybe he heard about the crash and came to the airport to check on me? Maybe he is waiting on the other side of this wall?
If this episode taught me anything, it is that I want his strong arms around me again. If Wills is not here, I am going to find him.
With that decision made, I make calls to my parents and the Agency to let them know I am safe. As I disconnect from the latter call, the airline rep returns to the room. “Your car is out front, Miss Dubois. Please follow me. The paparazzi haven’t been tipped off.”
“Merci.” We leave the waiting room and I scan the sea of faces. None of them are familiar. Tamping down my disappointment, I take my keys and head toward home.
Turning onto my street. I am greeted by a huge number of trucks. When I approach my driveway, the paparazzi rush my car. Gripping the steering wheel, I inch forward, unable to make out their shouted questions.
Stopping, I lower my window but they are all shouting over each other. I raise my hand and point at a man I have seen many times before. He says, “Is it true? Were you on the plane that crashed? Are you injured?”
I take a deep breath. “Oui. I was on the airplane but am unharmed. All I need is to get inside my home and have some peace and quiet to process what happen
ed and appreciate my life. Please, forgive my being short, but I have been through an ordeal today and feel for the people who have not been as fortunate as I have been.” I also need to speak to a certain former bodyguard, but I am not sharing that tidbit with them.
A chorus of “good to have you back with us” greet me, then blinding flashbulbs. Rolling up my window, I hit the button for the gate to open. A security measure Wills insisted I install. Wills.
Passing the paparazzi, I pull into the driveway. When I see his Jeep in my carport, I nearly catapult out of my car. Not bothering to navigate into the garage, I enter the house through the side door. Butterflies flit all around my stomach, keeping my mouth shut. It is as if I willed him to be here.
I make my way through all the rooms, ignoring the television that is showing the plane crash on a loop. He is not in the house. Where else could he be? My eyes zero in on the French doors to the patio, slightly ajar. Once I get outside, I stop. Wills is in a lounger, asleep.
On silent feet, I walk forward, never taking my eyes away from him. Even in slumber, he grips a piece of cloth. Coming closer, I realize he is holding my t-shirt. My hand flies to my mouth. A couple of steps from him, I study his body, ending at his face. His cheeks have tear streaks on them. He. Was. Crying.
Crying.
I stifle a gasp and close the gap between us. I want to wake him, but daunting memories of the last time I did so resurface. Yet, his body is still and he does not appear to be having a nightmare. I hold my breath and reach out, my hands landing on his shoulders.
He stirs.
Please do not lash out. In what I hope to be a calm and comforting tone, I murmur, “Wills?”
His eyes flutter open. His mouth opens and closes. A whispered, “Ems?” reaches my ears.
My hands slide down to his, which I grip as if they were a lifeline. His strong fingers close around mine. I nod. “Wills, I am here.”
“Are you real? Or are you actually an angel come down from heaven?”
I smile. “Oui. I’m real.”
His arms drag me into his lap, crushing me to his chest. “Oh my God, oh my God. You’re alive. You didn’t die.”
“I am here.” He squeezes my last breath out of me, but I do not care. He crushes me to his body like I am the most precious thing in his world.
I push back and draw in a breath, tracing the tracks of his tears with my finger. Bringing it to my lips, I say softly, “Oh, Wills. I am okay.”
“I couldn’t survive without you, Ems. I love you so much.”
My heart flips to hear his words. We still have more to discuss, but this is all that matters now. “Oh, Wills. I love you, too. Forever.”
His blue eyes change from despair to desire in a blink. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again.” His lips crash on mine, his hands snaking around my waist. One of his large hands climbs up my back while the other dips lower, onto my butt. He adjusts our position so that we are touching everywhere, only our clothes between us.
He devours my mouth, like a desperate man needing water. In response, I rejoice in his embrace. He has finally admitted that we belong together. I pull back. The terror of the day urges me on. “I was so scared. And then you were not at the airport.”
“I’m so sorry, Ems. I couldn’t get there. Traffic was stopped. And I couldn’t get any information about you—”
He was coming for me! “I have been given another chance. We have been given another chance. And I am not going to waste it.”
He runs his hands over my hair, cupping my cheeks in his palms. “Me neither. All that matters is that you’re here with me. Safe.” He seeks my lips again.
My head reels with overwhelming passion. I run my hands down his chest, ending at the hem of his t-shirt. Grasping it, I pull upward and toss it over my shoulder. My lips trace the tattoo over his heart while his hands grip my shirt and pull it out of my trousers. When he cannot get it off me, he smothers me with another kiss.
“Up,” he commands, grasping my hands in his.
We stand together and his fingers fumble with the buttons down the front of my shirt. With a growl, he grabs both sides and rips it open, buttons flying in every direction. Before I can respond, he has undone my bra and it joins the remnants of my shirt on the patio.
My hands land on his belt just when his land on mine. Within seconds, we are both standing naked, the sunshine kissing our bodies. Wills takes a foil packet from his pocket and looks around, his eyes landing on the hammock I had installed last month—when I needed to feel close to him, even though we were apart.
Without a word, he picks me up and strides over to the hammock. My feet contact the cool grass for a split second before he lands on the material and reaches for my waist. I fall over his body, the hammock rocking.
Sprawled on top of him, I close my hand around his erection straining between the two of us. He tugs on my nipples with his teeth. His finger descends to my sex. In a frenzy, I straddle him, causing the hammock to swing wildly with our movement. Our lips fuse together. He places his hands on my hips.
I take him inside my body, rendering moans from both of us. He is so deep in this position, yet I press my chest to his. Lying on top of him, our bodies connected, my hips rocking according to his fingers guiding me. Urging me to move.
And I do. Swiveling my hips downward and back up, only to repeat the same movements. My lips seek his. We are sweat-slicked, interconnected. Soon—too soon—tingling begins at my core.
“I am going to come,” I exclaim.
He grunts and pistons his hips higher so that his pelvic bone makes contact with my clit and I go soaring. Head thrown backward, eyes squeezed shut, I clench around him and scream my release as flashes of light play behind my eyelids.
A guttural sound escapes his lips when he thrusts one last time, then surges into me. His body shudders as his climax overtakes him. Unable to hold myself up any longer, my arms collapse and I flop over him, gasping for breath.
The hammock swings as his legs curl around my body, still connected in the deepest way possible. I do not have the energy to lift even my pinky, so I snuggle into the crook of his neck and enjoy his clean scent, now with an overlay of musk.
“Ems,” his hand reaches up to run through my hair. “You’re here. You’re alive.” He grips the bottom of my locks. “You’re mine.”
“No, Wills. You are mine.”
We proceed to prove to each other that we both are correct.
Sometime later, we have moved to my bed. Wills kisses me, then looks deep into my eyes. “Ems, I didn’t mean those awful things I said to you in my apartment.”
I place my finger on his lips. “Shhh. I know. I did not mean what I said either.”
His lip quirks up. “Au contraire,” he utters in French, causing me to giggle. “You were right about my needing therapy. I’ve started.”
I throw my arms around his shoulders. “Oh, Wills.” And I kiss him, my strong man who finally admitted he is not so strong as to refuse help.
He pulls back, running his hands up and down my back. “My God, Ems. I’m so thankful you weren’t hurt.”
“We can get through this. Together.” I pull him in for another hug. I am thankful, too. My new lease on life spurs me to tell him about the meeting with my attorney tomorrow. As I tell him what Monsieur Price did to me, his whole body tenses. “I am okay. I am going to go public as soon as my attorney gets everything organized. He told me that a few other models from the Agency—both women and men—have come to him with similar stories. I have to protect anyone else from having to go through this.” My mind drifts to Geonna. I shake my head. “No one else.”
Wills trails a finger down my cheek. “I’m sorry you had to go through what you did.” He kisses me. “But I am so proud of you for making the decision to come forward.”
“I never thought of myself as a member of the #MeToo movement, but I am. And it needs to stop.”
“You’re making it happen. Price,” his voice
goes cold, “will be run out of the industry. As will his buddy Wade Block. Thanks to you. You’re so courageous and strong.”
I nod, exhausted both physically and emotionally. Locked together, we drift off to sleep.
The next morning, I wake to the smell of freshly-brewed coffee. When I open my eyes, Wills stands before me wearing only jeans and holding two mugs.
“You don’t have any food, but you always have coffee. You’re such a model,” he teases. While I scoot back in the bed and arrange the pillows for us, he kisses my lips and places my coffee on the side table. Wills crawls on top of the blankets and leans against the headboard, crossing his legs while exposing his bare feet.
Enjoying both the view and the brew, I admit, “This is the best morning I have had in over a month.”
He blows on his mug and nods. “While you were sleeping, I watched the coverage of the plane crash. Two engines failed and the landing gear failed to deploy, causing the plane to land on its belly and slide down the runway.”
My fingers squeeze my mug. Wills places his hand on mine and continues, “The pilot warned air traffic control at LAX, so all the first responders were waiting. Some passengers are still in the hospital with burns and broken bones, but everyone survived.”
Adrenaline pumps through my limbs. “I am glad everyone is going to be okay.”
He nods, then looks out the window. “The reporters got a hold of Rinaldo in Barcelona for comment.”
“I am confused. Why would they ask him?”
“I guess because you went with him to the movie premiere last week.” He blows on his coffee.
He is trying to appear nonchalant, but I know better. “Wills, our reps set up that outing for movie buzz. Rinaldo is just a friend to me now, nothing more.”
He huffs out a breath. “Really?”
I kiss his lips. “Really.”
“I knew that.” He takes a sip of his coffee.
“Congratulations, by the way.”
I tilt my head. “About what?” Smiling, I answer my own question. “At winning you back into my bed.”
