Wreckage Read Online Free Page A

“Oh, and check where Mr. PR is. We gotta get out of here in the next ten or we’ll be waiting in line for an hour.” His bald spot’s doubled since I saw him a year ago and his remaining blond hair is buzzed short. It’s not a good look. That shouldn’t make me happy, but it does.
    I clear my throat and he takes in my arrival without a hint of embarrassment. I don’t think Kent knows what embarrassment is. “Hey there, man, glad you made it. Now go sit down so we can get in the air, and close the door for me, would ya?”
    Conversation over. Why I try to be social with that caveman I’ll never know. Shoving the door shut I try to squeeze away the annoyance, crushing the handle on my bag again, and again. Still not working.
    Shuffling down the narrow hall toward the cabin, I can’t help but smile. I’ve spent dozens of hours on this plane over the past few years. Now it’s familiar, almost homey. All of the little flaws are dear to me, like the hairline crack in the lavatory door, the overhead light in the rear of the plane that’s been burned out for two years straight.
    Besides those tiny irregularities that only someone familiar with the plane could point out, the interior’s nothing special. Five tan leather seats and full-size fold-down tables accessible to each of the front chairs, small screens that make you think a movie will be shown in flight. It won’t, but the illusion’s perfect for the contest winners. It’s like flying in a fancy shoebox and, as much as I hate this whole trip, I’d rather be here than at home.
    “You know the drill, hon: Pick any seat you like, fasten your seat belt, and turn off all your gadgets till we’re in the air. Let me know if there’s anything you need. We have some snacks and refreshments in the front. Otherwise, relax.”
    “Thanks, Theresa.” I’m only half paying attention because I’ve homed in on the winners. I push my computer bag under the first seat in the front row as Theresa makes her way up to the front of the plane, keeping one eye on the women in the second row. On the left, an older lady with puffy light-brown hair is already snoring. Must be Margaret Linden.
    I was given a brief file on each of the women from Janice to help catch up after my late start, so I know a few things about Margaret: she’s the winner of the trip, she’s elderly (shocker), she lives in Iowa, and she elected to bring her daughter-in-law, Lillian, as her plus one.
    Across the aisle, a younger woman leans against the window with the shade pushed fully open. She’s holding a book, but it dips beneath the seat in front of her so I can’t read the title. I wish I knew what she was reading. It has her so engrossed she doesn’t seem to notice how her brown hair tumbles down over her makeup-free face, already tan from a week on the beach. The sun hits her in this perfect way, like she’s bathed in artificial lighting for a movie. My mouth goes bone dry—she’s beautiful.
    Just my luck. I’m really good with old ladies, lots of practice I guess, but attractive women get me all anxious and jittery, and I say incredibly stupid things to them. To think I was just complaining about the elderly.
    My pulse pounds at my temples. Hopefully I remembered to toss Tylenol in my bag, or maybe Theresa has some. Rubbing the sides of my head, I try to remember what was in her file: 30-year-old female, Margaret’s daughter-in-law, stay-at-home mom . I hadn’t even glanced at her passport photo. Eventually I’ll have to talk to her, but not right now. Right now I need meds, stat. I yank at my bag, the pain in my head getting worse the longer I’m leaning over. Finally it pops out and I shuffle my feet to keep from falling over. Could this day get any worse? Plopping the bulging leather bag onto my seat, I unzip the front pocket. If the medicine is going to be anywhere, it’ll be here.
    My hands rifle through random office clutter, pens, scraps of paper, and a surprising amount of