Still pissed, he nodded.
Half an hour later, I was on the curb of Chapel Street, waving goodbye to Jemima. She tried to look sympathetic for my sake, but the spring in her step exposed her inner jubilation at seeing the back of Mitsy and the prospect of a few weeks off.
John blew her a kiss before hailing me a cab. When it pulled up in front of us, he opened the door and shoved me in. The sudden jostling made Mitsy turn and bare his teeth in my face. I returned the sentiment until I saw the driver eyeing us through his rearview mirror. John hopped in beside me. Shutting the car door, he offered the man directions before I could say anything.
“What are you doing?” I asked as we zoomed into lunchtime traffic.
“I’m helping you pack, then I’ll go with you to the airport. I still don’t think you should leave, Grace. Are you going to tell Henry what’s going on?”
“Are you kidding?” The very thought had my toes curling in horror. “No way.”
John shook his head but let it go for now. “I wish I could come with you.”
“Me too,” I mumbled and my eyes burned. I averted my face to look out the car window. Thank God John could never stay pissed off for long, even when I was too stubborn to admit he was right. I had some bad shit going on. Leaving would only make it worse.
I reached blindly for his hand and he linked our fingers. That’s how the drive to my apartment went—me staring out the window not seeing anything, John holding my hand in silent support, and Mitsy baring his teeth at the world.
Two hours later I waved goodbye to John and boarded the plane. The flight from Melbourne to Sydney only took an hour. For that I was relieved because Mitsy was travelling in style courtesy of Qantas Airlines cargo hold. Knowing his aversion to moving vehicles, I could only imagine his beef with an aeroplane. The only other option was to leave him on his own. As tempting as that was, animal abandonment wasn’t an extra curricular activity of mine.
The elderly lady in the window seat next to mine eyed the colourful tattoos covering my arm and shoulder as I lifted my bag into the overhead compartment. I fought a sigh at her expression of distaste and tried for a smile but someone bumped me from behind. I stumbled forward and my bag fell, spewing its contents all over the floor.
“Seriously?” I griped.
“Sorry,” a male voice mumbled. I glanced at his retreating back as he continued down the aisle of the plane without stopping to help. Had common courtesy gone to the dogs? The other passengers averted their eyes, clearly going for the “if I can’t see it, it isn’t happening” approach.
“Excuse me?” I called out loudly.
The guy looked over his shoulder, running his eyes over my legs before shrugging and continuing on. Cursing under my breath, I carelessly shoved everything back in my bag, feeling the elderly lady watching my every move like a hawk. Who did she think she was, an undercover air marshal?
“Is everything okay, ma’am?”
The flight attendant hovered as I put my bag away, no doubt waiting for me to cause a scene. The urge to yell and throw things held enormous appeal, especially knowing I had Mitsy to look forward to at the end of my flight, but I hadn’t been that scrappy, trouble-causing kid for a long time, so I held onto my calm composure and replied, “Everything’s fine, thank you.”
The flight was quick. It felt like we’d only hit cruising altitude when we began making our descent into Sydney. Rather than get caught in the pushing and shoving of everyone trying to be first off the plane, I waited. When the aisle cleared, I removed my bag from above, slung my guitar case over my back, and left the plane.
Retrieving my phone, I switched it on as I walked. Henry sent me a message before I left letting me know his two friends, Travis and Casey, would be collecting me. From what I knew, the two were partners in Jamieson and Valentine Consulting, a firm that took care of the band’s security. The message included a photo so I knew who to look for. I went to check the photo when another message flashed up on screen.
Flicking it open, I faltered and stopped suddenly. The carry-on bag in my hand fell at my feet. Someone swore as they nearly ran into me, keeping up their rant as they bypassed me and continued on. I ignored it all as I focused on my phone with disbelief.
It was a photo of Dalton in a compromising position, and by compromising, I meant clothing was optional. The girl wrapped around him, Selena, was a British model slash acquaintance slash tartmonkey, who had done the Italy job with us. She was also the one who sent the photo. There was no message attached. It wasn’t necessary. A picture spoke a thousand words, and this one said, “Grace. You are a dumb chump. You are so chumpy, I have to send you photo evidence to rub this in your face because you’re too blind to see it for yourself.”