reached into his pocket, and extracted his phone. “Can I get some ice, maybe?” he asked.
Kick stared at him in disbelief. He was already busy typing a text and didn’t look up. “Get it yourself,” Kick said, turning away. “Asshole,” she added, under her breath. She stalked off, naked, toward her bedroom. Monster followed her, tail wagging, the tennis ball in his mouth.
“Welcome to the team,” she heard Bishop call after her. “I think we’re really going to enjoy working together.”
5
KICK HAD A WORRY list. She added to it every day. By keeping track of each worry, she could put off worrying in the moment and instead do it all at once during the designated worry period she set aside before dinner. The so-called list now was five composition books long. Adam Rice’s name was on it, and recently there had been a lot of entries about Monster’s health and Kick’s dwindling savings. The helicopter banked sharply, and Kick bent over her notebook and scribbled another item on the list.
Vomiting.
Her handwriting was barely legible. She clutched the airsickness bag that the helicopter pilot had given her. She could still see James standing in his apartment doorway, holding Monster’s leash. He’d pointed out that the image of Adam Rice had been enlarged, grainy; the license plate on the SUV had been too fuzzy to read. James was James. Logical. Careful. Neurotic. Kick was only one of those things.
The helicopter dipped and banked again. The pilot looked like Thor, or at least like a low-rent, steroid-fueled version of him. Kick was sure she was green. Bishop didn’t look airsick at all. He was up in front next to Thor, with his phone out and his orange sneakers on the chopper’s dash. The windshield was streaked with rain. They were flying low, below the cloud cover. If Kick looked down, shecould see rush-hour traffic crawling along the Banfield. But mostly she avoided looking down.
She added Helicopter crash to the list.
The helicopter swooped earthward and Kick’s insides took a second to catch up. She braced a hand on the back of the pilot’s seat, lowered her head, and watched as her long braid swung between her knees. I will not vomit. I will not vomit. I will not vomit. Thor’s blond hair was tied back with a leather strap. The back of his bomber jacket had a lightning-bolt insignia embroidered on it and something else that Kick couldn’t make out. She snuck a peek at Bishop. His expression was vague, or maybe bored, or maybe that’s just what assholes looked like. She tried to see what he was reading on his phone in the reflection of his sunglasses, but they weren’t polarized enough. Reading. Even thinking about reading made Kick’s mouth fill with warm saliva. She swallowed it down. I will not vomit. Bishop hadn’t said a word to her since they’d climbed aboard the helicopter on her roof, even though all of them, including Thor, were wearing headsets with microphones. The headsets were supposed to reduce the noise, but as far as Kick could tell, hers wasn’t working.
She was relieved when she recognized landmarks that indicated they were close to the airport. That huge sign, four yellow letters on blue, all capitals: IKEA. Wasn’t there an IKEA near every airport in the world?
Thor tilted the helicopter toward the ground. Kick shut her eyes.
She knew the instant the chopper touched down. Her body was still, settled, once again her own. The engine changed in pitch as the pilot shut down the engine and rotors.
Kick opened her eyes. The passenger-side door was open and Bishop was gone. Kick unlatched her seat belt, threw off her headset, heaved her heavy pack off the floor, put her worry book under her arm, and pushed open the chopper’s back door. Rain spit in her eyes, and her braid lashed around like a whip.
This was not a part of Portland International Airport that she had ever been to before. Sleek small planes dotted the runway. She spotted Bishop headed toward one. She
Kick stared at him in disbelief. He was already busy typing a text and didn’t look up. “Get it yourself,” Kick said, turning away. “Asshole,” she added, under her breath. She stalked off, naked, toward her bedroom. Monster followed her, tail wagging, the tennis ball in his mouth.
“Welcome to the team,” she heard Bishop call after her. “I think we’re really going to enjoy working together.”
5
KICK HAD A WORRY list. She added to it every day. By keeping track of each worry, she could put off worrying in the moment and instead do it all at once during the designated worry period she set aside before dinner. The so-called list now was five composition books long. Adam Rice’s name was on it, and recently there had been a lot of entries about Monster’s health and Kick’s dwindling savings. The helicopter banked sharply, and Kick bent over her notebook and scribbled another item on the list.
Vomiting.
Her handwriting was barely legible. She clutched the airsickness bag that the helicopter pilot had given her. She could still see James standing in his apartment doorway, holding Monster’s leash. He’d pointed out that the image of Adam Rice had been enlarged, grainy; the license plate on the SUV had been too fuzzy to read. James was James. Logical. Careful. Neurotic. Kick was only one of those things.
The helicopter dipped and banked again. The pilot looked like Thor, or at least like a low-rent, steroid-fueled version of him. Kick was sure she was green. Bishop didn’t look airsick at all. He was up in front next to Thor, with his phone out and his orange sneakers on the chopper’s dash. The windshield was streaked with rain. They were flying low, below the cloud cover. If Kick looked down, shecould see rush-hour traffic crawling along the Banfield. But mostly she avoided looking down.
She added Helicopter crash to the list.
The helicopter swooped earthward and Kick’s insides took a second to catch up. She braced a hand on the back of the pilot’s seat, lowered her head, and watched as her long braid swung between her knees. I will not vomit. I will not vomit. I will not vomit. Thor’s blond hair was tied back with a leather strap. The back of his bomber jacket had a lightning-bolt insignia embroidered on it and something else that Kick couldn’t make out. She snuck a peek at Bishop. His expression was vague, or maybe bored, or maybe that’s just what assholes looked like. She tried to see what he was reading on his phone in the reflection of his sunglasses, but they weren’t polarized enough. Reading. Even thinking about reading made Kick’s mouth fill with warm saliva. She swallowed it down. I will not vomit. Bishop hadn’t said a word to her since they’d climbed aboard the helicopter on her roof, even though all of them, including Thor, were wearing headsets with microphones. The headsets were supposed to reduce the noise, but as far as Kick could tell, hers wasn’t working.
She was relieved when she recognized landmarks that indicated they were close to the airport. That huge sign, four yellow letters on blue, all capitals: IKEA. Wasn’t there an IKEA near every airport in the world?
Thor tilted the helicopter toward the ground. Kick shut her eyes.
She knew the instant the chopper touched down. Her body was still, settled, once again her own. The engine changed in pitch as the pilot shut down the engine and rotors.
Kick opened her eyes. The passenger-side door was open and Bishop was gone. Kick unlatched her seat belt, threw off her headset, heaved her heavy pack off the floor, put her worry book under her arm, and pushed open the chopper’s back door. Rain spit in her eyes, and her braid lashed around like a whip.
This was not a part of Portland International Airport that she had ever been to before. Sleek small planes dotted the runway. She spotted Bishop headed toward one. She
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