An Egyptian Princess — Volume 06 by Georg Ebers (13 inch ebook reader TXT) 📕

the news. They are saying for good behavior and a promise of rehabilitation.”

“Bull ...”

“I agree, but it doesn’t make him being out any less true. I need you to come home and talk some sense into mom. She won’t listen to me, and the hospital is trying to convince me that sedating her is the best thing. They already have her in a padded cell, Liam. A padded cell!” Her tone is shrill, making me take the phone from my ear.

Only a few hours ago, I contemplated ways out of this visit. Now that scumbag is out, waiting for his moment. Not going home would invite failure to kick down my door.

On the other hand, what can I offer? The hospital has security, special badges, locked doors, and all other means to protect her.

“They are asking for me to go get her, but Liam, I’m afraid she'll be too much to handle on my own. What should I do?” Mia asks, mirroring my thoughts.

“She’s safer at the hospital for now.” I’ve started to pace.

“Will you come home?” She sounds afraid of the answer. With the debate going on in my mind, I can’t say her doubts are unfounded. The thought of going home, the possibility of putting her or mom in danger by being there, causes me to stop mid-step. My hands curl into fists. That’s why I’ve stayed away for so long, to keep them safe. So the question is, will I go and potentially fail them again?

“Liam?” She questions.

“Yes, give me a few hours, and I’ll hop on the first plane I can catch.”

She breathes out a thanks as I hang up the phone.

When will my heart decide to stop beating itself against my chest, clogging my ears with its deafening thump? When will my lungs feel like they can breathe and stop rattling out as if I’ve run ten miles? Will my body ever feel warm again?

“Sir?” A hand squeezes my shoulder.

Jolting in my chair, dizzy and disoriented, it takes a second to realize where I am. On a plane, on my way to my connecting flight.

“Shit.” Looking around, I realize I’m the only one left aboard.

Standing up, my head crashes into the overhead. “Fuck.” I groan.

The brunette stewardess shuffles into the opposite aisle of seats. Her perfume, an excessive sweet scent, lingers as I enter the space she vacates. She exhales a hiss of air, and her hand rests on her own head for a second as she stares at me. “Are you alright?”

Rubbing my head at the same time I shake it, I ask my own question, “When did we land?” Ripping out my bag from the overhead, I search for my phone. “What time is it?”

“We landed about ten minutes ago, and… .” The time it takes to check her wrist, I already know the time. If I don’t move my ass right now, I will be sliding into the next plane without the skin on my ball sack. Goddamnit, why didn't I take the offered coffee at takeoff?

Zipping my bag, I skid sideways until I’m out of the aisle. Bridging the gap between the plane and the boarding bridge, I take off.

Twenty minutes. If I can get to the gate in ten, I should make it.

“Wait!” I call as I see a redhead about to close the door. She lets out a squeak, her face pinching as I blaze past. “Which way to the rail?” I look back in time to see her point right.

Being in an airport, everyone in a rush to their next destination, time against you, I don't expect so much standing and staring as I rush past. There’s no way I’m the first they've seen today, but with the weight of their eyes, maybe the most interesting? Even so, a tall guy, covered in tattoos, and wearing a determined scowl, can’t be a rare breed in this age. The staring makes me wish that airports permitted firearms. It would make me feel a form of protection against this unease. I push the urge to snap somewhere near my feet, and I push myself to go quicker.

I started going right, but I wouldn’t have been able to navigate this maze without the signs. Have airports always been this capable of mind fucking people? It’s more like a rat race to the end and more than not getting shocked for going in the wrong direction. A recipe and perfect design to increase stress.

When I make it down the third pair of stairs, I make it to the rail, but the doors start to close. “Hold the door!” I shout as I jump past the last few steps.

From the irritated looks, my steps slow; I’ll have to wait for the next one. So, I’m surprised when a hand grips the door, the alarm sounding so loud we all cover our ears.

Sliding in, I watch the doors close the rest of the way. As it seals shut, I place my bag between my feet and grip the handle above me as the train picks up speed. Turning my head, I hold out a hand to the guy nearest the door.

“Thanks, man.”

He shakes his head, his dreadlocks still moving when he shoves his free hand farther into his shorts. “Wasn’t me.”

“Oh.” I shrug and look around the car. It’s him and two older women on the other side paying us no mind. “Well, thanks to whoever kept it open.”

“You’re welcome.” The voice is soft. Swearing the reply comes from the guy's direction, I glance over and raise an eyebrow. He rolls his dark eyes and shakes his head again.

I’m about to end whatever game he’s playing. I don’t have the patience for it. I’m already on edge, and letting out some frustration would feel damn good. Then, someone steps from behind him, and my mouth shuts with a snap.

If not for this forced and awkward introduction, I wouldn't have seen her. I would have determined she isn’t a threat, and then, not