All mistakes are mine, folks!
I sleep as if I'm hit with a sledge hammer, my heart racing as Gianna pounds onto the door of my suite.
"Sir, I'm on the phone with the rental agency," she says. "Your card has been declined three times and he refuses to try again."
God fucking damnit. It's as if there's no end to this fucking nightmare.
I take a deep breath, a heavy weight on my chest as I turn in my bed, the satin sheets fluttering to the carpeted flooring.
"Send the fucking bill to Carlisle Cullen."
I figured I might just as well leave a surprise for daddy and his accountant.
I take Gianna's silence for approval, hear her hustle through the phone in French that hardly has an accent to it. I think she told me she was half-Italian once and went to school in Europe. They probably teach kids all sorts of languages there.
Lighting up a blunt, I pack my luggage, willing the buzz to spread faster than it actually does but it feels like nothing happens. I grab a bottle of Merlot from the cupboard, the one with the cork already off it and take a swig. A few drops slide down my mouth, down my chin and right onto the shirt I'm still wearing from last night. With the blunt in between my lips, I unbutton the linen shirt and let it fall down the floor into a rumpled mess. Exactly how I feel right now.
By the time we make it to the tarmac, I'm absolutely livid and positively buzzing from the weed and wine I treated myself to. Even though my night's sleep and holiday have been cut short, my dignity bruised, I keep a straight face and sip a tiny bottle of champagne through one of those metal straws they keep on board as I sink into the window seat, the smell of buttery soft leather invading my senses while the booze hits as I guzzle down champagne as if it's lemonade.
Thank God for private planes and the slutty little stewardess who lets me get wasted in it. After all her name is on our payroll. For now.
