A line starts to form behind me as I grab my suitcase and wait for the doors to open to allow me out. Sweat drips down the back of my neck, pooling in the collar of my light blue button-up shirt. I’m not even hot, but the stress, anxiety, and worry about my father has my heart racing, heating the under layer of my skin.
Light beams into the cabin of the plane as the stewardess opens the door. The woman has long, dark brown hair, and she flashes white teeth under pink-painted lips.
“Thank you for flying Delta. Have a good day,” she says cheerfully. I feel anything but.
“You too,” I tell her as I step off the plane and walk down the narrow, black-carpeted hallway in the gate. My feet drag, and my eyes droop. Exhaustion hits me like a truck. Mentally, I’m drained. The entire flight I thought of my dad and Barbara, hoping they were okay and alive.
I won’t know what to do if they aren’t.
Obviously, I’ll have to plan a funeral with Everly. I’ve pushed all my bitter feelings for her to the side, given the situation. She and I are going to be spending a lot of time together because of this horrible instance. I’m not looking forward to it, any of it, but I’m not going to sit around aimlessly waiting for the Denver police to search for my dad while I sit in my skyscraper either.
No, I have to do something to help. No way am I losing my father in the damn snow.
Dragging my suitcase behind me, my Italian leather shoes click along the linoleum floor. People hustle by me. Persons of all shapes and colors try to avoid everyone, but with the airport being so packed, bumping shoulders seems to be inevitable.
Baggage claim finally comes to view. I strain my neck, searching for the driver I hired to come get me. There is only one man holding a sign. He is older, but in shape, tall, grey and silver sprinkled his beard, and the sign reads, ‘Michaels’.
“Hi, I’m assuming you are here for me,” I wave.
“Mr. Rowan Michaels?”
“That’s me.”
“Wonderful,” he says, grabbing my bag. “Follow me, sir.” His British accent is unexpected but pleasant. I’ve always loved Britain. One day, I plan on retiring there, but until then, I’m going to admire and be jealous from afar.
“Are you here for business or pleasure?” he asks.
“I’m afraid neither. My father is missing, that’s why I’m here.”
“Oh, dear. I am so sorry to hear that. I hope he is okay. My name is Henry if you need anything, Mr. Michaels.” He opens the black, back door of the Mercedes sedan.
“Thank you, Henry. And please, call me Rowan. Mr. Michaels is my father.” Out of habit, I press my palm in the middle of my stomach where my blazer is buttoned before I get into the car.
The door slams shut. I finally have a moment to breathe and gather my nerves since I’m alone. I rub my palms over my slacks, wiping the sweat against the material. So much is running through my mind. I had to leave all of my duties on Gray, which I feel horrible about, but my dad and Barbara come first. And I bet Everly is a wreck right now.
“Sir?”
My eyes snap open from Henry’s voice. Huh, I don’t even remember closing them. “Yes?”
“There is a minibar to your right. You look like you need a drink.”
A buzz to my right grabs my attention, and the top to the minibar slides away, revealing two scotch glasses.
“To the left is the fridge. You have your pick between gin, whiskey, vodka, and tequila. There are mixers there, too.”
“Ah, Henry. You are my favorite person in the world right now.”
“It isn’t a problem, sir. Enjoy. I’ll get you to the resort in about forty minutes. Sit back and relax.”
He rolls up the privacy window, reading my mind that I want to be alone. I reach for the glass and dive into the ice bucket to grab a few cubes before making myself a gin and tonic. I fill the glass to the brim and down it in one swallow. I pour myself another, debating if I want to down this too, but I should probably keep a straight mind when I show up at the resort and not be completely hammered.
Eh, I can get buzzed. I deserve that much. I chug it and shake my head as the gin tingles my tongue. Whoa, that one was strong.
When I make the next one, I’m careful to watch how much Hendrick’s I put in compared to the tonic water. I stop pouring the gin, letting the last drop fall into the glass, and put the bottle back in the fridge.
I spread my legs and lean my head back against the leather seat. I exhale, closing my eyes, and let the liquor do what it does best.
Numb me.
My eyes only see darkness, but I don’t need to see my drink as I bring the rim to my lips. The ice cubes push against my lips as I tilt the beverage, letting it flow over my tongue and down my throat. It’s cold, refreshing, and makes me relax for the first time in forty hours.
I must have dozed a bit because when I snap my eyes open, we are already pulling into the resort, and the glass in my hand is sweating, dripping condensation onto my jeans. Yes, jeans. I haven’t worn jeans in four years. I forgot how much I loved
