Page 5 of Rescuing Rebel
After escorting a freshly showered woman back to her seat, my attention is drawn to one woman in particular—the redhead named Rebel. Not too surprising, she sits beside Barbi, the two of them deeply engrossed in conversation.
She’s one of the last to avail herself of the facilities.
“We have showers if you want to freshen up.” I clear my throat to get her attention.
Freshen up?
What the fuck?
Being confined to a cage, starved, and forced to defecate and urinate in that same cage requires far more than a bit offreshening up.I sound like an idiot.
Rebel rises, posture rigid, bare shoulders back. Eyes forward, her shoulders tense. Shoeless, her toes curl into the carpet. Everything about her screamsrage.Without a word to acknowledge me, she strides down the aisle as if it’s her decision tofreshen up.
Freshen up?I smack my forehead and desperately want to bite back those words.
I follow behind her as she makes her way to the lavatory and hope she doesn’t stop suddenly to pivot and call me out for being a perv for following her. It’s not like I need to stand outside the lavatory while she showers.
Strike that.
That’s exactly my job.
I volunteered to escort the women to and from their seats, watching them closely for signs ofdecompensation.
That’s code for losing their ever-loving minds.
At the door to the lavatory, I make a sweeping gesture. It’s not like I’m going in there with her. I’m just here in case she freaks out. Swallowing my tongue, I shift my stance. One look at the stunning redhead and it’s clear freaking out isn’t in her vocabulary.
“Take your time. Everything you need is inside, including clean clothes.” I shift from foot to foot, feeling like a fool.
Rebel’s eyes blaze before she disappears inside. I stand guard, granting her this moment of privacy to wash away the surface grime—and perhaps start rinsing away her deeper scars.
Despite their brief showers, the other women remain curled in on themselves, blankets gripped tight, still processing their shock. There’s power in taking some small bit of control back in their lives.
Rebel, however, carries herself apart from the others, seemingly untouched by the trauma surrounding her. When she exits the lavatory, freshly showered and looking radiant, it’s all I can do to remember my role and shut my gaping mouth.
The woman is stunning. Jaw-dropping gorgeous.
I clear my throat. “If there’s anything you need…”
Rebel bristles, turning sharply. “I’m fine.” She shrugs off my concern, her aquamarine eyes flashing with warning.
I hold up my hands apologetically. “Of course. I just wanted to check.”
She gives a terse nod and heads back to her seat, bare feet padding whisper-soft on the carpet. We provide them with slippers, but she opts to dangle those from her fingers rather than slip them on her feet. I don’t know why, but her standoffishness heightens my curiosity.
It’s the kind of interest that is not only unprofessional but dangerous.
I return to my post, pondering the defiance burning behind those flinty eyes. Whatever inner fire fuels Rebel, it’s clear the flames won’t be extinguished easily. She piques my curiosity in a way no other survivor has before.
Hours pass, but thoughts of Rebel occupy my mind. When she rises, I trail her to the galley. The sleek space looks more like a high-end lounge than an airplane, with plush leather seats, warm mood lighting, and polished wood detailing.
Rebel studies the offerings—healthy foods juxtaposed with luscious dark chocolates. Her fiery hair tumbles down her back in undulating waves, each strand reminiscent of the vibrant dance of flames in a passionate blaze.
“Do you need anything?” I ask gently.
Rebel tenses, not turning. “I’m fine, thanks.” Her tone brooks no argument. She’s definitely not interested in making conversation.
“Please let me know if there’s any way I can help. Anything you need.”