Mona and I sleep late, thankfully undisturbed. The plane is in a private hanger and even its very-dimmed lighting stabs through my brain like a fork when I finally open one bleary eye.
“Crap,” I wince and bolt for the restroom.
No, I don’t puke. I don’t drink that much. I usually only drink one or two and almost always space them out to be buzzed, but never drunk. I do – however – have a bladder so full it hurts.
When I’m done, I palm the shower on and set the controls as I dig for more clothes and my carry-on. I leave the door unlocked – no point in locking it, as Mona can just poof in if she wants. And, really, it’s rude to monopolize the only available toilet.
I do, however, monopolize the hot water, using up almost all of it to wake up and shake my hangover off. By the time I’m out and dried and have taken care of my hair, makeup and teeth, my stomach is protesting the liquid-only diet I’ve given it for the last twelve hours.
Mona is up and dressed when I step out, although the giant Jackie-O sunglasses she’s sporting are a likely cover-up from last night. I know bi’s are good at hiding a lot, but she was so drunk last night that she offered to turn into a man so I could forgive her. Hopefully, she doesn’t remember that. And even if she does, the sunglasses will shield us from that TMI.
“Crew’s already gone,” she says, “We’re leaving at six for Paris. But that gives us hours to shop.”
“What are we shopping for?” I ask. She’s dressed in sleek trousers, a red silk blouse and a heart-stopping pair of Jimmy Choos.
“It’s London, my dear,” she spreads her red-slicked lips wide beneath her tortoise-shelled frames, “Anything and everything.”
I am freaking exhausted as I flop down in the back of the taxi. Mona is giggling and telling the cabbie to next stop. She’s nearly a thousand years old, for God’s sakes. Isn’t it time for a Geritol or a nap or something?
And – despite my new-found restraint – I have a pair of Harry Potter Night-Bus shoes and a bra and panty-set that would make Jamie forget about his cuffs in my shopping bag.
Mona stuffs the cab with more of her purchases and shoves bills into the hack’s hands, “Take her back to Heathrow – private flights,” she tells him, “I’ll be there soon,” she tells me through the open window, rubbing her stomach.
Somehow, I don’t think she has curry on her mind.
I nod and give her a glare – “Don’t bring it home,” – which she immediately understands. She blows me a kiss and pats the taxi firmly to let the driver know to pull away.
I schlep all of her stuff up and look around. Myrna and the pilot apparently haven’t made it back yet, but I test the water and the re-stock and see that everything has been taken care of.
I dump Mona’s bags on her seat and shove my purchases into a suitcase, pulling out my laptop afterward. I set things up and wait for the computer top find wifi, digging in the kitchen for crisps and some more tea. Once settled, I log into work’s VPN and then into Father Jonas’s VPN.
YOU ARE READING
Sinners and Saints
FantasyHell has demons, imps, succubi and incubi. Not to mention Don Lucifer and Doña Lilith. What does Heaven have to combat that nefarious, meticulous bureaucracy? Overworked priests mired in scandal and an outdated rule book and angels as disassociat...
