RED NOTES AND KISSES-Chapter 36: FRIDA -

Frida’s alarm blared through her room like a siren, startling her awake with the force of a cannonball.

She bolted upright, her heart thudding in her chest, her mind scrambling to process what had just happened. And then it hit her, she was about to miss her flight.

"Shit!" she shrieked, leaping out of bed as if it had caught fire.

Her feet tangled in her sheets, sending her stumbling toward her dresser.

She clawed at the drawer, yanking it open to grab some clothes, but they spilled onto the floor in a chaotic heap.

Growling in frustration, she tore off her pajamas with a kind of frantic aggression and bolted toward the bathroom.

The cold water from the showerhead hit her skin like ice daggers, making her shriek before the temperature adjusted.

Her hands moved feverishly, scrubbing at her skin and hair as if she could somehow wash away her panic.

The soap, of course, found its way into her eyes, and she cursed loudly, blindly fumbling for the towel she’d left outside the shower.

She emerged dripping and red-eyed, wrapping herself haphazardly in the towel.

Her hair, still damp, clung to her cheeks as she fumbled with the blow dryer.

The heat blasted against her scalp as she roughly dried her hair, her fingers yanking at the knots.

She reached for the flat iron, her hands trembling, and pressed it against a strand of hair only to hear the ominous sizzle.

The smell hit her nose before she even looked.

"Damn it!" she hissed, staring in dismay at the singed ends of her hair.

She let the iron clatter onto the counter, pressing her palms against the sink to steady herself.

She tried to put a comb in her hair and instantly regretted it, long hair was a curse and a blessing.

Either way she fought a whole war and brushed the hair with violence, screaming like a woman in labor.

Her reflection stared back, wild-eyed and frazzled, her damp towel slipping precariously.

She looked like a hurricane had hit her, and that was putting it kindly. The hurricane has literally carried her in its turbulence and turned her inside out then spat her out.

Her suitcase was a disaster. She stuffed in whatever clothes were within arm’s reach, the fabric crumpled and hanging out of the edges as she zipped it closed.

How did she pack it and manage to unpack it, oh yeah she had packed up what she would use to shower that morning.

Ha ha really smart medical student right here, ugh, somebody help. She thought to herself.

Dragging it behind her, she barreled down the dorm hallway, her heart pounding harder with each step.

Her mind raced with everything she’d forgotten, her charger, her toothbrush, hell, she wasn’t even sure if she packed underwear.

She chugged down a jug of juice and spat it out coughing aggressively. The toaster smelt like it was roasting up her breakfast and it was black as coal indeed.

Burnt toast clenched between her teeth, she barely managed to throw the suitcase out the door, about to shut it.

As she fumbled with her phone to check the time, something in the corner of her eye caught her attention.

An elegant vase sat on the cluttered counter, its surface gleaming under the morning light. Nestled within the vase were lush red roses, their petals impossibly perfect.

A folded piece of paper stuck out between the blooms. A red note.

She walked over and reached for it, curiosity outweighing her frustration. The bold, cursive letters stared back at her:

"You look smoking hot, my pretty disaster."

The irony wasn’t lost on her. She ran a hand through her frazzled hair, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile.

The note felt intimate, almost teasing, and she could feel the heat creeping up her cheeks.

Of course, the words also seemed to mock her, her burnt hair being an obvious detail, but despite herself, she couldn’t help but blush.

It should creep her out that someone literally was watching her in the early hours of the morning, yet...maybe she was crazy?

Her phone buzzed, pulling her back to the moment.

She locked the dorm door, shoving the note into her purse as she hurried to the cab.

The roses stayed behind, their beauty almost cruel amidst the chaos of her morning. Too sad they would die before she returned home.

The ride to the airport was an exercise in frustration.

The traffic crawled along, her anxiety mounting with every tick of the clock.

By the time she arrived, her nerves were stretched taut, her pulse a frantic drumbeat in her chest.

Her suitcase wheels clattered against the pavement as she sprinted through the terminal, dodging passengers and airport staff alike.

The desk attendant barely glanced at her before delivering the crushing news. "Sorry, ma’am. This flight has already taken off."

Her breath caught in her throat, her heart sinking into her stomach. No way, she just went through all that to miss her flight.

Tears prickled the corners of her eyes, and she struggled to find words. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

The weight of her morning, of everything, threatened to crush her.

This is what happens when your a people pleaser, if she had just been stubborn on not going to Vegas, she wouldn’t be in this mess.

A gentle tap on her shoulder made her flinch.

She turned to see a man standing behind her, older, with a kind face and an impeccably tailored pilot’s uniform.

He radiated calm authority, his posture straight, his gaze steady.

"You’re Miss Frida, I presume?" he asked, his tone polite but firm.

She stared at him, her voice cracking. "Who’s asking?"

"I was asked to pick you up from this airport. Please, follow me," he said, gesturing toward the exit.

She blinked at him, her exhaustion making it hard to process his words, was this a prank?

Because Lord knows her fists would hit his face if it was. "Look, I’m not in the mood for some stupid YouTube prank. If this is..."

He held up a hand, cutting her off. "Ma’am, I assure you, this is no prank."

Her skepticism warred with her desperation, but something in his demeanor convinced her to follow him.

As they stepped outside, her breath caught. The private jet waiting on the tarmac gleamed under the sunlight, its sleek body a vision of wealth and power.

She froze in her tracks. "Um... I think you’ve got the wrong woman," she stammered.

The pilot arched an eyebrow, his expression patient. "No, ma’am. I’m certain you’re the one."

Her phone buzzed again, and her stomach flipped as she pulled it out. The text on the screen made her heart race.

"Get in the jet, little princess... or should I come pick you up myself? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?"

Her fingers tightened around the phone, the words sending a thrill down her spine.

The nickname felt both possessive and teasing, and she could feel the heat creeping up her cheeks.

She glanced at the jet again. The sunlight reflected off its flawless surface, the kind of wealth and power that made her knees weak.

Every detail of the jet screamed opulence, the polished stairs leading into the cabin, the faint scent of aviation fuel mixed with crisp air.

It looked like something out of a dream, or a movie where the heroine always got swept into a world she could barely comprehend.

Her lips parted, her breath catching in her throat.

Was she really going to do this? Her heart pounded, the mixture of fear and excitement tightening in her chest.

The pilot stood at her side, patiently waiting, his hands clasped behind his back like he did this every day.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his voice breaking through her thoughts.

Mutely, she nodded, swallowing hard. "Uh-huh."

Inside the jet, her breath caught again. The cabin was spacious, the plush seats a shade of cream that screamed luxury.

A uniformed waitress stepped out from the shadows, her posture perfect as she greeted Frida with a radiant smile. "Welcome, Miss Frida. I hope you enjoy the experience."

Frida sank into the buttery leather seat, her head spinning. Her fingers hovered over her phone screen as another text came through.

"What? Surprised?"

She typed back, her hands trembling slightly. "Yeah."

The reply came almost instantly.

"Did you think you could escape me by going to Vegas?"

Her breath quickened as she read the words.

She could almost hear his voice, the teasing edge in his tone.

Her chest tightened as her body responded instinctively, warmth pooling in her core.

Her fingers hovered over the screen again, but another text interrupted her thoughts:

"Can’t wait to fuck you in that outfit."

Her breath hitched, the words sending a shiver racing down her spine.

She squeezed her thighs together, her face heating as her grip on the phone tightened.

This man, her stalker, was going to drive her insane.