by Tripp Ellis
Wild Riviera
Tyson Wild Book Three
Tripp Ellis
Copyright © 2019 by Tripp Ellis
All rights reserved. Worldwide.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental, and not intended to refer to any living person or to disparage any company’s products or services. All characters engaging in sexual activity are above the age of consent.
No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, uploaded, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter devised, without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Welcome
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Author’s Note
Max Mars
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1
The names and locations have been fictionalized to protect the innocent, and the guilty.
It was, by far, the strangest flight I had ever been on. No, we didn't see a UFO, we weren't abducted by aliens, we didn't get sucked into a vortex and travel through time.
But it was equally as exciting.
I'll get to the good stuff in a minute.
First, the crap.
The flight was delayed an hour and a half.
Fine.
Whatever.
Not a big deal.
Airport food has gotten better these days, and there are some surprisingly decent options in the terminal. And hey, people watching.
When the jetway finally opened, I boarded the plane first—the benefits of Premier Access. Flying coach sucks, and I wasn't about to do it on an international flight.
First Class all the way, baby.
I rolled my baggage down the gangway, greeted the smiling blonde flight attendant, stuffed my small roller bag into the overhead compartment, and took a seat.
The plush leather was comfortable, had lots of legroom, and the seat was wide enough for an actual person to sit in. And it reclined far enough that I might actually get a descent nap.
The perky flight attendant took my drink order as other passengers were boarding. She introduced herself as Amanda and begged me to let her know if there was anything she could do to make my flight more enjoyable.
I could think of a few things, but I kept my thoughts to myself.
She had bright eyes and a cheery smile that belonged in a toothpaste commercial. The tight, fitted skirt would be a welcome view for the next 10 hours.
I hoped I would be able to sleep for the entire flight and arrive rested, but that wasn't going to be the case.
The attendant brought me a Diet Coke, and I realized that was probably a bad choice because of the caffeine. But a few glasses of whiskey and a sleeping pill might do the trick.
I was no stranger to international flights. I knew if I timed it just right, I could avoid most of the jet lag. I had picked an evening flight for just that reason. But sleeping on a plane was never my specialty. Too many interruptions. Cramped seats that never seemed to recline far enough. I hoped that First Class would alleviate some of those common problems.
The flight introduction video looped on the headrest monitor in front of me, welcoming me in 37 different languages.
Passengers filtered onto the 777, and I prayed to the travel gods that no screaming children sat next to me. I wasn't in the mood to deal with their piercing screeches or poopy diapers.
I brought earplugs just in case.
I settled in and watched people fumble with their bags, banging them into my shoulder as they trudged down the aisle.
I felt the disapproving stares of the coach passengers as they strolled through the First Class section, looking at me like some type of privileged asshole. I wasn’t privileged at all. I paid for this seat with my hard-earned money. Okay, maybe it wasn’t so hard-earned. I used my poker winnings. And money won in poker was twice as sweet.
Then the first of two strange occurrences happened.
A woman boarded the plane wearing a designer sundress, a wide-brimmed hat, and oversized sunglasses.
The flight attendants fawned all over her.
She had gorgeous, tanned legs and a svelte form. I couldn't see much of her face behind the sunglasses, but what did show was nothing short of perfection. Sculpted cheekbones, full lips, and radiant skin.
All eyes fell upon her, and a hushed murmur of gossip filtered about the cabin.
The woman had a certain magnetism about her.
Then I realized why.
Before I knew it, she was standing at the edge of my seat, looking at her ticket, comparing it to the seat number on the overhead bin.
I realized that was my cue to stand.
I unbuckled my safety belt and climbed out of my seat so she could slip into her seat by the window.
I don't do window seats.
I always have to sit in the aisle.
I need to be able to get up and move at will. Sure, you have to get up every time somebody wants to go to the lavatory, but it beats being crammed against the window.
Fortunately, I won the seat-mate lottery.
I settled back into my chair after Miss Magnetic took hers. People sitting around us kept staring. It was a little awkward.
I don’t usually get nervous, but when I realized who the woman sitting next to me was, my heart started beating a little faster. A thrill of excitement vibrated through my body. My palms grew sweaty.
I was sitting next to Bree Taylor.
Yes, THAT Bree Taylor.
The biggest movie star on the planet!
I had seen her in one of those summer blockbuster superhero movies where she pranced around the screen in a skintight bodysuit that looked painted on. She kicked ass and delivered snarky one-liners. And posters of her in the suit were plastered on every teenage boy’s wall across the country.
She also won an Academy Award® the previous year for a dramatic role in a film that nobody ever saw.
Her breakthrough was a big comedy hit about a group of girls who go to Vegas for a bachelor party. But after the bride hits her head in a freak accident, she wakes up with no memory of her fiancé. The girls have 24 hours to get the bride to fall back in love with her fiancé and say I do at the altar. Trouble is, she’s fallen for someone else.
But, it’s not like I really followed her career, or anything.
Okay, who am I bullshitting? I’m a big fan. I mean, who wouldn't be a fan of hers. She’s gorgeous. She has
an infectious personality on screen, and you just can’t take your eyes off of her.
I felt like a little schoolboy with a crush.
Part of me wanted to start talking to her instantly. But my rational mind said keep your mouth shut before you say something stupid.
I’ve always tried not to meet celebrities. The times I have, I’ve always been disappointed. They can never live up to the idea you create in your head. I was worried that Bree might be rude and snotty if I tried to instigate a conversation, so I pretended not to notice her. And let me tell you, I should have gotten an Academy Fucking Award® for that performance.
People kept boarding the plane, and the overhead bins were getting full. Some jackass tried to stuff an oversized case in the overhead and kept slamming the compartment, trying to get it shut.
There was no way in hell it would ever fit. A moron could see that. But this guy kept trying.
Finally an attendant came by, took the bag, and gate checked it—much to the passenger’s displeasure.
Once everyone was aboard, they sealed the doors, and the safety video began playing. I'd seen the damn thing a thousand times before, so I tuned out. I grabbed the sky catalog and looked for useless items that I just had to have—all the while trying to think of a good opener.
Nothing I came up with sounded satisfactory to me.
The plane pushed back from the jetway, and we taxied down the runway. The pilot crackled over the loudspeaker, informing us of another delay, but assured us we’d be in the air within 15 minutes.
I didn't really mind the delay. As long as we didn’t lose an engine during flight, I was cool. Besides, I had the best seat on the plane. 10 hours in a chair next to Bree Taylor didn’t seem so bad.
Before long, we rocketed down the runway and lifted into the air. Those first few moments of liftoff always seem a little precarious. The aircraft pitched and rolled slightly, and hydraulics whirred as the landing gear retracted.
I’d flown in C-17 transports that were so loaded down it was a miracle we ever got airborne—taking off and landing on tiny tarmacs in remote locations across the globe with runways far too short for comfort.
Commercial air travel didn’t phase me anymore.
Shortly after we reached cruising altitude, the captain's voice crackled over the intercom, telling us we had smooth skies ahead, and he would turn off the fasten seatbelt sign. A moment later, the buzzer dinged, and the indicator light went off.
It wasn't long after that when a barrage of fans approached.
A woman brought her young daughter down the aisle and hovered over my seat, ignoring my personal space. "I'm sorry to bother you, but my daughter is such a huge fan. Could she get your autograph?"
"Sure," Bree said with a smile. She looked at the little girl and asked, “What's your name?"
"Maggie,” the girl replied with a soft, awestruck voice.
Bree had a sharpie handy for just such an occasion.
The little girl handed her a children’s book, and Bree signed it. It was the only thing the girl had to write on.
Bree smiled and handed the book back.
The little girl looked delighted.
Her mother asked, “Would it be okay if we get a picture?”
“Sure. No problem.”
I unbuckled my seatbelt and climbed into the aisle as the woman and her daughter nearly trampled me. They sat next to Bree, and the woman handed me her cell phone. “Would you mind?”
I snapped the picture and handed the phone back to her.
The woman thanked Bree once again and took her daughter back to coach.
This scenario repeated itself for another 20 minutes as various passengers just had to get an autograph and a picture. It went on until the flight attendant pushed a serving cart down the aisle, blocking off First Class.
“Doesn’t that get annoying?” I asked.
It wasn’t a line. It wasn’t an opener. It just came out of my mouth without a thought.
Bree smiled. “I don’t mind, really. It’s what I signed up for. I wouldn’t be where I am today if people didn’t go see my movies. There was a time when I couldn’t book an acting job to save my soul. I know it’s not going to last forever, so I might as well enjoy the ride.”
It was a refreshing attitude, and I was relieved she wasn’t a snotty little brat. I wouldn’t have been able to watch her movies anymore if she was.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Tyson.”
We shook hands. Her hand was soft and delicate. I felt like I’d been touched by an angel.
“Nice to meet you, Tyson. I’m Bree.”
As if I didn’t know what her name was.
Her infectious smile dazzled me. It was probably all just an act, but she seemed genuine.
The second strange thing about the flight happened next.
2
"Why are you flying commercial? Don't you have your own airplane?" I asked.
She chuckled. "I wish."
"Didn't you make like $20 million for your last picture? Not that I keep up with that kind of stuff. But, aren’t you a big baller?"
"My financial manager says I need to scale back my purchases. I really don't think I spend that much, but it goes quick."
I arched a curious eyebrow at her.
“The agent takes 10%, the manager takes 15%, my attorney takes 5%. Half goes to taxes. I've got a house in LA, a condo in New York, a boat in Monaco, several pieces of fine art, and lots of dresses and shoes."
I laughed. "That must be a hell of a monthly nut?"
"Too much." She smiled. "You only live once, right?"
I gave a nod of agreement.
"It's only money," she sighed.
"It's only money when you have it. When you don't, it's like trying to survive without oxygen."
"True."
We hit a little patch of turbulence that rattled the bulkheads and shook the seats. There were a few gasps and groans about the cabin.
"Do you ever miss being a normal person?" I asked.
Her sunglasses had long since come off, and she looked at me with her piercing blue eyes. There was a subtle smirk on her plump lips. "Whatever do you mean?” she asked, coyly. “I am a normal person. I'm just your average, everyday girl."
She knew damn good and well she wasn't.
I chuckled again. "There's nothing average about you."
"Hey, I put my pants on one leg at a time, just like everybody else. I drink beer, watch my favorite shows, curse in traffic. I have good days and bad days. Sometimes I even pick my nose and fart." She laughed.
I was stunned by her response. "Yes, but I'm sure you look glamorous when you do it."
She smiled. "The only thing I miss is the lack of privacy. My life isn't mine anymore. It's everybody else's. It would be fun to sneak out and go to the store or to a movie or to a club without having a gaggle of photographers follow me around. I can do that more in Europe than I can in the United States. In Los Angeles, I'm hounded."
"Well, I've been chatting your ear off for the last hour and haven’t given you any privacy. My apologies,” I said. "I'm sure the last thing you need is some idiot asking you questions about what it's like to be a celebrity."
She put her hand on my forearm and smiled, "I don't mind. Really. Our conversation has been refreshing. Everybody always wants something from me. They want me to read a script, do a movie, endorse a product, help their career, loan them money… And whatever I do for someone, it's never good enough.” She paused, then smiled again. “You haven’t even asked me for my autograph."
"Keep smiling at me like that, and I might ask you out on a date."
She looked curious. “Now, that's interesting. Nobody ever asks me out on a date."
My eyes narrowed at her with doubt. "I find that hard to believe."
"Usually, if they are a celebrity, they have their PR person call my PR person. Or their agent calls my agent and sets up a meeting," she said with air quotes. "And you woul
dn't believe the number of dick pics guys send me on social media."
I laughed. "I can imagine."
There was a brief pause. I worried that the conversation was going to end. I scrambled for something witty to say.
"So, what do you do for a living?" she asked.
Not an easy question to answer.
I was heading halfway across the globe to do something I swore I would never do again—assassinate a man. A rogue agent who had shot me and left me for dead in Mexico.
Not my favorite person. Agent Cartwright.
I'd been to hell and back. Literally. I danced with the devil. I felt the heat and smelled the stench and had gotten a taste of eternal damnation. A few moments were more than enough for me.
But I had gotten a second chance at life, and I swore I wasn't going to make the same mistakes. I'd been searching for redemption, but I kept finding myself in the same old situations.
What did I do for a living?
I pondered the question for a long moment.
"I keep telling myself I'm retired. But somehow I keep taking clients," I said, trying to choose my words carefully.
“You’re too young to be retired,” Bree said. “Unless you’re one of those tech guys who’s made a bazillion dollars by 30?”
I chuckled. “No. Not a bazillion.”
We chatted for hours, and my plan to get sleep went out the window. I didn’t mind. I’d sleep when I was dead. Right now, I was alive, and she was easy to talk to.
During the middle of the flight, a man sitting toward the back of the First Class section stood up and grabbed the perky flight attendant as she walked by.