5. TWILIGHT: THE COMPETITION
Dax
I can’t believe she hates me so much she tried to run away. And now she probably hates me more since I threatened to kiss her, but the expression that crossed her face made the threat well worth it and proved once and for all there was nothing wrong with her hearing.
I’ve been sitting here for at least half an hour since I caught the fish, but I plan to give Ava plenty of time to cool down before I break the news about the island. Man, she’s going to freak. I’m still surprised she didn’t ask. I think she’s so concerned with finding Parker—Preston—whatever his name is—that she’s lost her grip on reality. I started to ask who he was, but then I remembered the journal. There must be plenty of info about him in there, and I intend to find it. I pull the small book from the side pocket of my shorts and lean against a rock, where I have a good view of the cave in case she tries to sneak away again.
June 5
The funniest thing happened yesterday in the coffee shop at the San Diego terminal. A middle-aged man in a suit sat down at the table to my left and asked if I was looking for a job. He sipped his coffee and his eyes jumped back and forth from my face to the help wanted section of the newspaper I was reading. I remembered my mother’s childhood warning about talking to strangers and briefly contemplated moving to another table before I smiled halfheartedly and nodded in response. Of course, I’m old enough to talk to him, but I have to be extremely cautious now that I’m in California alone. Anyway, he sensed my reluctance and said, “I know where there’s a great job that would be perfect for you,” and I wondered what job description I fit from a glance.
He was well dressed and for a second, I thought maybe he could be a talent scout for a modeling agency or the film business. Even the not-so-good kind of film business. The horrifying thought made me blush. I asked what kind of job before my imagination got the best of me, and then braced myself for the answer. “Line Hostess,” he said, but then his phone interrupted our brief conversation and he jumped to his feet and gave me an apologetic look.
He reached into his jacket pocket to pull out a business card and then whispered away from the mouthpiece. “Oceanview Aviation. Here’s a card. Stop by if you’re interested and tell George that Brad sent you.” Then he hurried away. I don’t know the first thing about aviation, but it sounded exciting and perfect for keeping my mind off the past few weeks, so I took a taxi straight there.
Large plants and contemporary furniture filled the lobby, and floor-to-ceiling windows exposed a ramp full of large jets, positioned neatly on the other side of the glass. A slim blonde behind the counter greeted me while the brunette next to her helped a pilot. Both girls topped the high end of the Richter scale for beautiful. The blonde made a quick phone call before directing me to the stairs across the lobby.
George’s office was at the top of the stairs, and he jumped up from his desk when I entered and extended his hand. I handed him my resume and was shocked to see him give it a two-second glance before he tossed the ivory paper haphazardly into one of the piles on his desk. He leaned back in his chair with his hands steepled finger to finger in front of him. “You’re hired,” he said after he asked a couple of basic questions. I’m still in shock. I guess looks are more important than a 4.0 GPA.
Oceanview is a gas station for private aircraft, mostly private jets with a customer clientele of the rich and famous. They offer other services, but my job consists of luring the planes to visit his FBO instead of the competition on the opposite end of the airfield. Wave to the pilots, entice them to pull in, then guide the plane to a parking spot and greet them with a smile.
When I told him I needed to find somewhere to live, he shuffled through some papers on his desk until he found a scrap piece of paper. He scribbled the address of a rental house owned by his friend and handed it to me, then picked up his phone to inform the front desk I’d be borrowing the crew car until I found one of my own. Reaching into a box near his desk, he handed me uniforms consisting of bright-colored tank tops and told me to wear short shorts. He sent me on my way with a handshake and his eagerness to see me today.
Filling out paperwork and getting a security badge consumed my entire morning but after lunch, things got a lot more interesting. I found myself posing in front of a small plane with a fancy paint job while a photographer with a French accent took my picture for a calendar that Oceanview hands out to customers every year.
Can you believe it? Twelve months filled with pictures of female employees posed on various airplanes to lure pilots in to buy fuel and maybe talk to their favorite ‘girl’. I’m not sure what irritated me more—the uninterrupted gaze of the creepy, dark-haired guy leaning against the building in an Oceanview uniform, or the fact that George failed to mention anything about a calendar and that I’d be the feature girl for the month of April. Seriously, the fact that I’m required to carry a sharpie around to sign autographs definitely should have been mentioned in the job description.
After my shift, I went upstairs to thank George for the lead on the rental and let him know I rented the house. When I exited his office and turned the corner into the hallway, I couldn’t avoid plowing into six feet of trouble resting against the wall right outside the doorway. The same guy who’d been watching me all day like it was part of his job peered back at me with sinister brown eyes. His lips were set in a firm line with just a twitch of a smile at one corner, and his black hair was slicked away from the sharp features of his narrow face. He couldn’t be more than a couple of years older than me, but his stark appearance made it difficult to guess his age.
He’d obviously been eavesdropping. I told him sorry and attempted to walk around him, but he pressed away from the wall and matched my step with one of his to block my path. “Are you?” he asked with perfected sarcasm. “Sorry for not watching where you were going—or sorry you didn’t bump into me sooner?” Ewww. Then his eyes slowly scanned the length of my body. Double ewww. George came to my rescue when he told the guy to come in. I took a deliberate step back, allowing him to pass through the doorway into George’s office and actually caught myself staring at him, bewildered by his last comment. George introduced us.
His name is Sergio and he’s a personal mechanic for one of our customers. After George told him my name, Sergio stroked his chin with his hand and the large, fang-bearing serpent tattoo on his arm seemed to come alive when he said, “Ava… what an exotic name.” I wanted to roll my eyes but somehow refrained, but my dumb feet seemed frozen in place as if I needed his permission to leave. Thank goodness George’s phone rang. He said, “See you tomorrow, Ava,” before picking up the receiver.
I hastily took my cue to escape the uncomfortable meeting, but not before glancing at Sergio and hearing him mumble “And tonight in my dreams.” Triple ewww. He threw me a wicked wink that I pretended not to notice. I think I’ll enjoy this job as long as I don’t run into him too much. I just hope he’s not one of those guys that will offer his assistance, claiming he has nothing better to do, and cause the hours to drag on as he and his ego infringe on my bubble of personal space. Please fate… don’t let that happen.
I glance up at the opening of the cave and feel guilty. Not for reading her journal, because this is the best entertainment I’ve had in three years. But I’ve been gone longer than I planned. She has to be starving and might regret telling me to go away. Or maybe not. There’s nothing about Preston yet and I’m running out of time, so I flip through a couple of pages until I find what I’m looking for—the entry beneath a border of hearts and flowers doodled whimsically around his name at the top of a page.
June 20
Best. Day. Ever.
Today started out like any other day except it was hotter than usual, and my fingers tugged at the tank top clinging to my skin. I used the magazine clutched in my hand as a poor substitute for a fan and squinted through my sunglasses to make out the plane in the distance. As usual, I turned the golf cart around, flicked on the flashin
g beacon, then peeled my legs from the vinyl seat to stand at the edge of the taxiway and start my routine of smiling and waving like a princess in a parade. I directed the plane to a parking spot and waited for the door to open.
The single passenger in his sixties exited first. His white hair matched the color of his expensive-looking suit, and the crocodile-skin shoes he wore were polished to a high shine. Of the multiple rings on his fingers, the horseshoe full of rhinestones stood out the most. He stepped off the plane, acknowledged my greeting with a nod, and then paused to light a cigar he held between two stubby fingers. I started to remind him of the no-smoking policy on the ramp, but the cloud of arrogance surrounding him said he knew the rules and they didn’t apply to him. He exhaled a ring of smoke from his mouth and glanced at me one last time, challenging me to say something, and then he stepped into the waiting limo.
A flight attendant named Anna greeted me next, and I wondered if that could be me in ten years. A flight attendant seems fitting for someone without a lot of people to miss. She handed me the leftover catering tray of caviar, fine cheese, and crackers, so I hurried to place it in the cart, turning to ask the pilot my usual questions, but my breath got caught in my throat.
Forget cute. At the bottom of the stairs was six feet of sizzling hotness. An amused grin crept over his lips, and he pulled his sunglasses down to peer at me over them with green eyes that stood out in contrast to his dark brown hair, and not a hair was out of place. Suddenly, I couldn’t remember my own name or what I’d planned to say. I froze, feeling more foolish as each second ticked by, and I wondered if my being mute was the reason for his smirk. I opened my mouth to speak but before I could form the words, he said, “Well, well, well. Looks like Georgie hired himself some new eye candy.”
I thought he was talking to me, but the copilot bounded out of the plane on cue to look me over with an impish grin and waited to hear my response. The distraction was enough to snap me back to reality. The pilot glanced at my name tag, still smirking, and said, “Ava, is it? Or should we call you Miss April?”
And I said, “Only if I can call you Mr. Gulfstream.” As soon as the stupid words escaped my mouth, I regretted them, especially when he raised a perfectly arched brow. The heat must have gotten to my brain. The co-pilot, whose name is Kirk, burst out laughing and stepped forward to extend his hand. Freckles dotted his nose and his red, curly hair glistened from an overuse of gel. He didn’t even look old enough to be flying a Gulfstream.
The pilot stared at me over his glasses, but I avoided his smolder and looked at his name tag instead—PRESTON—and the name fit him well. He appeared to be in his early twenties—tall, slim, very well built, with his crisp, white shirt tucked neatly into black dress pants tailored to perfection. The musky scent of his cologne fogged my brain, and I suddenly found myself picturing him in a TV commercial, buff and bare-chested in front of a mirror, applying aftershave to his freshly shaved skin.
He is visually perfect. There were never any guys at my high school that looked like that. It seemed a little late for my ‘welcome to Oceanview Aviation’ spiel, so I quickly asked how many gallons of fuel he’d like and when he smiled back at me, his smooth lips exposed a perfect set of teeth—as if I expected any less.
He told me to top it off, and then asked me to have the front desk page his boss for him. When I agreed, he said, “His name is Mr. Pitts… first name is Harry.” Kirks’ snickering should have clued me in, but I was mesmerized by Preston’s smile and realized my mistake one second after the words left my lips into the walkie-talkie, requesting a page for Mr. Harry Pitts.
Sergio and the line techs fueling the plane doubled over in hysterics. My face flushed, and then I got mad. I spun around to face Preston with vicious intentions, but the moment my eyes came in contact with his supermodel face as he chuckled to himself, my irritation dissipated and was replaced again by embarrassment. “See what I have to put up with?” Kirk said, and I wanted to say something clever but the response part of my brain sat empty as if someone deleted the file. Mustering a smile, I climbed in the cart, speeding away to wave at another jet preparing to land in the distance, and I wondered how someone so hot could be so obnoxious.
Later this afternoon when they got ready to leave, I asked Preston if there was anything else I could get them (protocol for the job), and he said, “Actually yes,” and felt around in his pocket. “I think I left the keys to start the plane at the front desk. Would you mind grabbing them for me?” Kirk peeked his head around the tail of the plane and, of course, I politely agreed and headed for the lobby.
After not seeing them on the front counter, I looked in the pilots’ lounge, then walked back to the lobby and scanned the couches, end tables, and finally the floor. The girl working the front desk finished helping a customer, then looked at me quizzically and asked what I was looking for. I told her the pilot from Hotel Charlie lost his keys to start the plane, and then I got down on all fours to look under the couch. She called my name to get my attention, motioning me to come closer, and then she whispered, “Airplanes don’t need keys to start.”
Yeah. Well, I was forced to look at Preston and Kirk when I directed them out of the parking spot. Preston gave me a wink before slipping on his sunglasses, with a smug grin plastered to his face that was irritatingly handsome. Kirk shot me an amused smile and waved as they taxied away.
As if the humiliation of Preston’s pranks weren’t bad enough, Sergio decided to grace me with his presence after the plane turned onto the taxiway. He held out his palm. In the center sat a crisp bill folded into the shape of an airplane. He told me we each got a five-dollar tip, but Preston told him to make sure I got that specific one.
I reached for the origami plane, but he moved his hand so fast I swiped air. The line techs behind him snickered, and I folded my arms firmly across my chest and glared up at him. In a slithery snake voice, he told me that Preston said to make sure I got it, but “he didn’t say I couldn’t make you earn it first.” I told him with a flat smile that I just did. Sergio studied my face, and a wicked sneer crossed his lips before he promised to give the tip to me later tonight at his place—after going to dinner with him. Glancing over his shoulder, I saw the line guys waiting eagerly for my response. I told him to keep the stupid tip and use it to rent himself a date for tonight at Babes-R-Us.
His entourage whooped and hollered with amusement at my shutting him down, but his smile vanished and he clenched his jaw. He looked mad. For a split second, I worried about the repercussions of my comment, but he seemed to regain control of his emotions and tossed the money plane at my chest before he turned and walked away. I unfolded the five-dollar bill and right in the middle, Preston had scribbled this message in sharpie.
Wicked Luck Page 6