by Whitney G.
“Because I’m not the only person here who has ever made a mistake.” He runs his fingers through my hair, his lips brushing against mine. “I recall the start of this being quite fucked up.”
“It’s still fucked up.” I look into his eyes. “You still refuse to let me in, you still won’t talk to me and tell me the simplest of things. I’ve been nothing but open and honest with you, and yet, all this time later—” The rest of my sentence ends on his lips and his tongue slides against mine—begging me, teasing me, overpowering me.
I try to resist, to push him away, but it’s no use. His kiss is an instant taste of the high I’ve been missing, a reminder of just how good we can be when we’re together. Slowly giving in, I begin to whisper questions against his lips as he claims my mouth again and again.
I ask if he’s having sex with someone else, he says no. I ask if he’s dating anyone else, and he punishes me with a squeeze of my ass and a rough and abrupt “No.” I start to ask where he’s been these past few weeks, why he always slips away from time to time, but he ends my questions with an even deeper kiss that sends tingles up and down my spine.
“We can talk tonight,” he whispers. He grabs my hand and presses it against the front of his pants, letting me feel how hard his cock is. “We can talk about whatever the hell you want to talk about tonight.”
“Tonight as in ‘the morning’ when we actually land in Paris, or ‘tonight’ as in right now?”
“Tonight as in right after we leave this restroom, as in right after I make you turn around against that door and remind you who your pussy belongs to.” He covers my hand with his and silently commands me to unzip his pants. “Is that good enough for you?”
I nod, he claims my mouth with his one more time, and another string of arguments is suddenly snapped—soon to be long forgotten shreds, just like all the others. As his hand slides up my skirt and wetness drips between my thighs, I know, once again, that all is lost.
All is us.
All is turbulence.
* * *
How many times did you burn me?
Three, four, five, maybe ten?
Was it me who burned you?
Yes, it was you, again and again.
I should’ve walked away, so you could’ve followed suit.
But I think you knew all along that I never wanted to…
Terminal A
BOY MEETS GIRL
Gate A1
Jake
Dallas (DAL) --> Singapore (SIN) --> New York (JFK)
There were only three things I hated in this world more than my cruel circus of a family: The new changes in the airline industry, the fact that the airline industry was the only industry I could ever see myself working for, and the fact that ‘Do Not Disturb’ signs on hotel room doors apparently didn’t mean shit anymore.
Twice this morning, unwelcome knocks had come to the door at the absolute worst moments. The first time was while I was having sex, while the woman I’d invited up to my room was bent over my coffee table with her ass in the air—my cock thrusting in and out of her pussy. The second time was while I was flipping through the morning newspapers, using the flame from my final cigar to burn through all the lie-infested pages.
And now, within the same three-hour span, another set of knocks were tapping against the door.
“Mr. Weston!” This time there was a voice, a female voice. “Mr. Weston, are you in there?”
I didn’t answer. I continued standing under the hot streams of the shower, trying to think of any possible way I could get out of this.
“Mr. Weston, it’s me! Dr. Cox!” The shrill voice came again ten minutes later. “I know you’re in there! If you don’t answer this time, I’ll have to assume something is wrong and call the police!”
Jesus Christ…
I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Not bothering to grab a towel, I walked through the bedroom suite and opened the door, finding myself face to face with a red-haired woman in an all-white suit.
“What the fuck do you want?” I asked.
“Excuse me? How dare you talk to me like that? I don’t appreciate you ignoring—” She suddenly stopped talking and stepped back. Her big brown eyes widened, and her cheeks turned bright red.
“Your cock is um…” Her voice was a whisper. “You’re completely naked right now.”
“How perceptive of you,” I said flatly. “What do you want?”
Her gaze lingered on my cock for several more seconds, then she cleared her throat. “I’m Dr. Cox with Personnel Affairs for Elite Airways.”
“I’m aware.”
“I know that this weekend marks your final flight sequence with Signature Air, but seeing as though Elite and Signature will now be one airline as of next Monday, you still need to complete some paperwork with us,” she said. “You’ve had ten months to get this done, and you’re the only pilot who hasn’t completed the personality profile. Not only that, but I could’ve sworn we told you that we were flying into Dallas on your stopover just to get this done, Mr. Weston. We flew here for you, and we’re still waiting for you to join us in the meeting room. Would it kill you to take this seriously?”
“I’ll be able to take you seriously when you realize that my eyes are up here.”
Flustered, she blushed again and finally looked up at me. “We told you to be downstairs at seven.”
“I told you I’d get there at eight.”
“Well,” she said, looking at her watch, “It’s now seven thirty, and the reason we insisted you join us an hour early is because we wanted you to have time to read over some of our new policies. We insisted.”
“No, you suggested. Two completely different terms with two completely different expectations.”
“I guess I can add ‘human dictionary’ to your list of unique profile qualities.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be very careful with my wording the next time I send you an email.”
“You should.”
“So, we’ll see you downstairs at eight?”
“Eight thirty. Someone interrupted my shower with her bullshit, so I need to make up for lost time.”
“Mr. Weston, I swear to God, if you’re not downstairs within the next hour, I will suggest to my superiors that we pack up and leave. And I can promise you that this weekend will be the last time you set foot on an aircraft.”
“I’m not a fan of empty threats, but for the record, the word ‘insist’ actually would’ve worked a lot better in that sentence. I’ll get there after my goddamn shower.” I shut the door before she could say anything else.
I walked through the bedroom suite once more—picking up a couple of empty condom wrappers and tossing them into the trash. Then I pulled my captain’s hat and navy blue uniform out of the closet and set them on the bed.
For over a decade, I’d flown for respectable airlines and companies, more than earned the four gold stripes that were sewn onto the shoulders, and I honestly thought that the remainder of my career would be spent flying for the beloved Signature Air. But the moment Elite Airways became the number one airline in the country, with its “steal everything from the incomparable days of Pan Am and just make it seem new” approach, I knew there was a chance that it would find a way to take over my favorite airline. Just like it took over most of the others.
I picked up my phone from the nightstand, hoping to see a new acceptance email from any of the charter airlines I’d applied to work for last week, but there were none. There was only a text message from the woman I’d fucked earlier, Emily.
She was listed as ‘Dallas-Emily’—city first, then name. That way, I wouldn’t confuse her with ‘San-Fran-Emily’ or ‘Vegas-Emily,’ so I could easily keep track of the other women I slept with in other cities.
* * *
Dallas-Emily: Did I leave my earrings in your room?
J. Weston: You did. I had someone from the front desk come get them. You can pick them up from there whenever you get a chance.
Dallas-Emily: You could’ve just told me that I left them there, Jake…
J. Weston: I just did.
Dallas-Emily: You know what I mean. Maybe I left them on purpose because I wanted to come back up and talk to you.
J. Weston: That’s exactly why I gave them to the front desk.
Dallas-Emily: Can I ask you something personal? There’s something I need to say.
J. Weston: I can’t prevent you from sending a text message.
Dallas-Emily: The next time we meet up, would it kill you to start our night with something other than, “Get on your knees,” or “Open your mouth?”
J. Weston: I’m not opposed to saying “Hello” from here on out.
Dallas-Emily: That’s not what I mean, Jake! I mean that there’s something palpable between us. Something real… And I just…
J. Weston: Are your ellipses (…) implying something significant or do you just enjoy abusing grammar for no reason?
Dallas-Emily: I want more from you, Jake. More for the both of us.
J. Weston: More fucking?
Dallas-Emily: More of YOU. I like you A LOT and I know that with your career, you’re alone a lot (as am I) and I feel like the two of us have a real connection.
J. Weston: We do not have a connection, Emily.
Dallas-Emily: If we don’t, then how come the last time you were in town, we talked for HOURS and you treated me to a five course dinner?
J. Weston: We spoke for twenty minutes and I bought you a taco.
Dallas-Emily: Same thing…Every time we see each other, even if it’s only a couple times a month or so, I feel something and I know you do, too. I think we’d be really good together if we decided to pursue a relationship...What do you say?
* * *
I turned off my phone and made a mental note to block her later. There were plenty of other options in Dallas, plenty of other women who wanted nothing more from me than a shared fuck and a short, meaningless conversation. And the second she typed the word ‘connection,’ I should’ve ended our conversation.
In my world, a connection was a temporary lull in an itinerary, a short-term flight that eventually led to a final destination and nothing more. The word itself was fleeting, never final, and it never applied to relationships.
Walking into the living room, I searched for my tie—stopping when I saw the headline that was scrolling across the bottom of the television.
A New Future, a Forever Beginning for #1 Elite Airways Starts Monday
A blonde anchor was interviewing one of Elite’s perfectly groomed and robotic employees. He was wearing the standard blue and white tie, an “I Love Elite” pin on his right breast-pocket, and a smile that never faltered. No matter how many lines of utter bullshit that streamed from his mouth, his smile remained the same.
“Well, we’re the number one airline in the country for a reason, Clara.” The Elite representative couldn’t have been any older than twenty-five. “That’s why we’re excited about the acquisition of Signature Air and Contreras Airways.”
“That’s right!” The blonde clapped. “Earlier this morning, you all announced that you just bought Contreras Airways! What an amazing time your airline is having!”
“Thank you, Clara. It’s like our team motto says: We will do whatever it takes to be the best, no matter the costs.”
No matter the costs…
As the headline scrolled across the screen again, I felt my blood pressure rising. For most viewers, I was sure this was another business segment, another young interviewer’s big break on the airline industry and the American Dream, but to me, those words meant more than just the end of an era. They meant something I’d never forgive or forget.
Livid, I forced myself to walk away and returned to the shower. I turned the water on its highest setting, trying to focus on something else, anything else, but it was no use. That ugly headline was all I could see.
Fuck it. I’m not going downstairs until I feel like it.
Three hours later…
“Thank you so much for arriving on time, Mr. Weston.” Dr. Cox glared at me as she opened the door to the meeting room. “Did you purposely arrive here with only limited time to spare before your scheduled flight to Singapore, or is that just a coincidence?”
“A convenient coincidence.”
“I’m sure.” She groaned and led me inside the small room. “You can have a seat at that table over there.”
I stepped inside and noticed that they’d transformed the sparse space to look like an actual orientation session. There were Elite policy posters tacked onto the walls, a projector screen, and a stack of Federal Aviation law books stacked high in a lone chair. There were two large boxes marked “J. Weston” in the corner, and the table was littered with huge binders, notebooks, and pens.
As I took a seat, I spotted two glasses of water labeled “For Mr. Weston” dripping onto the table’s wood.
Dr. Cox sat across from me seconds later, and another Elite executive, a grey-haired man donning a familiar blue and white tie, took his place next to her.
“This is my colleague, Lance Owens,” she said, placing a digital recorder on the table. “Since you took your precious time getting down here today, my videographer left. So, I’ll have to record the audio of the interview and Mr. Owens will serve as a visual witness. Also, we managed to fill in most of what we were missing from your file as we waited, so this won’t take too long. Do you have any questions before we begin?”
“None at all.”
“Good.” She hit the start button on her recorder. “This is the final interview for employee #67581, senior captain, Jake Weston. Mr. Weston, can you state your full name for the record please?”
“Jake C. Weston.”
“What does the ‘C’ stand for?”
“Can’t remember.”
“Mr. Weston…”
“It doesn’t stand for anything. It’s just C.”
“Thank you.” She slid a blue file toward me. “Mr. Weston, can you confirm that the previous job listings in the file in front of you are correct?”
I flipped the file open and saw my professional career compiled into a sparse black list. United States Air Force. American Airways. Air-Asia. Air-France. Signature. No accidents, no infractions, not a single tardy.
“This is correct.” I closed the file and returned it to her.
“It says here that you’ve earned thirty awards in aviation since you graduated from flight school. Is that true?”
“No. It’s forty-six.”
“You know,” she said, reading from a sheet of paper. “Most pilots don’t earn these particular types of awards until they’re in their fifties and sixties, when they have at least twenty-five to thirty-five years of experience under their belt. You have almost twenty years of experience, if I count your high school aviation achievements, and you’re only weeks away from turning thirty-eight.”
I blinked.
“Are you going to say anything about what I just mentioned, Mr. Weston?”
“I was waiting for the question. There’s usually some inflection in your voice when you ask one. You only stated a list of facts.”
The witness at her side cracked a smile.
“Moving on.” She clicked her pen. “We’re having some problems verifying the people you listed as next of kin. The phone numbers that are listed for them go straight to payphones in Montreal. We need the updated information from you, okay? My ‘okay’ is a question, Mr. Weston.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s start with Christopher Weston, your biological father. What is his current place of employment and contact number?”
“He’s a magician. He disappears and reappears into my life every few years. I’ll try to catch him next time and ask for his number.”
“What about Evan Weston, your biological brother?”
“Also a magician. His talent is in erasing things, making things appear differently than they are.”
“No p
hone number?”
“No phone number.”
“Your mother?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Your wife?”
“Ex-wife. I’m sure she’s still ruining lives wherever she is. Look up the number for Hell.”
She took off her reading glasses. “Every Elite employee is required to list at least four next of kin contacts. Every. Single. One.”
“Then I’ll be the first exception.”
“I don’t think so.” She looked at the witness. “Since Mr. Weston wants to play games, we’ll need to use our data team to find his family members. Make sure we tell the hiring board how uncooperative he was today when you do that.”
The witness nodded, but I said nothing. I simply picked up a glass of water and took a long sip, knowing there was no way in hell they’d find anyone outside of my ex-wife. It’d all been buried decades ago, and it would never come to the surface again.
“In the meantime,” she said, “surely you can order your next of kin in order of closeness so we know who to contact first in the event of an emergency?”
“Surely.”
“Okay, then. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the closest, how close are you to your biological father?”
“Negative eighty.”
Her brown eyes immediately met mine. “I’m sorry, what? What did you just say?”
“Negative eighty.” I enunciated every syllable. “Do you need to rewind the tape and play it back for yourself?”
She shook her head, and for a second she looked as if she regretted even asking, as if she was going to stop this line of questioning and move on to something else, but she didn’t.
“Mr. Weston, on the same scale, how close are you to your biological brother?”
“Negative sixty.”
“Your biological mother?”
“No comment.”
“Mr. Weston,” she said, her voice a little harsher. “Could you please answer the question in regards to your biological mother?”