by Whitney G.
—Gillian
* * *
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Random
Then you actually don’t need to ask it. (No, they don’t fucking fit there.)
See you Saturday in Atlanta.
—Jake
* * *
Her response was immediate.
* * *
Subject: I’m going to ask it anyway.
I noticed you own at least six different Audemars Piguet watches. Combine that with your million-dollar condo in Manhattan and I’m quite curious: Are you a trust fund baby? How else are you able to afford that on a senior captain’s salary?
—Gillian
* * *
Subject: Re: I’m going to ask it anyway.
I noticed you missed the words in my previous email. Neither of your questions are about fucking, so I’m not obligated to answer them.
—Jake
* * *
She sent a lengthier response littered with curse words, but someone tapped my shoulder before I could finish reading it.
“Captain?” He tapped my shoulder even harder. “Sir?”
“Yes?” I looked up from my phone and groaned, realizing I wasn’t really in the air right now. I was sitting in a damn simulation session with a pilot-in-training. “What do you want, Ryan? Your name is Ryan, right?”
“Yes, sir. I um, I need some advice.”
“I’m listening.”
“Should I make an announcement about the upcoming turbulence or will leaving the seatbelt sign on for the passengers be enough?”
“You do realize that this is a simulator, right?” I looked over at him, noticing beads of sweat falling down his red face. “There are no passengers behind us. There isn’t even a cabin behind us. It’s just you and me in a metal box.”
“So…” He wiped his forehead. “Is that a yes or a no?”
“Just fly the goddamn tube.” I glanced at the control screen, making sure he wasn’t doing anything unnecessary, and then I leaned back and read the remainder of Gillian’s email.
The tube began to rock back and forth—first light turbulence, then moderate turbulence. And all of a sudden, the shakes became severe and the simulator session ended with a loud screeching sound and a sickening thud.
The final results flashed onscreen. Test flight 2102. Destination not reached. Total fatality.
“Congratulations,” I said. “You’ve killed all one hundred and forty-two passengers, all four flight attendants, me, and yourself. You also managed to land your plane so deep in the Pacific that the NTSB won’t find all the wreckage for at least three years.”
“No.” He shook his head. “This is your fault, sir. I asked you for help.”
“You asked me if you could make an announcement about fake turbulence.” I unbuckled my seatbelt and looked at the controls, noticing he’d taken the plane out of autopilot and completely deviated from the flight plan. “What you should’ve asked, is if it was okay for you to switch the settings. I would’ve said no.”
He shook his head, looking as if he was about to cry over this. “I was in a stall. I didn’t know the system would allow me to fall so low, especially without intervening.”
“Intervening?”
“Doesn’t the real version of this plane have a fly-by-wire system that steadies everything if the plane descends to less than fifteen feet?”
“Yes.” I stood up. “There’s also a hidden parachute that will automatically appear and save every soul aboard for times just like this. I’m shocked you didn’t press that button.”
“Wait, wait,” he said as I twisted the exit handle. “I honestly wasn’t sure what to do, sir.”
“Did you consider contacting control? Asking if you could climb to a higher altitude?”
“I could’ve done that?”
“Rest in peace, Ryan.” I opened the hatch, immediately making my way down the simulator’s steps.
“Captain Weston?” A supervisor who looked ten years younger than me suddenly stepped in front of me. “Captain Weston, are you leaving?”
“As soon as you step out of my way, yes.”
“But why? Your trainee just crashed his plane into the Atlantic Ocean.”
“No, he crashed it into the Pacific Ocean. The water’s much deeper in that one.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Care to get to it?”
“Don’t you think you should be giving him a stern but encouraging lecture right now? Perhaps giving him pointers so this won’t happen next time?”
“I think the fear of dying will be enough.”
“You know…” He sighed, crossing his arms. “If it weren’t for a certain mark of honor on your profile, I would’ve had you fired weeks ago, when you allegedly told an entire group of passengers to ‘Get the fuck off my plane’ when you thought they were taking too long to disembark.
“That wasn’t allegedly. The clip is on YouTube.”
He rolled his eyes. “We’re funneling a lot of money into the program under the new mergers, and I personally would love it if every pilot tried to make a positive impact. Isn’t that why you fly, Mr. Weston? Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“I’m here for the paycheck.”
“I give up. I. Give. Up.” He groaned, throwing up his hands in a fake surrender. “Speaking of your paycheck, though. Before you go, I need you to finally sign off on this. The Signature payroll officially rolls over to us in two weeks, and I assume you’ll want to continue being paid.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket and handed me a pen.
I unfolded the paper, quickly read the printed words, and handed it back to him. “This is not the salary I requested. This isn’t even a fraction of the salary I requested.”
“No shit.” He scoffed. “The salary range for a new captain is seventy to ninety thousand. The max is one hundred twenty to one hundred forty thousand after years at the captain level.”
“That sounds like an unfortunate problem for the rest of the pilots here. It also sounds like you never put in my request. You simply assumed what human resources would say.”
“There was no need to assume because I know exactly what they’re going to say.” He stepped back. “And I know they’ll laugh me out of the room while doing it. Four hundred fifty thousand dollars a year to fly commercial planes?”
“Make sure you tell them that’s my minimum.”
“You’re not at Signature anymore, Weston. You’re not flying sports teams, celebrities, or small world leaders. Surely you can understand that, and surely you can see that your demand is ridiculous.”
I didn’t back down. I hadn’t flown for less than that in six years, and merger or not, I wasn’t going to start now. I wasn’t even going to entertain the thought.
“I’ll also need to continue getting every third weekend of every month off. That was promised to me before I signed the paperwork.”
“Okay. How much crack have you been you eating, Weston? I’m seconds away from demanding that you take a piss test right now.”
“Four hundred fifty thousand. Every third weekend off. No crack, just pussy.”
“If I go to them with this,” he said, finally realizing that I wasn’t joking. “And they tell me, to tell you, to go fuck yourself, what do you want me to say?”
“It won’t come to that.” I started to walk away. “Trust me.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t count it.”
“And if I were you, I wouldn’t doubt it.”
Blog Post
Gillian
Present Day…
I’m typing this post while I’m on a rainy layover in Dallas, while I wait to head to Paris.
My life is now a montage of cities and countries that blend into a never-ending day. I fall asleep in San Francisco and wake up hours later in Hawaii. I order a cup of coffee in Madrid and buy crepes for lunch in Paris. I watch the rain fall over Seattle’s grey afternoons and catch a bright, bloody sunset in Phoenix.
An
d somewhere in between all of this traveling—in half-constructed bathrooms, parking garages, and last-minute hotel rooms, I break my airline’s number one rule: I have sex with fuck a pilot.
I give him every piece of me—letting his sex set my skin on fire, listening to him whisper words in my ear that continuously wet my pussy as he pounds into me from behind. And then I let him go.
Or at least I try to…
I think I’m starting to like him, and when I say “him,” I’m only saying that halfheartedly. I don’t really know who the hell he is because he’s so damn guarded, and for every two questions I ask, he only gives me one answer.
He also disappears every three weeks, never answers his phone in front of me, and for some strange reason, I can’t help but feel that he’s hiding something from me.
(I’ve somewhat missed this writing on this abandoned blog. Somewhat.)
Write later,
**Taylor G.**
2 comments posted:
KayTROLL: Welcome back. Again.
KayTROLL: Now, please go away again and find some inspiration so you can post about something other than your sex life. No one cares about who you’re fucking (especially since you’re being dumb and breaking the rules) and as your only reader, I deserve something more than porn to read. #thankyou #dobetter
Gate B16
Gillian
Atlanta (ATL) --> Denver (DEN) --> New York (JFK)
“This is the final boarding call for Elite Airways Flight 1297 with service to San Francisco.” A voice floated through the Hartsfield-Atlanta restroom speakers. “If you are scheduled to be on this flight, please make your way to gate E13 now. Also…”
The remainder of the words came muted as Jake gripped my thighs and moved me up and down his cock. My fingers dug into his skin, his lips covered mine, and just as we’d done so many times before, we fought for control until our bodies finally gave in.
Briefly shutting my eyes, I collapsed in his arms—feeling him softly kiss my lips as I struggled to catch my breath. I didn’t want to admit it, but we were getting reckless. Beyond reckless.
Whenever we were in the same city, we met. Same hotel, we met. And God forbid if we ended up in the same airport for more than thirty minutes at a time.
My body now lusted for his touches, my mouth yearned for his tongue, and my pussy throbbed nightly in need for his cock. Sex with him was becoming a wild addiction and I never wanted to be cured.
And even now, knowing that we wouldn’t see each other again until Sunday when we crossed paths in Dallas, I was feeling something I hadn’t felt in a long time: Longing. Genuine longing.
“Gillian?” He suddenly looked down at me, his fingers still pressed into the skin of my thighs, his cock still buried deep inside of me. “Can I put you down now?”
I nodded and he slowly pulled me off of him, setting me down onto the floor.
He handed me my skirt and I handed him his tie. I slipped into my blazer and spotted a new, silver and black Audemars Piguet adorning his wrist. My count was now up to eight.
Knowing he was probably going to leave me in seconds, I walked over to the mirror and quickly reapplied my makeup and fixed my blazer. I took out a few wipes and attempted to soak up the scent of sex and sweat from my skin, adding a few sprays of perfume, and then, when I realized he was still staring at me, I turned around to face him.
“Did you know that the average Audemars Piguet watch costs ten thousand dollars?” I asked.
“Gillian…” He narrowed his eyes at me.
“I’m just stating a random fact I thought you should know.” I stepped back and he walked over to me. “Would you like to know another random fact?”
“Does this fact involve going over our rules again? The one about not asking about shit outside of sex?”
“Every now and then you’ll have to talk to me, Jake,” I said. “It’s what you agreed to give me, so you’ll need to start answering my questions.”
“I have no problem with talking to you.” He pressed me against the sink. “And I’ll answer all of your questions, as long as they’re within reason.”
“And…” I hated how his being so close to me turned me on instantly, how I almost forgot what I wanted to say. “And it wouldn’t kill you to continue trying to be civil, to ask me questions for yourself every now and then, since you never seem to ask me any.”
“I ask you plenty of questions.” He looked into my eyes, his gaze heated and dark.
“I ask you if you want me to fuck you against the sink or the wall. I ask you to stop screaming when I bend you over, and I ask you if you’re okay after we’re done so I can move you off my cock… That’s more than civil.”
He stepped back and grabbed the handle of his luggage, heading for the door. “See you in Dallas Sunday. C5.”
A week and a half later…
I stood him up in Dallas. Then I stood him up again in Atlanta. I didn’t answer his emails when he asked why I wasn’t where we agreed to be, and now, as I sat alone in my Denver hotel room, I was regretting not taking advantage of the stress relief.
My mom and sisters were back at it, calling me every hour on the hour—sending me annoying little reminders about that stupid proposal I didn’t give a damn about, and Miss Connors had just written me up for the second time. My offense? My lipstick wasn’t “red enough” and looked like “someone literally kissed it off of [you].”
Hitting ignore on my mother’s tenth call, I noticed she and Brian had sent me a few text messages.
Mom: Ben called me a few weeks ago and said you dumped him…
Mom: Gillian, we need to talk about this. Didn’t you say his Dad is a force to be reckoned with on Wall Street? We both know someone like you needs to marry well…
Brian: Hey, Gill-doll. Quick question…I’m bringing Samantha’s parents up for the celebration, too, so I need you to be completely honest with me…Is your apartment good enough for the family to stay in? I can’t afford for the mayor to think our family is nothing less than the best.
Brian: Oh, and Mom said you dumped Ben? Bad move, Gillian. Bad move.
Hurt and annoyed, I immediately called Meredith, in need of someone to vent to, but there was no answer. I called her two more times, just to make sure, and it went to her voicemail both times.
I scrolled through my list of contacts—not feeling as if any of the flight attendants I simply shared small talk with would be willing to listen, and my finger paused as I reached Jake’s name.
Not giving it a second thought, I hit “call.” It rang once. It rang twice, and before I could come to my senses and hang up, he answered.
“Hello, Gillian.” The deep, sexy sound of his voice caught me completely off guard. “Hello? Gillian?”
“Yes?”
“I believe you called me.” There was a smile in his voice. “May I help you with something?”
“I’m having a bad day and I really need someone to talk to.”
Silence.
“Don’t worry, you’re my absolute last resort and you technically don’t have to respond to anything,” I said. “I just need to get a few things off my chest and then you can hang up. Are you there?”
“I shouldn’t be.”
I took that as a yes.
“Well, first—” I adjusted my pillows and lay back. “I’m sorry for standing you up in Dallas the other day.”
He laughed. “Surely that’s not one of the things you need to get off your chest, Gillian.” He sounded as if he was in bed, too. “And I would be more inclined to believe that you were sorry if you weren’t continuing to text me, “Fuck you and your lack of talking,” every couple of days since.”
I smiled and held back a laugh.
“I have a flight in six hours,” he said. “Hurry up and spit out all of your unnecessary words so I can hang up and go to sleep in peace.”
“Okay...Wait. Can I ask you something minor first?”
“No.”
“Who in your family
was it?” I asked.
“I’m pretty sure the word ‘no’ has a pretty standard definition...”
“Who in your family, or who close to you, was an English teacher?”
He was silent for a few seconds. “What makes you ask that?”
“The way you talk, your obsession with grammar in simple emails and texts. Not to mention the fact that you clearly have a thing for definitions. I wanted to ask you on Wednesday but—”
“You stood me up.” He cut me off, sounding slightly upset, but then his tone changed. “It was my mother.”
“Are the two of you close?”
“I’m hanging up in ten minutes, Gillian. Say whatever you have to say about your day.”
“Right…” I let out a breath. “I hate my family. Every single one of them. I literally cringe when they call me, and I wish I’d been born to anyone else, anyone else with the semblance of a soul.” I heard the soft sound of TV conversations in his background and continued. “They only call me when they want to feel better about themselves, when they want to remind me that I could’ve done something more with my life. And I hate that I wasted my first few years in New York trying to accomplish something in spite of them, all to end up being the same disappointment they first marked me to be…” I stopped right there, remembering all my hopeful blog posts from years ago, how they came to a sudden, necessary end.
“Are you finished now?” Jake asked.
“Yes. You can hang up now. I actually feel somewhat better. Thank you for listening.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “I wasn’t going to hang up, though.”
“Were you going to give me some advice?”
“You don’t need advice,” he said. “I think you’re well aware that some families are simply poison and there’s nothing you can do about it. Although, I think you’re being slightly overdramatic and you don’t really hate them. I don’t think you have any idea what true hatred of someone could mean.”