"Who the hell is Ava James! I've never even met this woman!" she shrieks into the phone.
Her voice rattles out, and Ava looks petrified.
I'm sure she can hear her over the din of the airport shuffle, as we wait for our transfer in the VIP lounge.
Ava is flipping through a magazine nonchalantly as my mother carefully explains that Page Six in New York has gleefully announced my engagement!
"Shit," I mutter under my breath.
"She's a wonderful woman," I try to inject, between Mother's stream of outrages.
To no avail...
"Where are you?" My mother is infuriated.
"Mother we're going on a trip, to celebrate," I try to explain.
"A trip!" she screams again.
The announcement for our onboarding comes mercifully.
But, it's my doom as well, because now I must hang up the phone, and face Ava.
"Mother, I must go! We're boarding! I'll call later! Love!" I shout, simultaneously ringing off.
I stare at the phone as if it were a serpent.
I wish I could turn them all off, and hopefully never have to turn them all on again.
I want to hide from the rest of the world for my entire life because there is nothing scarier than my mother when she is angry, especially at a time when she is engaged, and the attention is off her and on her son.
This has probably infuriated her more than anything, and I am afraid of the repercussions.
And, now I have to deal with the consequences to Ava, as well.
"How did this happen?" she cries.
Ava's voice is high pitched as she clutches her purse.
She's put her sunglasses on, and I'm sure that she's been crying as I wrap an arm around her.
I walk to the counter, handing over our boarding passes and passports.
We get our passes, and I strike off to the cabin, as a dazed Ava follows me into first class, and then to our seats.
The intensity of our situation has just maxed out.
I don't know how this happened; this was not the plan; this was never the plan.
I'm even aware that Rowan had friends in Hong Kong, and Rowan was in New York or LA.
So, if she saw anything, I'm probably in for it.
I do not want a scene.
Anything but a scene.
Of course, life often doesn't go my way as of late.
So, I'm sure that whatever happens next, is going to be pretty bad.
When Ava takes her seat and lifts her sunglasses, her eyes are red-rimmed.
"They're going to find out what I am Corban," she wails.
"Nothing is going to happen to you, I swear to god. I'll protect you, okay?" I promise her.
I realize that this is both our secrets and that I have to protect myself just as much as her.
But, Ava is suddenly my priority.
Seeing her vulnerable and devastated that her name will be plastered all over the tabloids, her intense feelings of loss and insecurity affects me in ways that I cannot explain.
Ava does not want the attention of being associated with me!
It's a perspective I have never associated with myself.
"This was my last job," she sobs.
"What do you mean?" I ask her.
She explains quickly, in shaky words.
"I was going to have a normal life after this," she concludes, then buries her head in my chest, weeping.
Quiet settles over us as the flight attendants go over the safety procedures, and the plane takes off.
I squeeze her hand, but it only seems to make her sob more, so I undo my seatbelt and wrap my arms around her.
I hold her tightly, letting her sob into my shirt until the cries turn into hiccups and now we're cruising through the air.
"You know we're about eight thousand miles away from New York, Ava," I say, whispering to her.
"So, let's try to not worry too much about that right now, okay?" I croon to her.
"There's a ton of things to do in Fiji; you're going to love it!" I try to sound enthusiastic.
Ava disengages herself from me, and sits back, sniffing.
"Haven't you always wanted to go there?" I ask.
Ava nods, pulling a pack of tissues out of her purse.
"I guess it's on my bucket list," she says, blowing her nose.
"Bucket list?" I ask.
"I guess people with money don't do that, but it's like, a list of things you want to do before you die. Like go to Fiji, see the Eiffel tower, those kinds of things," she explains, leaning her head against my chest.
"Well, I haven't seen the Eiffel tower," I admit.
"I spend too much time working to enjoy the money, honestly," I say.
It sounds stupid as I say it, and she grunts at me.
"I do have this list of things I always plan to do that never get done," I explain.
"So, I figured taking a trip like this, to somewhere I've always wanted to go, would tick some of those things off. And, Noah is in Fiji on his goddamn island," I add.
"He has an island?" Ava says, her eyes going wide.
"Yep. An island," I say.
"Ava, you'll see it," I promise her.
"So, anyway, I figure I'll cross some things off the list," I continue.
"Like riding a bike, learning how to fish, and maybe catching an actual fish - the sorts of things that people learn how to do, I never have time," I say.
Ava cracks a genuine smile, and my entire body feels like it's decompressing, not only because I used her name and she didn't correct me, but because she warms me, from the inside out.
Leaning in, I bite her lower lip.
Then, I'm drawing her into another kiss that spins my head and makes me grab her.
I'm pulling her towards me, my tongue edging at her lips until she opens her mouth to mine.
We kiss, and I massage her tongue with mine until I've got her pressed up against the window of the plane and we're both breathing heavily.
Here in first class, no one cares.
Well, maybe Ashley and her blonde boobs do, but no one else notices, all wrapped up in their own, personal dramas.
3
Ava
May 3, 2017
Corban's lips are made for kissing.
The world just falls away as his arms snake all the way up the back of my shirt, creeping underneath my bra.
His fingertips are mere seconds away from my hard nipples, when I suddenly hear something.
It's just my name, but it comes across with this rude inflection.
"Ava James."
Corban suddenly turns around, like he knows who this woman is and I look up.
She's what I've termed the Beverly Hills bimbo type.
The woman is naturally a blonde, with fake boobs, too much plastic surgery, make-up, and a Chihuahua in her purse that barks at both of us.
"Corban Winthrop!" she yells, with a degree of familiarity that is astounding.
"You have some nerve! Dumping Rowan like that! And suddenly, you're engaged to… whoever the hell this whore is. Slut!" she shrieks.
She spits the words at me, throwing me off guard.
Beverly Hills looks like she's about to put one of her Louboutin 65mm heels through my forehead, and I quickly hide behind Corban.
"Serena, can you just… leave us alone, please. It's done," he says, quietly.
"So, what? You think you can get away with dumping Rowan and going off and just marrying some other bimbo?" she says accusingly.
"Whoa," I pipe up. "You're calling me a bimbo? Me?"
"Excuse me? Aren't you the tramp who stole him from Rowan?" she hisses.
"She didn't steal anyone," Corban says calmly, massaging his temples.
"This is ridiculous. Can you just go back to your seat, please?" he tells her.
"Please, you're practically having sex on a plane," she accuses us, her eyes green with jealousy.
"You're verbally assaulting me, on a plane." I point out.
"Isn't that more offensive?" I ask, innocently.
"Just wait," Serena-who-is-most-undoubtedly-from-Beverly-Hills tells us both.
"Wait until I tell Rowan!" she says, in victory.
She snaps a picture of both of us with her phone.
"She's going to have a fit! And then, she's going to come to Fiji, and we're going to ruin your holiday plans, because neither of you deserves to be happy!" she snarls.
Her voice has a nasal tone that's almost a whine. Maybe it's just the jet engines, though. It's difficult to tell.
I want to punch her plastic face.
"After what you did..." she starts, but Corban takes her wrist and firmly grasps it.
He draws her to him, his face inches from her perfect, sculpted nose.
Staring straight into her eyes, he sets her straight.
"We didn't do anything, Serena." Corban says.
"Delete that, please. You don't have permission to take our picture," he orders.
She's suddenly aware of just who Corban is, maybe for the first time in her vapid life.
"I can do what I want!" she screams, and the tone of her voice has the flight attendant running to defuse the situation.
The stewardess is an older woman, with little patience.
"Is there a problem?" she asks, eyeing Serena.
"She's taking pictures, verbally assaulting us, calling me a whore," I say with a shrug and a quizzical look.
"We don't even know this woman," I say, which is obviously a half-truth. Corban knows her, for sure.
But, I know whatever I say is just going to cause Beverly Hills to go off, which it does.
Her poor Chihuahua decides right then to start barking, so the flight attendant reminds her that dogs must be kept secured while in flight, to which Beverly Hills insists that he is a service dog.
"Serena just go back to your seat," Corban says, rubbing his forehead.
"Not until you apologize!" Beverly Hills screams, and points the video on her phone towards us, so that we both turn away.
It is at this point that the flight attendant returns with a man who informs us he is an Air Marshall.
Great.
Just great.
He tries to solve everything quietly, and professionally.
Beverly Hills is still trying to take video the whole time. The Marshall takes the phone from her, over her loud protests, and casually tosses it our way.
"Delete whatever you think is worth deleting, but not her personal pictures," he instructs Corban.
Then, the Marshall escorts Serena towards the back of the plane, Chihuahua and all.
There's a few minutes of shouting back and forth, before Serena suddenly becomes deathly quiet.
I look back and notice that the Marshall has taken out a pair of handcuffs.
Serena is white as a sheet.
He speaks to her, and she's nodding, and being respectful, her eyes locked on the cuffs.
He tells her to stay put, and then walks to us.
"I'll have to ask you some questions," he says. "But, she won't bother you, or anyone else, the rest of the flight."
Corban just shakes his head.
"I don't get how these people live with themselves, sometimes," he says absently.
The irony is apparently lost on him.
I scroll through the madwoman's phone, deleting the video and pictures of us, going through the deleted folder and permanently deleting them as well.
I hope everyone else ignored the whole situation. But, I doubt it.
I return the phone to the Air Marshall, and notice he's now got Serena handcuffed to the window seat beside his.
The poor dog is in her purse, its little tongue sticking out.
He stops me a few feet away and takes it, sliding it into his pocket.
"We'll just call it a neighbor dispute?" he asks. "Assuming that is Corban Winthrop?"
"Yeah." I nod, noting that no one wants to get on Corban's bad side. "You're from New York?"
He nods. "Just don't stir up anything else trouble."
"We'll try not to." I smile back at him, wondering if he suspects anything about me, thinking that he probably doesn't.
The word whore sticks out in my mind as I return to my seat.
Technically that's what I am.
I'm a whore.
Men pay me to be their girlfriend.
For the night, for the weekend, for a couple of weeks.
This is my longest stretch ever.
Sometimes it involves sex; sometimes it doesn't.
But the thought of a strange man creeping his hand up my thigh never used to bother me, now for some reason, with Corban sitting next to me it does.
It was just a way to stop working three jobs, to stop working myself to the bone just to make it work with four roommates in a heavily partitioned two-bedroom apartment, which even then was a luxury, especially when you have no marketable skills other than being good at seducing whomever you're told to seduce.
Many of the others go out with a bang, like my friend Victoire, and that is her real name.
She met a man fell for her and promised her the world. He begged her to marry him, so she did.
Of course, she ended up getting an even richer divorce, and now she's living the high life on her own terms.
Good on her.
I want to make my life real on my terms.
I don't need someone to do it for me.
I don't need a man; I don't need love.
But that doesn't mean I don't want to find one.
This was always a means to an end for me.
"You okay? You look lost?" Corban's voice interrupts my thoughts and I realize that I'm tired as all hell from the planes and the time zones and it's easier to just say as much than to explain that I'm starting to like him, because he didn't have to defend me the way that he did back there, but he did, he defended my honor even though he knows what I am.
Or maybe he was defending himself, but he looked just as offended as I did that Beverly Hills had the nerve to interrupt the most fantastic kiss.
Every time he kisses me I forget where I am, and my head spins.
I am waiting.
I am waiting until I'm not too tired to see if his kiss, and his lips, which I was exactly right, they were made for kissing, do the same thing to me when I am entirely coherent and rested.
And it's that thought that I allow to lull me to sleep, with the gentle rocking of the plane, which I find isn't all that bad, and I think maybe I could get used to flying after all.
Iced mango and passion fruit coolers greet us at the deluxe bure, a luxury cabin in a way, that Corban has booked for the two of us. Just sipping it slowly as I step down into our new home from the front door, into the sunken living room.
When I look around at everything I am breathless; one end leads into a gorgeous patio with a view of the ocean, a little path leading right onto the beautiful beach, a day bed big enough for five, and our infinity pool.
The washroom prepped with luxurious toiletries, two closets, where all our clothes were already unpacked and steamed for us all ready to go.
The luxurious bathroom not only has a gorgeous marble vanity, and shower, but there is a further enclosed outdoor shower, which is something I could only dream of.
The whole thing is something out of fairy tale, with high ceilings with wood beams, everything open and spacious and authentic to Fiji.
I can't imagine anything more beautiful, especially the king size bed, in front of the sunken living room in the center of everything.
With a happy sigh, I sink back into the plush mattress and mound of pillows, tired but ready to start the day despite the jet lag.
Corban hates air conditioning, just like I do.
In New York, during the hot summers it's necessary, but here in the tropical climate we can leave the fans running, and the temperature is perfect.
Corban's drops his carry on, ripping his shirt over his head before collapsing on the bed for
a few moments before he begins snoring.
Bore.
However, his gorgeously sculpted back is something I can tell he works hard at.
Every single muscle is relaxed, but it makes me want to touch him, I want to run my fingers over every muscle, I want to see how they move.
He looks more amazing with a shirt off, and I recall the way his six-pack, not overly defined but perfectly hard, blends with the V-shape leading down his torso, only further hidden by the way his boxers were low slung on his hips.
The man made me want to lick him for god sakes.
And then I remember he refuses to call me Bexley, and I'm reminded that this is work, and my perfect mood sours.
I need to escape him before he can change my mind about being in a terrible mood, and that's the truth.
I will not let him ruin Ava; I tell myself quietly as I sneak out of bed.
The first thing to do is wash over twenty-four hours of recirculated plane air off me but the outdoor shower is so tempting that I abandon my clothes on the floor of the washroom, turning the water on warm and just enjoying the lush surroundings as I wash the fine sheen of sweat off my body as I soap my body down and rinse my hair.
Stepping out of the shower to slip into a white bikini with straps all over that could be painted on my body.
I analyze my reflection; my body isn't perfect, but I'm still in great shape.
Flat stomach, my breasts are smaller, but the curves make up for that.
I slip a red backless halter dress over the bikini that goes all the way down to just above where the bikini begins before brushing my teeth and stepping out onto the patio as Corban hops out of bed and joins me on the patio
"I can't sleep." He smiles, his voice hoarse with sleep deprivation, and incredibly sexy, and there he is, in all his glory, with that incredible body.
In just boxers. Red.
His skin isn't tan, but every inch of him is unbelievable that I want to lick him all over again.
"Breakfast?" I suggest.
"We could do something today? Check those things off that list of yours?"
"Okay, Ava." He shakes his head, laughing.
"It's Bex!" I call after him, as he walks away.
"Hey," He pokes his head back out onto the patio.
"For the sake of page six, I think it's probably best if I call you Ava, for argument's sake, if anyone from New York is here, and we are going to see Noah at some point, I'm sure he's spoken with my mother."
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