Turbulence

by Whitney Gracia Williams

  When I finally shut my eyes hours later, I drifted into the easiest sleep I’d had in months. But when I woke up, I realized that I wasn’t in my own bedroom anymore. I was laying next to Gillian and she was wrapped in my arms.

  GILLIAN

  ~BLOG POST~

  Present Day

  I don’t want to get my hopes up, and I don’t want to forget how quickly he’s capable of switching the hot and cold switch, but I really like him. A lot more than I probably should...And regardless of the nonchalant tone he sometimes takes with me, the way he now kisses me, and the way he takes his time fucking me, only reveal he likes me, too.

  That said, I think this man is going to get me fired...

  The discretion we shared before—the perfectly weighted “Meet me here” at this time, is now replaced with “The second I see you, we’re fucking.”

  He takes my hand in public—leading me away with no regard for our hundreds of coworkers or whoever else may see. Each time, I attempt to play it off as some type of silly game, but I always lose because he only fucks me harder every time I do that. And the day he fucked me in an abandoned food court stock room in Minneapolis/St. Paul International, I started looking up new jobs.

  It’s only a matter of time.

  Write later,

  **Taylor G.**

  1 comment posted:

  KayTROLL: You’ll be getting yourself fired. Just like before. At least this time you won’t have anyone else to blame but yourself...

  GILLIAN

  ~BLOG POST~

  Present Day

  There are now nightly phone calls, endless emails as we fly overseas, and text messages that never fail to make me wet. And yet, despite the fact that we are talking more than ever, that he only occasionally sends me those “This message is not about fucking” lines, he only lets our conversations skim the surface.

  Questions about his past or his family are still abruptly cut short, any mention of ‘us’ is quickly dissolved into other safe topics, and when he can’t find another distraction, he ends our discussion with sex.

  And last night, after he took me against the door of my hotel room closet, he kissed me so long and deeply that I could’ve sworn I heard him say, “You’re not good for me...But I like you anyway...”

  At least, I think that’s what he said...

  Write later,

  **Taylor G.**

  1 comment posted:

  KAYTROLL: The only reason I haven’t unfollowed your blog yet is because I pity you and your life. And your train-wreck posts make me feel ten times better about myself.

  GATE B20

  JAKE

  Orlando (MCO)—> Hawaii (HNL)—> New York (JFK)

  The taste of Gillian’s pussy was still on my lips from a tryst hours ago in Orlando, providing enough of a distraction from another long week. It was also a mental diversion that kept me from paying too much attention to this morning’s current pilots’ meeting. Almost.

  “So...” A man in a badly tailored blue suit stood in front of the small conference room, addressing me and twenty other pilots. “As you all know, we at Elite have the best benefits packages out of all commercial airlines, the best planes in the sky, and we also have the best track record for safety.”

  “Did you really call us in here to read the company brochure aloud?” I asked. This meeting had gone on for half an hour too long already. “I have far better things to do in Hawaii.”

  “Of course, you do, Captain Weston.” He rolled his eyes and hit the lights, forcing a screen to fall down over the wall. “I called this meeting to discuss our non-fraternization policy.”

  All of a sudden, a grainy image appeared on the screen. A pilot in uniform tugging the hand of a flight attendant past an “Under Construction Zone.”

  “Now, the airports don’t typically install the high grade cameras in the construction zones because, well...What would be the point of that since they’re practically off limits, but a passenger caught this happening weeks ago and posted it on social media with the caption: Bet the pilot is about to fly his cock up her runway.”

  There were a few laughs from the other pilots.

  “There was also this clip.” He clicked the remote, and a far clearer picture began playing. A video of a pilot in uniform kissing a woman against a wall in a closed and empty food court at Seattle International.

  “Now,” he said. “This is only a formality, as we’re simply speaking to all Elite pilots who have flown routes to these particular airports during the times that the videos were taken. Needless to say, although what goes on in your personal bedrooms is none of our business, the idea of two employees blatantly breaking our non-fraternization rule when we so adamantly market our rules to the public is a bit...” He tapped his chin. “It’s a bit shameful. No, another ‘s’ word...Shocking? Staggering? No... Scandalous.”

  He finally settled on a term and hit the lights. “If you know who this is, I suggest you tell them that we’re on to them. And if it’s you, I suggest you tell us immediately so we can immediately terminate the flight attendant and have you sign off on the pilot’s breach of policy form. You’ll be subject to a disciplinary action, but you’ll keep your job as long as you cooperate. ”

  He continued to talk as he handed out paperwork, but I kept my eyes on the screen behind him. The videos were playing on a loop, but since me and Gillian’s faces never looked up or to the side, there was no way of knowing it was us. It only appeared to be two employees who worked for the same airline, two employees who were kissing in a way that looked like they didn’t give a fuck if they got caught.

  “Are you listening to me, Captain Weston?” His question snapped me out of my thoughts. “Captain Weston?”

  “Yes?”

  “I said you can leave the airport as soon as you sign the non-fraternization policy again.” He gestured around the now empty room. “You’re the only one still sitting here.”

  I looked down at the paper, noticing the red lined change: I, Jake Weston, have never, and will never engage in a relationship with any employee of Elite Airways, in any department or extension of Elite Airways. I also am in compliance with the original non-fraternization policy below.

  Picking up a pen, I signed my name and he took the paper from me. I stood up and headed for the door, but he called after me.

  “Yes?” I looked over my shoulder.

  “Um, you left something in your chair.” He pointed to a crumpled pair of black, lace panties.

  “Thank you.” I picked them up and returned them to my pocket, not letting him ask whatever the hell he was tempted to ask. I stepped out of the room and into the terminal at Honolulu International, in no rush to spend my next four off days on the island.

  Years ago, I would’ve relished the idea of spending countless hours near the beaches and fucking as many women as possible, but for some reason, that idea wasn’t as appealing right now.

  I pulled out my phone and looked over Gillian’s line. She was currently in Orlando en route via a red eye flight to Seattle. From there she had a trip to Los Angeles with a three day stopover.

  I calculated the math in my head: Los Angeles was only a five hour flight away from Hawaii, with a three hour time zone difference. Seattle was six hours away from Orlando, so she’d land there within the next couple of hours for a short flight to Los—

  I immediately stopped my train of thought.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  I shook my head and headed down to the ground transportation dock, hailing the first available cab. I needed to get to the hotel ASAP before I could entertain that reckless thought any further.

  GATE B21

  GILLIAN

  Orlando (MCO)—> Seattle (SEA)—> Los Angeles (LAX)

  I winced as I made another pot of coffee for the first class cabin. The muscles in my arms were weak and heavy—worn out from holding onto a closet doorframe while Jake bent low on his knees and pleasured my pussy with his mouth.

  I was stil
l waiting for a time when the sex wouldn’t be so spectacular, an instance where it would only be ‘good,’ or maybe even average, but it was getting more intense every time.

  Making sure the coffee was hot enough, I turned it on low, ready to start breakfast service. I opened the compartment where we kept the placemats, but Miss Connors stepped in front of me and slammed it shut.

  “How are you on this lovely day today, Miss Taylor?” She asked, smiling.

  “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “I’m amazing.” Her smile didn’t waver. “I didn’t see you on the crew shuttle this morning, so I was quite surprised that you beat me to the airport for a change. Imagine my surprise when I arrived this morning and saw you already waiting patiently at the gate.”

  “Yes, well...” I wasn’t sure where she was going with this. “On time is late, and early is on time. I caught the shuttle right before yours.”

  “Oh, really?” She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. “You know, that’s quite interesting because there was no shuttle before mine. Even if there was, I would’ve seen you catch it because I was in the lobby having coffee and a book at five this morning. If you came down, there’s no way I would’ve missed you.”

  I said nothing.

  “Furthermore,” she said, narrowing her eyes at me. “I actually went to your room at seven to make sure you were coming, so imagine how shocked I was when a housekeeping associate told me you never actually checked into your room the other day.”

  I felt my face turning red, but I still didn’t say anything.

  “So, I started thinking to myself. Well, Miss Taylor is definitely incompetent at times, and although I did see her argue with someone familiar at the gala weeks ago, there’s no way this young woman would risk her career over a pilot’s cock.” She shook her head. “There’s no way the front desk agent had the same girl in mind when he told me you turned in your room key shortly after checking in and was picked up by some ‘pilot guy.’ There’s no way, is there, Miss Taylor?”

  I swallowed, unable to meet her gaze anymore.

  “End it.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “End it today. I don’t care what type of stupid system of lust the two of you have going on, but if it continues past today, I’ll have you fired.”

  “Miss Connors, I’m—”

  She held up her hand. “I expected more from you. You can do much better than a goddamn pilot,” She rolled her eyes and walked away without another word, leaving me completely embarrassed.

  ***

  Seconds after checking into my Los Angeles hotel, I got the hell away from Miss Connors and locked myself in my room. I plugged my laptop into the wall and sat at the desk, forcing myself to temporarily forget about her threats.

  I googled “Flight Attendants Fired for Breaking Employee Fraternization Policy,” and several pages of results popped up. I clicked on each of the links, my heart sinking with each and every article. Of the twenty I read, eighteen of the incidents were from Elite Airways, but they were several years old. The more current articles were all quotes from executives, all of them saying a variation of, “That’s why our safety record is so high. Our flight employees are pure professionals. No other airline in the world has a policy like ours, but the proof is in the policy.”

  Shit...

  I closed all the browser windows and leaned back in my chair. I was going to have to find a way to end this; losing my job over sex wasn’t worth it, no matter how amazing it was.

  Sighing, I got up and took a long shower—thinking through the past few months, tallying up all of our meet-ups. No matter how badly I wanted to believe that this could turn into something more, the only thing that improved between us was the sex. Our conversations were still on his terms, still unbalanced and tilted in favor of my reveals and his conceals. And the longer I continued to deny the fact that deep down, I did want more, the longer I would drag this out and potentially get hurt.

  I stepped out of the shower and immediately scrolled down to Jake’s name in my phone. I typed my email and hastily hit send, not giving myself a chance to change my mind.

  Gillian: We need to end this. Now. I’m sorry...

  He didn’t respond.

  And entire hour passed before I stopped staring at the screen and realized he wasn’t going to. Figuring silence was his easy way of accepting things, I opened my laptop once more and opened up a few new tabs.

  Since I’d managed to go several weeks without giving in to my curiosity about Jake’s family, and we were now practically over, I had to know what he meant by Evan being his brother. Why he said it in a way that looked as if he hated to admit the fact.

  I typed in “Evan Pearson” in one tab and “Elite Airways CEO Nathaniel Pearson” in another.

  I clicked on the best picture of Nathaniel and enlarged it, raising my eyebrow as I noticed the similarities between him and his son, Evan. Then I pulled up a picture of Jake.

  At first glance, there wasn’t much to compare—Nathaniel’s features were far softer and his hair in his younger years was a dark brown that complemented his full mustache. But his eyes—those bright blue and stunning irises were damn near identical to Jake’s.

  So he couldn’t have been adopted...

  I stared at the two of them for at least five minutes, wondering how the hell something like this had gone undiscovered for so long, how some opportunistic reporter hadn’t already spun the story to the tabloids at least. I was certain ‘family-oriented CEO fathered a secret son’ would’ve fetched a high price.

  I made a cup of cheap hotel coffee and started to read over the short biography on his father’s ‘About the CEO’ page. Everything was exactly how I’d remembered it years before, all standing still in its fairy tale glory:

  At six years old, Nathaniel Pearson was a young boy who only dreamed of being a pilot. Growing up poor, his parents were unable to afford lessons at the local glider school, so he learned how to build planes instead. After dropping out of high school at age fourteen, Pearson worked two jobs to help support his family, and eventually enrolled himself into flight school and became one of our country’s most decorated pilots.

  After decades of service, he started Elite Airways, with the inaugural flight of a plane he helped design. However, the very first flight ended in fatality—killing his own wife, Sarah Irene, and severely injuring his only son, Evan.

  Although Evan healed completely, Sarah succumbed to her injuries, forcing Nathaniel into years of depression. Amidst his heartache, Nathaniel vowed to make his airline the safest in the world and Elite has had no fatal crashes since.

  He hopes to see this record continue.

  I clicked on Evan’s profile, but his biography was far shorter, far less informational. It was simply a rehash of his university years and his love for flying. His picture was an older one of him in a navy blue pilot uniform.

  Frustrated, I leaned back and played a YouTube video of him being interviewed several years ago. As the questions were asked and answered plainly, I started to think that whatever ties Jake had to him were maybe long lost, or that maybe he was the product of infidelity the family wanted to keep hidden. I read a few more articles and prepared to turn off the interview, but I heard Evan say something that caught me off guard.

  “Yes,” he said. “I only spent a few years in the flight academy. I graduated with honors. I still have the uniform.” Then a faded, younger picture of him in his grey academy uniform appeared onscreen.

  I paused the video and rewound it—replaying that small part again and again, watching as the interviewer moved to the next question with ease.

  I searched through my email and pulled up the notes I’d written years ago, looking for the direct quote that never made it into the article, but one I knew I’d marked down: “I went to the flight academy, but I struggled to make it. I finished, not with honors, but the experience was worth it. I still have the uniform.”

  Out of an old researching habit, I rewound the YouTu
be clip to his flight academy picture, zooming in on the faint grey digits etched in the side of the photo—his student ID. Then I searched for the number of The Flight Academy—dialing the listed extension the second it hit my screen.

  “Admissions Department,” a male voice said after two rings. “How may I help you?”

  “I’m—” I cleared my throat. “I’m doing some research for The Times. We’re doing a profile on a graduate of your academy.”

  “Oh, great.” He sounded honored. “We love seeing those. What do you need from me?”

  “I’m just fact-checking, want to be sure I have the right background for our person.”

  “I got it.” The sound of keyboard keys clacking was in his background. “You can never be too sure these days, huh? One second...” More typing. “Per our policy, I can only confirm or deny based on a student ID number you give me first. Do you have that?”

  “Yes. Five, four, eight, nine, seven.” I stared at the photo. “One, zero, zero, nine.”

  “Got it. What do you need to know?”

  “Did this student graduate with honors?”

  “High honors. Won every damn award in the goddamn book.” He laughed. “Looks like we even made one up for him his senior year.”

  “Can you confirm the name?”

  “Only after you give it to me first.”

  “Right...Um, Pearson. Evan Pearson.”

  “No, Miss. That’s not the name in our records. Perhaps you mixed up the—”

  “No, I’m sorry.” I cut him off. “I was looking at the wrong sheet. Weston. Jake Weston.”

  “That’s him. Jake C. Weston.” He paused. “He agreed to be profiled?”

  “Took a lot of convincing.” I started to hang up, but I thought of one last thing. “Do you have a yearbook by chance? A digital copy?”