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"I would think with the shortage of pilots right now, you could make some serious money. Ask for a raise."
Sam laughs, a sound that's somewhere between heartening and bitter. He clinks his beer against mine. “Here's to dreams of riches and gold.”
There’s silence after that. It's not uncomfortable; we're both lost in our own thoughts, the kind of thoughts that only a long night and several glasses of beer can bring. Eventually, Sam speaks again.
"How are you doing for real?" he asks quietly. "Better? Getting some sleep these days?"
"I'm alright," I tell him. I'm not about to hash my feelings. I'm a dude.
"You know, you can talk to me," he says seriously. "I know it's rare we're in the same place at the same time, but I'm only a phone call away."
"I appreciate that, but I'm okay. The private jet business is good. It keeps me busy and I'm not stuck reporting to a bunch of assholes that don't know the first thing about flying. I'm good. I hit a rough patch, but I'm good."
"Alright, alright," he chuckles and holds up his hand to get the bartender's attention. "Next one is on me."
I look at the time, do a little mental math and nod. "Last one."
"What time are you flying out?"
"Seven."
"Shoot, you've got plenty of time," he laughs.
Eight hours bottle to throttle was a guideline, not a rule, but I couldn't risk messing up. Not again. My pilot's license was too important.
"Alright, one more then," I agree, pushing the empty glass towards him.
Our conversation ebbs and flows like we hadn't lost any time. We swap stories about our latest flights, reminiscing about the good old days when we both wore the same blue uniform. Gossip about old colleagues is shared. Laughter as we remember the antics of some of our more colorful co-workers. It's comfortable and a reminder of simpler times, before my life was uprooted by unforeseen circumstances.
I check the time and know it's time to go. "I hate to cut this little reunion short, but I need to get going."
"I get it. We'll have to catch up when I'm in town next."
"Yeah, let's just hope I'm in town at the same time." I clap him on the shoulder and walk out of the bar.
I walk through the streets, back to my townhouse. Before going to bed, I pull up the information for the flight tomorrow, do a quick check of the weather and am satisfied it will be an uneventful flight. There are no storms hovering in the Pacific.
"Sandy beaches, here I come."
I closed the laptop and head for bed. Of course, my brain is working overtime thinking about everything. Seeing Sam was good, but it was a reminder of my old life. A life I worked every day to forget. Moving on wasn't easy. That was a silly saying anyway. You didn't just move on from a death in the family. It was always there.
Chapter 3
Paige
Today is elliptical day. I push myself hard, knowing there's a good chance I won't be able to work out while I'm in Hawaii. Hotel gyms are always crowded and lack the proper equipment for the kind of training I need. As I finish the workout and wipe the sweat off my brow. The cool air conditioning feels refreshing against my skin after the intense workout.
It's barely after four. I got up extra early this morning to squeeze eight hours of work into a couple of pre-dawn hours before I had to catch my flight. I did manage to get a meeting scheduled with the whistleblower as soon as I land. I don't want to be in Hawaii any longer than necessary. If the guy's a flake, I'll be right back on the private jet the next day heading home.
I shower and dress in another dress suit that claims to be wrinkle-free fabric. I slip on my favorite Louboutins and collect my things. The car service will be arriving soon.
I arrive at the private airport fifteen minutes early for my flight, as is my habit. I'm disappointed to learn the pilot has not arrived and the chances of leaving early are slim to none. I hate not being early. On time is just not good enough. Pacing the lobby, I'm on the phone, barking orders at junior attorneys and checking my watch every few seconds. I despise tardiness—mine or anyone else's. Time is money, and in my line of work, every minute counts. I literally bill by the hour. I glance at the clock on the wall, making sure it matches my watch. My jaw clenches as the minutes tick by without any sign of the pilot. My patience wears thin, my pristine appearance belies the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. I have watched several other private jets take off, but I'm still sitting here.
Every minute my flight crew isn’t here, the more concerned I grow with their abilities. If they couldn’t show up on time, how could they be competent? Nothing I hated more than incompetence.
As I'm in the midst of a particularly heated conversation with a particularly incompetent junior, I notice a man saunter into the lobby. He's dressed in khaki cargo pants, a casual t-shirt, and aviator sunglasses shielding his eyes. His short dark hair is just a little messy, like he doesn’t know how to use gel. He’s got one of those square jaws that just screams alpha male. At first glance, he looks like he just stepped off a runway, and for a moment, I wonder if he's some sort of celebrity.
But it's the swagger in his step that irritates me—the way he carries himself as if he owns the place. My gaze narrows as I watch him flirt shamelessly with the woman behind the desk. They're speaking in low voices, their words lost to me, but the smug grin on his face tells me everything I need to know. He’s got a dimple that gives him a boyish look, which I’m sure has been the key to getting him into many, many beds. One of those megawatt smiles and panties would drop.
