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The private jet was designed to impress. Everything was sleek, modern, and made to look expensive, including the polished wood accents and roomy white leather seats, which were clustered in two groups of four around removable tables. There was also a seating area with a built-in sofa, and the back third of the plane was a small but fully-equipped bedroom. In other words, it was way, way too much for a six-hour flight.
As soon as I sat down, I was approached by the only male in the trio of flight attendants. He was a cute, blue-eyed brunet with a slight build, and he flashed an unmistakably flirty smile when he asked me if I’d like a drink. I wondered if his gaydar was just that good, or if he flirted with everyone.
I almost declined the drink, but then I said, “You know what, why the hell not? Do you have any Kentucky bourbon?”
He said, with a distinct southern accent, “Yes sir, absolutely. I’ll bring you the best we have.”
I asked, “You’re from the Carolinas, right?”
“That’s right, Mr. Jaymes. I grew up in Wilmington.”
“Nice, I know it well. I grew up about eighty miles south of there, outside Myrtle Beach.” I stuck my hand out and said, “Also, please call me Phoenix. You were right about my last name, but it seems you’ve mistaken me for my famous brother. Sorry to disappoint you.”
He slipped his hand in mine and cranked up the dial on his flirting as he purred, “My name’s Robbie, and I’m anything but disappointed, Phoenix.”
Harper boarded the plane and instantly looked annoyed when he spotted me with the flight attendant. What was with all the jealousy? He strode through the main cabin, went into the bedroom, and shut the door. All I could do was sigh in frustration.
The crew prepared for departure, and soon we were in the air. I invited Robbie to sit with me, and it was nice when he dropped the flirty schtick and just started being himself. We reminisced about growing up in the Carolinas, and he told me about trying to acclimate to life in Los Angeles. I invited the other two flight attendants to join us because they seemed bored, and the four of us passed the time by exchanging hilarious stories about celebrities behaving badly. We were all very familiar with that subject.
Meanwhile, Harper stayed locked away in the bedroom for the duration of the flight, which was surprising. It wasn’t like him to choose isolation over a chance to chat and be social.
Even more surprising was what happened once we landed on Kauai. As soon as the door was open and the stairs were in place, Harper breezed out of the bedroom carrying a brown canvas trunk. He left the plane with just a quick nod to the crew, and I muttered, “What the hell?” He definitely hadn’t brought that with him, so I had no idea what was going on.
A white, four-wheel-drive SUV was waiting for us just outside the terminal, and Harper climbed into the backseat with the trunk while Robbie and a crew member helped me with the luggage. Once it was loaded in the back of the SUV, I gave Robbie a hug and promised to keep in touch, and we exchanged numbers.
Then I opened the door and asked Harper, “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just get in and drive. The keys are in the ignition, and I’ll pull up the directions on my phone while you get us out of the airport.” He seemed nervous.
I did as he asked, and as soon as the airport was behind us, he unzipped the canvas cover on the trunk. Then he asked, “Are you alright, sweetheart?”
For a moment, I thought he might actually be talking to me, but he opened the top of a wire cage and lifted Loco into his lap. I glanced in the rearview mirror and blurted, “You smuggled a chicken into Hawaii?”
“Transported. Not smuggled.”
“That looks a lot like smuggling to me! What were you thinking?”
“I couldn’t spend a week without her,” he said, as he ran his hand over her feathers. “She was already mad at me after my trip to New York, and that was only a couple of days.”
“Wasn’t there a legal way to do this?”
“Not without putting her in quarantine for longer than the entire trip.”
“What if you’d been found out and they confiscated her?”
“I took every precaution to make sure that wouldn’t happen,” he said.
Now I understood why he’d wanted the big private plane with a separate room that could be closed off—it was so he could let the chicken out during the flight, and so she’d remain undetected. I also realized the guy at the terminal in L.A. with the visitor pass must have been some sort of accomplice. Good lord. Where the hell did one even find a chicken smuggler?
