1
It was the thrill of the hunt.
I’d never been one to actually go hunting—at least not in the context the term was normally used. For me, hunting entailed chasing down rare, vintage planes from all over the world, and doing whatever it took to get them in my hands. There was nothing more satisfying than finding the right bird, the right time, and making sure when I walked away—it was the right price.
A victory made even sweeter when it was a screamin’ hot deal.
When I wasn’t hunting planes, I spent what little free time I had available hunting down a good time. Busty blondes, hell-bent on proving they know how to have more fun. Rowdy brunettes, trying to keep up. Sassy redheads with fire in their veins. Tall, short, curvy, athletic, and even this one time, I got tangled up with a girl who could flat-out kick my ass. It didn't matter to me. As long as the girl was a good time, I had no complaints.
I loved them all. At least for a night.
That afternoon, it wasn't the thrill of a nice piece of ass that had my heart pumping and adrenaline dumping into my veins as I prepared for the ultimate chase. No, this time it was a machine. A Vietnam era McDonnell Douglas F-4 Phantom, to be precise. It was gleaming. In pristine condition. I’d never wanted a plane more.
The only downside was that I wasn't the only one.
I'd been to a lot of auctions over the past couple of years and I couldn't recall a single one that had pulled in more foot traffic. The warehouse where the event was being held was packed. It had been advertised all over town, and everyone wanted to come and see the Carl Edwards collection. Edwards was an eccentric, grandiose billionaire with the taste for the finer things in life. After hitting it big in a mid-90s tech boom, he’d spent the rest of his years globetrotting—collecting vintage planes, cars, and an assortment of very beautiful women—if the rumors were true. He’d recently passed away, and his final wish was for all of his stuff to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. The funds raised at the auction were to be evenly distributed between his top three charities.
It was all very noble.
Not that I cared much where the money went. All that mattered to me was that it was my money in exchange for my plane.
Edwards’s name had drawn quite a crowd. Collectors from all over the country poured into Los Angeles, where the event was held. As I wandered through the crowd, I found it impossible to tell who the serious buyers were and who was just there to see Edwards’ huge collection of the coolest flying machines and vehicles on the planet.
Luckily for me, the F-4 hadn’t appeared to be the main draw. Before the beginning of the auction, I'd been able to get an up close inspection of the plane and found it to be even more perfect than the pictures I'd seen on the auction site.
I knew when I saw that bird online she had to be mine. Now that I’d seen her up close and personal–I wasn’t leaving without her. It was the same fighter jet my dad had flown in Vietnam. I chuckled as I remembered back when my dad used to take me on base and let me sit in his plane. I’d run my fingers over the switches and lights on the instrument panel, dreaming of the day I’d fly my own plane. I’d go back to school and tell my classmates how I was gonna be a fighter pilot when I grew up. They told me I was crazy.
Just like my dad.
I had the perfect spot for her back at the museum. Front and center. As the auction continued, I stretched back in my seat and casually glanced over the program in my hands. It was printed on some fancy ass paper, all glossy and shiny. Most of the auctions I’d attended didn’t even have a program. Let alone something so slick. I smirked, imagining some prissy, uppity event coordinator and her pack of designers agonizing over every inch of the damn thing.
I was definitely not in Kansas anymore.
Most of the people in the room probably spent their days on the golf course, out for corporate lunches, and home—or out with their mistresses—by nine. I lived in sharp contrast to such a structured life. Most days, I spent coated in engine grease, tinkering out in the hangar, working to breathe life back into my current masterpiece.
When I wasn’t busting my ass in the garage, I was up in the air, taking up groups of tourists to get an aerial tour of the California coastline. Even then, I was in my flight suit, which was a far cry from professional attire. Today was the first time in years that I’d actually dressed up. I was wearing my only pair of pants that weren’t dotted with holes and tears, stains from grease, paint, or some other solvent. I’d paired the slacks with a button up shirt but opted to skip the tie. Although, as my eyes flashed around the room, I realized I was a little out of place from the rest of the corporate drone types.