Mister Weston

“I’m aware. I always noticed. Is that it?”

“I also used to sleep naked on your living room couch.”

He laughed. “And in my bedroom?”

I nodded and he playfully slapped my ass.

“I know that Nathaniel Pearson is your real father, Jake,” I said softly, letting the words rush out of my mouth.

“That makes two of us.”

“I looked up old family pictures and you’re not in any of them...Why did they erase you like that? And, I mean, why haven’t you said anything? You’re the son of a billionaire CEO. Is that where your money comes from?”

“No.” He didn’t elaborate any further. He simply rubbed his hands up and down my back, massaging me in a firm way that said, “Stop this.”

“Just say you’ll tell me one day,” I murmured. “If we last longer.”

“I’ll think about telling you one day.”

“Well, whenever that ‘one day’ is, I would like it to be the same day you take me out on a date.”

His hand immediately stopped their pleasurable rhythm. “What?”

“A real date with flowers, dinner, and—”

“Everything we originally agreed not to do.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Gillian...” He sighed. “I’d prefer if we didn’t break any more rules.”

“And I’d prefer if you actually talked to me, but I’m clearly not going to get that, so this is a compromise.”

He didn’t say anything for a long while, but his hands eventually returned to my back, and we didn’t speak until the sun began to rise.

When our ride returned, he tossed me over his shoulder and carried me downstairs and placed me into the backseat. He positioned my head in his lap, and I slept as the car slowly trudged through early morning L.A. traffic.

When we arrived back to my hotel, he walked me into my room and tucked me under the covers—holding back a laugh as I attempted to fight my exhaustion and convince him to stay.

I thought that he would stay another day, since he had two more nights before he had to fly out from Hawaii, but when I woke up, he was gone.

The only remnant of his presence was his watch box on my nightstand. I flipped it open, coming face to face with yet another Audemars Piguet. I ran my fingers across its sparkling crystals and sighed. I pulled out my phone to text him and tell him he’d left it, but it fell to floor once I saw the massive white and red flower bouquet sitting by the door.

Shocked, I walked over and opened the small silver envelope that was attached and read the note.

This never happened.

And the watch is yours.

—Jake.

GATE B23

JAKE

Hawaii (HNL)—> Dallas (DAL)—> New York (JFK)

I NEED A DRINK...

My head was throbbing in pain after piloting two turbulent flights back to back, Gillian was starting to call and text me whenever she felt like it, and I was seconds away from walking out of this simulator session. To make matters worse, the Elite Airways circus was back in full swing—gaining front page stories on all the major papers and placing promotional interviews on damn near every news station.

My father, ever the attention whore, was now the first airline CEO to host a “flying media tour.” He was allowing journalists from every paper to board his new Dreamliner—to write glowing reviews of the plane as he flew along with them and plied them with lies. He was reported as saying things like, “Yes, this is the plane I’m the proudest of,” “My family still hasn’t flown in it yet,” and “Yes. Yes, I think Sarah would’ve loved this one.”

It wasn’t until I read that last quote that I realized that he pulled this media frenzy shit at the exact same time every year. It was probably how he dealt with the guilt of getting away with his numerous lies, how he dealt with being destined for Hell.

I stopped myself from reading the remainder of the articles and put my phone in my pocket. I pulled out a new crossword puzzle, but before I could start it, the simulator session ended with a jerk that almost knocked me out of my chair, damn near slamming me against the windscreen.

Annoyed, I looked ahead at the results screen.

“Congratulations again, Ryan,” I said. “You’ve killed everyone again, but at least this time you crashed on the ground, so all of us will get to have our body parts in our caskets.”

“You’re not helping me learn, sir,” he said, teary eyed just like last time. “Would it kill you to actually give me some advice?”

I unbuckled my seatbelt. “Fly better next time.”

“With all due respect, could you tell me something that will actually help?”

“How about learn how to read?” I stood up and tossed the operations manual for the Airbus 321 at him. “You’re making the same emergency protocol mistakes because you’re treating this like a damn CR-9. Try memorizing chapters seven through thirty. Is that helpful enough?”