Best Friends Don't Kiss

About thirty minutes later, we’re confident we’re ready for the 2,454-mile flight from Teterboro to LA, and while Trevor makes a few last-minute adjustments to our GPS route, I step out of the cockpit and greet our passengers.

Kline Brooks—the CEO of the very lucrative Brooks Media—is the first to step on to the plane. He offers a smile and a nod, unbuttoning his suit jacket to prepare to take a seat. “Good to see you, Luke.”

“Likewise, Kline.” He’s always so put together, both physically and mentally, and I have to admire the way the guy runs his life. Not to mention, he looks like he’s still in his twenties, even though I’m pretty sure he’s nearing forty or beyond.

“Mornin’, Captain.” Wes Lancaster is next. Formal but polite, he’s unbelievably consistent in a way I appreciate. He didn’t build the empire he did for himself by not knowing what he wanted. “We all set to take off on time?”

It takes work, but I manage a polite look of apology rather than a cringe. “We have a minor maintenance issue with the GPS but shouldn’t be running too far behind today.”

Instantly, he scowls. It feels like it’s at me, but I know the truth of the matter is that I am just the unlucky messenger. “Is it a GPS issue or a fucking Thatch issue?”

All I can do is skirt around the truth. I’d love to get it all out in the open, but Thatcher Kelly is the one paying my tab for this flight. “Skies are clear, though. Should be smooth flying from here to LA.”

Wes sighs and takes a seat as Milo Ives, Caplin Hawkins, Harrison Hughes, Trent Turner, Theo Cruz, and Quincy Black all file onboard. All insanely successful, wealthy guys whom I’ve come to know over the last few years as more like friends than bosses. Still, I’m always painfully careful to keep things professional on my end, even when they don’t on theirs. Maybe even especially then. It’s all fun and games until I accidentally lose my job.

While Paula and Laura, the flight attendants on today’s flight, help everyone get comfortable with drinks, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting an update from Thatch, but I’m pleasantly surprised to find a text from someone else instead.Ava: This TapNext shit is so crazy, Luke! Crazy, I tell you! So far, I’ve received two dick pics and a message from some guy who wants me to have a threesome with him and his wife.I laugh and shake my head.

Obviously, this is shit I already knew and tried to tell her yesterday when she was adamant about starting an online dating profile, but just before I can reply with those exact words, my phone vibrates in my hand again.Ava: BUT despite the penis photography and marriage gangbangs, there’s good news. I have matched with six guys who actually seem like normal human beings who prefer to go on an actual date before they start sharing insider photos of their genitals.Six guys? That seems like a lot for having a profile for less than twenty-four hours. Doesn’t it?Me: Fucking hell, Ace. How many dates are you planning on going on?Ava: As many as it takes to complete my mission.The urge to throw out a Mayday! on said mission is strong, but I know it’s useless. When Ava Lucie is convinced of something, there is no stopping her.

Focusing back on the task at hand—figuring out when my missing passenger will be here—I open up the chat with Thatch and send him a quick, ETA?

Instead of a text back, though, a loud, boisterous, in-person voice fills my ears.

“Luke fluffing London! You ready to get this show on the road?” Thatch steps inside with a big-ass smile on his face. “How are the billionaire natives?”

I smile. “Restless.”

“Are we ready to stop acting like there’s a GPS issue since the big tardy idiot has finally arrived?” Wes shouts from his seat toward the front of the plane, and I smirk at Thatch, my eyes saying, See what I mean?

“Ah, get over yourself, Whitney,” Thatch retorts and steps into the cabin. “You didn’t have to wait that long for me, you grumpy fluffing bastard.”

“Grumpy fluffing bastard?” Wes retorts as I head back into the cockpit and shut the door behind me. The sounds of their bickering turn muffled, and Trev grins over at me as I get myself adjusted into my seat.

“I guess it’s time to let ATC know we’re ready to taxi.”

I nod. “Let’s kick the tires and light the fires.”After a smooth, uneventful, five-and-half-hour flight from Teterboro to Los Angeles, Trev and I checked in to our hotel—the Beverly Wilshire—and spent a few hours doing nothing but lounging by the pool and drinking a few beers.

There’s no denying that being a pilot for Soar Aviation has some serious perks.