Flight 69: The Mile High Club (Hot Sex with a Handsome Stranger) by Chloe Thurlow Page A
Authors: Chloe Thurlow
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of carrot and stick thing, a taste of extravagance on the Friday night flight, the weekend to settle into the apartment owned by the company, then straight downtown Monday to the Skyline District and the company HQ.
'Thank you, that's so kind,' I say again, and he smiles, those blue eyes assessing me coolly like people look at paintings in a museum trying to work out what the hell they mean.
'You're more than welcome,' he says, and the way he looks back into my eyes sends a little shiver up my spine, not a cold one, a warm one.
Security is a nightmare, even for business class passengers. First you have to take your shoes off, which is kind of disgusting, and the whole area smells of dirty feet. A woman as big as an air balloon runs her hands down my sides and, like, really far up the insides of my legs, and then the metal machine buzzes because I've forgotten to take off the St. Christopher necklace Nanna gave me for my twenty-first. My fingers go all twitchy opening the tiny catch, my Ray Bans fall to the floor and my hair falls over my face.
' Here. '
I peer up through my hair and he's there again, holding my sunglasses.
'Thank you,' I gasp. I'm all sweaty ad panicky. 'I keep saying thank you all the time.'
I'm grasping the St. Christopher in my palm. He glances down, then up again into my eyes.
'Can I help you with that?'
There's an amused smile on his lips and then there's those eyes, cool blue, impenetrable.
I shake my head as if to say no and what come out of my mouth is, 'Yes, Yes, thank you.'
His fingers are cool and his has no problem opening the clasp and attaching my necklace.
'I'm sure I'll see you later,' he says and collects his bag
I pull myself together. I feel like a shipwreck and the business class waiting area is a desert island with sandy gold carpets and Mozart piped from hidden speakers. There's complimentary coffee and snacks, and just about every newspaper printed in the world. I gulp down a bottle of Evian, and take a second bottle to sip. There are big wing chairs that are so comfy it's nice to sit back, gaze out at the night and just keep reminding yourself: I've made it. I've arrived. I'm in business class.
The sky is grey – 'fifty shades of grey,' I say to myself and the thought makes me smile. I was excited about my new job, but nervous , too . For the first time in my life I was going to have responsibility, not just for myself, but for the whole team. I was moving to a new city where I didn't know anyone in a state famous for tornadoes galloping over the Gulf of Mexico, spring thunderstorms and summer temperatures that regularly pass 100°. I was at heart a cold weather girl. I had always lived on the East Coast. I'd gone to school in New Jersey, worked my way through college and spent summers holding down double shifts waitressing in Southampton. My studio apartment on 94 th and 2 nd was hardly big enough for my shoes, but it was my home, my oyster shell, and when I gave the key back to the landlord it was like giving away a piece of me, a chunk of my past.
The glossy magazines show this sexy, glamorous, beautiful people life, ski slopes and casinos, tennis clubs and sunsets over the Caribbean. They are the images I use to promote our soft drinks: cool and refreshing with ice beside the pool, the perfect accompaniment to gin and vodka on summer cruises. It is the life people dream of and I am one of those people. I had never been anywhere or done anything. It was all work, work, work . I'd started dressing in a more stylish way, acting the part to go with the promotion, but it was only an act.
Until today.
I am in business class. I am going to be everything I can be, cool, classy, composed.
My daydreams are interrupted by the announcement:
'Flight 69 to Houston is now ready for board ing . This call is for b usiness class passengers and women with children.'
I finish the second bottle of water and have to stop myself leaping up and rushing to get in line. I brush down the
'Thank you, that's so kind,' I say again, and he smiles, those blue eyes assessing me coolly like people look at paintings in a museum trying to work out what the hell they mean.
'You're more than welcome,' he says, and the way he looks back into my eyes sends a little shiver up my spine, not a cold one, a warm one.
Security is a nightmare, even for business class passengers. First you have to take your shoes off, which is kind of disgusting, and the whole area smells of dirty feet. A woman as big as an air balloon runs her hands down my sides and, like, really far up the insides of my legs, and then the metal machine buzzes because I've forgotten to take off the St. Christopher necklace Nanna gave me for my twenty-first. My fingers go all twitchy opening the tiny catch, my Ray Bans fall to the floor and my hair falls over my face.
' Here. '
I peer up through my hair and he's there again, holding my sunglasses.
'Thank you,' I gasp. I'm all sweaty ad panicky. 'I keep saying thank you all the time.'
I'm grasping the St. Christopher in my palm. He glances down, then up again into my eyes.
'Can I help you with that?'
There's an amused smile on his lips and then there's those eyes, cool blue, impenetrable.
I shake my head as if to say no and what come out of my mouth is, 'Yes, Yes, thank you.'
His fingers are cool and his has no problem opening the clasp and attaching my necklace.
'I'm sure I'll see you later,' he says and collects his bag
I pull myself together. I feel like a shipwreck and the business class waiting area is a desert island with sandy gold carpets and Mozart piped from hidden speakers. There's complimentary coffee and snacks, and just about every newspaper printed in the world. I gulp down a bottle of Evian, and take a second bottle to sip. There are big wing chairs that are so comfy it's nice to sit back, gaze out at the night and just keep reminding yourself: I've made it. I've arrived. I'm in business class.
The sky is grey – 'fifty shades of grey,' I say to myself and the thought makes me smile. I was excited about my new job, but nervous , too . For the first time in my life I was going to have responsibility, not just for myself, but for the whole team. I was moving to a new city where I didn't know anyone in a state famous for tornadoes galloping over the Gulf of Mexico, spring thunderstorms and summer temperatures that regularly pass 100°. I was at heart a cold weather girl. I had always lived on the East Coast. I'd gone to school in New Jersey, worked my way through college and spent summers holding down double shifts waitressing in Southampton. My studio apartment on 94 th and 2 nd was hardly big enough for my shoes, but it was my home, my oyster shell, and when I gave the key back to the landlord it was like giving away a piece of me, a chunk of my past.
The glossy magazines show this sexy, glamorous, beautiful people life, ski slopes and casinos, tennis clubs and sunsets over the Caribbean. They are the images I use to promote our soft drinks: cool and refreshing with ice beside the pool, the perfect accompaniment to gin and vodka on summer cruises. It is the life people dream of and I am one of those people. I had never been anywhere or done anything. It was all work, work, work . I'd started dressing in a more stylish way, acting the part to go with the promotion, but it was only an act.
Until today.
I am in business class. I am going to be everything I can be, cool, classy, composed.
My daydreams are interrupted by the announcement:
'Flight 69 to Houston is now ready for board ing . This call is for b usiness class passengers and women with children.'
I finish the second bottle of water and have to stop myself leaping up and rushing to get in line. I brush down the
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