Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 45357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Public Service Announcement: At thirty-five, hangovers come with a crick in the neck, a sour stomach and a bonus shot of self-recrimination. The more you fucking know.
“You can all relax now. It lives,” Miller says wryly from the kitchen, his words echoing through the throbbing canyon of suck where my head used to be.
“Royal. He drove us back here, right?”
He’ll be pissed at me, I’m sure. I’m surprised I didn’t wake up with a dick drawn on my face again. I scrub my jaw self-consciously, hoping he couldn’t get his hands on a permanent marker.
I hear a woman scoff from the kitchen and look over to see the familiar faces of Miller’s next-door neighbors. Other than their personalities, it’s hard to tell the two apart. Both women have short, blonde hair and a penchant for tie-dye, and rarely do you see one without the other.
When the sixty-something couple basically adopted Miller as soon as he moved in, I was relieved. He’d just lost his mother and the way they fussed over him as we got him settled gave me hope that he’d be okay when I wasn’t around.
Then about a year ago they started nagging him to date, determined to find him his perfect partner. Okay, Diane wanted perfect—Heather just wanted Miller to get laid.
I like Heather.
“Memory loss. How convenient.”
Diane, I tolerate.
“Not really,” I say, as if she’s talking to me instead of about me. “Just getting my bearings.”
I stand up and stretch, recalling more of the worst day of my life. Flying home with my tail between my legs and two weeks suspension to suffer through while the airline reviews the incident.
I definitely remember the incident.
I also have a vague recollection of walking through the door of my condo and finding my old pal Kimmy throwing the kind of party you’d only see in a private dungeon, complete with an actual cage where my coffee table used to be.
I can’t begin to fathom how they got that thing up the elevator.
The details are a little fuzzy after that. All I know was there was a lot of nudity, a lot of yelling from the little guy who held my lease, and before I knew it, I’d been evicted and told I would be notified when I could pick up my things.
No spare key goes unpunished.
Thanks, Kimmy.
At any other time in my life I might have cajoled the landlord into giving me a warning by finding him a willing partner, and then joined the party myself. I’ve never had a problem with a little healthy debauchery, and I’ve rarely taken the moral high ground in lieu of getting laid.
I used to joke that there wasn’t much difference between a pilot’s life and a pirate’s—taming the wind, thriving on danger and traveling the world in search of adventure and booty. Emphasis on the booty, of course.
Blackbeard didn’t have tempting flight attendants offering kinky refreshments to their captain on the red eye, but other than that, the resemblance is uncanny.
Flying pirate that I am, I’ll let that tan line on the third finger of your left hand slide without judgment. Want to invite a few of your friends to my hotel room or join me in the plane’s tiny bathroom for an official meeting of the mile-high club? I have no problem with that. The friendly skies have always been good to me, and I’ve done my best to reciprocate.
The problem with the pirate comparison is that there aren’t that many who are famous for retiring with their treasured booty intact. And unless it’s a fairy tale, none of them fall in love and settle down. You’re a pirate until you die—from a flesh would or syphilis—or until the crew mutinies. The end.
Royal and I both came to the same realization at about the same time when we met up in London on a layover. Pilots? Always. But we no longer want to be pirates. We want something more out of life. In Royal’s case, he wants a woman who happens to work with my…with Miller.
I rub the knots in my neck, the discomfort almost a relief. I deserve to be in some pain. Not just because I embarrassed my friends and came on too strong with Miller, no doubt confusing the shit out of him. But also because yesterday I was attacked, suspended and evicted all in one day, and my reaction to all of it was mild irritation and relief.
Relief. How fucked up is that?
“Here.” Miller was suddenly beside me, handing me a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and two Advil.
“Bless you, hangover angel.”
“Shut it. I’m planning on giving you hell later for passing out in the middle of our discussion last night.”
Discussion. Is that what he’s calling it?
He leans closer and murmurs, “They showed up before I could cancel. It’s Saturday.”