Mister Weston

by Whitney G.

  Until tonight, that is.

  After seeing Gillian, fucking her and grabbing fistfuls of her hair while I held her against my bookcase, that strawberry scent that often pervaded my space made perfect sense.

  It was the one and only thing that lingered, no matter how well the staff attempted to clean. Airy and intoxicating, it clung to all of my pillows and sheets, so deeply ingrained in the fabric that I smelled hints of it for weeks.

  I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved that the intruder wasn’t an annoying neighbor who preferred my views of the city over her own, or pissed that it was a sexy-ass employee who thought she was doing something worthy of my gratitude.

  I couldn’t help but picture her perfect, pink lips pressed into an angry line for a “Thank you,” couldn’t help but see the way her deep, green eyes gazed into mine when we damn near fucked inside the rooftop party’s elevator.

  The way she screamed when I had her pinned against the floor...

  Before I could call the housekeeping manager and tell him that I wanted to change my mind about canceling, my automated voicemail system made a loud beeping sound.

  “Welcome home,” it said. “You have three new messages. Please say the password.”

  “No.”

  “Please repeat the password.”

  “I said no.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s not the password. Please repeat the password.”

  Jesus... “One. Eight. Seven. Four.”

  “Password accepted. Message one.” There was a beep and a long moment of silence.

  “Good evening, Mr. Weston.” It was a female voice. “This is Alyssa Hart in Elite’s Human Resources Department. I was calling to discuss the salary form you submitted. I’m not sure if you know the actual salary maximum for a senior captain, but you’re going to have to redraft this and ask for something a lot more reasonable, if you want to continue—”

  “Next,” I said, and the automated message came to an abrupt halt.

  “Next message. Playing now.”

  “Jake...” A deep male voice. “Jake, why do I have to hire a private investigator just to get your home number? And why do you keep changing it every month while continuing to ignore my calls to your cell phone? We’ve been trying to reach out to you for years. Years, Jake. Please let us—”

  “Next.” I clenched my jaw.

  “Final new message. Playing now.”

  “Hello, this is Charlotte.” It was a throaty, female voice. “I’m not sure if I have the right number or not, but I’m simply calling to see if this is Blanket Manufacturing? I’d like someone to call me back so I can place an order, if so.”

  I sighed and made a mental note to change my number once again at the end of the month.

  “No more new messages,” the system said proudly. “Would you like to hear them again?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. I will play them again. Message one.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Weston. This is Alyssa Hart in Elite’s Human Resources Department.”

  I groaned and walked into my library, shutting the door. I picked up the books that fell while Gillian was here and stuffed her tattered lace panties into my pocket.

  I pushed the desk away from the wall and unlocked a hidden panel, waiting for the walls to slide open.

  As always, they took several minutes to slide apart—a safety precaution to convince a stranger that this was simply a wall and nothing more. When they finally made a beeping sound and gave way, I unlocked another panel that revealed all the things I hardly ever wanted to face.

  On the top shelf stood every model plane I’d ever built as a child. From the simple five piece wooden types to the intricate, three-hundred-piece metal constructions. Dated postcards from countless countries sat untouched in a plethora of bound notebooks, and trinkets from nearly every airport gift-shop sat in the order that they’d been received.

  I picked up the navy blue photo album from the bottom shelf and flipped through the first few pages. I wanted to believe that enough time had passed that I would feel nothing, but the pain and betrayal still cut deep, no matter how happy the memories. There I was at four years old, playing in an open field with a collection of paper planes. Me and my older brother at fifteen, playfully arguing about whose turn it was to drive our father’s Cadillac. My mother smiling against the sunset for no reason, and my father—

  I shut the book.

  I didn’t want to consider remembering what he was doing. I was sure it wasn’t what I thought it was anyway. I tossed the album onto the floor of the hidden case and locked it up as a familiar, haunting voice played in my head.

  “He lied to you, Jake...He lied to all of us...”

  I needed to focus my attention on something else.

  I returned to the kitchen and flipped through the mail. All of this weeks’ newspapers were neatly stacked and waiting to be read. There was The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, USA Today, and the most ruinous one of them all—The New York Times.

  All of them were running variations of the same story across their front pages, harping praise and acclaim toward Elite Airways. The accompanying pictures were all white and sky blue, the words all written in a bloated black with phrases like, “Elite Ascends to New Altitudes!” “CEO of Elite Airways Flies High, Soars!” and “Elite Brings Back the Glory Days of Flying!”

  There was no criticism, no journalistic analysis, not the slightest hint of critique. It was all an infallible farce, and after reading through all their bullshit, I knew there was no way I was going to get through my first full month of flying for them without fucking losing it.

  A WEEK LATER, I SAT across from the Chief Hiring Director at Emirates Air in Dubai, watching him tap his pen in annoying fashion as he looked over my paperwork.

  “Very impressive, Mr. Weston...” He flipped a page. “Even more impressive...” He’d repeated those same five words over the past hour and I was considering getting up and leaving the room.

  “Well, Mr. Weston—er Jake.” He finally looked up. “Can I call you Jake?”

  “Mr. Weston will suffice.”

  “Fair enough.” He set the papers down. “I’m honestly in awe of your previous service, sir, but I have a few reservations about hiring you here.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Well, for one, we’d have to pay you on a senior captain’s salary which is far less than what you were earning at Signature.”

  “How much is far less?”

  “It would be half,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “And Emirates is the highest luxury line in all of commercial travel right now. Well, we were until Elite, but you honestly don’t strike me as the ‘do anything and everything to make the passengers happy’ type.”

  “That’s because I’m a pilot, not a goddamn customer service agent.”

  “And lastly.” He slid the papers back to me. “As much as I despise Elite for being what they are, I respect them for what they’re doing.”

  “What exactly are they doing?”

  “Getting people excited about flying again,” he said, turning on the massive TV screen on the other side of the room. “The aviation industry has never been better.” He pointed to the TV. “Have you seen their newest commercial? It’s very vintage and very original.”

  I looked at the TV screen, watching it unfold. In grey scale, several flight attendants dressed in navy blue dresses and blazers walked arm and arm with a captain in the center. They all laughed and smiled as Frank Sinatra’s “Come Fly with Me,” played in the background.

  Onlookers waved at them as they walked through the terminal hallways, down the jet bridge and onto a plane. The commercial cut to the flight attendants serving a five course meal in first class, then to the pilot flying over a sparkling blue sea.

  Seconds later, the CEO of the company—a man with graying hair and a soft smile, stood outside of LaGuardia International with a white Boeing 737 in the background.

  “Fly with the best f
leet!” He waved his hand across the sky. “Fly with Elite!”

  Then the words, “Bring back the good days of flying” appeared.

  The screen went black and the hiring director stood up and clapped as if he hadn’t just watched a commercial from his competitor.

  “That was actually pretty good, don’t you think?” he asked. “It was a perfect pitch.”

  “Look.” I’d had enough of this shit. “You don’t strike me as the stupid and gullible type, and I know damn well you’re aware that everything Elite does is a twisted rip-off of the old Pan Am.”

  He was silent, but he smiled.

  “That said, I hope I don’t strike you as the stupid and gullible type either, so you need to tell me the real reason you’re not hiring me on the spot since I know you’re lying about the pay grade, and I’m more qualified than most of the people who are currently flying for you.”

  “Okay...” He looked slightly uneasy. “It’s because you’re overqualified.”

  “Try again.”

  “Did I give you the budgeting reason yet?”

  I stood up and took my paperwork. “Thank you for wasting my time.”

  “Wait, wait.” He walked over to me. “Look, as much as I want to stick it to Elite and take half of their staff like they did to me ten years ago, the rules are different now.” He opened the door. “Besides, the second I had my assistant call to get your records, they sent over your employment contract.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “You have a five year non-compete and non-transfer clause. Every new pilot they hire does.” He shrugged. “Not only that, but I received a not-so-nice email from the director herself minutes before you arrived here today. She said that meeting with you would be a waste of my time. Something about an ‘FCE’? Whatever the hell that means. There’s nothing I can do for you, Mr. Weston. I’m sorry.”

  “As am I.” I shook his hand. “Thank you.” I walked away before he could say another word, heading out to the parking lot and into my rental car.

  Emirates was the final airline on my list of last-resort transfer options, the last place on my upcoming schedule of stopovers I planned to visit. There was now no one else I could call.

  Refusing to think about it for the rest of the day, I pulled out my phone and noticed I had four new text messages from women on upcoming layovers. Messages that promised sex that I surprisingly didn’t feel like entertaining.

  The only woman I honestly wanted to fuck right now was Gillian and that was a problem.

  I’d never thought about a woman for more than a few minutes after sex. Even if I walked them back to their hotel room or saw them the next night due to an extended layover, the thoughts of our sex ended as soon as we were done.

  So, I had no idea why my unwanted thief of a roommate was still on my mind days later. Regardless of the fact that she was undeniably stunning with jet black hair, almond shaped eyes, and sultry smile that sealed the deal, my current thoughts of her weren’t adding up.

  Then again, maybe it had something to do with her smart ass mouth and backward logic. The way she actually believed she was doing me a favor by sneaking into my apartment.

  Unable to shake the thought of her away, I scrolled down my list of contacts and called the Housekeeping Director’s direct line.

  “Yes, Mr. Weston?” He answered on the first ring. “Are you calling to tell me that we need to search for ghosts in your apartment?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Have you tried Facebook?”

  “It’s one of your employees.”

  “Oh.” His tone immediately went soft. “Well, you know I’m not allowed to disclose names on my end, so do you already know which one it is?”

  Something told me to hold back on her name. “The green-eyed girl.”

  “Sir, we employ quite a few green-eyed girls.”

  “This one has a smart ass mouth and a tendency to steal things.”

  “One of my employees stole something from you?” He gasped. “Give me the dates and times you first realized that things were gone. I can cross check every past schedule and make sure that whoever it is, is punished severely. Can you tell me exactly what was stolen?”

  “No...” I realized this wasn’t going to go anywhere. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Mr. Weston, what exactly—”

  I hung up and started the car. I needed to get a grip on myself. I didn’t chase women, ever. I never had a need to, and I wasn’t going to start now.

  Our fucking was simply memorable, and I’d forget about her eventually.

  I always did.

  GILLIAN

  ~BLOG POST~

  TWO YEARS AGO...

  I GOT FIRED TODAY.

  FIRED.

  F.I.R.E.D.

  The second I walked through the revolving glass doors, I spotted my boss standing at the main desk with his arms crossed, biting the stem of his glasses. Some of my coworkers were staring at me in disgust from the glass doors above, and a security guard was holding a box of all my belongings.

  “Well, I honestly never thought I’d say these words to you, Miss Taylor,” my boss said the words slowly, as if they were causing him physical pain. “I’m going to have to let you go.”

  “For what?”

  “You know for what.” He shook his head. “You know exactly for what. I need you to hand over your badge, and know that, as of today, you’re no longer welcome on this property.”

  I stepped back and held my hand over my laminated namesake, not willing to give it up.

  “You don’t think I have a right to be pissed off about what happened?” I asked. “A right to be angry?”

  “You have a right to feel however you want to feel, Gillian. You don’t have the right to react the way you did. Do you have any idea the damage you’ve caused?”

  “The truth is never damage...”

  “It is when the lie is more compelling.” He clenched his jaw. “And when no one asked you to insert your feelings—regardless of how you think this situation affects you.”

  “It more than affects me.” My throat constricted and I tried not to cry.

  Warm tears fell down my face and I begged him to reconsider. I said that I was sorry, that I didn’t mean to do what I'd done. I promised to make it up to everyone. I even offered to demote myself to the lowest of interns, but it wasn’t enough.

  His mind and his boss’s boss’s mind had already been made up.

  “We had to report it to other institutions,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t waste my time applying to our competitors, if I were you. At least not for the next five to ten years, okay? It takes a while for people to forget this type of thing.”

  “Did you at least report the other person? The other person who’s actually at fault?” I was sniffling, trying not to cause too big of a scene.

  “No, Gillian.” He gave me a short hug. “The only person in the wrong was you.” He wished me all the best, and then ordered the security guard to take my badge and escort me out of the building...

  I’M CURRENTLY TYPING this post inside of a Park Avenue Starbucks—shivering and soaking wet from a sudden summer rain, and I’m trying my best to figure out where the hell I’m going from here. What I’m going to do next.

  My final paycheck has been expedited and is supposed to arrive in my mailbox tomorrow. My name will be delisted from the company’s website, and everything I contributed will be washed over and repurposed.

  So, just like that, at age twenty-five, my so-called dream of a life is over.

  I’ll need to find some new dream to obsess over and pursue, and maybe one day I can go back to my old dreams.

  The only things I know for sure are that my days of living in an apartment on Lexington Avenue are long gone, that daily espressos and lattes are now unaffordable and absurd, and that I’m going to have to find a new job (or two) ASAP if I want to stay afloat in New York City.

  Write later...r />
  Actually, no. I won’t. This is the last post I’ll write here for a very long time.

  GILLIAN

  GT

  **TAYLOR G.**

  1 COMMENT POSTED:

  KayTROLL: What you did was not only hurtful, but it was also selfish, immature, and incredibly STUPID. Did you really think that you wouldn’t get fired for doing something like that? I saw what you were plotting before you deleted it Tuesday, and I thought you’d know better than to go through with it. At least you’re only 25. You have plenty of time to grow the fuck up. Grow. The. Fuck. Up!

  GATE A6

  GILLIAN

  New York (JFK)

  JAKE’S DEMANDING WORDS played in my mind for the umpteenth time as my fingers strummed my swollen clit, as I orgasmed for the third time since the night he fucked me. My nipples hardened as a cold draft of night air blew against them, so I pulled the blanket over my body and rolled over. I tightened my grip around my pillow, envisioning Jake taking me all over again, but just as I was about to replay our night all over again, my cell phone rang.

  I didn’t bother looking to see who it was. I groped its frame and hit the side key to silence it.

  Minutes later, it rang again and I groaned—silencing it once more. It was no use. It rang again—sounding even louder this time, and I forced myself to look at the screen. Unknown number.

  “Hello?” I didn’t attempt to hide the annoyance in my voice.

  “Why aren’t you at the airport, Miss Taylor?”

  “What?” I sat up. “Who is this?”

  “This is scheduling with Elite Air.” She hissed. “And unless I have the wrong number for Gillian Taylor, which, I’m sure I don’t, I need you to answer me. Now. Why aren’t you at the airport?”