by Whitney G.
I made a cup of cheap hotel coffee and started to read over the short biography on his father’s ‘About the CEO’ page. Everything was exactly how I’d remembered it years before, all standing still in its fairy tale glory:
AT SIX YEARS OLD, NATHANIEL Pearson was a young boy who only dreamed of being a pilot. Growing up poor, his parents were unable to afford lessons at the local glider school, so he learned how to build planes instead. After dropping out of high school at age fourteen, Pearson worked two jobs to help support his family, and eventually enrolled himself into flight school and became one of our country’s most decorated pilots.
After decades of service, he started Elite Airways, with the inaugural flight of a plane he helped design. However, the very first flight ended in fatality—killing his own wife, Sarah Irene, and severely injuring his only son, Evan.
Although Evan healed completely, Sarah succumbed to her injuries, forcing Nathaniel into years of depression. Amidst his heartache, Nathaniel vowed to make his airline the safest in the world and Elite has had no fatal crashes since.
He hopes to see this record continue.
I CLICKED ON EVAN’S profile, but his biography was far shorter, far less informational. It was simply a rehash of his university years and his love for flying. His picture was an older one of him in a navy blue pilot uniform.
Frustrated, I leaned back and played a YouTube video of him being interviewed several years ago. As the questions were asked and answered plainly, I started to think that whatever ties Jake had to him were maybe long lost, or that maybe he was the product of infidelity the family wanted to keep hidden. I read a few more articles and prepared to turn off the interview, but I heard Evan say something that caught me off guard.
“Yes,” he said. “I only spent a few years in the flight academy. I graduated with honors. I still have the uniform.” Then a faded, younger picture of him in his grey academy uniform appeared onscreen.
I paused the video and rewound it—replaying that small part again and again, watching as the interviewer moved to the next question with ease.
I searched through my email and pulled up the notes I’d written years ago, looking for the direct quote that never made it into the article, but one I knew I’d marked down: “I went to the flight academy, but I struggled to make it. I finished, not with honors, but the experience was worth it. I still have the uniform.”
Out of an old researching habit, I rewound the YouTube clip to his flight academy picture, zooming in on the faint grey digits etched in the side of the photo—his student ID. Then I searched for the number of The Flight Academy—dialing the listed extension the second it hit my screen.
“Admissions Department,” a male voice said after two rings. “How may I help you?”
“I’m—” I cleared my throat. “I’m doing some research for The Times. We’re doing a profile on a graduate of your academy.”
“Oh, great.” He sounded honored. “We love seeing those. What do you need from me?”
“I’m just fact-checking, want to be sure I have the right background for our person.”
“I got it.” The sound of keyboard keys clacking was in his background. “You can never be too sure these days, huh? One second...” More typing. “Per our policy, I can only confirm or deny based on a student ID number you give me first. Do you have that?”
“Yes. Five, four, eight, nine, seven.” I stared at the photo. “One, zero, zero, nine.”
“Got it. What do you need to know?”
“Did this student graduate with honors?”
“High honors. Won every damn award in the goddamn book.” He laughed. “Looks like we even made one up for him his senior year.”
“Can you confirm the name?”
“Only after you give it to me first.”
“Right...Um, Pearson. Evan Pearson.”
“No, Miss. That’s not the name in our records. Perhaps you mixed up the—”
“No, I’m sorry.” I cut him off. “I was looking at the wrong sheet. Weston. Jake Weston.”
“That’s him. Jake C. Weston.” He paused. “He agreed to be profiled?”
“Took a lot of convincing.” I started to hang up, but I thought of one last thing. “Do you have a yearbook by chance? A digital copy?”
“I can send you an access code for it that’ll expire in an hour. You don’t have permission to use any of the images for your paper, though.”
“I won’t.” I recited my email address, thanked him, and ended the call. I stared at my inbox, waiting for the message to come through. When it did, ten minutes later, I immediately clicked on the link and scrolled through the scanned pages of the yearbook, stopping in utter shock when I reached the W’s.
There, at the top of the page, was a fresh-faced Jake, smiling proudly. I pulled up Evan’s interview picture right next to it and realized he’d photo-shopped his face over Jake’s.
I pulled up a few other photos of Evan from the press—pictures of him playing on the lawn of the academy and standing in front of small planes. And as I continued to scroll through the academy’s yearbooks, I saw that every single one of those photos were photo-shopped, too.
What the hell...
I searched for “Sarah Irene Pearson” and images of her pretty face, her smiling with Nathaniel, and her funeral appeared. There were no biography pages for her, only links that circled back to Flight 1872 and pictures of Nathaniel crying, with Evan at his side the day they buried her.
Jake was nowhere to be found in any of the pictures or files. He wasn’t even briefly mentioned in her public obituary. It was if they’d erased his very existence.
I immediately shut down my laptop, deciding that I needed to drop this for good. I didn’t need to dig any deeper, I didn’t need to know anymore.
I lay back on my bed, trying my best to stop wondering about why someone would do that to Jake and why he would let the charade continue to happen for so many years. I rolled over to set an alarm, but there was a knock at my door.
Confused, I got up and opened the door, coming face to face with Jake.
“What the—” I stepped back. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Hawaii right now?”
“What the hell does this text message mean?” he asked, holding his phone in front of my face.
I blinked, still unable to process that he was standing in front of me right now. Looking absolutely livid, he was dressed in a casual grey T-shirt that clung to his muscles in all the right ways and dark blue jeans that brought out the shining azure jewels in his latest watch.
“Gillian?” He narrowed his eyes at me. “What the hell does this text message mean?”
The sound of the elevator doors opening filled the hallway and I pulled him inside my room.
Shutting the door, I avoided looking directly at him and cleared my throat. “It’s my attempt at saying goodbye.”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit cruel to deny me a goodbye in person?” He tilted my chin up with his fingertips, forcing my eyes to meet his. “You could’ve waited and told me this in New York next week.”
“Before or after I let you fuck me?”
“After, preferably.” He smiled. “Is this some type of joke?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I really did want to say goodbye and end this, for me.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “I need a reason.”
“I just gave you one.”
“Wanting to say goodbye is not a reason.”
“Fine.” I swallowed as he trailed a finger against my collarbone. “It’s against the rules.”
“You knew it was against the rules when we started. Try again.”
“My supervisor knows and threatened to have me fired. I’m not willing to lose my career over sleeping with you.”
“She’s not going to fire you.” He looked amused. “If she was, she would’ve done it after the gala after she heard me practically say we were fucking.” His hand moved down to my waist. “But now that you’ve bro
ught that up, we need to be far more careful. There was a video of us kissing in the hallway via security camera.”
My eyes widened. “Do you not hear yourself, Jake? Is that not the perfect reason to end this?”
“No, and I’m still waiting for you to give me an acceptable one. Are you finished?”
I was silent for a few seconds. “I’m not attracted to you anymore.”
“A reason that doesn’t insult my intelligence.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Tell me the truth.”
“I like you.”
He blinked.
“And I feel like you don’t and won’t ever feel the same, so on top of the threats from my supervisor, I’d rather cut my losses now.” I stepped back. “That way, I won’t ever be tempted to say the words ‘us’ ‘more’ or—”
“Relationships.” He finished my sentence and grabbed my wrist, pulling me back to him. “I remember.”
“So,” I said, looking into his eyes. “I think that’s the end of this.” I waited for him to leave, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood staring at me, his gaze pinning me to the spot.
“Are you sure you’re not simply confusing infatuation with our sex for liking me?” He slipped an arm around my waist, strumming his fingers against my hips. “That could be the problem.”
“That’s not the problem.” My voice was a whisper. “I think, regardless of what we agreed to, that you’re going to end up hurting my feelings in the future.”
“You’re not a fortune-teller, Gillian,” he said. “You have no idea what either of us is going to do, and since you would have to know me to like me, I think it’s just a temporary crush.” He snapped my lips shut with his fingers before I could say something. “A mutual, temporary crush.”
Without saying anything else, he clasped my hand and pulled me over to the bed. He started running his fingers through my hair with his other hand, looking as if he was going to kiss me, but I shook my head.
“I don’t have a temporary crush on you, Jake,” I said. “I like you, I actually fucking like you, and I don’t need you to try and convince me that I don’t. As good as sex with you is, I’m not going to continue risking my job over it, or let my feelings get hurt by someone who doesn’t like me back. So, I think you should leave. Now.”
A confused look etched across his face, but he didn’t say anything. He just stared at me.
“Why are you here anyway?” I pulled my hand away from him. “You’re supposed to be in Hawaii.”
“I thought I wanted to see you.” He shook his head. “But now that you’ve once again decided that you can literally make even the most pointless conversations ten times more pointless, I’ve come to my senses. See you Friday in New York. E4.” He headed toward the door.
“Did you not hear any of what I said?” I scoffed. “We’re over. Done. I won’t be there.”
“Jesus, Gillian.” He groaned, still walking. “I get the goddamn point. Can I leave the room before you say anything else?”
“You’ll regret this someday...” I muttered under my breath, but he turned around.
“The only thing I regret is that I never got the chance to see your talkative-ass-mouth swallow something other than words.”
My jaw dropped.
“Yes.” He looked me up and down before slamming the door. “Yes, I really fucking said that.”
I stared at the door seconds after it shut.
Upset that he’d gotten the last word, I rushed over to open it, to hurl one last zinger at him as he left, but when I opened the door, he wasn’t walking to the elevators. He was standing right in front of me.
His mouth immediately latched onto mine and he picked me up, forcing me to wrap my legs around him. The door slammed behind us both and our lips fought for control, he growled against my mouth.
“You talk so fucking much, Gillian...So fucking much...” He tore his mouth away from mine and tossed me onto the bed.
My bath towel fell off, exposing my body and he pulled his shirt over his head—revealing abs that still made me bite my lip whenever I saw them.
Still glaring at me, he began to unbuckle his pants, but I moved closer to the edge of the bed and grabbed his wrist.
“Let me,” I said, my voice more demanding than normal.
He raised his eyebrow at my tone, but he moved his hand away.
Pulling his belt through the loops, I let it fall to the floor and unzipped his pants. I slowly pushed his briefs down a bit, letting his hardened cock free, and without hesitating another second, I slowly covered the head of it with my mouth.
He groaned, grabbing a fistful of my hair as I slowly sucked his cock deeper into my mouth, as I let it hit the back of my throat. I moved my mouth up and down his length, darting my tongue against his tip each time I pulled back.
“Fuck, Gillian...” He looked down at me, his eyes glazed over, his lips parted.
Relishing the control I had over him, I gripped the base of his cock with my hand and teased him with the pressure as his muscles tensed.
My mouth continued to move over his cock, my saliva coating every inch of skin, and both his hands were in my hair—gently attempting to control my rhythm.
He said my name again, harsh and guttural and I slid my free hand between his legs as he shut his eyes. I pressed the pad of my fingertips against his balls and massaged them—earning another low groan from him.
I started to take him deep again, but he suddenly pulled me back—letting his cock slip from my lips.
“I’m about to come...” he said, his eyes dark and heated. “So, if you’re—”
I didn’t let him finish. I wrapped my mouth around his cock again, letting him grip my hair once more, letting him roughly guide me back and forth.
He whispered curses as his thickness swelled against my jaws, and as his leg muscles tensed one last time, warm come slashed against the back of my throat. I gripped his legs as the rest of it came, swallowing every drop until he was finished.
When I was sure that was all, I looked up at him and noticed he was staring at me. I opened my mouth to say something, but he pressed his finger against mine before I could get a single word out.
“Not right now,” he said. He pulled me up and onto the bed, locking me in his arms as he kissed my lips.
He ran his hands against my bare back and whispered. “Even if I do like you...”
“I think you do.”
“Shut up, Gillian.” He bit me. “Even if I do like you—which I don’t, you’re going to have to come up with a much better reason than that to get me to stop fucking you...” He ran his fingers through my hair, and I felt his cock hardening against my thigh.
“I can deal with one broken rule,” he said, lifting me up and slowly sliding me onto him. “As long as you can agree that it’ll be our ‘only one’?” He gripped my hips, not waiting for a response, and he fucked me harder than he ever had for the rest of the night.
GATE B22
GILLIAN
Los Angeles (LAX)
“IT’S A CR-9,” I SAID, hours later. “Easy.”
“Close.” Jake pulled me closer. “It’s an MD-88.”
“Four out of five isn’t bad.”
“You’ve only gotten four out of twenty, Gillian.” He smiled. “That’s terrible.”
It was four in the morning and we were laying on the roof of a private, charter airport across the city. Much to his insistence, and after we both agreed that we were restless after three rounds of sex tonight, he said he “had an idea” and ordered a luxury cab to bring us here.
He’d held my face and kissed me the entire ride, causing butterflies to flutter against my stomach, forcing the driver to shut the partition.
“If this was a couple of years ago—” I turned on my side and looked into his eyes. “I would’ve gotten every single one of them right.”
“Why a couple years ago?”
“Because I used to write about planes and the aviation industry for the paper. Not a
ll the time, but a couple times a month.”
He was quiet, running his fingers through my hair. “Why did you quit?”
“I didn’t quit. I was fired.”
He looked surprised. “For slander?”
“For the truth.”
“Hmmm.” He trailed a finger across my lips. “Did it have anything to do with Elite, or he who shall never be named between us?”
“No,” I said. “It was personal. Someone burned me, so I burned them back.”
“How mature.”
I changed the subject. “What were you doing a couple years ago?”
“Flying.”
“Is this all you’ve ever done?”
“Yes.”
“Jake...” I sighed. “Do you see how when you ask me questions, I elaborate, but when I ask you, you give me one word answers?”
“Then maybe you should ask better questions.”
“Fine. Why didn’t you tell my supervisor on me after the night I left your apartment?”
“Because there would be no purpose in doing that.” He looked at me. “I also found you very amusing and wanted to see you again.”
“Okay. Why do you have to have your TVs and coffee table replaced every few weeks? I remember all the work orders, even right before we met...Why do they break so often?”
“Faulty engineering.”
I blinked and he smiled, pulling me on top of him.
“I used to have problems sleeping. That’s all.”
“Used to? That wasn’t that long ago, Jake. Aren’t you still having problems?”
“Shockingly no.” His blew a warm kiss against my skin. “Not since I’ve been in whatever the hell this is with you.” He didn’t give me a chance to ask a follow up question. “What else did you do in my apartment?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why did you feel the need to reroute my security cameras and make them run a loop? What were you doing?”
“Nothing.” I pressed my head down against his chest, right on top of his beating heart. “I stole books from your library before, though.”
