Come Fly with Me: A Collection

by Whitney G.

  I knew he wouldn’t get back into the car until he actually saw me go inside, so I pulled out my employee badge and held it against the door. I gave him one last wave before slipping inside and letting the door shut.

  I grabbed a Madison tour brochure and held it up to my face, pretending to read as I walked past my supervisor’s office. I was grateful that only the night crew, people I hardly ever worked with, were too busy working on files and handling phone calls to look up.

  Keeping my head toward the ground, I headed down the hall and across the lobby, all the way to the freight elevators.

  The second the doors opened, I stepped inside and hit “80,” knowing that the floor and the condo it contained would be completely empty like it always was. Ironically, whoever lived there—well, barely lived there, was overly insistent about having the highest level of privacy. All for a unit that was never used.

  There were cameras in the hallway, cameras above the door, and an additional passcode to the floor itself. But since I was always assigned to clean this particular unit, I knew how to get around every security measure.

  Stepping off the elevator, I held the doors open for a split second, waiting until the hallway camera rotated to the left so I could have a full ten seconds to slip by unseen. I quickly disabled the hidden cameras in the hallway vases, double-checking to make sure there weren’t any new ones. Then I hit the blackout button on the newly installed doorway camera, giving myself an extra five seconds to slip inside without notice.

  I knew that doing this was wrong, that if management ever found out just how often I did it, I would be fired on the spot, but I’d become somewhat attached to this condo. Since I always went the extra mile for the invisible tenants who lived here, I sometimes felt like it was mine. And admittedly, whenever I worked late or wanted to escape the pathetic excuse of an apartment I lived in, I always came here.

  Out of all the units in the building, this one was the best by far. Its panoramic, floor to ceiling windows stretched across the entire back wall and gave way to a stunning view of downtown with a glimpse of the Hudson River.

  There were five guestrooms, three bathrooms, and a master bedroom that still made my jaw drop each time I saw it. The floors were a cool, white marble, and the furniture that filled all of the rooms were either beige or black or some combination of the two. They all looked as if they’d been handpicked out of a designer’s wet dream.

  I walked into the state of the art kitchen and hit the lights, overturning all of the collectible Coke cans out of habit. Then I opened one of the cabinets under the sink and pulled out the blue overnight bag I kept hidden behind the cleaning supplies.

  “Welcome home.” The speaker system suddenly sounded, echoing throughout the space. “You have four new messages. Please say the password.”

  “No,” I answered back.

  “Please say the password.”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” There was a beeping sound. “Some other time.”

  I took out a bottle of wine from the massive chilled collection and tossed back gulp after gulp, attempting to numb the aching pain in my chest. As soon as I finished the bottle, I slipped into the master suite and undressed, stepping into the pristine stone-walled shower.

  As the warm water rushed over me, I shut my eyes and allowed myself to cry. I heard my phone ringing in the other room and knew it was Ben calling with more painful things to say, but I didn’t make a move to answer it.

  I turned the water temperature to a much hotter setting, and I stood there until my skin was red and raw, until I could barely feel my fingertips.

  When I couldn’t take anymore, I turned off the water and reached behind the hanging rack of shampoo bottles and grabbed my strawberry lotion. I smoothed it all over myself before changing into my pajamas and covering my tracks.

  I tucked my lotion and body wash back into their hiding places, stuffed the empty wine bottle at the bottom of the trash can, and made sure the cameras in the kitchen were still running on the loop I’d wired them on during my last stay.

  After making sure everything was in its rightful place, I walked into my favorite room in the entire condo, the private library.

  The tenants owned at least five hundred books, and they updated their study every four months with the bestsellers and a fresh edition of the classics. As I ran my fingers across the book spines, I spotted something odd on the desk across the room. Something I hadn’t noticed when I cleaned the other day.

  Normally, just like every other space in this house, the desk was completely bare. But today there were copies of The New Yorker, The New York Times, and the Wall Street Journal spread open. They weren’t recent editions, though. Their pages were yellowed and frayed from age, and a few headlines were highlighted in blue or circled in red. There was even a small notepad tucked beneath the papers, with neatly scribbled notes: How did no one put this together years ago? These can’t be misprints…They can’t all be misprints…

  From the dates on the papers—1993, 1987, and 1975, I was pretty convinced my first ever assumption about the tenants who lived here was definitely correct. An elderly couple who shared a passion for literature, or perhaps an esteemed historian.

  I left the papers as they were and walked to the library’s windows.

  Pulling the curtains open, I watched as sheets of soft rain fell over the city, blanketing everything in sight. I pushed a sofa closer to the panes and crashed against the cushions, curling my body under a blanket.

  So I could be sure to slip out unseen in the morning, I set my phone alarm for six thirty. Then I opened the brand new crossword booklet that was on the coffee table.

  I flipped the cover over and read the title theme for all the puzzles inside:

  Trespassing: Even the Smartest Criminals Get Caught

  Interesting…

  I worked on puzzle after puzzle until I couldn’t focus for another second. When I finally rolled over and started to drift to sleep, I caught the time on the clock above the bookshelves.

  Ten minutes after midnight.

  Happy Birthday to me…

  Gate A4

  Gillian

  New York (JFK)

  * * *

  My Brooklyn apartment was unit one of four in an aging brownstone nestled between two busy streets. The front door was warped from the slumlord’s lack of maintenance, the steps leading up to the building were cracked and uneven, and the windows were cheap and thin—letting in brutal drafts of cold wind during the winter months. Despite its many drawbacks, there was one amazing feature the brownstone offered: A large window in my bedroom and easy access to the black iron fire escape.

  Carefully walking up the dilapidated stone steps, I jiggled the front door’s handle a few times and pushed hard on the wood to let myself inside. Then I rushed up four flights, kicking up dust with every step.

  As soon as I opened the door, I was met with array of white and blue balloon bouquets and a “Happy Birthday, Gillian!” streamer strung high above the makeshift living room.

  Smiling, I walked over to a massive silver gift box on the kitchen table and lifted its top. The handwritten card inside read:

  * * *

  Dear Gillian,

  I need you to go through the gifts inside this box first. Then read the card that’s attached to the balloons by the sink.

  Happy Birthday, and I love you!

  —Your favorite (and best) roommate ever, Mer’

  * * *

  I set the card down and pulled the first item from the box—a short, red, one-shouldered Diane von Furstenberg dress that looked as if it would barely cover my thighs. Underneath it was a sparkling pair of silver Jimmy Choos. Four bottles of white wine stood at the bottom, and wedged in between them was a glittering charm bracelet with a plane and a New York taxi already attached.

  I walked over to the sink and opened the larger card, but before I could read the first sentence, the sound of loud banging came through the walls.

&
nbsp; Thump! Thump! THUMP!

  “Oh god! Oh god!” Meredith called out. “Oh godddd! Yes! Yes! YESSSSS!”

  Thump! Thump! THUMP!

  “Hell yeah, babe.” A deep voice grunted. “Hell yeah…”

  The sound of skin slapping against skin and wet lips colliding again and again filled our hallway. The wall that separated her bedroom from the kitchen shook repeatedly, and the flimsy floorboards creaked with every bump of the bed.

  I set down my birthday card as the moans and wall knocks became damn near deafening. Taking a seat at the bar, I made myself a cup of coffee and opened my email account.

  * * *

  From Ben. [Subject:] Open this message! You’re the one with the most to lose…

  From Ben. [Subject:] I know you see this email, Gillian. We belong together.

  From Harry Potter. [Subject:] Free trip to Orlando inside!

  From Sherlock Holmes. [Subject:] Urgent! Open me!

  From Kennedy B. [Subject:] Checking in… [Open me]

  From Nancy Drew. [Subject:] Surprise inside! Free unpublished story!

  * * *

  Groaning, I sent Ben’s messages to spam and deleted the other four emails. The numerous bill collectors I owed had grown quite creative in their efforts to reach me, and I knew that the paper versions of their notices were probably awaiting me in my mailbox.

  Before I could log off, two emails from Elite Airways popped onto my screen. Their subject lines read, Exciting Elite News! and New Routes & Changes Announced! so I deleted them as well. I was done getting my hopes up about receiving the ever elusive, ‘Urgent: An Update to Your Employee Status” email.

  I poured another cup of coffee and a final, loud and resounding “Ohhh my godddd!” tore through the walls. There were a few more knocks afterwards, a few more slaps against bare skin. And then, the sudden sound of shuffling—shoes, belt buckle, keys, confirmed that the tryst was now over.

  Seconds later, Meredith and her flavor of the day stepped out of her room.

  Jet black-haired and brown-eyed, he looked over at me and winked, and I tried not to stare too hard at the beautiful tattoos that snaked up and down his arms.

  “See you soon,” Meredith whispered, opening the door for him.

  “I hope so.” He returned the whisper and gave her one last slap on the ass before heading down the steps.

  “Well, that was a very fulfilling four star!” She walked over and turned on the stove. “You’re home early. I thought you were going to spend your entire birthday with Ben.”

  “I thought so, too.” I felt a lump forming in my throat, but I forced it back down. “Until he decided to tell me that he’s been cheating on me.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I was.” I said. “But he said he only ‘uses’ the other girls for sex. He ‘damn near loves me’ he claims.”

  “Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, you know I’m biased because I’ve always hated him, but if you do choose to go back, I’ll still be willing to be your shoulder to cry on. Although, I will definitely judge the hell out of you.”

  I laughed for the first time today. “I’m not going back, and I’m not going to cry anymore. I’m going to treat myself to an art show and try to meet someone new tonight. Somewhat smart, witty, and funny. Someone—”

  “You can fuck.” She cut me off, crossing her arms. “Do you not see the issue here? Can you not see the pattern?”

  “The pattern of me wanting to find a nice guy?”

  “Yes. Your exes all fit into the same boring box. Art show lovers, coffee shop sitters, sweater wearing Wall Street boys. The cookie cutter, All-American, ‘we-don’t-fuck-until-the-tenth-date’ types and they have yet to work out for you.” She pulled out a box of pancake mix. “You need to switch it up and maybe attempt having sex with no strings attached. Get a few notches under your belt to see what you like, what you don’t like, and then you can start looking for love again.”

  “So, in other words, I should be more like you.”

  “No, you couldn’t be like me if you tried. I don’t even think you could handle a single one-night stand, let alone no-strings attached sex.”

  “I can definitely handle a one-night stand,” I said, turning around in my chair. “I’ve just never wanted to have one.”

  “Ha!” She suddenly burst into loud, uncontrolled laughter, holding her hands over her stomach. She didn’t stop for several minutes, and when she finally had her laughter under control, there were tears in her eyes.

  “Gillian,” she said, letting out a breath, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but having a one-night stand means you can’t expect anything afterwards. I don’t think that lifestyle is for you, no offense.”

  “None taken. But since I’m newly single, and never going back to Ben, I think I’d like to prove you wrong.”

  “Oh?” She raised her eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Okay, then.” She walked over to the refrigerator and plucked a beige card from a magnet, tossing it to me. “How about tonight?”

  “On my birthday?”

  “Yeah.” She shrugged. “On your effin’ birthday. Worst case scenario, you’ll still be helping me out if you decide not to go through with it. This party conflicts with a runway dress rehearsal I have to go to tonight, and I need to drop something off.”

  I flipped the invitation over and realized that the word “party” was nowhere on the card. There was only an address.

  “It’s a secret party,” Meredith said as if she’d read my mind. “A lot of high profile people will be there, so the less words on paper, the better. All I need you to do is find the host—Mark Strauss, and hand him this.” She unclipped a USB drive from around her neck and set it on the table. “Tell him it’s on behalf of me, and he’ll know exactly what it is. And while you’re there, because you’ll be in great company of several eligible, sexy-as-hell bachelors, try to find someone to go home with. Say, ‘Hello, my name is Gillian,’ lie about what you do for a living, and then lie about everything else because it never matters, and get some great sex.”

  “That’s such a cliché.”

  “It’s an amazing cliché.” She smiled. “I have a five star picking me up for a rendezvous two hours before my runway assignment, but if you bail on the party early, walk down to the Waldorf Astoria. We can ride home together.”

  “Meredith…” I set the invitation down. “I thought we agreed that you were going to stop rating every guy you sleep with.”

  “I never agreed to that, and I’m not ‘rating’ them. I’m categorizing them so I know exactly who to call when I’m in the mood for a certain type of repeat.”

  I gave her a blank stare.

  “Like, sometimes,” she said, stirring a bowl. “I’m in the mood for a 3.5 star cock. Something good, but nothing too taxing that’ll keep me up late at night.”

  “You know what? Forget I ever said anything.”

  “Sometimes, I’m in the mood for a 4-star cock. Something that will hit all the right spots, get me there without a serious hangover, but something that will leave me thinking about it for at least half a day.”

  “Please stop talking.” I threw a straw at her.

  “And then, of course, sometimes I desperately need that undeniable, unforgettable 5-star cock that will rock my world, leave me breathless, and render me completely confused about what the hell my name is all at once.” She bit her lip at the thought. “There are a few 6-star and 7-star cocks in my contact list, but I can’t call them too often. Or else I’ll get addicted and I can’t have that. Not my style.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you might be a sex addict?”

  “No, but I’ll take it as a compliment. I can’t accept being broke as hell and miserable. We both need to have something in life that makes us feel alive, you know?”

  “Right…” I tossed another straw at her.

  I completely understood her logic in regards to sex, but even though our apar
tment left us feeling miserable from time to time and I was “broke as hell,” Meredith Alexis Thatchwood was far from that.

  Born drop dead gorgeous with deep brown eyes and wavy auburn hair, Meredith was an heiress in a long line of Thatchwoods—a historic staple of New York real estate tycoon royalty who owned some of the most exclusive properties in the state. Her father, Leonardo Alex Thatchwood, was constantly being mentioned as one of the most philanthropic men in the city, but to Meredith, he was simply a wealthier version of a dead beat dad. She didn’t want anything to do with him or his money.

  “A few last things.” She slid my gift box toward me. “Wear everything in this box tonight and you’ll stand out. The party starts at eight, but if I were you, I wouldn’t get there until ten. No one is ever on time to these things, so it’ll look strange if you are. And I must say, I’m really looking forward to winning this bet. One hundred dollars says you’ll be meeting me at the Waldorf Astoria later tonight and telling me how chicken shit you were.”

  “Well, as a non-heiress with not that much money to bet, twenty dollars and breakfast in bed says I’ll be texting you my rating of the sex.”

  “I’ll draft my menu later today.” She laughed and leaned against the counter. “Okay, in all seriousness, let’s get you prepared for your first potential one-night stand.”

  Later that night, I stood outside an abandoned black building on 7th Avenue, shivering as the winds whipped against my exposed legs. I was wondering if I’d somehow misread the party’s address. There was no one around, all of the windows were covered in plywood boards, and there was a FOR LEASE sign tacked to the front door.

  I pulled my phone out of my clutch to call Meredith, but she’d already sent me a text message.

  * * *