Come Fly with Me: A Collection

by Whitney G.

  I tore off the paper and saw a box full of my belongings, small things I’d left at his place: A pink coffee mug, white slippers, a hair brush, and a romance novel. The only new things inside were a brand new crossword puzzle titled, “Gratitude” and a small white envelope.

  Opening the envelope, I pulled out the small white index card and read the handwritten note:

  You’re welcome.

  --Jake.

  I rolled my eyes and pushed my cart out into the lobby. I waved to the staff at the front desk as I passed by and headed toward the mail room.

  Even though I was somewhat sad about leaving this job, I was ecstatic to finally have a job that could offer me a full forty hours a week. Even more ecstatic that I would finally get a chance to work flights that were more than an hour or two and stay at much nicer hotels.

  I pressed the “up” button on the elevator and leaned against my cart as the numbers on the overhead lit up on the way down.

  Is it stopping on every floor?

  Groaning, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and noticed there was a new notification. A new comment on the blog I hadn’t written on in years. I opened it and saw it was the same asshole who always commented, KayTROLL.

  KayTROLL: No more blogs? No more interesting tid-bits from your woe-is-me life? I was hoping to hear a “I’ve finally grown up years later” post…That or a grand apology. Unless you’ve died…Have you died?

  Ugh…

  I put my phone away, not wanting to engage in that part of my old life. Even though I’d never received a single positive comment from whoever that person was, I regarded him as a distant friend. A distant friend who took pleasure in treating me like shit, but at least he read everything I once wrote.

  The elevator doors ahead suddenly opened and a group of residents walked off all at once. I waited for the last person to step off, until I realized he wasn’t getting off at all.

  He was staring at me, looking at me exactly how he’d looked at me that night, beckoning me with his gaze.

  I felt every nerve in my body instantly come to life, but I didn’t let it show.

  “Are you getting on?” Jake asked, his voice low.

  “After you get off, yes.”

  “I’m not getting off.” He held the doors open, waiting for him to join him, but I didn’t.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “Wrong elevator bank.” I quickly turned away and pushed my cart toward the western elevator bank. I felt him following me, but I didn’t look back.

  I hit the up button and kept my gaze forward. When the elevator doors opened, I pulled my cart inside and he stepped right next to me. I pretended to glance at my clipboard and hit five, the floor for the mailroom.

  Jake didn’t hit eighty, and the doors closed.

  It took everything in me not to look toward him, to keep my face forward the entire ride up, especially since I could feel him staring at me. Especially since I could feel that undeniable, palpable energy between us.

  The doors glided open on five and I got off with my cart, telling him, “Have a good day,” but he didn’t stay. He stepped off and followed me down the hallway and into the mailroom.

  I picked up a stack of magazines, tossing them into their appropriate bins—feeling Jake on my heels.

  “What are you doing?” I finally turned around to face him. “Do I know you?”

  His smirk slid into a full blown smile. “Yes, I believe we’ve met pretty recently.”

  “I’m not sure sure about that.” I stuttered. “If we did, it must not have been a memorable encounter because I can’t seem to recall it.”

  “Would you like a reminder?” He lowered his voice and his gaze veered to my lips. “I’m in a particularly giving mood today.”

  “No,” I said, inhaling the scent of his cologne as he stepped closer. “There’ll be no need for a reminder.”

  “What about the need for a repeat?” He closed the gap between us. “Surely that answer would be different.”

  “Actually, it wouldn’t be…”

  “And why is that?”

  “It just wouldn’t be.” I immediately walked away from him, to the side of the room that held the individual mailboxes. I started checking off the boxes that had “package arrived” stickers and I felt him step behind me, felt him gently tugging my hair and mimicking the rough rhythm of when he’d tugged it that night.

  “Turn around,” he whispered, and I spun around without any hesitation.

  He stared at me with those smoldering blue eyes and pressed a hand against my cheek. “Did you get my present?”

  “That wasn’t a present.”

  “Me not pressing charges was the present. The box was a reminder of how generous I’m being about not reporting you.”

  “Well, thank you for returning all of the things that originally belonged to me…Although, now that I think about it, you didn’t return my panties.”

  “I’m keeping those.”

  “As a souvenir?”

  “As a reward. What time do you get off today?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’m not allowed to give out my employee information, and since I get paid by the hour, I really need to get to work.”

  “Then whose room are you stealing today?”

  “No one’s. I’m a changed employee.”

  “I highly doubt that.” He smiled, ignoring my poor attempt to blow him off. His lips brushed against mine and slowly leaned forward, using his hips to pin me against the mailboxes.

  He trailed his finger against my lips. “You haven’t thought about me fucking you?”

  “No.”

  He stared right into my eyes. “Tell me you haven’t gone to sleep dreaming of me filling your pussy with my cock for hours and I’ll leave you alone right now.”

  I swallowed, unable to say a word.

  “I thought so.” He leaned forward to press his lips against mine—to render me helpless all over again, but I turned my head and moved out of his grasp.

  “Today is one of my last days working here, so regardless of the fact that I may have thought about having sex with you again, I would like to spend my final hours without seeing you. And since the resident in 80A cancelled his services, I’m pretty sure that’s possible.”

  “It’s not.” He stepped in front of me again, calling my bluff. “Where are the cameras in this room?”

  “What?”

  He looked like he was seconds away from fucking me on the spot. “Where are the cameras in this room?”

  I stood still, completely blank, trying to avoid the fact that my panties were wet and my nipples were tender—begging to be sucked between his lips again.

  “Gillian…” He glared at me. “Where are the cameras?”

  I tilted my head to the side. “Top corner and above the door.”

  “None on the right side?”

  I shook my head and he grabbed my hand, pulling me past the mailboxes and into the corner.

  My back slammed against the wall and he yanked the elastic band from my ponytail, forcing my hair to fall to my shoulders. Our mouths met in a frenzy—lips wet and fighting for control.

  As he bit my bottom lip, he grabbed my hand and placed it on his belt, silently commanding me to unbuckle it. His hands quickly unfastened my khakis and he let me go for a few seconds, long enough for him to whisper, “Step out of your pants.”

  I managed to get one pants leg off and watch him roll a condom over his cock before his lips crashed against mine again.

  Shutting my eyes, I surrendered all control to him—letting his mouth tame mine.

  He grabbed my right leg and lifted it around his waist, biting the skin of my neck. His cock was right at my entrance when the sound of the metal doors opening filled the room.

  “Jake…” I tried to put my leg down, but he held it taut.

  “What?”

  “Someone’s about to come in here.”

  “And?”

  “They might see
us.”

  “Good.” He pushed into me with one deep stroke, making me cry out in a mix of pain and pleasure.

  “Ahhh…” I whimpered, clawing at the skin of his neck. “Fuck.”

  Ignoring my moans, he squeezed my ass and lifted my other leg around his waist—gripping my thighs to move me up and down his cock.

  “As you can see…” A female voice suddenly filled the space with the sound of shoes against marble not too far behind. “If you choose to stay here, you’d have access to countless amenities.”

  I bit Jake’s shoulder, trying to make him aware, but he kept thrusting into me, squeezing my ass even harder.

  “I hear them…” he whispered against my mouth. “I don’t care.”

  His mouth briefly covered mine in a searing kiss, and I dug my nails into his skin.

  “Our building—every unit actually, is cleaned and maintained by Spring Clean Associates, and if you live here, you’ll have a direct line to them whenever you need something. You’ll also have access to this private mail room.”

  My pussy throbbed against Jake’s cock and I felt myself seconds away from losing control, seconds away from screaming out.

  “Do you hear something?” A male voice said behind the package counter.

  “No, not really.” The realtor said flatly. “What does it sound like?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Ah…” I let a small murmur escape my lips and Jake stamped his mouth over mine as my body shook against his. He muffled every moan—holding me taut as I came and gave in.

  The sound of the footsteps walking in the opposite direction came next, and when we heard the sound of the doors closing, Jake pumped into me a few more times and found his own release.

  “Fuck, Gillian…” He breathed. “Fuck…”

  Still entwined, the two of us stared at each other, me still soaking wet, his cock still hard and slightly jerking inside of me.

  Shaking his head, he kept his hands on my hips and gently pulled me off of him, setting me onto the floor.

  Panting heavily, I looked into his eyes for a reaction—searching for what he may have been thinking, but I saw storms swirling in his irises, saw dark grey specks of uncertainties in his bright blue. I saw potential moments like this one, words spoken that meant nothing, and most importantly, I saw pain. For the both of us.

  Without saying a word, he pressed my elastic band into my hand and stepped back.

  Avoiding his gaze, I slipped my left leg into my khakis and picked up one of my fallen earrings. I leaned against the corner and waited for him to walk away, but he simply zipped his pants and stared at me.

  “This can’t happen again,” I said finally.

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’m serious. You can’t have my phone number.”

  “I don’t recall asking for it.” He tilted my chin up with his fingertips. “I was saying I’m sure because I definitely agree with you. This doesn’t need to ever happen again.” He stepped back and adjusted his belt, keeping his eyes on mine.

  I stared at him as he smoothed his shirt, as he walked back into the sight of the cameras. Then, as if he hadn’t just fucked me against the wall, he uttered a mere “Goodbye, Gillian,” and headed out of the room and toward the elevators.

  All of a sudden, something came over me and I followed him into the hallway.

  “Wait,” I said, and he immediately stopped and looked over his shoulder.

  “Yes?”

  “I have a very good reason as to why I said this can’t happen again, but…”

  “But what?”

  The elevator doors opened.

  “What’s yours?” I asked.

  “My reasoning?” He crossed his arms. “I actually have three.”

  “Care to share?”

  “One, no pussy is that good for me to want to continue to fuck it more than a few times in a row. Including yours. Two, you strike me as the ‘want a boyfriend’ type and three, see my previous number one.”

  “Fuck you, Jake.” I stepped closer to him as he stepped into the elevator, hating that he made me so argumentative. “For the record, the sex with you was just okay. I’ve had much better, so much better.”

  “No, you fucking haven’t.”

  “I have, and you know what? Now that I never have to see you in person again, I think I should bring someone back to your place tonight so you and your excess of security cameras can have plenty of video footage for how it’s really done.”

  “Fucking try me, Gillian.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Bring someone up to my condo and fucking try me.”

  “I will, Jake. I will.”

  “Stop talking.” His lips touched mine. “Stop talking right now.”

  “You first.” I moved back as the elevator doors began to close. “I hope to never see you again, Jake.”

  “You won’t, Gillian.”

  Terminal B

  Boy Charms Girl

  Gate B7

  Jake

  New York (JFK)--> Montreal (YUL) --> Dallas (DAL)

  * * *

  Four weeks later…

  Out of all the cities I’d flown to over my lifetime, New York was the only one that managed to look different every time. No matter the season, no matter the time of day, its grey and imposing skyline cut through fog, rain, and snow, forever changing. And as I looked at Manhattan’s glittering buildings from my window tonight, I wondered what would change next.

  Utterly restless, I was bullshitting—laying in my bed and attempting to occupy my mind with something other than Gillian. For nearly a month, she’d managed to leave an imprint on my mind with her smart-ass mouth and argumentative ways. With her undeniable, addictive sex.

  Thoughts of her were invading my nights and crossing my mind at the most random moments. They were getting so out of hand, that last week I could’ve sworn I saw her in Terminal A at Atlanta-Hartsfield International, but I’d walked away, knowing that it was simply my imagination getting the best of me.

  Instead of meeting up with the various women I knew in layover cities, I was changing my mind at the very last minute—canceling hotel reservations and avoiding scheduled rendezvous. My nights in stopover hotel rooms were spent filling crossword puzzles instead of pussy, pursuing google searches instead of orgasms. All because the one woman I needed to fuck was somewhere I couldn’t find, because I wanted that type of sex again.

  With the women in my phone, I knew exactly what I was getting—knew exactly how the sex would begin and end, but the two times with Gillian were far more unpredictable. Far more memorable and enjoyable, too.

  Groaning, I got out of bed and walked down the hallway, stopping once I caught sight of my living room. My television was flung across the floor, face down; the metal on its sides completely twisted and mangled. Shards of my shattered glass coffee table glistened from the grey area rug, and a few shot glasses lay in pieces on the couch.

  I sighed and stepped around the crime scene carnage, immediately dialing Jeff.

  “Yes, Mr. Weston?” he answered on the first ring.

  “I need a replacement television and a coffee table brought here tomorrow.”

  “You broke them again?”

  “No, I woke up and they were already broken. I may need to file a police report…”

  “Very funny, sir. That’s the sixth time this month, twelfth time this year.”

  “You’re counting?”

  “Someone has to,” he said, heaving a sigh. “I take that to mean that your sleeping problems are not getting better like you claimed last week?”

  “This phone call is about the TV and the coffee table, Jeff. Not my sleeping problems.”

  “I’ll have them fix the material things as always, Mr. Weston. But I’ll have you know that as your doorman and personal confidante, I sent you some helpful therapy brochures via mail. I would like you to consider them, for me.”

  “Fine.” I rolled my eyes and walked into the kitchen, thumbing through a stack
of envelopes. “When exactly did you send them? The only thing I have is junk mail and bills from a while back.”

  “Three weeks ago.” He sounded confused. “You should’ve received them by now. They weren’t in your mailbox?”

  I stopped thumbing through my mail and sighed. I hadn’t returned to the mailroom since the time I ran into Gillian.

  “You can’t possibly think it’s the mailman who goes through all that trouble…”

  “I’ll take a look at them tomorrow, Jeff. Thank you.” I hung up.

  I knew the cold sweats and the need to wake up and break things was intensifying by the week, but I didn’t need a therapist to tell me the obvious reason why they were getting worse. The diagnosis was quite clear: Lack of fucking.

  I opened a Coke and poured it into a glass, waiting for the fizz to settle. But before I could take a sip, I spotted a row of death out the corner of my eye.

  My perennials.

  Jesus…

  Forcing another thought of Gillian and her long rant out of my mind, I filled a tea kettle and watered all of them—making a mental note to hire someone to do this for me whenever I was away flying. Someone who wouldn’t illegally stay the night.

  When I was finished, I grabbed my phone, determined to meet up with someone, anyone, this week to finally get her and her pussy off my mind. I swiped my finger across the screen and noticed a slew of unread text messages that were more than two or three days old.

  Atlanta—Nina: You flying my way at all this month?

  Memphis—Penelope: You never showed up Friday…You okay?

  Los Angeles—Sarah: Did you stand me up on purpose? I thought we agreed to meet here six weeks ago…

  Dallas-Nicole: Hey, it’s been awhile. You still flying?

  I started to respond to all of their texts with new dates and locations, estimated times I would be in their respective cities, but I couldn’t do it. At least, not right now, anyway.

  I gave in and dialed Jeff.

  “Hello again, Mr. Weston. What do you need now?”