by Lisa Ferrari
I could fall in love with him in two seconds if I let myself do so.
I’m already totally crazy about him; I have to admit that to myself now. I would definitely, definitely, definitely let him do anything he wanted to me, even if it only happened one time.
I gather my thoughts.
I summon my courage.
Liquid courage, courtesy of kind, green-eyed Joyce and her pineapple mimosa.
“Kellan, listen.”
I place my hand on Kellan’s knee. (Holy crap!)
“I would love to go with you to L.A. and I would prefer that we have one room and one bed. But nothing has to happen. I mean… I, um, I would like it if… you know. But I’m not sure what you… um, what you want.”
High marks for eloquence, Claire. Jeez.
“But I don’t want to be presumptuous, either,” I say. “I mean, the last few days getting to know you and working out together and going to Mel’s and going to your house and swimming in your pool and watching Conan and having lunch today and riding around in that car, that crazy green car that I absolutely love, by the way. I dunno, it’s all been really weird and crazy and not at all like me, but I’m having so much fun with you. I don’t know what is going to happen or how you feel or what, and the thought of this suddenly ending makes me want to cry. And I know I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, spilling my guts like this, because guys don’t like it and they get scared and most of them don’t want to buy the cow, they just want the milk for free and when it comes to me that’s the way it’s always been because I’ve always been a cow. Cheers.” I raise my mimosa and take a long drink.
“Jesus, Claire, you are not a cow. Don’t say that. I think you’re….”
“What? I’m what?”
“Amazing. And beautiful. Even if you don’t necessarily see it. Here, look.” He pulls out his smart phone and fires up the front camera. He holds it up in front of my face. “What do you see?”
“I see my reflection. Sort of.”
“I see a hot chick. Look at your face, your eyes, your mouth. I really like your mouth. You have a million-dollar smile and when you smile, your whole face lights up.”
Kellan puts his phone away and I’m spared further self-analysis.
“Look,” he continues, “I’m horrible at relationships and I’m wary of getting to know people because they all know who I am and they all want something from me. They all want training advice or free personal training or for me to make them a diet plan or they want to come to my gym and train with me. Or they want to borrow money; I get that a lot. Or they just want to have sex with me. I get that a lot, too. Women and men. I don’t know what it is about me that makes me a fag magnet or queer bait or whatever–”
A male flight attendant strides past just as Kellan says this. “It’s because you’re too hot for your own good, sweetie.” He gives Kellan a quick pat on the shoulder as he goes by. He then disappears through the curtain and into the rear of the aircraft.
Kellan and I look at each other and grin.
“Anyway,” he continues, “I get that a lot. Years ago, it was flattering and I couldn’t believe all these women wanted me. So I let them have me. But they didn’t want me. They wanted the idea of me. The hunky bodybuilder guy. And after we’d done it, they just left. Most of them didn’t even want my number. They didn’t offer me theirs. Nothing. That was it. Never saw ’em again. My friends were all like, don’t worry about it, dude, just go for it; nail as many chicks as you can because some day you’re going to be all old and shit and you won’t be able to get it up and you’ll have to pay women to sleep with you, so enjoy it while you’re young. And for a while, that’s what I did.”
I sit and listen to Kellan telling me the intimate, private details of his past, of his sex life, and I can’t believe it. I’m absolutely fascinated. I’m also touched that he’s opening up like this. Maybe it’s the champagne. Whatever; I don’t care. I’m getting to know him better. Much, much better.
“But all that stuff got old,” he continues. “Plus, there were the crazy ones. Most of them were gym bunnies who wanted me to get them all kinds of gear and help them be the next Ms. Fitness Olympia. They would text me a million times a day about the stupidest, most meaningless nonsense.”—Kellan puts on an airheaded bimbo voice; it’s hysterical!—“What kind of tan should I get? What kind of shoes should I buy? How should my hair look?” He pretends to smack his gum.
He then returns to his normal self. “How about you pay attention to your diet and your training and work on how your physique looks? And then there were the stalkers. At least the wannabes eventually got the hint and went away. But some of them are just plain nuts. They follow me on social media and they always comment on my Instagram posts or reply to my Tweets and they’re always at the expos hanging around my booth telling people that we’re in love and that we’re dating and we’ve been together two-and-a-half years and all about how I took her on a hot-air balloon ride in Napa and proposed and of course she said yes and we were so in love that we had sex right there in the hot-air balloon basket while the guy who owned it looked the other way.”
“That’s very specific.”
“I know.”
“Did that actually happen?”
“Yes. Her name was Amber something.”
“Oh my God. You did her in a hot air balloon?”
“No! We never did anything. That’s how crazy she was.”
“What happened to her?”
“I have no idea. I don’t know and I don’t care, as long as she’s gone.”
“Sex in a hot-air balloon, huh?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll have to tell Denise we did that.”
“I don’t think I could get it up.”
I’m astounded by this revelation, which I don’t believe for a moment. “You afraid of heights?”
“Not at all. I love to fly. I love roller coasters. I love going up in sky scrapers. I love high places. But I couldn’t do it with some guy standing there making sure the balloon is okay. Besides, I don’t think I would go up in a hot air balloon.”
“Why not?” I’ve never been in one, and I’m not particularly excited to go, but I’m curious why Kellan isn’t.
“Too risky. Suppose the balloon tears or something. Or there’s crazy wind. I saw a video once where a guy and his two kids were ballooning and the wind blew their balloon into a huge radio tower. The balloon got snagged, it ruptured, all the hot air escaped, and they were stuck up there so they had to climb down. All three of them. And it was one of those radio towers you see sometimes from the freeway, the ones that are 2000 feet tall and have red lights all over them so airplanes don’t hit them.”
“Was everyone okay?”
“Yeah. They kept their heads and climbed down the tower. I think it took almost an hour for them to climb down. I might go up in a balloon if I had a parachute.”
“Let’s just skip it but say we did.” I grab my phone out of my purse.
“What’re you doing?”
“Texting Denise that we’re going to go wine tasting in Santa Barbara and take a hot air balloon ride and have sex in the basket.” I press Send. “Now watch, if Denise is jealous, she won’t write back. If she doesn’t care, she will write back.”
I put my phone down and lean back and take a deep breath, trying to take in the experience and the ambiance of flying first class.
Everyone around us that I can see is well dressed. A lot of men in shirts and ties, their coats hung up by the flight crew.
There are two huge, tall guys on the other side of the plane. They’re dressed in athletic wear. They look like professional basketball players.
The women are all dressed in heels and have diamonds and pearls here and there. I see at least two pair of red-soled Jimmy Choos, all sparkly and pointy and strappy. Probably $750. I shudder at spending nearly a month’s rent on a pair of shoes.
One of the women looks up from her laptop and catches me staring at
her.
She smiles.
I smile back, trying not to feel totally intimidated. Everyone around me is wealthy. Including Kellan. His brother stole $3 million but Kellan is still solvent. Wow.
Kellan leans close to me and whispers in my ear. He smells amazing, kind of sweet and musky at the same time. I could so lick his neck right now. “Don’t feel self-conscious. Money is a tool with which to enjoy life. That’s it.”
Kellan leans across the aisle and asks the man sitting there what he does for a living.
The man puts down what looks like an iPad Air and smiles at Kellan and then at me. “I’m an investor. I started a software company about 15 years ago but got a little burned out so I sold it. Now I look for investments.”
“What sort of investments?”
“All kinds. Business and real estate, primarily. Here’s my card.” He hands it to Kellan.
Kellan pulls out his wallet and a removes a card of his own. “Here’s mine.” They trade cards.
The man’s name is Ron. He and Kellan chat about fitness. Ron wants to know how to get shredded. Kellan tells him that it’s not that complicated, that’s it’s no starch or sugar and lots of protein and veggies, and a lot of training and patience.
Kellan introduces me.
I am once again mortified because I have nothing to contribute.
Kellan explains that I am an expert in the hospitality industry and that I am a consultant to one of the premier country clubs in all of northern California, and that when women in the area want their dream wedding, I make sure they get it.
This is of course unmitigated crap.
I have nothing to do with any of that.
I never even talk to the bride.
All I do is show up in my men’s work pants, clock in, carry trays, eat, clean up, clock out, and go home. And try not to drop the $1500 wedding cake. Nancy does all the ass kissing.
Ron is impressed. His niece is getting married next year and she is looking for a place around town.
I give him Nancy’s contact info.
Ron immediately looks up our facility on his tablet and says it’s gorgeous. He texts his sister and tells her about it and she and her daughter look it up. They love it and are very grateful. Ron tells me he can’t thank me enough.
“See?” Kellan says to me once our conversation with Ron has concluded. “They’re just people. Very nice people, too. They work hard, they save, they invest, most of them live below their means, the really smart ones, anyway. They aren’t on the earn-and-spend treadmill.”
“What’s that?”
“I read this book called The Millionaire Next Door. It’s no Harry Potter but it was written by these two Economics PhD guys who were hired to find out who America’s millionaires are so that they could be marketed to. The guys did a lot of research and interviews and they found out that most of the millionaires are small business owners who earned their money. It wasn’t given to them, they didn’t inherit it, and they didn’t win the lottery. They worked for it. Most of them for 30 to 40 years. And they accumulated their wealth over time, typically in their 40s, 50s, and 60s. They had modest homes, were mostly men who had been married to the same woman for years, and she wasn’t a big-time spender. She wasn’t out buying shoes and purses and jewelry every other day. And they weren’t providing economic outreach.”
“What’s that?”
“Economic outreach is financial assistance to dependent adult children. For example, they talked to people who were giving their grown, married children anywhere from $1500 to $2000 a month, and the kids counted on it as part of their budget. They just expected it. It was crazy. And the thing the researchers noticed is that these millionaires often had children who had gone to college and become self-employed professionals like doctors, lawyers, and dentists. And that they were earning anywhere from $150,000 to $400,000 a year but they were still struggling.”
This is inconceivable to me; me, someone who makes about two grand a month, and that’s only in the spring and summer during the busy wedding season.
But I know my parents give Beth money. They bought her a new Acura last year, too, after she got her real estate license (to drive clients around?). She and my mom are always out shopping and going to lunch. My mom and I haven’t been to lunch in so long I don’t remember when the last time was.
“How can you be struggling if you’re making 150,000 dollars a year?” I ask.
Kellan smiles at my indignation.
“Because they have a huge home with a huge mortgage, sometimes as much as nine or ten grand a month, two $75,000 cars, and luxurious lifestyles with kids who have expensive tastes. They earn a lot. But they also spend a lot. A lot of them end up with maybe 20 to 30 grand a year left over. And they have to work constantly, too, because if they don’t work, they don’t earn any money. It’s like a treadmill and they can’t get off it. See, the secret is to keep a small nut.”
“Is that what you call your house in Los Gatos and your three cars and your motorcycle?”
“All those things are paid off. Except for the Huracan, which, I admit, was a splurge. But I paid cash for everything but the house and on that I made quadruple payments and paid it off in 6 years instead of 30. Saved myself about three-hundred thousand dollars in interest, too. Plus it’s one of the smallest houses in Los Gatos and I got it for a ridiculous price because it was a short sale. I could sell it tomorrow for five times what I paid for it.”
“So why don’t you? Make a bunch of money. It could offset some of what your brother took.”
Kellan’s brow furrows and I immediately feel stupid for mentioning his brother.
“I dunno,” he sighs. “I like it there. It’s cozy. My neighbors are cool. I’m comfortable there.”
Kellan tells me more about his house and how he found it and the process of actually buying a house, which is something I’ve never done and therefore know absolutely nothing about.
I begin to relax and feel better about being in First Class.
JOYCE IS ATTENTIVE and sweet.
She serves us a delicious meal that rivals anything I’ve ever eaten in an expensive restaurant.
Joyce drapes a white cloth napkin over our tray table as a tablecloth. Our food is served on an actual white ceramic plate, along with real silverware and a white cloth napkin.
I don’t recognize most of the food, other than a grilled chicken breast, and perhaps some seared artichoke hearts that have the most amazing balsamic vinaigrette flavor I’ve ever had.
Dessert is a warm chocolate soufflé served with a curl of vanilla ice cream. There is even an actual metal sundae spoon.
Where all this food comes from and how it’s prepared is beyond me. Is there a chef down in the cargo area working in a full kitchen? The hot, melted chocolate oozes out of the soufflé and it’s so good it kinda makes me horny.
I’m very relaxed from the mimosas and the easy conversation with Kellan. I ask him how he makes his money.
It occurs to me, for a moment, that this is none of my business.
“Oh, sorry. Should I not have asked? Is that too much information too soon?”
“No,” Kellan replies. “I don’t mind telling you.”
Me? With emphasis.
Hmm.
Not sure what to make of that.
But it feels good. I find myself spooning up a bite of chocolate soufflé and ice cream and feeding it to Kellan.
Part of me wonders what the heck I’m doing.
Feeding someone is so…intimate.
Sharing their silverware.
It’s like…kissing.
Kellan eats it. “Mmm! That is so good. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Here, have some of mine.”
He takes a big spoon right out of the middle of his soufflé. The best part. He feeds it to me. A bit of chocolate drips from the spoon and onto my lip. Kellan wipes it away with his thumb, then sucks his thumb clean.
Holy crap.
Are people in first class allowed to have sex in the bathroom?
Is there a special room reserved for people to have sex in while they fly?
Because I want to go in that room with Kellan right now.
With the chocolate soufflé, too. I could lick it off of his entire body. His mouth, his neck, his chest, his nipples, his abs…. His impressive package I saw under the towel.
I have to calm down. We haven’t even kissed yet.
We’ve fed each other dessert, which is very intimate and makes me titter with glee. But all-out airborne intercourse should probably be prefaced with a kiss. With open mouths. And tongues. And heavy breathing.
Wow.
I am really worked up.
I sip my coffee and try to calm myself. My libido likes first class.
Kellan tells me all about his clothing line, his supplement line, and his investments, which include about 20 apartment buildings and single-family homes, the physio place he co-owns with Stacy (blech!), the auto detailing guy, a nightclub called Black Suede, a restaurant called Crush 99, and Iron Palace.
Plus his personal training clients. He has about 90 clients from all over the world. They pay him $200 for a Skype session during which he gives them a nutrition and exercise regimen. He explains that with just 10 hours a week at $200 a pop, he’s able to cover the cost of his Lamborghini lease. So he’s not dipping into his savings to pay for it, which, he says, is something rich people never do.
He tells me that he invests a full 25% of his monthly income. He’s always expanding his portfolio and diversifying to make sure his money is safe so that if one area of the economy takes a hit, it won’t affect his overall financial picture.
This includes embezzlement by a family member.
At his current rate of income and lifestyle, he could never work another day in his life and he could live very comfortably off his investment returns. But he’d have to give up the Lambo, which he doesn’t want to do. So he can always do a few more Skype sessions per day or per week and earn and save the money to pay for things like cruises and exotic vacations.
“And flying first class like we are today?”
