She slaps my arm.“Buttons!Ha, ha!Funny!”
She squirms in her seat and giggles for a solid two minutes.I must admit that her laugh is way better than her voice.Less cat-adjacent.And when she comes up for air, she bats her fake-eyelashes at me, puckers her lips, and then asks, “Want to know what I think?”
“Absolutely.”
“I think you’re a very, very bad boy, Declan MacLaine.And I love bad boys.Am I right?Are you a bad boy?”
Unfortunately, what should have been some top-shelf sexy banter just hit my auditory nerve endings like a sledgehammer.But I nod and say, “Bad to the bone, babe.”
That sets her off giggling again.
At least I know where we stand and where we’ll get this party started.A woman after my own heart, indeed.
Maybe we’re meant to be.I’ve always preferred women who prefer bad boys.It’s what I am, what I’ve always been, and what I’ll forever be.
I’m damn good at bad.
We’re continuing our southwest heading at thirty-seven-thousand feet with a speed of four-hundred knots when the radio crackles to life.I hear my call sign, Phenom six-niner-Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot.The Oakland Center controller gives me updated vectors due to air traffic detected on radar.
“Roger that, Oakland Center,” I respond, adjusting the GPS and confirming their instructions.“Climbing up to and then maintaining three-niner-zero, and right to two-niner-zero, resume own-nav in four minutes, Phenom six-niner-Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot.”
I end my exchange with the tower and turn to find that Bryttni’s eyes have popped wide with wonder.She sweeps her tongue across her bottom lip.“All that pilot talk is super-hot.I like it when you talk like that.Can you say something else a pilot might say?”
“Sure.”I double check that my radio isn’t live because this kind of bullshit that turns a pilot into a legend, and not in a good way.
I tell Bryttni all about some of my favorite toys.I start with my Bell Long Ranger helicopter, which features a C30 engine, a rotor diameter of thirty-three feet and four inches, room for five passengers and a pilot, a double wire-strike system, skid floats for emergency water landings, and a maximum air speed of 110 to 120 knots.
“It’s fully kitted out for rescue operations,” I add.“In fact, I just rescued one of my brothers and his girlfriend a few days ago.They got caught in the blizzard.”
“No shit!You’re a hero, Declan!”
“Stop.You’re making me blush.”
Next, I tell her about my vintage World War II-era Navy sea plane and my super-rare 1948 single-engine Aeronca Chief taildragger.But I notice her eyes glazing over.I recognize the look because it’s the one all my brothers get when I talk about aviation history.
I decide to pivot.
“And of course, we’re sitting in the epitome of single-pilot private luxury jets.”I reach over and gently rest my palm on her bare thigh.It may be New Year’s Eve in the Sierra Nevadas, but she was thoughtful enough to wear a mini-skirt for our flight.
I don’t bore her with all the specs of this sleek, single-engine sex kitten of a private jet.I just focus on the fact that only 700 of these were made.Why I chose it.What it’s capable of.Where I’ve flown it and how I trained to be a pilot in the Navy.
That last part catches her attention.It usually does.
“Like Tom Cruise?”
I smile mysteriously, because the answer is no.
I wasn’t a Top Gun fighter pilot.I wasn’t any kind of fighter pilot.I either flew transport planes or helicopters, and usually in support of top-secret special forces insertions and extractions, the kind of crazy shit that rarely gets acknowledged when all’s said and done.
But Bryttni doesn’t want to hear that.She’d rather see me as Tom Cruise.And what kind of asshole would I be to disappoint her with cumbersome facts?
It’s true.This is not my first mid-air seduction.And what I’ve learned is that even women who don’t care about planes start to care about planes with the right guidance.Any man who can conquer the skies can conquer a woman.
I verify the autopilot settings and squeeze out so I can stretch, which is impossible, since my six-foot-five frame barely fits in the cockpit when I’m sitting, let alone when trying to lift my arms overhead. I unsnap Bryttni’s seatbelt and offer her my hand.
“Is this safe?”she asks, as I stoop and pull her out into the main cabin.“Nobody’s flying the plane.”
“I’m flying the plane, sweetheart.I’m so good that I can fly it with my mind.”
