Holy shit!
Once inside, I call our aviation expert. He is my usual captain, but he also handles the jet details, flight plans, lodging them, fueling stops, and all kinds of things, like crew booking.
I explain my urgent request to fly to Tokyo. Next, I tell him I need him to not act as pilot. I can tell he thinks I’m weird, but I explain we need to leave within the hour. I ask him to lodge the flight plan and to give us the ability to take off ASAP. To also book the fueling stops, and all other flight details.
As we wrap the call up, I lift the jet’s steps.
I then walk past my scowling fiancée, who is now seated in the co-pilot’s seat.
We share a strange look, as if we are both still trying to workout what the fuck is happening. She blows on a strong coffee and then hands it to me.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m sipping it. I suddenly realize it’s hers, and I freeze. “Sorry,” I say, handing it back.
“Mistake one,” she says calmly. “Couples share drinks. If you expect them to buy this ruse, you need to plan better.”
I eye her over the coffee, and I wonder how the heck I ended up in such a corner.
After passing her half-drunk coffee back, I focus and begin pre-flight. The radio chirps, noting my jet tail number, and we can takeoff in three minutes. I breathe, confirm our planned takeoff, and click my neck.
“You think we’ll make it all the way?” Samantha asks, kicking her feet up.
“What? And not crash?” I ask, looking over.
“Yeah.”
I make a quick calculation, and I’m frazzled. “In my current state, I’d say fifty-fifty.”
Samantha whacks me, and hard. “You fucking dick. If I die, I’ll come haunt you.” She pauses. “But not that come.”
“Why? Because that would be weird?” I ask.
The jet moves forwards, and I shake my head to clear it. As the radio chirps, I slam the column forwards, and the engines whine.
We suddenly shoot forwards, and I say low, “Seatbelt, wifey.”
“Thanks,” she says, placing it between her perfect breasts, “but that’s fiancée. You are not buying the entire package.”
“I understand,” I say, trying not to get distracted while flying my thirty-million-dollar craft.
“Good!”
“Good!” I agree, lifting us off and inhaling to center myself.
“Honey?”
“Yes,” I say slowly, trying to contain the distraction.
“Is this our first argument?”
As I bank us over the Hamptons, I sigh and relax. “Baby, I don’t argue.”
“But if you don’t ever argue, how do you have angry, hot, make-up sex?”
I look over to see if she is messing with my head. “Eyes on the road. Eyes on the road!” I shake my head as she laughs. She really is a danger.
A danger to my sanity.
I point us towards home and the chateau. After a short trip to get our passports, it’s the West Coast for us. Then Asia.
