Like with the asshat on the jet earlier, for instance.
I never expected taking his order to be such a difficultconcept for him to grasp. Or the fact that I questioned him. Why do we have to work twice as hard as men to earn the same amount of respect? To be seen as an equal and have an earned place at the table.
It drives me mad. And I’ll continue to make my place known with or without approval. I didn’t secure my role as Miami’s lead flight attendant with Seascape Private Charters by sitting in a corner and letting a man tell me how to reach the top.
I did that all on my own.
It’s also why I’m first in line to be offered jobs declined, or the ones assigned to another attendant based on personal preference by the client. I rarely receive complaints, and I’m not sure if that’s a reflection of my attitude or the arrogance that comes with serving wealthy clientele.
Either way, I love my job. And that’s the best part: it doesn’t feel like work. I’m single. I get to travel and meet new people, all while coming back home after trips to the comfort of my penthouse in the city.
The bartender slips a napkin and a fresh dirty martini in front of me before sauntering off to other customers. I sip the dry liquor and hum at the bitter sensation on my tongue.
Fuel-ups are the short intermissions where I have freedom to drown out the noise, and as of late, the noise of life has been suffocating in my head. But when I’m in the air, it’s game time. Whether my day has been glorious from start to finish, or awful enough to have me craving the start of a new morning, it’s imperative I have it all together.
Or appear that way, at least.
Faking it is something that comes naturally to me.
I like to think I mastered that trait the moment my father abandoned my mom and me. The image of him isnearly burned in the back of my brain, and masking the pain that accompanied the image feels like nothing more than a ritual. Now, at thirty, I can replicate a dashing daughter, confident flight attendant, and prideful woman in my sleep.
No guidance or directions required.
The private airport we stopped at in Phoenix to refuel between flights is quiet for a Sunday afternoon, immediately making me regret not bringing my book for this trip. The wise words of Jane Austen could be gracing my thoughts right now instead of mindless chatter.
There aren’t many passengers waiting for their connecting charters compared to the staff groupings that currently rest among the two boarding areas.
That’s one of my favorite parts about flying privately.
I cater to a certain crowd, and that particular crowd is always small. Typically, no more than eight people, and the smaller groups are the ones I prefer to service.
They tip better, and I can use all the money I can get at this point.
Sometimes those tips come at the cost of dignity and diminishing self-worth because, for whatever reason, wealthy people enjoy being royal assholes. They assume just because someone waits on them that they’re below them. Less than. Living below the middle class.
They have no idea the life I’ve built for myself, and I like to keep it that way. Calling them out on their shit is my favorite thing to do, and I have yet to walk away with anythingbutexcellent wages. Sometimes, rich people just love being degraded.
Bottom line: tenacity will take you far.
And I’ve got it.
“I’d say you deserve that drink,” a deep, and slightlySouthern voice startles me. I spin to face the man behind it, surprised to find Stetson Cole.
He’s gotta be close to six-six in height. Deep tan skin. Glassy blue eyes with the slightest smile lines at the corners. Although this is my first time flying for Stetson on his jet, I’ve heard all about the Texan cowboy.
He’s in his late forties, but fucking hell, you’d never know it.
A satisfied smirk greets me, likely recognizing my blatant perusal of his appearance. I’m definitely staring, with no intention of being polite right now. Truthfully, I’m trying to pinpoint the thing that makes him such a sought-after bachelor.
“Your friend is a real pain in my ass,” I tell him, turning back to my martini and watching the murky liquid swirl in the glass.
“Respectfully?” he questions, and I can hear the humor behind his tone as he takes the seat beside me.
I sip my drink and can feel his massive frame as close as he can get. “I mean that as disrespectfully as possible, Mr. Cole.”
A hearty chuckle escapes him. “Fair enough.” He signals for the bartender to come over and orders himself a drink. “Scotch. Johnny Walker.”
The bartender nods, and silence fills the space between us, but I don’t miss the low chuckle he attempts to cover after ordering his scotch.
