Page 20 of The Cruiser
ChapterEight
Talk about a whirlwind.
Stranger things have happened, but never this fast.
On Monday, Morgan signed the agreement and wired fifty thousand dollars. He sent travel details and our itinerary on Tuesday. Now it’s Wednesday afternoon and the car Morgan ordered for me glides to a stop at Atlantic Aviation, a private jet facility south of LAX. I’ll land in Nice tomorrow morning and helicopter to Monaco, then it's off to the races. We'll split our time between Monaco and Genoa, attending the final events of the European yacht show season. If I'm interested, Morgan suggested we take a day off in between to relax on his yacht.
I’m rereading that last sentence on my phone with an amused smile.
IfI'm interested?
It would be like saying no to a prime seat at the Oscars.
"End of the line, Ms. Hillman,” says Big Daddy. The silver-haired wildebeest of a limo driver talked nonstop on the drive here about a rock and roll band he used to drive for, and I did my best to feign interest. He cracks open his door and lays a big ole Southern smile on me. “I’ll meet you inside with your luggage.”
Flying private is a perk of having wealthy clients, and I've flown on Cessnas before—short flights to Vegas or San Francisco for events. But Morgan’s Falcon jet, sleek and sexy on the tarmac, is next level. It’s big enough to whisk ten people across continents, but I'm the only passenger according to Carlie, the attendant checking my bags. She’s breezy and comfortable with small talk, like every Aussie I meet.
“Fifteen minutes until departure,” she says, handing my passport back. “Please have a seat in the lounge, and I’ll escort you on when they’re ready for you.”
I take a seat by the window, away from a cluster of Asian businessmen halfway through a bottle of cognac and talk-shouting at each other. I try June again, hoping to catch her before I’m in the air. She’s up to her eyeballs navigating a crucial tranche of financing for her latest start-up and tends to forget about the outside world when duty beckons. When she answers the phone, I hear it in her voice—the adrenaline she thrives on.
“Thank God you called,” she says. “I'm so deep into this, I forget about time. How are you? And more importantly, how amazing do you look?"
I’m casual elegance today. Dark jeans, camisole with white blazer. Tod’s. That I managed to squeeze in a mani-pedi, a blow-out and a massage before today was a miracle in scheduling. But worth it, according to my new target market. “My limo driver approves. ‘Hot damn’ were his exact words.”
June laughs. In the background, the sound of her fingers flying over her laptop keyboard is like the chatter of monkeys on amphetamines. “Sorry I couldn't make an appearance last night,” she says. “Flynn killed it?"
Putting together outfits is one of my specialties, but another opinion is crucial for big events. Flynn, with her impeccable critical eye, helped me sift through gowns, dresses, suits, and a lifetime’s worth of accessories.
"She could be a stylist. So good with the details. Our resident hippie knows about more than beaded headbands and flip-flops."
“Speaking of hippies,” June warns, “she brought up Burning Man again. For next year. Cleanse-our-souls type of dodginess."
I groan at the thought. “I don't think Burning Man and cleanse belong in the same sentence.”
“Exactamundo,” June agrees. “I don’t know about you, but I love sucking on dusty dicks.”
Flynn tirelessly campaigns for us to attend a burn, but as I’ve told her a million times, flying in on a private jet and five-star glamping still means sleeping in an RV. And don’t get me started on sex with a filthy stranger, even if he owns half of Silicon Valley.
“Maybe you should show up in Monaco wearing a fishnet onesie with electrical tape covering your nipples,” June adds, poking fun at Burner Girl regalia. “Give your lad a heart attack.”
"I don’t know. Morgan strikes me as the kind of guy who might embrace that kind of outfit.”
June stops typing. Concern leaks into her voice. “On that note, I know you’re smart, strong, and capable, all that crap… But do me a favor and keep your wits about you. He seems legit, but you don’t really know him. And he sounds a little full of himself. Even on the phone, he was telling you what and where and how. Not asking you.”
She has a point, although Morgan's arrogance is part of his allure … among other things. While June and Flynn pissed themselves laughing over his audaciousness after their Saturday phone call listen-in, I didn’t comment about what I think was going down. Didn't dare. During his many stretches away from home, Derek and I had enough phone sex for me to recognize the tight clip in Morgan's voice. The stop-and-start breathing. The other sounds. The idea of him getting off while talking to me? Huge, flipping turn-on.
Kind of dirty. My kind of dirty. Sorry, Burning Man.
"I have my own hotel rooms,” I say, like this means something.
“You see where your mind automatically went?” June asks. “I’m just saying be careful. You’re in a weakened state and we know what that means. I slept next door to you for four years and still can’t look at ear plugs to this day without thinking of you.”
“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Noise complaints aside, Flynn and I did learn the basics of giving head from you. The downside is, every time I see one of those jumbo carrots, I think dirty thoughts.”
We both snicker at the memory, me in my Juicy Couture sweats, the consummate instructor giving up her trade secrets by demonstrating on various root vegetables.
