I've never been a spontaneous person. It's not my style to just jump head first into any new adventure. It probably has something to do with losing my mother at such a young age. The sense of stability that my friends had and took for granted - the feeling that they could take chances and do crazy things because they always had that security to fall back on - was never there for me.
I have known for most of my life that nothing is ever certain. That you better not depend on someone to always be there for you, because fate can snatch that person away in the blink of an eye.
My father tried for years to get me to see a therapist to deal with the aftereffects of losing my mother, but I was never able to open up, and finally, he let me stop going. And I'm fine now.
Except I'm not. I know my need to control every aspect of my life, to carefully plan, has made me a safe but boring person. Moving to Miami is my bold step to take a chance and do something new and exciting. And to confront head-on the ghosts of my past.
And now I'm about to take off to Las Vegas for the weekend and spend it with a man who may or may not be some kind of a gangster criminal mastermind. Out of my element, for sure.
While I've been trying to convince myself that Max is just a very successful businessman, my doubts have been growing. I mean, isn't Las Vegas controlled by the mob? Bugsy Siegel. Meyer Lansky. The Las Vegas mob glorified by movies like Goodfellas and Casino Royale.
My dad, for some reason, is a big fan of these movies and the lore. And every made for TV adaption since. I grew up on them.
Am I flying off to Vegas to to have sex with a younger, single, and way sexier but equally dangerous version of Tony Soprano?
There's a quiet knock at my door just as I finish packing my overnight bag, carefully folding and placing the glittery gold cocktail dress inside along with my toiletries, lingerie and some casual clothes, then add the little black dress that was my go-to for formal events in Philly. I'm thankful again for that shopping spree Martina dragged into, although I'm not even sure what one wears in Las Vegas. Then I remind myself that for all I know, I'll be spending the whole time in Max's uber-fancy hotel suite, wearing nothing at all.
I carry my purse and my bag over to the door and open it.
"You're ready," Gabe says, as if that surprises him.
"Obsessive punctuality is one of my character flaws," I tell him, and he laughs.
Gabe takes the overnight bag, although I could certainly carry it myself. But I appreciate his old world chivalry, especially the way he intervened for me at the club when Dylan didn't seem to understand the word no.
"I never thanked you for making sure that creep at the club didn't bother me again after Max stopped in," I tell him.
"Once he realized who Max was, I don't think you had to worry about him going anywhere near you."
Maybe not that night, but I suddenly wonder what Max's reaction will be when I tell him Dylan is about to join the law firm. Or maybe I shouldn't tell him at all. I'm thinking about the gun I found in Max's closet. He wouldn't actually threaten Dylan, though. Would he?
"Well," I say to Gabe, "I felt better knowing you had your eye on him the rest of the night."
He smiles. "Just part of the job." And I'm not sure if he means his job as security in general, or more personal services he performs for Max.
"You also made sure Martina got home safely," I add. "That was over the top."
He just smiles again and holds the door open for me to what I at first assume is an Uber Black, and slides in behind me. The driver nods to us then pulls smoothly away form the curb, and now I'm thinking this might just be another employee of Max's.
I manage to keep my jaw from dropping when we board the private jet. I was already shocked to see the length of it when we walked out across the tarmac. I was expecting something a lot smaller.
But if the exterior was surprising, the interior actually takes my breath away. If this is how Max usually travels, no wonder first class on the airline seemed like a step down for him.
The chairs are spacious recliners upholstered in leather, and I can see a separate area with a built-in table for dining or holding meetings while in flight. It's more like walking into a high end condo than an airplane.
"This is . . . pretty amazing." I tell Gabe.
"I know, right?" He directs me to a seat and I sink into plush comfort. "It has the capacity to carry 14 passengers, but Gabe had the interior redone with the idea of just having 6 or 7 passengers, but ramping up the amenities. There's a private master suite, as well as a lounge area for the crew."
"How long are the flights he takes this on?" I ask. I don't know which surprises me more - having an actual bedroom on the plane, or that it could be in the air long enough for the crew to need a lounge.
"Pretty much anywhere you'd want to go."
And all I can think is, wow.
"These seats," Gabe explains, "have a floating base, so you can fully recline and it's like sleeping on a bed."
"I can imagine."
"You want the tour now, or later?"
"Now works." I get up from the seat and take off my jacket.
"Here," Gabe says, taking it from me. "There's a closet up here we can hang it in."
We go to the front of the plane first and he introduces me to the pilot, an older man wearing a uniform. Gabe explains that he's a retired airline pilot, and addresses him as Captain Steve.
Captain Steve welcomes me on board and says he hopes I enjoy the flight.
"It would be hard not to enjoy the flight on this," I comment to Gabe as we head back to the main cabin, leaving Captain Steve to finish his pre-flight checklist.
"Don't planes have to have two pilots?" I ask Gabe.
"With private jets, some do and some don't. We use one for short flights like this. But don't worry. I'm actually a licensed pilot. So's Max. If anything went wrong, I've got it covered."
I stare at him. "Is there anything you don't do?"
Gabe laughs. "I always wanted to fly. I was the one who got Max interested back in the day. And it ended up leading to this."
"So the business didn't always have a private jet?"
"Max's dad was more inclined to rent one when needed. But he was never really a fan of flying. Not like Max."
We check out the restroom, which puts those tiny cramped ones on commercial airlines to shame.
"So what do you consider a long flight, like where you'd hire a second pilot."
"L.A. Hawaii. Anywhere international," he says.
"You can take this for international flights?" Now I get why there are sleeping accommodations and a crew lounge.
"Typically when Max does that we get a second pilot. And a flight attendant. Today it's just me at your service."
I'm about to respond, but then Gabe slides a door open and I'm staring at a massive bed. "It's like a hotel room," I tell him.
"Got its own en suite, too," he says, gesturing.
I shake my head. A person could literally live here.
A bell sounds and Gabe tells me that's the signal to get back to our seats, because we'll be taxying for takeoff soon.
As I settle back into the deluxe chair, I can't help thinking about that master suite. And imagining myself in that luxurious bed with Max. I might just have a whole new fantasy to share with him when I get to Vegas.
Then another thought occurs to me. Does Max really have enough international meetings to justify a private jet? And what kind of business would be taking place in Hawaii? I don't doubt he's in Las Vegas for business this week, although the details – doing deals while playing high stakes poker – do sound a little sketchy.
What kind of business is Max in that he has to handle it in person? Several of my friends from law school who landed in jobs with Big Law have gotten pulled into high finance international deals. But they don't actually go there.
I turn toward Gabe. "So, do you and Max travel out of the country often for business?"
He nods. "Max likes to handle things in person. So there are no . . . misunderstandings."
I frown. It seems like it would be easy enough to avoid misunderstandings using technology. Email provides a paper trial. And most video conferencing platforms can record meetings.
Unless the point is to avoid any record of the meeting.
"Wouldn't it be easier just to just have meetings remotely?"
Gabe frowns slightly. "Like I said, it's how Max prefers to do business."
"What kind of business takes Max on long enough trips that he's using the bedroom on the plane?" I ask him, genuinely curious.
Gabe gives me an odd look, and suddenly I'm conscious of coming across too interested in Max's business. Maybe the women Max has taken on trips before know better than to ask questions.
And that thought sends my mind spinning in another direction altogether.
"Does Max take a guest on his trips very often?" I wonder out loud.
Gabe's face clears, and then he smiles just a little, comprehension dawning as if he thinks he's figured out why I was asking these questions all along.
"This is the first time," he tells me, "that Max has ever asked me to fly a woman he's seeing to meet him." He pauses. "And I've never known him to bring anyone along on an international trip."
I feel myself flushing, both with pleasure and embarrassment. But at least Gabe no longer thinks I have some ulterior motive for asking about Max's business affairs.
Gabe continues. "Max makes it a point to keep his business and his social life completely separate. And the corporate jet is something he uses for business."
I watch out the window as the jet picks up speed and then lifts off from the runway, and the ground slips away beneath us. I'm trying to stay calm on the outside, but inside I'm wondering what this all means. I feel a little flutter of excitement at the notion that I'm the only woman who has ever flown on the luxurious private jet to meet him.
And I'm thinking maybe on the return trip I'll be the first to ever have sex with him in that bed.
Just the thought of that makes my stomach give a little lurch.
I glance over at Gabe, sitting in the chair across the aisle from me, looking relaxed now that his suspicions have been allayed. He's wearing a white button down shirt, navy chinos, and loafers with boldly patterned socks that I notice when he stretches his legs out. I didn't have much time to debate what to wear for the trip, and quickly settled on a flowered sundress with a flowy skirt, and a plain lightweight cropped jacket - because I'm betting the AC in those casino hotels is aggressive.
After studying what Gabe's wearing, I can breathe a secret sigh of relief that my outfit is appropriate and hits that dressy-casual chord that often baffles me. Chalk up another thank-you to Martina, since it wouldn't have occurred to me to buy anything other than work clothes, and my casual options previously consisted mostly of jeans and t-shirts.
He looks back at me.
"Would you like anything to eat or drink?"
"Not yet." I'm not sure if Max expects me to have dinner on the flight, or eat with him when I arrive. Although it's going to be fairly late before we land, much less take whatever transportation is needed to get to the casino hotel.
Gabe answers the question for me. "Max suggested we have dinner on the way there. Let me know when you're hungry and I can go over the options."
"Thanks."
We sit in companionable silence for a while. I brought a book with me - that same one I was planning to read on my flight to Miami - but right now I'm just too keyed up over the adventure of it all to focus on reading. Since all I brought was a small overnight bag, it's here with me in the cabin.
Gabe breaks the silence. "So, your friend Martina. Is she seeing that guy she was with at the club?"
"Tony? No, I think you scared him off."
Gabe smiles.
And I decide, why not?
"She thinks you're hot," I tell him. "Do you want her number?"
"I have her number."
"Then maybe you should call it," I suggest.
"Maybe I will."
I finally dig my book out, but after reading a few pages find myself dozing off. I feel Gabe's hand on my shoulder.
"I'm sorry. I -"
"Listen," he says, "why don't you go use the bed to get some rest. I'll knock on the door in couple hours, and we can eat then. Our flight's about four hours - a little faster than commercial. There's plenty of time before we get to Vegas."
I feel slightly embarrassed falling asleep, but I was planning to take a nap before Max called me with the change in plans. I expected to be up late when I met him at the club at midnight. I'll be up equally late anyway since we probably won't actually get to the hotel until around 11:00. The last thing I want to do is meet up with Max and immediately fall asleep.
"If you're sure it's okay," I say to Gabe, and he laughs.
"It's there to be used. Go ahead. Take a water bottle, though," he says, handing me one. "You should always hydrate when you're in the air."
"Thanks." I get up, take the water, my book and my phone and go into the master suite, sliding the door shut behind me.
I feel like I'm getting away with something, although I'm not sure quite why. I guess it's just the decadence of the whole idea of spending part of a flight in an actual bed instead of a crowded row seat on a commercial airline bumping elbows with another passenger.
I open the closet, and am not surprised to find a robe hanging there. A man's robe. Max. I take it off the hanger and lay it on the corner of the bed. Then I reach behind my neck to unfasten my sundress, and slip out of it, place it on the hanger and close the closet door.
I slip out of my shoes as well, and then slide into the bed under the thick comforter and between the expensive sheets. It feels wonderful.
I have a sudden thought and I reach for my phone on the bedside table, then slide the comforter down to reveal enough of my breasts to be alluring but not completely revealing. I hold the phone back far enough to include part of the headboard, put a seductive smile on my face and snap a selfie. Then before I can change my mind, I text it to Max.
The response comes back almost instantly.
I'm in a business meeting. You just made me hard.
I text back, I'm sorry.
No you're not.
I smile. He's right. I'm not at all sorry. I wish you were here, I text back.
I'll make up for it when you are here.
I think we're done texting and am about to set my phone down again when I get another message from Max.
Are you naked?
I slip down further under the covers. What do you think?
I can't think at the moment, Max texts. All the blood in my brain has rushed somewhere else.
I actually laugh out loud.
Well, I text back, I took off my sundress. I'm still wearing my panties.
Max sends me a fire emoji, with the words I'd be happy to take those off for you as well.
When I get to Vegas, I text, and add my own fire emoji.
Count on it.
And as sexy as I'm finding this conversation I still have to stifle a yawn.
I'm taking a nap now, Max, I text, and am tempted to add that I'm saving up my energy for tonight, but I don't.
Dream of me, comes the reply.
And I'm planning to. I smile and set the phone on my bedside table, noticing that the battery is seriously low – I didn't have time to charge it before Gabe picked me up.
I glance around to see if there's a charge cord in here. I slide open the drawer in the bedside table, hesitating because the last time I opened a drawer of Max's, I found more than I was looking for.
I let my breath out slowly when there's no gun.
What I do see is what looks like some kind of ledger book. Columns of numbers printed neatly opposite some kind of identifier down the row on the left side. Most of them look like abbreviations for cities or states, while others are just letters that don't make any sense to me.
Why would Max have handwritten records like this? It's clearly something financial, so wouldn't be on a spreadsheet on a computer?
Unless he wants to be absolutely sure that this information can't be hacked into or printed out by anyone.
Unless this is the record of some kind of illegal financial dealing.
I close the book and replace it in the drawer, sliding it shut. And I remember Gabe saying Max never takes anyone else on the corporate jet with him.
I fall asleep wondering what else Max stores onboard that he doesn't want anyone else to see.