Best Friends Don't Kiss(19)
Thatcher Kelly: Luke, my man, I have a huge favor to ask. I’m running a little late this morning. Work your magic with air traffic control?
After leaving my job with a commercial airline and signing on with Soar—a company that specializes in private flights for a lot of very wealthy clients—I’ve had the pleasure of flying Thatcher Kelly and the rest of his friends—billion-dollar-bank-account friends, mind you—around for the past two years.
Apparently, I’ve also become his go-to contact whenever he’s running late. Which, frankly, is a lot. Thatcher Kelly runs on Thatcher Kelly time. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.
Me: Sure. I assume that means you’ll be handling Wes Lancaster, sir?
On this fine Monday morning, I’ll be flying Thatch and several of his closest friends to LA. And Wes Lancaster, the owner of the New York Mavericks and investor in a lot of high-profile restaurants, will be on today’s flight.
Wes is a stickler for time, and when his buddy Thatch is the cause for a delay? He gets pissed.
Thatcher Kelly: Ah, don’t worry about that broody bastard. He can handle running a few minutes behind schedule today.
I’m not worried about him handling it. I’m worried about being the one to have to tell him.
Me: How many minutes are we talking exactly?
Thatcher Kelly: About twenty.
Me: Okay. I’m sure I can swing a twenty-minute maintenance delay of some sort.
Thatcher Kelly: If I weren’t already married to the hottest woman on the planet, I’d get on my knees and fluffing propose to you, son. Consider dinner on me tonight.
I smirk, slide my phone back into my jacket pocket, and step inside the Bombardier Global 7500—my aircraft for the day. It’s a sleek piece of machinery and the biggest, fastest aircraft in Soar’s inventory.
Trevor is already in the cockpit and setting up his nest. We’ve been through a hell of a lot together, including doing quite a bit of growing up. After graduating from Columbia, we both went through flight school and took the first jobs we could find as pilots. He worked for FedEx, and I started climbing the ladder of the commercial airline world, but finally, with our jobs at Soar, we’re back together. He can still be a pain in the ass, but he’s one of the best pilots I could hope to fly with.
“Morning,” I greet, and he glances over his shoulder to grin at me.
“Hey, man.”
“Just so you know, Thatch is running behind.”
Trevor shakes his head. “And what’s our excuse for today’s delay?” he asks, more than used to faking pretend postponements on behalf of Thatcher Kelly. If he weren’t such a cool-ass guy, we’d probably get really tired of his shit, but I guess that’s Thatch’s charismatic magic. It’s impossible to dislike him. Plus, it just so happens that we get paid really well too.
“Let’s go with GPS maintenance,” I comment and stash my duffel and unpack the essentials from my flight bag—my headset for talking to air traffic control and my electronic flight charts.
While I enter the data about our flight into the computer system, Trev runs through our checklist.
About thirty minutes later, we’re confident we’re ready for the 2,454-mile flight from Teterboro to LA, and while Trevor makes a few last-minute adjustments to our GPS route, I step out of the cockpit and greet our passengers.
Kline Brooks—the CEO of the very lucrative Brooks Media—is the first to step on to the plane. He offers a smile and a nod, unbuttoning his suit jacket to prepare to take a seat. “Good to see you, Luke.”
“Likewise, Kline.” He’s always so put together, both physically and mentally, and I have to admire the way the guy runs his life. Not to mention, he looks like he’s still in his twenties, even though I’m pretty sure he’s nearing forty or beyond.
“Mornin’, Captain.” Wes Lancaster is next. Formal but polite, he’s unbelievably consistent in a way I appreciate. He didn’t build the empire he did for himself by not knowing what he wanted. “We all set to take off on time?”
It takes work, but I manage a polite look of apology rather than a cringe. “We have a minor maintenance issue with the GPS but shouldn’t be running too far behind today.”
Instantly, he scowls. It feels like it’s at me, but I know the truth of the matter is that I am just the unlucky messenger. “Is it a GPS issue or a fucking Thatch issue?”
All I can do is skirt around the truth. I’d love to get it all out in the open, but Thatcher Kelly is the one paying my tab for this flight. “Skies are clear, though. Should be smooth flying from here to LA.”
Wes sighs and takes a seat as Milo Ives, Caplin Hawkins, Harrison Hughes, Trent Turner, Theo Cruz, and Quincy Black all file onboard. All insanely successful, wealthy guys whom I’ve come to know over the last few years as more like friends than bosses. Still, I’m always painfully careful to keep things professional on my end, even when they don’t on theirs. Maybe even especially then. It’s all fun and games until I accidentally lose my job.
While Paula and Laura, the flight attendants on today’s flight, help everyone get comfortable with drinks, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting an update from Thatch, but I’m pleasantly surprised to find a text from someone else instead.