Best Friends Don't Kiss(20)
Ava: This TapNext shit is so crazy, Luke! Crazy, I tell you! So far, I’ve received two dick pics and a message from some guy who wants me to have a threesome with him and his wife.
I laugh and shake my head.
Obviously, this is shit I already knew and tried to tell her yesterday when she was adamant about starting an online dating profile, but just before I can reply with those exact words, my phone vibrates in my hand again.
Ava: BUT despite the penis photography and marriage gangbangs, there’s good news. I have matched with six guys who actually seem like normal human beings who prefer to go on an actual date before they start sharing insider photos of their genitals.
Six guys? That seems like a lot for having a profile for less than twenty-four hours. Doesn’t it?
Me: Fucking hell, Ace. How many dates are you planning on going on?
Ava: As many as it takes to complete my mission.
The urge to throw out a Mayday! on said mission is strong, but I know it’s useless. When Ava Lucie is convinced of something, there is no stopping her.
Focusing back on the task at hand—figuring out when my missing passenger will be here—I open up the chat with Thatch and send him a quick, ETA?
Instead of a text back, though, a loud, boisterous, in-person voice fills my ears.
“Luke fluffing London! You ready to get this show on the road?” Thatch steps inside with a big-ass smile on his face. “How are the billionaire natives?”
I smile. “Restless.”
“Are we ready to stop acting like there’s a GPS issue since the big tardy idiot has finally arrived?” Wes shouts from his seat toward the front of the plane, and I smirk at Thatch, my eyes saying, See what I mean?
“Ah, get over yourself, Whitney,” Thatch retorts and steps into the cabin. “You didn’t have to wait that long for me, you grumpy fluffing bastard.”
“Grumpy fluffing bastard?” Wes retorts as I head back into the cockpit and shut the door behind me. The sounds of their bickering turn muffled, and Trev grins over at me as I get myself adjusted into my seat.
“I guess it’s time to let ATC know we’re ready to taxi.”
I nod. “Let’s kick the tires and light the fires.”
After a smooth, uneventful, five-and-half-hour flight from Teterboro to Los Angeles, Trev and I checked in to our hotel—the Beverly Wilshire—and spent a few hours doing nothing but lounging by the pool and drinking a few beers.
There’s no denying that being a pilot for Soar Aviation has some serious perks.
Take right now, for example. Instead of eating takeout pizza in a Holiday Inn like Trev and I used to do back in our early days, we’re currently sitting at a table inside Prime—Wes Lancaster’s newest steakhouse—surrounded by the same hilarious guys who kept us company on this morning’s flight. Our biggest problem now is keeping ourselves out of the billionaires’ brand of trouble.
Soon, all of this could change, though…
After months of going through a barrage of tests, medical exams and physicals, psychological assessments, phone conferences, and in-person interviews, I’ve officially reached the final candidate round for NASA’s Astronaut Selection Program.
It’s between me and nineteen other men and women.
And no one knows exactly how many will be chosen.
“So, Luke, any NASA updates?” Thatch asks, taking a drink from his shiny, gold-embossed glass filled with expensive bourbon.
Can he read my fucking mind?
“Nope,” I answer with a slight shake of my head. “Not yet.”
“How many interviews have you had in Houston?” Kline asks.
“Two.”
“The final round,” Trevor chimes in helpfully and pops a piece of complimentary bread into his mouth. “You’re going to hear from them soon, my man. You’re a shoo-in.”
“I don’t know about that.” I shrug. “The competition is pretty steep. I’m up against guys with ten years of experience flying fighter jets for the navy.”
Trevor just grins at me. “Yeah, but you have a master’s in engineering from Columbia, thousands upon thousands of flight hours under your belt, your dad was pretty well-known within NASA before he died, and you’re in better shape than Rambo. I’d bet my next paycheck you’ll be living in Houston by early next year.”
“Which bookie should I sign the check over to?” Thatch teases helpfully. Trevor laughs.
“I hope you’re right, dude.” I shrug again and take a sip of my beer.
Truthfully, I really fucking hope he’s right. This is what I’ve been working for since I was eighteen. This is why I get up at the crack of fucking dawn every morning to run six miles around the city and weight train. Everything I do, everything I’ve accomplished, has been solely focused on getting into NASA’s Astronaut Candidate training program.
This is the dream. The one my father and I started to talk about when I was seven, just two years before he and my mom died in a head-on collision with a drunk driver on their way home from a work party at Johnson Space Center in Houston.
I like to think he’d be really proud of me and how close I’ve managed to get to that dream—our dream. God, I can still remember being six years old and him sneaking me into the famous NASA control room. I was mesmerized. Hooked. Determined.