Chapter Nine

The ride to the airport lasted just under ten minutes but Sandro insisted on rubbing the outside of her leg the whole way. The darkness in the backseat of the limousine had given him courage and when she slipped across the leather upholstery, the tight navy skirt had risen to mid-thigh. Irene did have substantial thighs; a lusty sight as she had struggled herself into his car: Hearty curves of solid meat bound in silky nylons. The man couldn’t keep his greasy hands off.

Irene pretended not to notice and kept up the small talk, asking about the Island for the most part, but in truth, was thinking about the hot shower she would take once she was locked in the privacy of her hotel room: Soaping-up to get rid of the grittiness.

The car was waved past a security gate and pulled up outside one of the maintenance hangers. Sandro used a key to open a side door and reached in to turn on the work lights. Irene gasped at the sight of the DC-9. It was pink! Not just pink, but hot pink. Almost florescent pink; with Bikini-Bus scrawled in huge white letters down the side. And on the tail, a pin-up girl in a poke-a-dot bikini held a beach ball.

“My God. What...?” Irene stood in awe of the paintwork for a moment then started laughing.

Sandro chuckled. “I knew you’d be impressed.”

“But the name? Bikini-Bus?”

“Wait ‘til you meet your crew. This is the most fun-loving airplane ever to take to the skies.”

“I’ll bet.” Irene walked the length of the aircraft and tried to imagine the looks she’d get from the other pilots. The plane sat a little low in front, as if turned down, embarrassed, Irene thought. What self-respecting plane would show its face, dressed in pink. She walked under a wing and checked over the landing gear. Everything was clean and looked well maintained. The tires were new.

They mounted the boarding-steps, Sandro following behind so he could admire the seesawing of her ass as she moved upwards, one languid step at a time. This girl is built for it, he thought, her hard bottom was held high and round.

The passenger compartment had been completely refurbished with rich carpeting and the inside walls and bulkheads were paneled with hardwood. The seats were upholstered in buttery naugahyde and in the seventy-two seat configuration, there was luxurious leg room.

Irene moved forward and stepped through the door in the flight-deck bulkhead. Everything was clean and tidy. Nothing broken or out of place. She slipped into the left-hand seat, the pilot’s seat, and looked over the control panel. All the flight computers had been upgraded as had the navigational system. The old analog instrumentation had been upgraded to digital. Even the seats had been reupholstered. The pink plane had a heart of gold and fit like a pig-skin glove. Irene instinctively flexed her finger around the yoke.

“So you can fly it?” Sandro asked from behind.

“With my eyes closed.”

“So, close your eyes, lovely lady.”

Irene’s spine went ridged.

“You need this job,” Sandro milked the words, “I can always tell. The breathy answers. And the flit of the eyes when I asked the questions. You need this job, Miss Ross. Need it desperately, I should think. I can always tell with broads like you. But the question is: How badly do you need this job and what are you willing to do to get it?”

Something shifted in Irene’s chest. She looked at the array of instrumentation: The switches, the digital screens, the computers. Was she willing to trade this cockpit for a desk at a travel agency?

Irene squeezed the yoke in her hands to still trembling fingers and closed her eyes. Her blood was pounding as she heard him chuckle and shift closer. Suddenly his fingertips were at the flush of her throat. She flinched but didn’t pull away. He stroked the softness a moment before lowering his hand into her blouse. He held her left breast and rolled the nipple under his thumb.

She heard the sound of his zipper, the one-handed struggle with undergarments. Irene, with eyes still closed, turned her face to him and opened her mouth.

After he had finished with her, Carlos Sandro backed out of the cabin and started down the aisle toward the door. Irene stopped by the head compartment to clean up. She rinsed her mouth and wiped her lips before replacing her lipstick. She met her own gaze in the mirror. She would hate herself in the morning, she knew that, but she would have to temper those feelings with the knowledge that she had done what was necessary. At fifty-two years of age and with her dubious history, there was a very real possibility that if she hadn’t done what Sandro wanted, she would never sit behind the controls of a jetliner, ever again.

She leaned in and studied her reflection more closely. She was still a very desirable woman with high cheek bones, thick hair and an angular jaw. But she took note of the lines in the corners of her eyes and she could read tension in the creases that bracketed her mouth. “I did what I had to do,” she told her image, her mouth still feeling waxy. “It’s not like I haven’t given a guy a blow-job before.” But she knew in her heart of darkness that this was different. Somehow, she had reached a crossroads and taken the left-hand fork. And now, there would be no going back.

Her eyes suddenly felt moist and she grabbed a tissue from the dispenser. Stop it. Be tough. And be thankful. You have a job. She dabbed her eyes and hurried after Sandro. She knew he was an impatient man and she didn’t want to keep him waiting.

Once in her room, Irene stripped down to her panties and was just adjusting the water in the shower when the phone rang. She expected Brad, inquiring as to how things had gone, but was surprised by a girlish voice.

“Captain Ross? My name is Bev. I’m your First Officer,” she giggled. “You’re my new boss.”

Irene blinked. The girl sounded young, and a little bit drunk. “Bev. You know we fly out tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah. I just got off the phone from Sandro. Everything’s set. I’m so happy to be flying with a real pilot for a change.”

“A real pilot?”

“Yeah,” Bev giggled again, a strangely musical sound, then lowered her voice. “The last woman got herself into some trouble.”

“A woman?”

“The crew is all girls. Always has been. And,” Bev said with a touch of conspiracy, “it was drugs, Irene. She was smuggling drugs.”

Irene dropped onto the side of the bed. “Drugs. I guess I was misinformed.”

“That’s okay,” Bev was ready to dismiss the conversation. “So did you have to sleep with Carlos?”

“Sandro? You kidding?”

“Oh. Lucky you; avoiding that sweaty belly. Anyway, the reason I called was Sandro wants me to pick you up tomorrow morning. Drive you to the airport. I’ll be by at seven and have the front desk ring you up. That good?”

“Yes, absolutely. And thank you.”

“I’m looking forward to it...”

“Yes. I’m sure we’ll get along famously.”

Irene stripped off her underpants and stepped into the shower. What the hell has Brad English gotten me into?

Irene met Bev Banes at the front desk the following morning. She was an effervescent little thing, much too zingy for seven in the morning. Especially before coffee. Bev stood less than five-feet and wobbled on heels to compensate. She was a cute-cut blonde with a passion for designer sunglasses and dressed in a lavender-colored vinyl trench coat. And she started gushing as soon as she met Irene and never stopped. Irene wondered what it was going to be like sharing a cockpit with an incessant chatterbox who appeared to have her spring wound too tight.

“You look awfully young to be a First Officer,” Irene started, once they had settled into Bev’s vintage Volkswagen Beetle; the vinyl daises on the sides and hood matched Bev’s trench-coat. “How many hours you got?”

Bev, completely unaware that she was being cross-examined, perked up. “Almost sixteen-hundred.”

Irene turned in surprise. “That’s barely enough to qualify.”

“Well how many hours you got?”

“Twenty-six thousand.”

“Holy crap,” Bev’s head spun like a Chinese juggler’s plate. “You fly a Cessna outta your mommy’s tummy?”

“Close. Dad was a pilot. Sixteen hundred hours, eh…?” Irene shook her head and made a mental note that she would have to keep a close eye on her young co-pilot.

“Yeah. And I had a lot less when I applied for the job.”

Irene put two and two together. “But Carlos Sandro helped you out.”

“Well yeah-h. I mean, I needed a job and no one else would touch me.”

“Hard to believe,” Irene quipped, eyeing the girl’s trim figure. The story sounded all too familiar. “So you slept with him in return for a posting as co-pilot.”

“Sure. I kinda had to. I mean it wasn’t too awful. Except he sweats like a pig. I guess when you got twenty-six thousand hours, you don’t have to sleep with anybody, huh?”

Irene looked away. “I guess,” she said and changed the subject. “What’s our crew like?”

“Oh, we got the best girls. All eight. Wait ‘til you meet them.”

“Eight? We carry eight flight-attendants for seventy-two passengers? Why so many. They’ll be tripping all over themselves. Four would be plenty.”

“Don’t know. Always been that way. And we still call them stewardesses, by the way.”

At Miami International, Bev wheeled her Volkswagen around the side of the building. “That’s our entrance. The guard inside will have your ID card. Go ahead on in while I get parked. We’ll be in Gate 18. The plane should be fueled and sitting on the tarmac. I’ll catch up with you.”

Irene picked up her ID tag at the desk and moved along the corridor toward Gate 18; it was down at the far end as befitted her new charge. Irene had no trouble spotting the plane. In daylight, it appeared even more pink, if that was possible. She looked to see if anyone was watching before stepping onto the boarding ramp.

Inside the plane, she turned to her left through the narrow service area with its gleaming stainless steel counters and opened the cabin door. The old familiar smells heightened her senses: The smell of electronic components, radios, computers, wiring, upholstery. She took off her jacket and hung it in the locker and loosened her tie.

Irene dropped into the captain’s seat. It was like hooking up with an old friend: Even after years, you settle right back in where you left off. Irene hit the main switch on the breaker panel and her old friend came to life. She hung the headset around her neck and started firing up the systems. She checked the flight computer and the nav-computer. Her hydraulic systems were pressurized and the fuel gauges registered. She radioed the ground crew; the transit check had been completed. The plane was cleared to fly.

The cabin door opened and Bev Banes stepped into the cockpit. “Find everything you need?” she asked while unbuttoning her lavender trench-coat.”

“It’s like I never...” Irene’s voice trailed off. Bev had slipped off her coat and beneath she wore a sexy white bikini.

She turned to Irene and smiled. “I can tell by your face that Sandro didn’t let you in on this part.” Bev ran her fingers down the bare contour of her rib cage. “It’s the class uniform.”