Jack felt like he was reaching down for a wheedling four-year-old. Bev hung on him, her hands clasped behind his neck, her body twisting saucily. She lifted on tiptoes so she could plant a kiss on the side of his neck and press hard little breasts into the front of his shirt. And despite himself, Jack felt his cock move and had to fight the temptation to grind himself against her pubic bone. She must have sensed his dilemma because Bev tilted her hips up and skillfully presented her bikini-clad crotch like an open invitation.
And Bev still had her mouth pressed to his neck and damn, weren’t her lips moving? Her moist tongue trickled across the skin and brought back horrible memories of Betty-Elizabeth from school who had given him a hickey that got him grounded for a whole week.
When Bev finally let him go, Jack, with the heat coming up in his cheeks and his penis pushing at the front of his slacks, ducked quickly for the exit. As he stepped into the refreshing trade winds he heard the man behind complain: “How come I don’t get a kiss?”
“Relax, Tiger. Because,” Bev scolded him playfully, “he’s my daddy!”
Jack momentarily wondered if Irene had a hand in all this. Was it some kind of test? Was his virtue on the line? Was Irene hidden in the service area, watching, monitoring his reactions? But no. When he turned his chin across a shoulder he could see the shadow of Irene’s head moving through the heavily tinted glass. She was still hunched over the control panels, her hair held back in a hand.
Irene was shutting down the electrical panels when her cell phone chimed. She reached for her bag and checked the call display but didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”
“Hey Irene. I know you’re up there– I can see you.”
“Who…?”
“Look out your window, Cap’ –I’m standing on the tarmac.”
Irene shifted her position and looked down. She saw a man with a phone to his ear. He was standing next to one of the Casino’s golf-carts and waving.
“Brad? Is that you?” Irene scrunched her eyes. “Brad English?”
“You bet! Heard you got the seat, flying for the Casino.”
“How the hell did you get here?” she asked her old co-pilot. She saw him point to an executive jet parked under the tin roof of the maintenance shed: A Gulfstream G650.
“It’s a lease,” Brad explained into his phone, “but it’s like riding a bolt of thunder and lightning.”
“But my God. What are you doing all the way down here?” Irene was still dealing with the surprise of seeing her ex first officer.
“I’ve come to throw some work your way. Can we get together?”
Irene felt her senses settle. “Sure but I need to freshen up and change my clothes first,” she said. “Give me an hour.”
“You bet. I’ll meet you at the bar by the main pool. And as she watched, he hopped behind the wheel of the golf-cart and sped after the procession of Hummers slowly winding their way up to the Casino. Irene watched until he disappeared around the curve.
Son of a bitch, Irene thought to herself. What’s this about?
The SUV dropped Irene off at the main building and she hurried along the path to Hobbit House. She found that she was alone, the Ditz having pulled the afternoon shift. Irene hung her lavender trench-coat and tossed her swimsuit into the clothes hamper. She grabbed towels, shampoo and after checking the path to reassure herself she was still quite alone, she darted, stark naked around the end of the house and planted herself under the shower head.
She washed carefully and soaped up her hair. On a sudden whim, she decided to do her legs and ran back inside to retrieve her razor, dripping puddles of water as she went. She soaped her legs and pubic hair and with judicious strokes guided the razor up her thighs and around her sex. Irene didn’t like the bald-look some of her girls thought fashionable and left a wide patch of hair up the center which she trimmed with manicure scissors.
After rinsing a second time she roughly toweled off and sitting on one of the loungers with her back to the sun, she brushed out her hair.
Her closet held a meager collection of casual wear. She pulled out the white shift she wore to the tennis club back home. It was sleeveless, sporty and quite sexy with a button-up collar and short hemline. She laced up her Reeboks and checked out the effect in the mirror. Irene Ross: Tennis Pro.
Cool.
A touch of eyeliner, a smear of lip gloss and parking her sunglasses on the crown of her head, she was ready.
She found Brad English slouching in a beach chair at the side of the pool; sipping beer from a long neck.
“Wow! Look at you!” he scrambled, taking in the length of her body from behind a set of Ray-O-Bans. He looked at her legs. She leaned a little more toward workhorse than thoroughbred but still, very nice. “Great tan.”
Irene realized it was the first time he had ever chanced a look at the extent of her legs. Working at United, she always wore the uniform: White blouse, tie, jacket, and a tight knee-length skirt.
Brad pinned her with a look.
He had a Redford smile that could melt a girl at a hundred yards. And as a co-pilot, knee deep in attractive flight-attendants, he had quickly learned to use that smile to his advantage. And while there had never been anything between them, Irene had to assume she was in the minority. Not many stews had escaped his youthful looks, nor his bed, unscathed. Even the married ones. And Irene had wondered, no doubt. But he was young, and in those days, before the crash and the booze got to her, she had scruples.
“Please, sit…” Brad pulled a chair across. “What can I get you.”
“Vodka spritzer,” Irene said. “You’re looking well. You make pilot yet?”
Brad flicked his hand at the waitress, just like they did in the movies. “Naw. Not yet. I’ll give it another year, before moving on. How ’bout you? This working out for yuh?”
He slouched comfortably and lifted his beer. Somehow Brad could suck beer straight from the bottle and make it look totally civilized.
“Yeah. I got a good crew. A good plane. The Casino pays well. And I get to live on the island. As you can see, the weather is terrific. Now don’t keep me waiting. What the hell are you doing here?”
He laughed at her exuberant curiosity. “I told you. Throwing work your way.”
“Don’t make me come over there,” Irene threatened and started to get up.
Brad held up his hands defensively. “Okay– okay. Here’s the deal.” He was still laughing.
The waitress arrived and slipped a frosty glass in front of Irene. She sipped through a straw; the alcohol sharp and clean on her throat.
“About six weeks ago, I get this call from a sports promoter in New York. He heads up some company that represents professional athletes, puts together sponsorship deals, runs sporting events; shit like that. Anyway, he wants to charter an aircraft.”
“You still doing that on the side?” Irene asked.
“Yeah. It’s easy work and might lead to something eventually. Anyway, you ever hear of beach volleyball?”
“Sure. They made it an Olympic sport a while back. Saw it on television.”
“That’s right,” Brad continued. “Well here’s the thing. The Colombians are fielding a team. And they’re going all out. The government has set up a sports commission and are backing the team with lots of cash, thinking it will be good for tourism. And the Colombian girls are in the States right now, at the University of Florida. They got some sort of training camp set up. Probably working out with the Gators, those lucky boys. The girls are reported to be friggin’ Amazons.”
“And they needed a plane,” Irene offered.
“Yeah. And I could handle that. But this sports promoter I was telling you about, he thinks big. He saw an opportunity and put together an exhibition tournament: The American Olympic team against the Colombians. And he called me to handle transportation. That’s two volleyball teams, their staff, and a bunch of sports reporters and photographers. I don’t have a plane that big.”
“But the Casino does. The DC-9.”
“Bingo. The Bikini-Bus is perfect. Even has the right name painted on the side.”
“And the Casino is okay with this?”
“Oh yeah. Big time. For the publicity. You see the promoter was looking for a location. Daytona Beach was his first choice but there was some kinda conflict. Anyway I told the guy I had a contact at a Caribbean Casino with a great beach and did he want me to make some inquiries. Well he loved the idea and flew out here last week to hash out a deal.”
“So it’s all set?”
“Yup.” Brad sat back and took another swig of his beer. “It will be like old times, Irene. I’ll be your co-pilot. We fly the Bikini-Bus to Florida and pick up the girls. We fly back here for a two-day tournament. Then we fly everyone to Cartagena so the Colombians can show off their new team to the press. And finally, we fly the American girls back to Florida. It will be a week of volleyball, parties, great food, booze, music and dancing. A blast. And you and your crew will be in the thick of it. Be the most fun you ever had flying. What’dya think?”
“I think my co-pilot is gonna be pissed.”
Brad shifted uneasily. “Bev something or other…”
“Mmm. Bev Banes.”
“And she likes to party?”
“Like she invented it.”
Brad chuckled. “Look, I’m not down here to create friction. If your friend wants to come along, we’ll find her a seat. How’s that?” he offered. “But I’m on the flight-deck.”
He was over stating his case and Irene had to wonder why. Then it came to her. A dashing young pilot would have a better chance at the ladies. And by all accounts, there would be lots of ladies for him to choose from.
“She’ll love that,” Irene replied. “Bev won’t mind giving up the co-pilot’s seat. As long as she’s included in the group, you’ll have made her a happy kitten.”
Brad faked a sly grin. “Is she cute?”
“You’re incorrigible, you know that? Yes, she’s cute. And too good for the likes of you.”
Brad lifted his hands, palm up. “Man likes a challenge. Can’t wait to meet her.”
Off to the left and far beyond Brad, a man got up from a table and turned away, but not before giving Irene a hard stare. She could feel the weight of it.
Oh perfect, she thought as Jack Namath retreated, almost knocking into the waitress in his haste. Irene guessed he had been sitting there, fuming the whole time; watching her and Brad yucking it up. Irene quickly got to her feet.
“Hey? Where you going?”
Irene looked down into Brad’s blank expression. “Just saw someone I know. Look, I got your number on my cell,” she said searching around for her bag. “I’ll call you later. We’ll get together. You wanted a challenge? –I’ll introduce you to my girls.” Irene paused a beat. “And you said you have a contact here at the Casino? Might I ask who?”
Brad shifted to his left buttock. “Just a manager is all. Guy by the name of Scirocco. I’m sure you’ve never met him.”
Irene’s eyes circled. “Ah– yeah, you’re right. I’ve heard his name bantered about but never met the dude.” Irene turned away and rushed by a startled Brad English in her pursuit of the departing Jack Namath but the nagging question was still in her mind: How does Brad English come to know a mafia kingpin? But Irene had little time to contemplate an answer. Jack Namath had already descended the terrace stairs and was racing toward the main building. She took off after him.