Chapter 6
6
LINCOLN
E very morning, I make sure to get in my workout. Some days, it’s a five-mile run; other days, it’s a swim.
Today, I felt like lifting. It’s one of my favorite types of exercise. I love the pain I feel when my muscles are screaming at me to stop. That’s when I know each rep that follows the burn is when change happens. When my muscles say they can’t do one more, I push them that much harder.
I tossed and turned last night as my assistant’s words echoed in my head. I must admit, she had taken me by surprise. None of my assistants had ever talked back to me. As much as I wanted to put her in her place, I realized she had made good points.
I can’t expect her to take meeting notes at the level that I desire when she knows nothing about the conversations happening in those meetings. I plan to rectify that today.
“Meet me in my office in five,” I command as I stroll past Miss Ricci’s desk.
When she walks into my office five minutes later, she looks like she’s seen a ghost. I’m not used to my assistants being so afraid of me. She’s an unusual one.
“Yes, Mr. Monroe?” she says in a shaky voice.
“I’ve canceled all my meetings today.”
Her eyes open wide. “Why, sir?”
“Because I’m taking you on a little field trip.” I stand and button my jacket.
She raises her eyebrows. “Field trip?”
“Yes. You made a good point yesterday. I can’t expect you to take proper notes if you don’t know a thing about the industry. That changes today.”
“Where are we going?”
“JFK Airport,” I reply. “I’m going to teach you a thing or two about our company. Let’s go. My driver is waiting downstairs.”
She scurries out of my office in her heels. I swear, every time she does that, it looks like she’s about to bite it and face-plant on the ground. Where the hell did she come from? It’s like she’s never worn heels before.
We walk outside onto the busy city street, where my driver is waiting.
“Good morning, Mr. Monroe,” he greets us with the door to the SUV open already.
“George. Thank you. This is my assistant, Miss Ricci.”
“Lovely to meet you, ma’am.”
“Hi, George,” she replies kindly. “Nice to meet you.”
I wave my arm, motioning for her to get in first. She smiles awkwardly, then climbs into the back seat—not very skillfully, I might add.
I spend the drive to JFK returning emails on my phone. It’s not exactly convenient to be spending my day like this, but something tells me I need to put in the effort. Maybe if I get her up to speed, I’ll actually have an assistant who lasts longer than a month.
We arrive at the departure gate, and I instruct George to pick us up at the arrival gate in a couple of hours. I want to have enough time to get through the airport while going over whatever comes to mind.
Once inside, I lead the way down to our airline check-in section.
Before we go to the counter, I stop and turn to Miss Ricci. “What do you see when you look around?” I ask.
She cranes her neck as she views our surroundings. “People checking in for their flights.”
I nod my head. “True. But there’s so much more than that happening. These are people walking into this airport, feeling safe enough to put their lives in our hands. They are giving us their trust. I don’t take that lightly.”
I watch as she continues to look around her, maybe taking it all in with a newfound appreciation for what it means to be responsible for an airline.
“That’s our top priority—to take care of our customers. Beyond that, we try to make their experience as enjoyable as we can. If you look at our check-in station, we have four people working at the desk. We have eight self-service check-in stations and employees circling them at all times to make sure they can help anyone who needs assistance. Why do you think that is?”
She bites her lip, then swallows. “Um, to make sure they have a good experience and come back.”
“Very good. They are going to judge us the moment they step foot in the airport. If we have long lines, like some of our competitors, we’re going to lose their business.”
I lead us to the check-in counter, where the woman behind it looks me up and down with appreciation. I used to revel in the attention. Now it’s hard not to roll my eyes. I place my hand on the small of Miss Ricci’s back as I guide her to the counter.
I notice the look of annoyance from the woman behind the counter as her eyes home in on my hand resting on my assistant’s back.
“Good morning,” she says with a little less enthusiasm than she had a moment ago. “Are you checking in?”
I open my wallet and pull out my black Amex. Her eyes open wide like she just saw the Pope. Gold diggers are so easy to spot. All it takes is one flash of evidence of my wealth, and their eyes light up.
“I’d like to purchase two tickets for your first flight to LA,” I tell her.
“Two tickets to LA. May I see your IDs, please?”
We go through the process of getting ourselves checked in—all the while, I know I will have to tell the employees at the gate that we are not getting on the plane. I may be the CEO of the top airline at this airport, but TSA doesn’t give a shit about that.
They want my ticket and to make sure I’m not carrying anything dangerous.
With my priority card, we get through TSA immediately. She looks in every direction as we walk to the gate. It’s like she’s never seen an airport before. For the first time, I’m curious to ask my assistant a personal question. The mere idea of it makes me grimace.
When we arrive at our gate, I find two seats at the window that faces our plane. She follows my lead and takes a seat next to me.
“This is the cool part,” I say. “This plane is a Boeing 757. What you heard us talking about in that meeting was about the wing for a new aircraft design. This particular plane has a supercritical wing, which was the first of its kind. A supercritical wing is a type of wing that has a certain shape to delay shock waves at high speeds. This helps with speed and fuel efficiency.”
“The actual name of the design is supercritical wing?” Her eyes remain glued on the aircraft.
“It is,” I reply quickly.
“Oh.” A small smile forms before she bites her lip to suppress it.
“Why do you ask?” I ask her curiously.
“It’s just, in the meeting, I kept wondering why everyone was calling this wing a supercritical wing. I didn’t realize it was the name of the design. I didn’t understand what was so critical about it.”
The threat of a smirk makes me bite my inner cheek. “I guess it’s not the most creative name.”
We sit in silence for a moment as I watch the crew loading the luggage.
“Every flight matters. We’re not just selling planes, Miss Ricci. We’re selling freedom, possibility, power.”
She pulls out a pad of paper and begins to write.
“Stop writing. I didn’t bring you here to take notes. I brought you here to get an understanding. When you’re sitting in on those meetings, there’s so much more than ‘industry lingo’ going on. Every detail in this business matters. The routes, the timing, the fuel efficiency, the safety. Everything impacts the bottom line. And do you know what the board cares about?”
She shakes her head.
“I should say safety. God knows that’s what their answer would be, but it’s money. It’s my job to make sure we are as efficient as possible in every aspect of this business to provide the board with numbers that make them want to keep investing. Is this making sense?”
She gives me a quick nod of her head, letting me know she is following me.
“Good. Now for the fun part.”
I take out my phone and shoot a text message to a friend. He tells me what gate to meet him at.
“Follow me, Miss Ricci.”
“Kylie,” she says as we stand. “You can call me Kylie. I’d prefer it.”
“Very well. Follow me, Kylie.”
Now I’m agreeing to call her by her first name. I don’t do that. It feels oddly personal and wrong, but fuck if I’m going to stop. There’s just something different about her. As we walk, I catch a glimpse of her ass swaying in her skirt and look away quickly.
I wonder how old she is. She seems young and inexperienced. Not just lacking confidence in the job, but in life. I’ll have to check her file. I wouldn’t want to risk giving her the wrong impression and asking a personal question. We aren’t friends, and the last thing I need is for her to think we are.
We arrive at the gate where Dave is waiting.
I walk up to him and shake his hand. “Thanks for agreeing to this on such short notice.”
He slaps my shoulder. “Anything for you, my friend.”
Dave is an executive at the US Department of Transportation. I happen to play basketball with him and some of his buddies, and he owes me one.
“Dave, this is my assistant, Kylie.”
“Hello, Kylie. You must be a saint to survive working for this man.” He gives her a look that I’m all too familiar with.
He’s checking her out, and for some reason, it pisses me off.
“Well, it’s only been a couple of weeks. I wouldn’t grant me the title of saint just yet,” she says with an ease that I’ve never received.
Dave throws back his head and laughs. “Beautiful and funny. Killer combination.”
Before I can tell him to fuck off and stop flirting with my assistant, he motions for us to follow him. We go down a winding ramp until he leads us out onto the tarmac. The wind instantly begins to blow on us as the sun hits our faces.
I reach out to put on my sunglasses to stop from being blinded by the rays.
“Follow me,” Dave yells over the noise of the Boeing 757 engine in front of us.
We spend over an hour with him while he goes over all the parts of the plane. Kylie asks dozens of questions and seems genuinely interested in the answers. I stand back and watch as the two talk and laugh together. I try to ignore how much it grates on my nerves.
By the time we’re back at the office, it’s already after three, and I’m exhausted. I put my head down and go over some of marketing’s proposals.
When I realize I’m much further behind than I thought, I ring Kylie on the phone.
“Cancel my dinner tonight with Tonya or whatever her name is. I need to stay late and make sure I’m up-to-date on these proposals before the meeting tomorrow.”
“No problem, Mr. Monroe. Do you need me to stay late with you?”
The question annoys me.
“Well, you are my assistant. What do you think?”
“I think you would like me to stay,” she replies softly.
“That would be in your best interest.” I hang up the phone and rub my temples. I feel a headache coming on.
My guess is, she’s over there, cursing me out in her head for making her stay late. I don’t care if she has a date or someplace to be. I pay her to work when I work, and I pay her well. If she isn’t up to the task, there are thousands of others who are.
This is New York City. You don’t make it here by putting in the bare minimum.