10. Leo
10
Leo
T he roar of the wind fills me hearing. Hurtling towards the earth at terminal velocity, the jagged cliffs of the quarry blurring past just feet away... this is clarity.
This is control.
Everything else... the deals, the money, the women, the parties, the bullshit noise in my head, it all just evaporates up here.
There’s only the line, the air currents, the razor-thin margin between life and death.
“Coming in hot!” Luca’s voice crackles in my helmet comms, distorted by the wind shear. He’s tucked in tight on my right wing, a mirror image in his own custom suit.
Fucking showboat.
We’re threading the needle through the ‘Viper’s Tooth,’ a nasty little granite notch at the bottom of a decommissioned quarry upstate. An hour’s chopper ride from Manhattan, our own private playground for pushing the limits before the Chamonix Red Bull competition in two months .
Today’s objective is a synchronized exit through the Tooth, pulling up with less than fifty feet to spare before the quarry floor introduces itself.
Stupidly dangerous.
Yet utterly necessary.
“Stay tight,” I bark back, adjusting my trajectory by millimeters. The granite walls rush towards us, claustrophobic, unforgiving. The wind is squirrelly today, gusting unpredictably off the cliff faces. My shoulder, the one I nearly ripped off last year kissing that cliff in Norway, gives a warning twinge.
Stephen, my physiotherapist, would flip if he saw this shit.
We approach the narrowest point.
The V-shaped exit looms, the rock screaming up at us. Adrenaline floods my system, sharp and clean, better than any line of coke.
This is fucking living .
Now!
I arch my back, flaring the suit, pulling up hard. The wind gusts hard, fighting me. The rock rushes past beneath my boots, a blur of granite and scrub brush. Too close.
Way too fucking close.
Shit!
Misjudged the exit wind shear. A fraction lower and I’d be scraping myself off the quarry floor right now with a spatula.
But I still need to clear the lip ahead...
Adrenaline screams through me as pure instinct takes over. I yank back harder, forcing the suit to climb, muscles screaming in protest, shoulder threatening to pop right out of the socket again.
I glimpse Luca flaring beside me, slightly higher... fucker realized my line was too low .
For a split second, as I approach the lip, there’s nothing but the certainty of impact.
But then... daylight.
I clear the lip with maybe a fucking foot to spare.
Air whistles past as I bank hard left over the treeline, my heart hammering like a jackhammer against my ribs, and I suck in a ragged breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Luca is right there beside me, and we deploy our chutes almost simultaneously.
The sudden deceleration is violent, snapping me upright under the canopy. Below us, the quarry floor looks deceptively peaceful. We touched death’s ball sack down there and walked away grinning.
Fucking perfect.
“Cutting it fine today, aren’t we?” Luca says over the comms as we drift towards the designated landing zone where the chopper waits.
“’Fine’ is for accountants, Luca,” I retort, pulling on the toggles for a smooth landing flare. “We nailed it.”
“If you say so,” Luca replies. “It’s a good thing we still have two months to practice.”
We land perfectly, collapsing our chutes like the pros we are. The chopper pilot gives us a thumbs-up. Jen and Michelle are waiting by the open door, next to our security detail, looking ridiculously hot in designer athleisure wear. Vivian Wong, Luca’s assistant, is also with them. Let’s just say her tank top leaves nothing to the imagination.
Jen, my personal trainer, has that intense, fucking me with her eyes look she always gets after I do something stupidly risky. Michelle, my PA, just looks impressed, or maybe just calculating the bonus potential of surviving another day with me.
“Is it just me, or were you flying a little close to the Tooth?” Jen says as she approaches.
“Just you.” I grin, shrugging out of the wingsuit harness. “Gotta practice for all eventualities, you know. Chamonix isn’t an easy run.”
“Practice doesn’t mean aiming for the fucking ground,” she snaps, but there’s no real heat behind it. She likes the danger almost as much as I do. It’s part of our dynamic.
Push, pull, fuck.
Michelle hands me a cold water bottle. “Impressive flight, Mr. Maxwell.” Her eyes linger a little too long. Maybe not angling for a ‘performance review’ later, but definitely enjoying the show.
“Drinks are on me,” Luca announces, clapping me on the back. “Nearest place with top-shelf whiskey and zero questions asked.”
An hour later, we’re installed in the private back room of some obscenely expensive faux-rustic lodge upstate. Wood beams, roaring fireplace, leather chairs, and whiskey that costs more per shot than most bottles of Dom Pérignon.
Jen is curled up beside me on the couch, her leg thrown casually over mine. Michelle is perched on the armrest of Luca’s chair, next to his own assistant, Vivian, both of them laughing at something he said. The vibe is celebratory. Expensive.
And completely hollow.
My phone buzzes on the low table. A text from Dom.
Heard you were jumping the quarry again. You trying to make the Forbes Dead List? Call me.
I glance at it and toss the phone back onto the table, screen down. Dom. Good old sensible Dom. Always worrying. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get the need for the edge, the silence it brings. He’s happily married now, probably discussing mortgage rates and nursery colors. Different fucking universe.
“Problem?” Luca asks, noticing my expression.
“Nah. Just Dom being Dom.” I take a large gulp of my whiskey. The smooth burn does little to dull the restlessness already creeping back in now that the adrenaline has faded.
“Let’s liven things up,” Luca says, that familiar gleam in his eye. He discreetly produces a little silver vial.
Fucking predictable.
He prepares two quick bumps on the table. Jen doesn’t even blink. Michelle and Vivian look momentarily hesitant, then shrug and lean forward when Luca offers.
I take mine without comment. The familiar jolt hits, sharpening the edges, amplifying the background buzz.
Jen leans in, whispering in my ear, her breath hot. “Need to burn off some energy, boss? ”
Her hand slides down my thigh. Hell yeah. After that little near death experience today, I could use the distraction.
“Bathroom break,” I announce, standing up and pulling Jen with me.
Luca grins knowingly. “Don’t use all the hot water.”
In the ridiculously large, slate-tiled bathroom, Jen pushes me against the locked door, her mouth hungry on mine. It’s automatic, practiced. We know the moves. Her hands fumble with my belt buckle.
“Got anything stronger?” she murmurs against my lips.
I hesitate for a second, then reach into my pocket. Another little vial. Enough for both of us.
Quick bump off the back of my hand for her, then me. The second wave hits harder, colder.
She rips open my fly. I grab a condom from my wallet and slick it on. She slides down her ridiculously expensive yoga pants, braces herself against the sink, and I slam into her from behind. Hard, fast, impersonal. Just friction and release. She cums quickly, biting back a cry. I follow a few seconds later, emptying myself into the latex, the physical release barely touching the deeper tension coiling inside me.
We clean up quickly, straighten our clothes. Back to normal. Transaction complete.
When we get back to the private back room, Michelle is looking pointedly left out, nursing her drink while Luca scrolls through his phone as Vivian kisses his neck.
Luca looks up, catches my eye, and jerks his chin towards Michelle with a smirk.
His way of saying ‘Don’t leave loose ends.’
Or maybe just ‘Share the wealth.’
The coke makes everything feel easy, consequence-free.
Still, I shake my head slightly at Luca, giving him a silent ‘I’ve had enough.’ Michelle catches the exchange and gives me a disappointed smile before turning back to her drink.
The chopper ride to the city was quick and efficient, like the sex with Jen.
Now, back at the penthouse, I’m finally alone. Jen and Michelle are gone. Luca’s gone. My staff have gone home.
It’s just me, the silence, and the lingering chemical hum in my veins.
I should feel good. It was a great day. Closed an investment round yesterday, nailed a dangerous jump (though admittedly cut it a little close, but hey I’m alive), got laid.
Living the fucking dream, right?
So why does my gut feel like it’s full of cold, gray stone?
This relentless pace, this constant chase… it used to be enough. The investments, the risks, the women… they filled the void. Or at least they kept me moving too fast to notice it.
But lately… lately the highs feel shorter, and the emptiness afterward feels deeper.
And then there’s Chamonix. The Red Bull competition. That fucking ridiculous line Luca wants us to fly.
A knot tightens in my stomach, cold and unfamiliar. Fear? No. I don’t do fear. Not real fear. But… dread. A heavy, formless sense of an impending... something .
I think back to the jump today. That V-shaped exit. The way the rock rushed up. I almost didn’t make it. If the wind had gusted just a fraction harder…
Splatter.
I shake my head, pouring myself another whiskey, neat.
It’s just nerves , I tell myself. Pre-competition jitters. Happens every time I prep for a big jump. Especially after the Norway crash.
Yeah. That’s all it is. Nerves.
But deep down, I’m starting to wonder, is this really the life I want to live?
Don’t think about the landing.
Focus on the flight.
It’s all I know how to do.