The Last Man on Earth

Chapter 1

Ariana

I lean against First Officer Harris’ chair, my smile as wide as the airfield in front of us.

“You’re really leaving us, huh?”

I nod. “No more passengers. No more miles. No more rich assholes.”

He laughs heartily as Captain Dorsey takes his place in the cockpit. “Big day for you,” he says, flipping through his pre-flight checklist, calm as ever.

Harris makes a mock sad face. “Are you gonna miss her as much as I am?”

Dorsey nods, his eyes still on his screen. “I’ve already said my goodbyes. I’m gonna miss seeing that pretty smile.”

Harris looks up at me, a half-smile tugging at his weathered face. “Master’s degree, huh?”

“It’s never too late.”

He picks up my hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it. “You will be sorely missed.”

Tears well up in my eyes. I swallow the big lump in my throat and say, “I’m gonna miss you gentlemen. Flying with you has been a pleasure.”

I truly mean that part. I’ve been an in-flight concierge with Echelon for almost fifteen years now. These two men are very special to me. We’ve crossed oceans together, accumulated over a million miles together, and shared milestones that make them feel more like family than coworkers.

“You’re getting quite the sendoff today,” Harris teases. “The passenger manifest looks like the guest list at the Source Awards.”

I swat his arm playfully, but it’s a truth I can’t refute. I have the distinct displeasure of serving famous rapper Villain and his entourage on today’s private flight to Rio de Janeiro.

At thirty-seven, I think I’m a little older than his target demographic, but I know who he is.

My nieces listen to him, although they really shouldn’t.

His latest song went number one on the Billboard charts last month—entitled “No Mercy for No Bitch”—and he’s fresh off of two Grammy wins and a sold out arena tour.

The world is his oyster right now.

Twenty-seven seems young to marry, especially when you can tell from his music that his frontal lobe needs a lot more cook time, but I ain’t his mama.

“Seriously, Ari,” Harris says, his face going tense. “If you have any problems back there—“

“I know, I know. Give you a ring.”

He nods, his face grim.

“Let’s get a pic of our last flight together,” I say, already making the short walk to my bag to get my phone.

They turn in their chairs, and I strike a pose between them, quickly uploading to my story with the caption Farewell flight with these amazing gentlemen!

My phone buzzes in my hand just as I exit Instagram. I step out into the galley to answer, happy to see my sister’s name.

“What do you want?” I greet her playfully.

“To wish you luck and congratulate you on your last flight. Mean ass.”

I burst out laughing at my twin sister. Ashara is exactly two minutes and twenty-four seconds older than me, a fact she never lets me forget.

“Congratulate me after,” I say. “Don’t jinx me.”

“Girl, shut up.” Her voice is warm and teasing. “One more takeoff and one more landing. I’m so proud of you.”

“Mm hm. See, I think you really called to ask about Villain.”

She’s silent for a beat. “I’m truly offended that you would think I would be manipulative like that.”

I wait for it.

“But is he there yet?”

There it is. Then I hear my niece’s voice in the background. “What’d she say? Is he there?”

“Tell Jada to mind her fourteen-year-old business.”

“Titi said mind your business.”

“And as for you,” I say, “I’ve flown with plenty of celebrities. Why are y’all so geeked over this?”

“Girl, that man is so damn fine.”

“Finer than your husband?”

Shara sucks her teeth. “Don’t tell him, but yeah.”

“Stop.”

“I’m not saying you should try to…hold on… Jada. Go find something to do.”

I hear whining, then Shara comes back.

“Sorry. She was ear-hustling. Anyway, I’m not saying you should try to hook up with the man. But if you do, not only would I not judge, I would take you out to dinner after and listen to every dirty detail.”

I roll my eyes. “He’s getting married this weekend. Did you forget that part?”

She scoffs. “He don’t even like that girl.”

“They have a kid.”

“Like niggas don’t put babies in women they hate.”

“Whatever, Shar. I have things to do.”

“Okay, okay. Can you at least sneak a photo of him for me?”

“Bye Shar.”

“Okay, wait.” She takes a deep breath. “I love you. And the girls love you.”

The earnestness in her tone gives me pause. “I love y'all, too. And Tariq.”

It’s quiet for a minute before she finally says, “Call me when you land.”

“I always do.”

I slip my phone back in my bag and take a look around, savoring the quiet before the chaos arrives.

The Monarch is the best jet in the Echelon fleet. The gold-stitched cream leather seats, polished walnut tables that fold out with a click as soft as a whisper, brass fixtures that gleam in the light, and fully stocked premium bar earned it the nickname Palace in the Sky.

Despite its reputation, Villain’s people sent over a rider with special requests; Ace of Spades, which already chilling in a gold ice bucket, gourmet snacks, and imported chocolates, among other things. That’s all set.

I inspect the electronics next. The flat screens slide down at the press of a button like they’re supposed to. Hidden speakers are wired for Bluetooth, ready to produce the perfect stereo sound.

As I walk, my heels click across the hardwood floors that are polished to a soft sheen. It’s beautiful. My favorite aircraft to fly on.

I fluff the plush pillows, all in muted jewel tones, all newly procured. We’re ready. Everything is perfect, including me.

I got my sew-in last night. Makeup was done three hours ago. My uniform isn’t branded, but it’s the standard teal wrap dress—Echelon Blue, which the company trademarked a few years after I started. My heels are high enough to be sexy and low enough to be comfortable.

There was an odd request at the bottom of Villain’s rider. He demanded that I wear perfume. Usually, it’s the opposite. And since I’m not allowed to turn down reasonable requests from high-level clients, I made sure to douse myself in Burberry Goddess, my signature scent.

My phone buzzes again, and this time, it’s Luca, my boyfriend of three weeks. It’s new, but seeing his name still makes me smile.

Luca

Dinner tomorrow when you get back?

My thumbs are hovering over the screen, ready to answer in the affirmative, when I hear the distinct sound of bass rattling outside on the tarmac.

I glance up in time to see the sleek black limo roll to a stop, it’s dark windows gleaming in the morning sun.

For some reason, my stomach tightens and my throat feels dry.

He’s here.