Chapter 2 Kennedy
kennedy
“Ican’t believe you’re leaving us, Benny Boy!
It’s not going to be the same without you,” I shout drunkenly across the table at the club.
We’ve known each other for years, first through the Air National Guard, and now as one of the few rotating pilots I fly with for the Milwaukee Steel Riders.
Well, he was anyway. He’s worked his ass off studying to get more degrees and certifications, on top of all our flights, and he finally got his dream job with NASA.
I can’t say I blame him for leaving—NASA is cool as shit.
“I know, I know,” he says with a sad smile, tears welling in his eyes.
“I’m gonna miss the hell out of all of you!
But NASA is calling, and I can’t pass that up.
But don’t worry, I’ll text when I get to Mars.
” He lifts his shot glass in salute to everyone at the table before knocking it back in one go.
“Just watch out for aliens trying to probe your anus, bro,” one of our friends pipes up, getting a laugh and an eyeroll from half the table.
“Let’s all raise our glasses to a fun night out celebrating the one, the only, Benjamin Logan!
” We all whoop and cheer for our friend, the tequila disappearing in an instant.
“You all want another round?” the server shouts over the loud baseline pumping from the speakers, the strobe lights creating colorful shadows across the table.
“Yes!” I shout. “Tabs on me. Even though Benny should be the one paying, since he’s deserting me and leaving me with God knows who for a co-pilot the rest of the season.
I swear to all things gin, I will drag your ass back here if I’m stuck with some pompous asshole who starts off with ‘Oh boy, a female pilot. Sure you can handle a jet like this?’” I grumble in my ridiculous imitation of an idiotic man’s voice.
Benny shakes his head with a scoff. “You’ll be fine, Kenni! I mean, you’ll never have anyone as perfect as me, but hopefully someone who is at least cool. Besides, you know Theresa and the rest of the flight crew won’t put up with that either.”
He’s right. Theresa is a no-nonsense bitch. She doesn’t take shit from anyone—including me—which is why I make sure to stay out of her way and on my good side. A shiver runs up my spine thinking about the few times I’ve mildly irritated her. That is one flight attendant you do not want to cross.
Still, having her in my corner doesn’t take away the sting of someone questioning my ability to fly an aircraft.
Benny’s one of the good ones who treats me like any other pilot.
Sadly, some aren’t. I have the same number of flight hours, go through the same rigorous training, and set all emotion aside to fly.
I can’t tell you the number of times a male co-pilot came to work in a bad mood, all pissed off about a baseball game, and had a horrible attitude the entire flight.
But if I make any mention of emotion, I’m accused of being too sensitive or having PMS. I dig my fingernails into my palm at the double standard, the black cat inside me wanting to claw it in the face and then ask it to apologize.
I hope that waitress gets back soon, ’cause I need to make another gin and tonic my bitch before spiraling further at the thought of who Benny’s replacement will be.
But instead of a drink being set before me, my annoyance is furthered by a loud group of drunk guys waltzing in. I roll my eyes, then quickly realize it’s not just any bunch of rowdy drunks. It’s the Riders hockey team.
As one of the pilots, I see them on their flights, and I am actually friends with several of their wives and girlfriends, the WAGs as they refer to themselves.
Maggie James, who lives in the apartment down the hall, is engaged to the team goalie, Vladi Volkov.
If you want to talk about two more people who don’t put up with anyone’s shit, add them to the list.
My brow furrows. But I don’t see Vladi in the group.
This club doesn’t really seem like it would be his vibe.
Honestly, I don’t see any of my friends’ spouses here.
They have a home game tomorrow night, then we fly out for several away games, so I’m guessing they are spending some time with their families before the road trip.
I can’t say I’m not jealous. A heavy sigh escapes as the alcohol haze thins, allowing the thoughts I’ve been pushing down to creep back.
While I’m a self-proclaimed badass bitch, and have achieved what I wanted in my career, my stomach churns as something inside me tries to claw its way out.
Something I’ve been meaning to get around to but never really did.
I’ve always been one to do things in my own way and in my own time.
Sleepless nights, wondering if I’ve waited too long. Wondering if my body is even capable of what I want it to do. Why does there have to be a fucking time clock on starting a family?
I shuffle in my seat, my eyes darting around the bar, knowing I’ve got to be the only person in here thinking about this while out at a club.
As I watch the last few players file in the door, an irritating heat rises in my throat as I recognize the one person I try to avoid like the plague—Jordan Boucher.
He struts in wearing jeans and a white T-shirt—probably the most expensive plain white T-shirt known to man, made by some designer I’ve never heard of.
He’s young. He’s cocky. He’s unfairly and ridiculously handsome and, dammit, he knows it.
He flaunts his wealth wearing designer everything.
I’ve been around enough pompous assholes like him, their noses in the air and steeped in an attitude of being better than everyone, to recognize one instantly.
Every time we land, he waltzes down the aisle of the jet, my jet, and says hi to me with a smirk on his face like he owns the damn aircraft.
To my knowledge, the team owns it, not that rich playboy.
I see him in the tabloids, his arm draped around another girl in every picture.
Pardon me for being the only female in America who doesn’t want to be associated with him.
Growing up, my mom worked her ass off for everything we had.
Tapping my fingers on the table, I can’t help the corners of my lips crawling up my face, thinking about what a freaking rock star she is.
She worked two jobs, made sure I went to the best schools, and did it all with a smile on her face.
I knew how hard she worked, some days just so we could have food on the table.
She always pushed me to be the best. To have more than she did.
To never take anything we have for granted, and that hard work is the way to get what you want in life.
And I fucking did that, and I’m damn proud of myself.
And the fact that a guy like him just waltzed through life without a care in the world?
My teeth grind, the bitter taste of his entitlement lingering on my mouth.
He’s probably never had to work a day in his life.
And now he’s made his way over to the bar, chatting up the bartender like he’s her best friend.
Probably offering her a bunch of money to clear out the club so they can have it all to themselves.
My friends and I typically go to Walt’s on Water, the best bar in all of Milwaukee, but decided to change it up for Benny’s last night in town.
I’m quickly regretting that decision.
“Kenni? Earth to Kennedy!” I’m jolted from my thoughts as Benny waves his hand in front of my face, trying to get my attention.
I look down at the table in front of me and see the fresh drink slowly melting.
Shit. Fuck that jerk-face, pretty-boy, as usual, distracting everyone.
I didn’t even notice the waitress drop it off.
My arms tense as I practically strangle the two limes into the glass before picking it up and swirling it around, taking a bigger swig than I probably should.
Why do I let this asshole get me so riled up?
Maybe it’s because on top of his effortless life, he actually is good-looking.
Maybe it’s because it’s been a while since I’ve been with someone.
Maybe it’s the giant gulp of alcohol I just took, but with another few drinks, I would consider letting caution go to the wind with someone that hot.
Whoa, girl…abort mission. For fucks sake I have bottles of gin older than him.
I’m not going there. I am never going there.
Despite his hotness, I could never put up with a conceited, egotistical, privileged rich boy like Jordan Boucher.