“Thank you. I find you incredibly attractive too.” Actually, he did.

“No, you’re attractive. I mean, you look fine. But I thought a pilot would have a little more on the ball.”

“Is this part of that mistress-humiliation-handcuff stuff?”

“No, that’s extra. I’m just making conversation.”

“Oh, I see.” He was beginning to have second thoughts. He had to fly to Houston in the morning, and he really should get some sleep. Still, this would make a great story to tell the guys back at the hangar—if he left out the part about him being a suicidal rodent and her being a prostitute. But he could tell the story without really doing it, couldn’t he?

He said, “I probably shouldn’t fly. I’m a little drunk.”

“Then you won’t mind if I go back to the bar and grab your friend? I might as well make some money.”

“It could be dangerous.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” She smiled.

“No, I mean really dangerous.”

“I have condoms.”

Tucker shrugged. “I’ll get a cab.”

Ten minutes later they were heading across the wet tarmac toward a group of corporate jets.

“It’s pink!”

“Yeah, so?”

“You fly a pink jet?”

As Tuck opened the hatch and lowered the steps, he had the sinking feeling that maybe the businessman at the bar had been right.

2

I Thought This Was a Nonsmoking Flight

Most jets (especially those unburdened by the weight of passengers or fuel) have a glide rate that is quite acceptable for landing without power. But Tucker has made an error in judgment caused by seven gin and tonics and the distraction of Meadow straddling him in the pilot seat. He thinks, per-haps, that he should have said something when the fuel light first went on, but Meadow had already climbed into the saddle and he didn’t want to seem inattentive. Now the glide path is too steep, the runway a little too far. He uses a little body English in pulling back on the steering yoke, which Meadow takes for enthusiasm.