The Flight Attendant, Chapter 1

I loved my job, even then.

I lived a trapped, sheltered youth in a sad little town, and I was always a free spirit. Other girls always knew the path: marry your high school sweetheart, buy a house a block away from your parents. Two and a half kids, maybe a dog.

For me, that was boring. I didn’t want to get bogged down in the same place, day after day, seeing the same people, the same buildings. No! I wanted to go. I wanted to travel. See the world! I wanted to meet everyone. The boys. The girls, sometimes?

So the day I turned eighteen, I applied to every airline I could find. But most of the major commercial airlines don’t hire 18-year-olds fresh out of high school. I found a way around it: a private airline. They mostly fly millionaires and billionaires to beautiful places all around the world. It was amazing.

Rio, Madrid, Tokyo, Singapore, private islands with no names in the Carribbean… I’ve been everywhere.

Usually, we flew crusty old rich guys. But today, I was excited. It wasn’t some crusty old man and his friends. No, today we flew the Diamond City Devils, my favorite basketball team.

Half the team was on the flight, including Devonte King, who put them on their backs last year on the way to a championship. I had the biggest crush. But good lord, they were all hot. Huge, jacked, rich black men with swag and hands that could palm my head? I got wet just looking at them.

I only wished two things were different about this flight. One: I wished our uniforms weren’t so conservative. I was curvy, and I wanted these boys to know. But we wore these old school flight uniforms. Maybe sexy in the 1960s, but they were way out of date. It was a baby blue dress that cut off right above my knees. Somehow shoulderpads, in 2025! A cute little matching flight cap and white gloves that covered most of my forearms. I liked that part.

The second thing I wished was different: I wished Greta wasn’t the attendant in-charge that day. She’s old and by-the-book, a real stickler for the rules.

But that’s okay, at least these guys paid up for the Gulfstream today. Much more room to work. Those little Learjets made my job impossible.

Hey everyone. We’ve reached our cruising altitude of 51,000 feet. Feel free to move about the cabin, but do try to stay buckled for your safety when seated. Our wonderful attendants, Greta and Olivia, are at your service. Sit back, relax, and enjoy your flight to Jadesville.”

“These boys, my lord,” I mumbled to no one in particular. But Greta interrupted my daydream.

“Behave yourself Olivia! I mean it.”

Devonte and I caught each other’s glance all through takeoff. He was a huge man; they didn’t call him a Power Forward for nothing. He was so big he made his seat, a luxurious leather armchair, look tiny. He wore a gray t-shirt and stark white sweats. His rippling biceps pushed taut against the fabric of his shirt, and his thighs bulged under his pants. Every inch of his exposed arms were covered in beautiful, swirling tattoos. His face seemed to come to rest in a halfcocked, knowing smile, and his eye twinkled.

It didn’t hurt that he’d offered me a little breathmint before takeoff that I’d gladly accepted. By the time I unbuckled for in-flight service, my thighs were dripping, my eyelids were fluttering, and my cheeks were flush. Whether it was from prolonged eye-contact with a stunningly attractive international celebrity, some malfunction in my brain, or a little twist of something extra in that strange little breathmint, I didn’t know.