Fly Me to the Moon Read Free Page B

then they both looked at me.
    And then I saw.
    It wasn’t at all what I thought. It was much worse than that.
    She was a
he.
    “Oh my God!” I whispered, clutching my stomach.
    “Hailey!”
    “Oh, I feel sick,” I said, backing out of the room.
    “Hailey!
Dammit!”
Michael cursed, kicking off both his shoes and pants, and having to start all over again.
    I stumbled blindly into the living room, zipping my skirt and searching frantically for my shoes. I had to get out of there,
immediately!
    I spotted my navy pumps right where I’d thrown them, under the glass-topped coffee table, and was crouched on all fours, butt stuck in the air like a bull’s-eye, when I heard a tentative voice say, “Hailey? Can I please have my jacket? I’m going to be late for signin.”
    And I looked up to see the guy who just moments ago had a mouthful of my boyfriend’s dick. Then I gazed down at the jacket I’d been clutching all this time, thinking it was mine.
    And then I threw it at him, grabbed my bags, and ran.
    And as the door closed behind me, I heard Michael scream, “Hailey, wait! I can explain!
Don’t tell anyone!”

 
     
     
     
    From the moment I gained consciousness I went directly into the stream of questions that mark the start of every flight attendant’s day:
Where am I? What hotel is this? Did I miss my flight? How come I didn’t get my wake up call? Where’s the bathroom?
And in my particular case,
Who’s this hairy person lying next to me?
    Slowly opening one eye, I tried to muster the courage to turn over and see just who was spooning my left shoulder. And as I rotated my head to the side, I was greeted by the steely-eyed stare of Conrad, the snub-nosed Persian named after Kat’s third husband. And then all of yesterday’s events came rushing back.
    All of it.
    Crap.
    After fleeing the scene, I’d flagged down a taxi and without even thinking I gave the driver Kat’s address. But it made sense. I mean. Clay was honeymooning in Chelsea, and all the girlfriends I’d hung with when I first got to New York were now either married, had just given birth, had transferred to another base, were no longer working for Atlas, were commuting to another state, or allof the above. Besides, ever since Kat and I worked a trip to Madrid five years ago, she’d become like a mom to me (although a lot less judgmental than my real mom). And since she was the only one I knew who was senior enough to fly to Istanbul and Athens during the middle of the week, I figured she’d probably be home.
    The second she’d opened the door she’d taken one look at me and said, “I’m pouring you a drink.”
    I’d stumbled into her expansive marble foyer, trying to contain the nausea building inside me. “I think I’m going to be sick,” I’d warned.
    “Nonsense. Just leave your bag and follow me. I want to hear all about it,” she’d said, draping her arm firmly around my shoulders and leading me down the long hall and into the library where she keeps her stash.
    She steered me to a red velvet sofa, and I burrowed deep into the cushions, watching as she busied herself behind the broad mahogany bar. As always her clothing was immaculate, her makeup professionally drawn, and her golden blond bob blown into perfect, shiny submission. And as she reached her long, heavily ringed fingers toward her collection of cut crystal glasses she squinted at me with her piercing blue eyes. “No, this is definitely not a champagne moment,” she said, reaching for a highball and adding several fingers of vodka.
    I was in no mood for alcohol, but I took the glass anyway, sipping the clear, cool liquid and feeling a trail of burn as it made its way down my throat. Then I looked at her and took another, because Kat is not a woman you want to argue with.
    Katina Wilkes-Noble-Whitmore is a Fifth Avenue penthouse-dwelling flight attendant with over thirty years of seniority. A woman who in her amazing life had both served and dined with heads of