Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
“How can I be ready when I don’t know what to be ready for?”
He grins and pulls the brim of his Yankees cap low to his forehead. I don’t blame him for snapping into incognito mode. Hell, I encourage it. We’re surrounded by people, and I’m not keen on the idea of him being recognized while I’m at his side
We’re met at the end of the taxi stand by a random blonde whose job title—and employer—I’m unsure of. Does she work for Ben? She introduces herself as Sarah and ushers us onto a small private shuttle. As we drive away from the terminal, I shoot Ben a puzzled look.
“Seriously, where are we going?” I insist.
“Be patient, Red.”
I make an irritated sound, but force myself to stop asking questions. Arguing with Ben Barrett is about as effective as arguing with a pony.
A few minutes later, we pull up in front of a large private hangar, its doors gaping open to reveal a sleek white airplane.
My jaw drops. “Please don’t tell me this is yours,” I accuse.
“I’m not that rich,” he replies in a mild tone. “But it’s a beauty, eh? The Gulfstream IV—sexiest jet ever built, in my opinion. A friend’s letting me borrow it.”
Borrow it? He talks about borrowing a jet as if it’s a Honda or a fucking Toyota. As we hop out of the shuttle, I can’t take my eyes off the plane. Whether or not Ben owns it suddenly becomes a moot point. That he knows someone who does is enough to leave me wide-eyed and speechless.
People actually live like this? I’ve always known it, but seeing it is an entirely different matter altogether. Seeing it brings a tiny spark of resentment to my gut. I have nothing against someone who can afford a private jet, but it’s just a reminder of everything I don’t have. I don’t aspire to be a jet-setting billionaire who goes through hundred dollar bills like mints, but it would be nice not to worry about saving every penny to pay for basic essentials. The person who owns this plane probably only worries about when it’ll be time to trade in for a newer model.
Ben exchanges a few words with the pilot, who greets us at the bottom of the steps by the jet’s door. Meanwhile, I sweep my gaze along the length of the aircraft. In gold lettering, scrawled across the side, are the words “PAPA G.”
Jeez, does this monstrosity belong to a mobster?
I seriously hope not.
“We’re good to go,” Ben tells me, shifting my overnight bag to his left shoulder so he can put his arm around me again.
I manage a nod and follow him up the steps leading into the cabin. Inside, I openly gawk at our surroundings. There are about twelve seats in the cabin. White leather, with gold seatbelts that—wait, those can’t be real diamonds studded along the buckles, right? Each pair of seats face another, and bolted onto the floor between them are honest-to-God poker tables. With green felt and everything.
“Who owns this?” I blurt out.
“Papa G.”
“Who?”
“Papa G.” Ben furrows his brows. “You know, the rapper?”
My expression remains blank, causing him to sigh.
“You honestly don’t know who Papa G is? LA gangsta rap? ‘Where’s my Bling, Bitch?’”
I’ve entered the Twilight Zone. Only thing missing is the creepy music and a guy named Mulder…or is that a different show?
“You’re borrowing this plane from a rapper who sings about bitches?” I grumble.
“He doesn’t sing, he raps. And yes, I’m borrowing his jet. Papa made a cameo in one of my films last year, so I called in a favor.”
“Oh.” There is really nothing more to say.
“The flight plan has been filed, and we’re all fueled up,” the stone-faced pilot says in a professional voice. “If you could take your seats and strap in, we’ll be ready for takeoff.” He disappears into the cockpit and closes the door.
Ben gestures to one of the window seats. “It’s all yours.”
I gulp. “No, it’s okay, you take it.”
“You sure?”
“Uh-huh.”
During my gawking of G Pappy’s plane, I forgot one very important, very anxiety-inducing thing: I’ve never flown before.
My knees knock together as I sink into one of the leather chairs and fumble with the seatbelt. Although the temperature in the cabin is cool, my nerves scamper around like an anxious kitten.
I try to assume a calm expression, and then turn to Ben and ask, “How familiar are you with current plane crash statistics?”
“Huh?”
“Plane crashes.” I gulp a few times, trying to bring some saliva back into my arid mouth. “How often do they occur? Are smaller planes more likely to go down than larger ones?”
Ben’s movie-star mouth stretches in an amazed smile. “Oh man. You’re scared of flying?”
“What? No. I mean, I don’t know. I’ve never flown before, so I’m not sure if I’m scared of flying.”