Captain Murphy—salt and pepper hair in a high-and-tight, good-looking in a severe, hard-eyed way—was first to speak. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. North. I appreciate the opportunity, sir. I’m excited to begin.”
Captain Callahan—younger by ten or fifteen years, in her mid-to-late thirties, pretty, with blond hair in a short, sleek cut—was next. “Let me just get this out of the way, and then I’ll be done—I’m a huge fan, Mr. North.” She grinned. “Okay, that’s it. I just had to get it out of my system. I’m ready to fly, sir. Anytime, anywhere.”
I asked the question Tony had not: “Murphy, I just have one question.”
“Yes, sir?”
“How do you feel about flying with Captain Callahan?”
A pause. “Her qualifications are impeccable, as is her record. I’ll be honored to fly with her.”
I leaned closer to the camera of my iPad. “Honest, now, Murphy. No issues that she’s a woman? I want zero bullshit. So don’t be nice, don’t be politically correct. Just be real.”
He nodded, scratched his clean-shaven jaw. “My daughter is getting her pilot’s license soon. I’ve flown with her several times.” He lifted his hands. “I appreciate your bluntness, Mr. North, so I’ll give it back. I’ll fly with anyone who’s qualified. If she flies as well as her record indicates, we’ll have a happy cockpit. I don’t play favorites and I’m no sexist. My only concern is that we’re professionals.”
“No personal drama, either, right?” I smirked, so they knew what I meant.
Callahan snorted. “No offense meant to you, Captain Murphy, but that’ll never happen. One, I’m a professional. Two, I’m engaged.”
“Three,” Murphy said, grinning, “I’ve been married to the same woman for thirty years, and I plan to be buried next to her, so no worries there.”
I nodded. “You’re both hired. Get to DFW and get familiar with the aircraft.”
“I’m already in DFW,” Murphy said. “This is my hometown.”
“Excellent,” I said. “Callahan?”
She nodded. “I’m in LA right now at the end of a month-to-month job, and my fiancé is self-employed. I can be in Texas tomorrow.”
“Perfect. I’d like to leave for Alaska as soon as possible, so get whatever paperwork done that’s needed, and let me know when we can take off.”
“Sounds good,” Murphy said.
“Same,” Callahan echoed.
I ended the meeting and turned to see Lexie emerging from the bathroom, a towel around her head, another around her torso cinched under her armpits, cleaning out her ears with a Q-tip. Despite the fact that I’d had her less than an hour ago, the sight of Lexie Goode in nothing but a towel was arousing enough to make my dick twitch. And by twitch, I mean stick straight up, hard as a rock. She wasn’t even naked, dammit. But the towel was tiny, a negligible rectangle of white which when cinched around her torso barely closed, the slit in front revealing taunting glimpses of her naked belly, sex, and thighs, and when she turned around, the lower curve of her buttocks as well.
Damn, damn, and double damn, the woman was a fucking siren. Five-six, maybe closer to five-seven. Curvy as fuck. I mean, my god, the woman had curves for days. Brick shithouse. Her tits made my eyes bug out, and the fact that she wasn’t shy about them, wasn’t modest pretty much at all, and didn’t mind flaunting her body made it even better—you’d think with my lifelong exposure to naked boobs that I’d have a better grasp of boob size to bra size, but I didn’t. Maybe because most of the tits I saw were naked, rarely contained in bras. Growing up touring with Dad and Grandpa, I saw more than my share of flashers at concerts and festivals, chicks walking around topless backstage. Then, as I toured myself, both as an underground performer doing the grind and as a top-bill artist selling out venues worldwide, I had way more than my fair share of groupies and backstage bunnies prancing around in various stages of undress.
I digress.
Point being, I had no fucking clue what size her boobs were, other than big. More than a handful, for sure. Being just barely twenty-one, her tits were perky, with small, dark areolae, plump nipples which were insanely sensitive, with lots of those delicious little bumps around the nipples and areolae. They hung low, bottom-heavy, her pert little nips directly dead center. Impossibly proportioned, I would have said, considering the tuck-in of her waist and the swell of her hips. Again, being as familiar with breasts as I was, I knew they were natural—not that I cared either way.
Her hips were…how do I say it without sounding like an asshole or repeating myself? She wasn’t a delicate girl, Lexie. Not overweight at all, but given the improbable size of her tits, I’ll just say she was equally well proportioned below the waist. Thick thighs, no gap, bell-curve hips, plump round ass that had a hypnotic jiggle and sway to it. If she carried anything extra, it was in her hips, ass, and thighs, and she carried it like a fucking goddess.
Her hair was black as ink, buzzed short on the sides and long enough on the top that the tips brushed just past her jaw; she was super creative and daring with her hair—sometimes it was just loose and wild, other times she would style it to brush over to one side or the other, or she would slick it straight back, or braid it tight against her scalp. Never did her hair the same way two days in a row, just however it suited her fancy that day. Her eyes were the exact shade of
