Turbulence

  His mouth briefly covered mine in a searing kiss, and I dug my nails into his skin.

  “Our building—every unit actually, is cleaned and maintained by Spring Clean Associates, and if you live here, you’ll have a direct line to them whenever you need something. You’ll also have access to this private mail room.”

  My pussy throbbed against Jake’s cock and I felt myself seconds away from losing control, seconds away from screaming out.

  “Do you hear something?” A male voice said behind the package counter.

  “No, not really.” The realtor said flatly. “What does it sound like?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Ah...” I let a small murmur escape my lips and Jake stamped his mouth over mine as my body shook against his. He muffled every moan—holding me taut as I came and gave in.

  The sound of the footsteps walking in the opposite direction came next, and when we heard the sound of the doors closing, Jake pumped into me a few more times and found his own release.

  “Fuck, Gillian...” He breathed. “Fuck...”

  Still entwined, the two of us stared at each other, me still soaking wet, his cock still hard and slightly jerking inside of me.

  Shaking his head, he kept his hands on my hips and gently pulled me off of him, setting me onto the floor.

  Panting heavily, I looked into his eyes for a reaction—searching for what he may have been thinking, but I saw storms swirling in his irises, saw dark grey specks of uncertainties in his bright blue. I saw potential moments like this one, words spoken that meant nothing, and most importantly, I saw pain. For the both of us.

  Without saying a word, he pressed my elastic band into my hand and stepped back.

  Avoiding his gaze, I slipped my left leg into my khakis and picked up one of my fallen earrings. I leaned against the corner and waited for him to walk away, but he simply zipped his pants and stared at me.

  “This can’t happen again,” I said finally.

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’m serious. You can’t have my phone number.”

  “I don’t recall asking for it.” He tilted my chin up with his fingertips. “I was saying I’m sure because I definitely agree with you. This doesn’t need to ever happen again.” He stepped back and adjusted his belt, keeping his eyes on mine.

  I stared at him as he smoothed his shirt, as he walked back into the sight of the cameras. Then, as if he hadn’t just fucked me against the wall, he uttered a mere “Goodbye, Gillian,” and headed out of the room and toward the elevators.

  All of a sudden, something came over me and I followed him into the hallway.

  “Wait,” I said, and he immediately stopped and looked over his shoulder.

  “Yes?”

  “I have a very good reason as to why I said this can’t happen again, but...”

  “But what?”

  The elevator doors opened.

  “What’s yours?” I asked.

  “My reasoning?” He crossed his arms. “I actually have three.”

  “Care to share?”

  “One, no pussy is that good for me to want to continue to fuck it more than a few times in a row. Including yours. Two, you strike me as the ‘want a boyfriend’ type and three, see my previous number one.”

  “Fuck you, Jake.” I stepped closer to him as he stepped into the elevator, hating that he made me so argumentative. “For the record, the sex with you was just okay. I’ve had much better, so much better.”

  “No, you fucking haven’t.”

  “I have, and you know what? Now that I never have to see you in person again, I think I should bring someone back to your place tonight so you and your excess of security cameras can have plenty of video footage for how it’s really done.”

  “Fucking try me, Gillian.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Bring someone up to my condo and fucking try me.”

  “I will, Jake. I will.”

  “Stop talking.” His lips touched mine. “Stop talking right now.”

  “You first.” I moved back as the elevator doors began to close. “I hope to never see you again, Jake.”

  “You won’t, Gillian.”

  TERMINAL B:

  BOY CHARMS GIRL

  GATE B7

  JAKE

  New York (JFK)—> Montreal (YUL)—> Dallas (DAL)

  Four weeks later...

  Out of all the cities I’d flown to over my lifetime, New York was the only one that managed to look different every time. No matter the season, no matter the time of day, its grey and imposing skyline cut through fog, rain, and snow, forever changing. And as I looked at Manhattan’s glittering buildings from my window tonight, I wondered what would change next.

  Utterly restless, I was bullshitting—laying in my bed and attempting to occupy my mind with something other than Gillian. For nearly a month, she’d managed to leave an imprint on my mind with her smart-ass mouth and argumentative ways. With her undeniable, addictive sex.

  Thoughts of her were invading my nights and crossing my mind at the most random moments. They were getting so out of hand, that last week I could’ve sworn I saw her in Terminal A at Atlanta-Hartsfield International, but I’d walked away, knowing that it was simply my imagination getting the best of me.

  Instead of meeting up with the various women I knew in layover cities, I was changing my mind at the very last minute—canceling hotel reservations and avoiding scheduled rendezvous. My nights in stopover hotel rooms were spent filling crossword puzzles instead of pussy¸ pursuing google searches instead of orgasms. All because the one woman I needed to fuck was somewhere I couldn’t find, because I wanted that type of sex again.

  With the women in my phone, I knew exactly what I was getting—knew exactly how the sex would begin and end, but the two times with Gillian were far more unpredictable. Far more memorable and enjoyable, too.

  Groaning, I got out of bed and walked down the hallway, stopping once I caught sight of my living room. My television was flung across the floor, face down; the metal on its sides completely twisted and mangled. Shards of my shattered glass coffee table glistened from the grey area rug, and a few shot glasses lay in pieces on the couch.

  I sighed and stepped around the crime scene carnage, immediately dialing Jeff.

  “Yes, Mr. Weston?” he answered on the first ring.

  “I need a replacement television and a coffee table brought here tomorrow.”

  “You broke them again?”

  “No, I woke up and they were already broken. I may need to file a police report...”

  “Very funny, sir. That’s the sixth time this month, twelfth time this year.”

  “You’re counting?”

  “Someone has to,” he said, heaving a sigh. “I take that to mean that your sleeping problems are not getting better like you claimed last week?”

  “This phone call is about the TV and the coffee table, Jeff. Not my sleeping problems.”

  “I’ll have them fix the material things as always, Mr. Weston. But I’ll have you know that as your doorman and personal confidante, I sent you some helpful therapy brochures via mail. I would like you to consider them, for me.”

  “Fine.” I rolled my eyes and walked into the kitchen, thumbing through a stack of envelopes. “When exactly did you send them? The only thing I have is junk mail and bills from a while back.”

  “Three weeks ago.” He sounded confused. “You should’ve received them by now. They weren’t in your mailbox?”

  I stopped thumbing through my mail and sighed. I hadn’t returned to the mailroom since the time I ran into Gillian.

  “You can’t possibly think it’s the mailman who goes through all that trouble...”

  “I’ll take a look at them tomorrow, Jeff. Thank you.” I hung up.

  I knew the cold sweats and the need to wake up and break things was intensifying by the week, but I didn’t need a therapist to tell me the obvious reason why they were getting worse. The diagnosis was quite clear: Lack of fuc
king.

  I opened a Coke and poured it into a glass, waiting for the fizz to settle. But before I could take a sip, I spotted a row of death out the corner of my eye.

  My perennials.

  Jesus...

  Forcing another thought of Gillian and her long rant out of my mind, I filled a tea kettle and watered all of them—making a mental note to hire someone to do this for me whenever I was away flying. Someone who wouldn’t illegally stay the night.

  When I was finished, I grabbed my phone, determined to meet up with someone, anyone, this week to finally get her and her pussy off my mind. I swiped my finger across the screen and noticed a slew of unread text messages that were more than two or three days old.

  Atlanta—Nina: You flying my way at all this month?

  Memphis—Penelope: You never showed up Friday...You okay?

  Los Angeles—Sarah: Did you stand me up on purpose? I thought we agreed to meet here six weeks ago...

  Dallas-Nicole: Hey, it’s been awhile. You still flying?

  I started to respond to all of their texts with new dates and locations, estimated times I would be in their respective cities, but I couldn’t do it. At least, not right now, anyway.

  I gave in and dialed Jeff.

  “Hello again, Mr. Weston. What do you need now?”

  “I need your help.”

  “That’s a given, sir. You are a sad, sad soul. I take it you opened some of my brochures.”

  “Fuck your brochures.” I heard him laughing. “I need you to help me find someone who used to work here as a housekeeper, but I don’t want to go through the manager. I need to know where she currently works.”

  “Should I assume that this person is a woman?”

  “Since I said the word ‘she’, I think that would be a pretty accurate assumption.”

  “Should I also assume that this woman’s name is Gillian?”

  “No.”

  “I thought so.” He laughed. “I’ll tell you exactly where she’s working now. I think I can do that.”

  “Right now is a good time to start.”

  He laughed harder. “There’s a catch.”

  “Do tell.”

  “You’ll have to agree to go to at least one consult with a professional therapist, and then I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  I hung up.

  I’ll figure this shit out myself...

  GILLIAN

  ~BLOG POST~

  One year ago...

  If you ever want to know how to crush someone’s spirit, the recipe is fairly simple: One-part unemployment, two (part-time) jobs that won’t officially begin for thirty days, and three parts moving into a rundown Brooklyn apartment with a random girl you met off Craigslist.

  Stir well. Serve cold.

  I never thought I’d say this, but New York City has officially lost its luster for me. That blinding brightness I once admired is now tainted with the darker shades of hopelessness everyone tried to warn me about.

  I can’t walk down Fifth Avenue without feeling like a failure, and those dazzling dreams I used to dream don’t feel like possibilities anymore. They’re all daunting delusions of grandeur.

  For a split second, I considered returning home to Boston—telling my family that they were right. I thought I could sit in my old room and figure out another direction for my life, all while ignoring their incessant put downs and relentless repeats of ‘I told you so’. But yesterday, when my older sister called me and said, “I just bet Dad another thousand that you’ll be back by this Christmas.”—I decided I’d rather deal with my new hand in life instead of folding.

  All of that said, I’m deactivating this blog today. There’s no point in blogging for an audience of trolls, or posting things that will only be seen in the far, unvisited corners of the internet.

  I probably won’t have time to blog anyway. Between being a “domestic engineer” (a nice word for housekeeper) and a floating reserve flight attendant (a nice word for “flying waitress”), I’ll be laughing at the irony in all this.

  And since my college degree is now practically worthless, and I’m blacklisted from most of the places I’d actually want to work, I leave this blog with this:

  FUCK YOU.

  Fuck you, New York City.

  Fuck you, New York Times.

  Fuck you, you know who you are.

  And fuck you, Kimberly.

  Fuck. You.

  Write later

  Write never,

  **Taylor G.**

  1 comment posted:

  KayTROLL: Who is this audience of “trolls” (plural) that you speak of? I’m still your only fucking follower...

  GATE B8

  GILLIAN

  Portland (PDX )—> Dallas (DAL)—> London (HTW)

  The alarm clock in my hotel room sounded at exactly 6:00 a.m., and it took everything in me not to cry and wish that this was some type of joke. With every muscle in my body still aching, and my feet so numb and sore that I could barely feel them anymore, I would’ve killed for a few more hours of rest. Or at least another assignment...

  Being assigned to work the first class cabin at Elite was the ultimate prison sentence, and unless there was some type of divine intervention soon, I was certain I wasn’t going to last too much longer.

  For four weeks, I’d completed all the over the top wine and cheese services, the five course meals, and the ‘check on the first class passengers every twenty minutes’ rule as I flew from Portland to Ft. Lauderdale, Seattle to Los Angeles, Atlanta to Beijing, Beijing to New York. Not to mention the numerous stopover and layover cities in between.

  I’d rushed through the terminals in the newest set of mandated heels—a full inch higher than before, and forced myself to smile as I encountered the rudest of passengers. Adjusting to the constant time zone changes, I was shocked that I’d managed to keep my frustration under wraps, especially since I’d been paired to work with the one supervisor everyone told me was the worst.

  “The Hawk.” Miss Connors.

  Obsessed with perfection, she scrutinized my every move, monitored my every breath. According to her, the bobby pins in my hair were always “too aligned to the left,” my beverage pouring skills “resembled those of a blind waitress,” and I was not “worthy” of sharing her line that featured so many “trips of luxury.”

  She was always around. Always. And no matter how many times I tried to do things “The Elite Way,” she would insist that I was doing things “the wrong way.”

  My only reprieve from her came when we checked into our separate hotel rooms. While most of the crew hung out at the hotel bar or left to explore the city, I stayed in my room and collected as many hours of sleep as possible. And no matter how many nights I vowed to dream about something other than Jake, my mind always overruled my intentions.

  Images of his kissing and fucking me intruded on my most innocent thoughts, and I still dreamed of the way his lips owned mine. I tried to move on, to take Meredith’s advice and “try someone else,” but no other man quite compared. The attraction was only half as intense, the sexiness of the conversations never came close.

  After my alarm sounded for a full five minutes, I rolled across the mattress and turned it off. Then I grabbed the room phone and dialed zero.

  “You’ve reached the front desk at the Dallas Airport Marriott!” a woman answered on the first ring. “How may I help you this morning?”

  “Could I have a few more coffee pods?”

  “Absolutely!” She was too cheery for this time of day. “Decaf or regular?”

  “Regular.”

  “I’ll have someone send it right on up!”

  I wrapped myself into one of the hotel’s robes and sat in the corner chair, preparing to slowly wake up and spend the few hours before my next flight watching mindless television, but my older brother’s name suddenly came across my phone’s screen.

  I hesitated before answering, not sure whether I should talk to him this early or not. br />
  Brian wasn’t as bad as my sisters or my parents, but he never stood up for me either. He would laugh at their put-downs, but offer me a sympathetic smile right after. He’d fill me in on his life—with no air of arrogance at all, but he would never even try to act as if I was working toward something good in my own life.

  Before his call could go to voicemail, I took a deep breath and answered. “Hey, Brian, what’s going on?”

  “What’s going on? What’s going on!”

  Ugh...

  It wasn’t Brian at all. It was my oldest sister, Claire.

  “I’ve called you two times a day—every day for the past two weeks, Gillian. And not only have you refused to return the calls or even considered the thought of texting back, you answer right away for Brian. I wonder why that is...”

  “Probably because Brian isn’t a bitch...”

  “What did you just say?”

  “Nothing.” I cleared my throat. “Is something wrong?”

  “Brian changed his mind about the proposal. Instead of doing it here at home, he’s going to propose to her in New York since that’s where they met, and he really wants you to be there. So, make sure you’ve taken off from your little job, if you haven’t already, and if we can’t find a suitable hotel, we’ll need to stay in that Lexington Avenue apartment you brag about so much. Have I already mentioned that you need to take off from your little job?”

  “My job is not little, Claire.” I snapped. “It’s quite important.”

  “Is it?” She laughed. “Because if it’s that important, why isn’t your name listed on the website anymore? Why is it that when I searched for it last week, you weren’t on the list?”

  I gritted my teeth, halfway believing the concocted lie myself. “Like I told you before, I was—” I coughed. “I am the fifth junior editor in my department. They only list the top three, and for the umpteenth time, being the youngest junior editor in history at The New York Times is far from being little.”

  “You’re right,” she said, somewhat genuinely. “Me and Amy are studying and searching for cures to well-known viruses, Mia is setting milestones in medicine, Ben is winning every case the courts throw at him, and you...” She sighed. “You’re getting paper cuts and making red-lined marks on articles no one reads. So, I guess you’re right, Gillian. Your job is far from ‘little’ after all. It’s nothing.”