Page 4 of Personal Escort

She points to my utilitarian canvas messenger bag. “If you don’t mind stowing it under the seat in front of you…”

“Of course not.” I put it away and pull out my phone, which is already connected to the wireless network. The signal will cutout at ten thousand feet, which means I’ve still got a couple minutes.

I don’t bother to look out the window. I’ve seen this approach into New York a hundred times at least. My best friends live here. I have constant business dealings here.

But ten years ago, I headed west and found my fortune in Silicon Valley.

Plus, I have the Pacific Ocean on my doorstep. It’s hard to beat that.

I open the secure messenger app I use with Jake and Ben.

Toby: In town. Dinner?

Ben’s name immediately pops up in a bubble.

Ben: You know what I appreciate? How much notice you always give us.

Toby: You aren’t a woman I’m trying to impress.

Ben: I’m not even going to touch that.

Ben: Okay, I will. Jesus, I feel sorry for the women you date.

Ben: But yeah, I’m free for dinner. Wait… No, I’m maybe not. Hang on, Cara’s messaging me, too. She’s in town.

Toby: Invite her along.

Ben: Obviously I’m having dinner with my sister. The question is, does she want to extend the invite to your miserable, anti-social, ghosting ass?

The wi-fi cuts out before I can point out that Cara has more in common with me than she does with her brother.

When we land and my phone reconnects to the network, a dozen messages spill in. Jake excusing himself from dinner because he has plans. Ben making fun of my skills with women—which are perfectly acceptable, thank you very much.

Just because I choose not to use them that often, doesn’t mean I don’t know how to leave a woman with a sex-drunk smile on her face at the end of a very long night.

I just have other priorities most of the time. Saving the world, saving my parents, building an empire.

And tonight, dinner with two of my favorite people in the world, because Ben’s also sent the name and address of the restaurant Cara has picked out.

Ben: She’s fine with you tagging along.

It wasn’t that long ago Cara was the one tagging along, not that I ever minded. Even as a teenager, Ben’s youngest sister was sharply curious, a clever girl who had no time for ridiculous drama or hormone-driven conflict.

Toby: Of course she is. You’ll be the one left out.

Six years ago, Cara moved from New York to California to attend Stanford University. For four years, she was literally down the road from me, and across the continent from her over-protective brother and sister, her controlling grandmother, and her self-absorbed parents.

So when she was picked up by campus police in her sophomore year, she called me to bail her out. That was the first secret that bonded us.

Then she applied to Masters programs around the country, and only got into Columbia. Instead of accepting it and moving back home for two years, she begged me for a job so she could buy another year of applying to programs further afield.

I gave her an internship. Secret number two.

For a bunch of reasons, I gave her a position on a different campus from where I work.

Reasons like how she grew the hell up over her four years at Stanford, her body blooming to finally match her very grown-up mind. If I wasn’t careful, Cara could be a dangerous temptation to do something stupid.

Extra-stupid, because she persists in calling me her brother-from-another-mother.

---