Page 1 of The Last Man on Earth
DAY ONE
Chapter 1
Ariana
I lean against FirstOfficer Harris’ chair, my smile as wide as the airfield in front of us.
“You’re really leaving us, huh?”
I nod. “No more passengers. No more miles. No more rich assholes.”
He laughs heartily as Captain Dorsey takes his place in the cockpit. “Big day for you,” he says, flipping through his pre-flight checklist, calm as ever.
Harris makes a mock sad face. “Are you gonna miss her as much as I am?”
Dorsey nods, his eyes still on his screen. “I’ve already said my goodbyes. I’m gonna miss seeing that pretty smile.”
Harris looks up at me, a half-smile tugging at his weathered face. “Master’s degree, huh?”
“It’s never too late.”
He picks up my hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it. “You will be sorely missed.”
Tears well up in my eyes. I swallow the big lump in my throat and say, “I’m gonna miss you gentlemen. Flying with you has been a pleasure.”
I truly mean that part. I’ve been an in-flight concierge with Echelon for almost fifteen years now. These two men are very special to me. We’ve crossed oceans together, accumulated over a million miles together, and shared milestones that make them feel more like family than coworkers.
“You’re getting quite the sendoff today,” Harris teases. “The passenger manifest looks like the guest list at theSourceAwards.”
I swat his arm playfully, but it’s a truth I can’t refute. I have the distinctdispleasure of serving famous rapper Villain and his entourage on today’s private flight to Rio de Janeiro.
At thirty-seven, I think I’m a little older than his target demographic, but I know who he is. My nieces listen to him, although they really shouldn’t. His latest song went number one on the Billboard charts last month—entitled “No Mercy for No Bitch”—and he’s fresh off of two Grammy wins and a sold out arena tour.
The world is his oyster right now.
Twenty-seven seems young to marry, especially when you can tell from his music that his frontal lobe needs a lot more cook time, but I ain’t his mama.
“Seriously, Ari,” Harris says, his face going tense. “If you have any problems back there—“
“I know, I know. Give you a ring.”
He nods, his face grim.
“Let’s get a pic of our last flight together,” I say, already making the short walk to my bag to get my phone.
They turn in their chairs, and I strike a pose between them, quickly uploading to my story with the captionFarewell flight with these amazing gentlemen!
My phone buzzes in my hand just as I exit Instagram. I step out into the galley to answer, happy to see my sister’s name.
“What do you want?” I greet her playfully.
“To wish you luck and congratulate you on your last flight. Mean ass.”
I burst out laughing at my twin sister. Ashara is exactly two minutes and twenty-four seconds older than me, a fact she never lets me forget.
“Congratulate meafter,” I say. “Don’t jinx me.”
“Girl, shut up.” Her voice is warm and teasing. “One more takeoff and one more landing. I’m so proud of you.”
