Page 2 of Blue Moon

Christ. I was not going to be able to get out of taking this girl up. What the fuck is an influencer anyway? Sounds like another word for lazy millennial. “What does she do for a living?”

“She has a blog and an Instagram account.”

I rolled my eyes. “So basically, she doesn’t work. And we’re feeding into her ego. What’s she going to post about us?”

“She pitched it as, ‘Her Ride with a Blue Angel.’”

I licked my lips, glanced at the picture, and imagined her naked. Well, I could take her for a ride, but not in my plane. Some things were sacred.

“I refuse.”

Beck glared at me.

“Then you’re grounded until next week’s show. We’ll fly without your cocky ass.”

“You can’t be serious. You will fuck up the diamond formation.”

“Well, at least I won’t have to worry about you embarrassing us again at the after-show party.”

Fuck. He had me. I may love to throw down on my days off, but I loved my job. I lived to fly. Being up in my plane was the best high ever.

I threw my hands up in the air. Time to wave the white flag. “Fine, Dad. What do I have to do?”

Beck gave me a smug smile. I wanted to deck the arrogant motherfucker, but he was the flight leader, and there was no use fighting with him. His word was law.

“Easy. You show up tomorrow morning, train her how to breathe during the flight, and then take her up in your plane. Be on your best behavior.” He pointed his finger at me. “Which means you need to be polite, gracious, and respectful. She’s very media savvy and supposedly will get many eyes on the Blue Angels. We need good publicity, especially after your fucking stunt. There are already protests planned for this weekend. And wear your goddamn uniform when you show up on base to meet her—not your bomber jacket and aviators. You aren’t the star of Top Gun 2. And you can’t hit on her under any circumstances.”

Did this motherfucker really think I was that much of a jerk? “Christ, Beck, I’m not that much of a Neanderthal. I can speak to a woman without propositioning her; it is possible.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Maybe if you end up liking her, you can invite her to the gala tomorrow night. She looks like a sweet young lady. It would be good for you to spend some time with a woman you didn’t meet at a bar. Someone you don’t have to pay by the hour. Someone who isn’t a Blue Angel groupie.”

I smirked. I liked my groupies. I had a girl waiting for me in every city, though I hadn’t decided yet who my San Francisco sweetie would be—last year’s model or a new ride. Or maybe both—possibly at the same time. The more, the merrier. “Thanks, bro, but I don’t need your dating advice. I have zero interest in meeting a nice girl and settling down. That’s your whole thing and why you’re engaged. You’re a serial monogamist, Beck. I’m happy for you and Paloma, but that life isn’t for me. I have no desire to have a wife and kids. Ever. I want to live my life and explore the world, no strings attached. But don’t you worry, I’ll show this girl a good time after the flight. A boring time, but a safe, PC date. Maybe I’ll take her mini-golfing, and then we can cap the night off with a hot fudge sundae at Ghirardelli. No nuts. I don’t want to scandalize her.”

Beck shook his head. “You’re a piece of work. A total adrenaline junkie always seeking that next high. Remember this: stable isn’t boring, it’s beautiful. I’ll see you tomorrow for the media flights. You’re dismissed. Now get the fuck out of here.”

I grabbed the photo of my beauty queen and left the building.

Once outside the hangar, I inhaled a deep breath of the fresh Bay Area air. The weather was brisk and sunny, and there wasn’t a single cloud on the horizon. I took a moment to appreciate the beauty of this day and be thankful for my life. A pilot for the Blue Angels. A rock star of the sky. A United States Marine. I wasn’t about to let one stupid flight path dick stunt ruin it.

For a poor boy who grew up deep in the Midwest, it always astounded me I’d achieved my dreams.

Pretty good for a kid whose mother said he would never amount to anything. Not that she had a clue about what I had done with my life. If she could see me now, maybe she would feel guilty for how she’d treated me.

How she let all her men treat me. How they—

I closed my eyes and didn’t allow my mind to finish that thought. I forced myself to live in the present and shut out my past. Why should I waste time thinking about my mother—I doubt she ever thought about me.

I opened my eyes. I needed something to distract me.

I sat on a bench in the sunlight and stared at the picture on the paper.

Solana Sanchez.

All her relevant information—name, date of birth, phone number, address—was printed on top like a résumé. Solana had recently graduated from Stanford University where she’d majored in psychology and minored in communications. In her free time, she enjoyed taking photos of sunsets and teaching English to recent immigrants.

She sounded like a saint.

But I was only interested in sinners.