Island of the Sequined Love Nun

don't know what they want. Maybe they only look like lemmings."
    "Everyone knows what they want. You know what you want, don't you?"
    "Sure, I know," Tucker said. What he wanted right now was to get out of this conversation and get to know the girl at the end of the bar before closing time. She'd been staring at him for five minutes.
    "What?" The businessman wanted an answer. He waited.
    "I just want to keep doing what I'm doing. I'm happy."
    The businessman shook his head. "I'm sorry, son, but I don't buy it. You're going over the cliff with the rest or the lemmings."
    "You should be a motivational speaker," Tuck said, his attention drawn by the girl, who was getting up, putting money on the bar, picking up her cigarettes, and putting them into her purse.
    She said, "I know what I want."
    The businessman fumed and gave his best avuncular horndog smile. "And what's that, sweetheart?"
    She walked up to Tucker and pressed her breasts against his shoulder. She had brown hair that fell in curls to her shoulders, blue eyes, and a nose that was a tad crooked, but not horribly so. Up close she didn't even look old enough to drink. Heavy makeup had aged her at a distance. Looking the businessman in the eye, as if she didn't notice Tucker at all, she said, "I want to join the mile-high club, and I want to join it tonight. Can you help me?"
    The businessman looked at Tucker's captain's hat on the bar, then back at the girl. Slowly, defeated, he shook his head.
    She pressed harder against Tucker's shoulder. "How about you?"
    Tucker grinned at the businessman and shrugged by way of apology. "I just want to keep doing what I'm doing."
    The girl put on his captain's hat and pulled him off of the barstool. He dug into his pocket for money as she dragged him toward the exit.
    The businessman raised a hand. "No, I've got the drinks, son. You just remember what I said."
    "Thanks," Tuck said.
    Outside in the lobby the girl said, "My name's Meadow." She kept her eyes forward as she walked, taking curt marching steps as if she was leading him on an antiterrorist mission instead of seducing him.
    "Pretty name," Tucker said. "I'm Tucker Case. People call me Tuck."
    She still didn't look up. "Do you have a plane, Tuck?"
    "I've got access to one." He smiled. This was great. Great!
    "Good. You get me into the mile-high club tonight and I won't charge you. I've always wanted to do it in a plane."
    Tucker stopped. "You're a… l mean, you do this for…"
    She stopped and turned to look him in the eye for the first time. "You're kind of a geek, aren't you?"
    "Thank you. I find you incredibly attractive too." Actually, he did.
    "No, you're attractive. I mean, you look fine. But I thought a pilot would have a little more on the ball."
    "Is this part of that mistress-humiliation-handcuff stuff?"
    "No, that's extra. I'm just making conversation."
    "Oh, I see." He was beginning to have second thoughts. He had to fly to Houston in the morning, and he really should get some sleep. Still, this would make a great story to tell the guys back at the hangar-if he left out the part about him being a suicidal rodent and her being a prostitute. But he could tell the story without really doing it, couldn't he?
    He said, "I probably shouldn't fly. I'm a little drunk."
    "Then you won't mind if I go back to the bar and grab your friend? I might as well make some money."
    "It could be dangerous."
    "That's the point, isn't it?" She smiled.
    "No, I mean really dangerous."
    "I have condoms."
    Tucker shrugged. "I'll get a cab."
    Ten minutes later they were heading across the wet tarmac toward a group of corporate jets.
    "It's pink!"
    "Yeah, so?"
    "You fly a pink jet?"
    As Tuck opened the hatch and lowered the steps, he had the sinking feeling that maybe the businessman at the bar had been right.

2 – I Thought This Was A
    Nonsmoking Flight
    Most jets (especially those unburdened by the weight of passengers or fuel) have a glide rate that is quite acceptable for landing without power. But Tucker has made an error in judgment caused by seven gin and tonics and the distraction of Meadow straddling him in the pilot seat. He thinks, perhaps, that he should have said something when the fuel light first went on, but Meadow had already climbed into the saddle and he didn't want to seem inattentive. Now the glide path is too steep, the runway a little too far. He uses a little body English in pulling back on the steering yoke, which Meadow takes for enthusiasm.
    Tucker