Read Online Fly Me to the Moon by Alyson Noël - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alyson Noël
Tags: GELESEN
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me, and that was the best this bozo could come up with?
I glanced over at Clay, who was surrounded by suits. But he was part of the working crew, which meant he had no choice but to stick around and answer questions. Whereas I, on the other hand, was on my own time. And right or wrong, to me, that little fact made all the difference.
I dragged my bag up the jetway, determined to shake Lawrence.
“Hailey, I know you’ve had a traumatic flight, but you
cannot
walk away,” he said, tailgating me. “We
must
debrief.”
“I’m going home. I’ll e-mail a report tomorrow,” I called over my shoulder as I entered the terminal and beelined for the exit.
There was no way I was “debriefing” with him. This was the same overzealous clown who wrote me up for wearing Ugg boots from my apartment to the airport during one of the worst blizzards the city had ever seen. Never mind that I’d promptly changed into my airline-approved pumps before I signed in. Apparently I’d done great harm to the Atlas image by allowing the crackheads loiteringat the bus stop on the corner of 125th and Lex to peek at my non-regulation snow boots at four o’clock in the morning.
But Lawrence didn’t just limit himself to footwear infractions. Oh no. During the last several years he’d busted me for:
1. Wearing earrings bigger than a quarter.
2. Recklessly allowing my hair to fall past my collar.
3. Sporting opaque hose instead of silky sheer during foul weather.
4. Wearing two silver rings on the same hand and on different fingers.
5. Using a nonapproved piece of luggage when my roll-aboard suffered a severe blowout during a three-day trip. (Apparently I was supposed to have a backup bag on hand. Never mind that this went against the strict two-bag policy that even we were forced to adhere to.)
6. Not wearing the blazer during boarding. (Uh, let’s not even mention that it was 105 degrees outside and 110 in the cabin, as the Atlas suits, intent on saving money, forbade us from using the air conditioner.)
7. Chewing gum in uniform.
8. Using a “designer” lanyard to hold my ID rather than the Atlas-issued chain/clip one. (Even though it wasn’t really designer, but a Burberry plaid knockoff.)
He’d even gone so far as to drag me over to the mirror early one morning, directing me to gaze at my reflection while contemplating the sign overhead that read, “Image is everything” and “This is what your customers see.”
Well, if that’s what they were forced to look at, then I was truly sorry for them. Because not only was there an overworked and underpaid flight attendant with early-morning eye bags, an ugly uniform, and frizzy hair fighting to break free from its company approvedFrench twist, but next to her stood a vertically challenged imbecile with a bad attitude, overplucked brows, sketchy man makeup, and a textbook case of Napoleon complex the likes of which I’d never seen.
No wonder they keep him down here, in the bowels of JFK,
I thought as he pointed out the “wispies” that had spontaneously sprung loose from my hair clip.
“Wispies are frowned upon,” he’d reminded me. “Maybe you should try a stronger hair spray.”
And now he wanted to take a meeting”? Not a chance. Didn’t this guy have papers to push, bucks to pass, lightbulbs to change?
I pushed through the filthy glass door and headed for the bus stop, wondering if he’d follow.
He didn’t.
By the time I made it back to Kat’s I was frantic.
Just how many bodies have I left in my wake?
I wondered, making my way down the hall and bracing for whatever horror I might stumble upon. Would I find three emaciated Persians splayed across the kitchen floor, starving eyes staring at me accusingly? Or would Kat be waiting rigidly at the head of the table, flanked by a team of lawyers, ready to charge me with gross negligence?
I hesitated in the doorway, not sure if I had the guts to go through with it. Then, taking a deep breath, I walked into
I glanced over at Clay, who was surrounded by suits. But he was part of the working crew, which meant he had no choice but to stick around and answer questions. Whereas I, on the other hand, was on my own time. And right or wrong, to me, that little fact made all the difference.
I dragged my bag up the jetway, determined to shake Lawrence.
“Hailey, I know you’ve had a traumatic flight, but you
cannot
walk away,” he said, tailgating me. “We
must
debrief.”
“I’m going home. I’ll e-mail a report tomorrow,” I called over my shoulder as I entered the terminal and beelined for the exit.
There was no way I was “debriefing” with him. This was the same overzealous clown who wrote me up for wearing Ugg boots from my apartment to the airport during one of the worst blizzards the city had ever seen. Never mind that I’d promptly changed into my airline-approved pumps before I signed in. Apparently I’d done great harm to the Atlas image by allowing the crackheads loiteringat the bus stop on the corner of 125th and Lex to peek at my non-regulation snow boots at four o’clock in the morning.
But Lawrence didn’t just limit himself to footwear infractions. Oh no. During the last several years he’d busted me for:
1. Wearing earrings bigger than a quarter.
2. Recklessly allowing my hair to fall past my collar.
3. Sporting opaque hose instead of silky sheer during foul weather.
4. Wearing two silver rings on the same hand and on different fingers.
5. Using a nonapproved piece of luggage when my roll-aboard suffered a severe blowout during a three-day trip. (Apparently I was supposed to have a backup bag on hand. Never mind that this went against the strict two-bag policy that even we were forced to adhere to.)
6. Not wearing the blazer during boarding. (Uh, let’s not even mention that it was 105 degrees outside and 110 in the cabin, as the Atlas suits, intent on saving money, forbade us from using the air conditioner.)
7. Chewing gum in uniform.
8. Using a “designer” lanyard to hold my ID rather than the Atlas-issued chain/clip one. (Even though it wasn’t really designer, but a Burberry plaid knockoff.)
He’d even gone so far as to drag me over to the mirror early one morning, directing me to gaze at my reflection while contemplating the sign overhead that read, “Image is everything” and “This is what your customers see.”
Well, if that’s what they were forced to look at, then I was truly sorry for them. Because not only was there an overworked and underpaid flight attendant with early-morning eye bags, an ugly uniform, and frizzy hair fighting to break free from its company approvedFrench twist, but next to her stood a vertically challenged imbecile with a bad attitude, overplucked brows, sketchy man makeup, and a textbook case of Napoleon complex the likes of which I’d never seen.
No wonder they keep him down here, in the bowels of JFK,
I thought as he pointed out the “wispies” that had spontaneously sprung loose from my hair clip.
“Wispies are frowned upon,” he’d reminded me. “Maybe you should try a stronger hair spray.”
And now he wanted to take a meeting”? Not a chance. Didn’t this guy have papers to push, bucks to pass, lightbulbs to change?
I pushed through the filthy glass door and headed for the bus stop, wondering if he’d follow.
He didn’t.
By the time I made it back to Kat’s I was frantic.
Just how many bodies have I left in my wake?
I wondered, making my way down the hall and bracing for whatever horror I might stumble upon. Would I find three emaciated Persians splayed across the kitchen floor, starving eyes staring at me accusingly? Or would Kat be waiting rigidly at the head of the table, flanked by a team of lawyers, ready to charge me with gross negligence?
I hesitated in the doorway, not sure if I had the guts to go through with it. Then, taking a deep breath, I walked into
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