Chapter 3: The Pilot's Appetite
The taxi smelled like cigarettes and something floral—jasmine, maybe, or the ghost of a woman's perfume. Dom sat in the back, watching Seville scroll past the window, and tried not to think about the way Marisol's hair had fallen across her face when she'd asked him that question.
What are you missing?
He didn't have an answer. That was the problem.
The driver took the bridge across the Guadalquivir, and the river caught the morning light like a sheet of hammered copper. Dom closed his eyes. The motion of the car, the warmth, the exhaustion—it all pulled him under, and suddenly he wasn't in Seville anymore.
He was twenty-five.
---
Bangkok hit him like a fever.
The heat came first—wet, heavy, clinging to his skin like a second uniform. Then the smell: diesel fumes and lemongrass, rotting fruit and incense, all of it swirling together into something that shouldn't have worked but did. Dom stepped out of the crew van and into the chaos of Khao San Road, and for a moment, he just stood there, grinning like an idiot.
He'd done it. Eight hours across the Pacific, his first real international route as a first officer, and he'd nailed the landing. Not a bounce. Not a drift. Just grease, the kind of touchdown that made the captain nod and say, "Not bad, kid."
Not bad.
He was twenty-five years old, and the world was his.
"Vale!" Someone grabbed his shoulder—Kenji, his co-pilot, barely older than him but already balding, already married, already acting like a father. "You're not seriously going out tonight."
"I'm absolutely going out tonight."
"We've been awake for twenty hours."
"So?"
"So you should sleep."
Dom laughed. "Sleep is for people who don't have a layover in Bangkok."
Kenji shook his head, but he was smiling. "You're gonna burn out, man."
"Probably." Dom clapped him on the back. "But not tonight."
The rooftop bar was on the fifty-second floor of a hotel that cost more per night than Dom made in a week. He didn't care. The crew had a standing arrangement with the airline—discounted rooms, free drinks, a place to decompress before the next leg. Dom had been here for exactly ten minutes, and he was already on his second whiskey.
The view was obscene. Bangkok sprawled below him like a circuit board, all neon and darkness, the Chao Phraya River cutting through it like a wound. Rain threatened on the horizon—monsoon season, the captain had said, don't get caught in it—but for now, the sky was clear, and the city was burning.
Dom leaned against the glass railing and scanned the room.
That was the ritual. The hunt. He didn't think of it that way, not exactly, but the mechanics were the same. Scan. Assess. Approach. He was good at it—had been since he was seventeen, since the first time a girl at a party in Denver had looked at him like he was something worth having. He'd learned early that charm was a muscle. Use it or lose it.
Tonight, the room was full of options. A group of flight attendants from a Japanese airline, laughing too loudly. A pair of German tourists, sunburned and drunk. A woman alone at the bar, blonde, mid-thirties, nursing something pink.
But then he saw her.
She was standing near the edge of the rooftop, away from the crowd, looking out at the city. Dark hair pulled back. A sleeveless dress the color of champagne. Arms crossed, posture straight—not defensive, just... contained. Like she was used to being watched and didn't care.
A man stood beside her. Older. Balding. Talking on his phone, gesturing with his free hand.
Husband, Dom thought.
He didn't care.
He finished his whiskey, set the glass on a passing tray, and walked over.
"Beautiful view," he said, stopping a few feet away.
The woman turned. Her eyes were green, sharp, assessing. She looked him up and down—the uniform trousers, the white shirt with the epaulettes, the wings pinned to his chest—and smiled.
"Are you talking to me or the city?"
"Both."
"My husband's right there."
"I know."
She glanced at the man, who was still on his phone, oblivious. Then she looked back at Dom. "You're a pilot."
"First officer."
"First officer." She repeated it like she was tasting it. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-five."
"Jesus." She laughed. "I've got underwear older than you."
"Good underwear, I hope."
Another laugh. This one warmer. "You're bold."
"I'm honest."
"That's a line."
"Maybe." He stepped closer. "But it's working, isn't it?"
She didn't answer. Just looked at him with those green eyes, and Dom felt the familiar rush—the thrill of the chase, the certainty that he was about to win.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Rachel."
"Rachel." He let it roll off his tongue. "I'm Dom."
"Short for?"
"Dominic."
"Dominic." She tilted her head. "You're not old enough to be a pilot."
"I'm old enough."
"You look like you should be in college."
"I dropped out."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to fly." He shrugged. "And because I was bored."
"Bored." She laughed again. "You're twenty-five and you're bored."
"I'm twenty-five and I'm in Bangkok." He leaned against the railing beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. "What else is there?"
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "My husband's going to be on that phone for another twenty minutes. He's closing a deal in Sydney."
"Okay."
"Then he's going to want to go back to the room."
"Okay."
"So if you're going to do something stupid, you should do it now."
Dom looked at her. She was older than him—mid-thirties, maybe. The lines at the corners of her eyes. The wedding ring on her finger, gold and simple. She was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with youth.
"Your room or mine?" he asked.
"Yours. Mine's a suite. He'll notice."
"Then let's go."
She told her husband she was going to the bathroom. The man nodded, still on the phone, still oblivious. Rachel walked past Dom without looking at him, and he followed a few seconds later, careful, casual.
The elevator was empty. She pressed the button for the 38th floor. The doors closed.
The moment they were alone, she turned and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It was hungry—the kind of kiss that came from years of wanting something you weren't supposed to have. She tasted like champagne and lipstick, and her hands were already at his belt, fumbling with the buckle.
"Slow down," he said against her mouth.
"No." She pulled back just enough to look at him. "I've got maybe an hour. Maybe less. So shut up and fuck me."
The elevator dinged. The doors opened.
His room was small—a bed, a desk, a window overlooking the city. She pushed him onto the mattress and climbed on top of him, her dress already hiking up her thighs.
"Condom," she said.
"Wallet."
She found it, rolled it on with practiced efficiency, and then she was sinking down onto him, and Dom forgot how to breathe.
She was tight. Wet. Hot in a way that bordered on painful. She rode him hard, her hands braced on his chest, her hips snapping back and forth with a rhythm that felt almost angry. The wedding ring on her finger caught the light, and Dom watched it—watched the way it glinted as she moved.
"Fuck," she breathed. "You feel—"
"I know."
"Don't get cocky."
"Too late."
She laughed, then moaned as he thrust up into her. The sound was raw, unguarded, and Dom grabbed her hips, pulled her down harder.
"You like that?" he asked.
"Yes. God, yes."
"Say my name."
"Dom—"
"Say it again."
"Dom." She leaned forward, her hair falling around them like a curtain. "Dom, fuck me harder."
He flipped her onto her back, shoved her legs apart, and drove into her. The bed slammed against the wall. She clawed at his shoulders, her nails leaving marks, and he didn't care. He was lost in the heat of her, the smell of her, the way she kept saying his name like a prayer.
"Don't stop," she gasped. "Don't you dare stop."
"I'm not stopping."
"Harder—"
He gave her harder. The headboard cracked against the wall, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled. The monsoon had arrived. Rain lashed against the window, and the city below blurred into a smear of light and water.
"Come," he said. "Come for me."
"Not yet—"
"Now."
She came with a cry that was almost a scream, her body arching off the bed, her thighs clamping around his waist. Dom held on for three more thrusts, then followed her over the edge, his vision going white.
When it was over, they lay there, breathing hard. The rain was still falling. The city was still burning.
Rachel sat up first. She didn't look at him as she pulled her dress down, fixed her hair, checked her phone.
"I need to go," she said.
"I know."
She stood, walked to the door. Then she paused, hand on the knob.
"He's a good man," she said. "My husband."
"I didn't ask."
"I know." She turned to look at him. "You don't care, do you?"
Dom didn't answer.
"That's what I thought." She opened the door. "Good luck, Dominic."
Then she was gone.
Dom lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling. The rain drummed against the window. The city hummed below. He should have felt something—guilt, maybe, or shame. But all he felt was the familiar emptiness, the one that crept in after every encounter, the one he'd been running from since he was seventeen.
He got up. Showered. Dressed.
The crew hotel was six blocks away. He walked through the rain, letting it soak through his uniform, and tried not to think about the wedding ring, the way it had clicked against the headboard.
Kenji was in the lobby when he arrived, nursing a beer and watching the news.
"You look like shit," Kenji said.
"Thanks."
"Good night?"
Dom shrugged.
"Same as always, huh?"
"Yeah." Dom sat down across from him. "Same as always."
Kenji didn't say anything. Just handed him a beer and turned back to the TV. The news was showing something about a typhoon in the Philippines. Flights grounded. Crews stranded.
Dom drank his beer and stared at the screen. Tomorrow, he'd be in Tokyo. The day after, Seoul. Then back to LA, then New York, then somewhere else—somewhere new, somewhere with fresh women and fresh bars and fresh chances to forget.
He thought about Rachel. The way she'd said his name. The way she'd looked at him like he was a mistake she was making on purpose.
He thought about the way she'd left.
He finished his beer, stood up, and walked to the elevator. Tomorrow was another city. Another night. Another woman.
That was the life he'd chosen.
That was the life he wanted.
That was what he told himself, anyway.
---
The taxi hit a pothole, and Dom's eyes snapped open.
He was back in Seville. The sun was higher now, the streets busy with morning traffic. His phone buzzed again—Kenji, probably, wondering where the hell he was.
Dom looked at the message.
Kenji: Yuki says if you're not here in ten minutes, she's giving your portion to the dog.
Dom typed back: Tell her I'm on my way.
He put the phone away and looked out the window. The Guadalquivir was behind him now, and ahead was the neighborhood where Kenji lived—a quiet street lined with orange trees, the kind of place where people knew their neighbors.
He thought about Rachel. He hadn't thought about her in years. Hadn't thought about Bangkok, or the rain, or the way she'd said good luck like it was a curse.
He wondered if she was still married. If she ever thought about him. If she'd told anyone about the pilot who'd fucked her on a layover while her husband closed a deal in Sydney.
Probably not.
The taxi stopped. Dom paid the driver and stepped out into the morning sun. The air smelled like oranges and diesel, and somewhere down the street, a dog was barking.
He walked toward Kenji's door and tried not to think about Marisol.
But he thought about her anyway.
Come back, she'd said. When you figure out what you're missing.
He still didn't know.
But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to.
The morning light carved through the orange trees, dappling the cobblestones in gold and shadow. Dom stood at Kenji's door, hand raised to knock, when the memory hit him like a fist to the sternum.
Tokyo. Five years before Bangkok. The night that had taught him everything he thought he knew.
He lowered his hand. Closed his eyes. Let it come.
---
Narita International, 1999.
The crew bus smelled like instant coffee and resentment. Dom sat in the back, still riding the high of a flawless approach into a crosswind that had made two other pilots divert to Osaka. Twenty-five years old, first year on international routes, and he'd already earned a reputation.
Not all of it good.
"Vale." Captain Morrison turned in his seat, jowls trembling with the motion of the bus. "You want to tell me why you ignored my call to go around?"
"Didn't need to."
"That wasn't your call to make."
"We landed, didn't we?"
Morrison's face went red. The other crew members—two flight attendants, a relief pilot—stared at their shoes. Dom stared out the window.
The hotel was in Shinjuku, a glass tower surrounded by neon and rain. Dom checked in alone, rode the elevator alone, stood in his room alone, listening to the city hum thirty floors below.
He should have been satisfied. He should have been proud.
He was neither.
The bar was on the top floor, all black marble and low lighting, the kind of place where businessmen came to forget their wives and their debts and their failures. Dom ordered whiskey, sat at the end of the counter, and waited.
He didn't know what he was waiting for. Not yet.
An hour passed. Two. The whiskey burned through him, loosening something in his chest. He checked his watch—nearly midnight—and decided to call it.
Then she sat down beside him.
"I've been watching you," she said.
He turned. She was young—his age, maybe younger—with a sharp bob and eyes that tilted up at the corners, like she was always smiling at something private. She wore the airline's uniform, but her jacket was unbuttoned, her tie loose.
"Should I be flattered or concerned?"
"Depends." She signaled the bartender. "Are you an asshole?"
"Sometimes."
"Good." She ordered sake, something expensive. "I hate nice men."
Dom laughed. It was the first real laugh he'd had in weeks.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Aiko."
"Aiko." He repeated it carefully, feeling the shape of it. "Flight attendant?"
"Purser. First year."
"First year and already a purser?"
"I'm good at my job." She sipped her sake. "And I'm good at other things."
"Like what?"
She looked at him. Her eyes were dark, almost black, and they held something he recognized—a hunger that had nothing to do with food.
"Let's find out," she said.
The elevator ride was silent. The hallway was silent. But the moment the door to her room closed, she was on him.
Her hands were everywhere—his jacket, his shirt, the buckle of his belt. She kissed like she was trying to bruise him, teeth and tongue and no apology.
"Slow down," he said.
"No."
She pushed him onto the bed. Straddled him. Her uniform was still on, but not for long. She stripped with efficiency, no ceremony, and then she was naked above him, skin pale as moonlight, breasts small and perfect, a scar on her hip that he didn't ask about.
"Condom," she said.
"Wallet."
She found it. Rolled it on. Then she was sinking down onto him, and Dom's mind went blank.
She fucked him like she was proving something. To him. To herself. Maybe to someone else entirely. Her hips moved with a precision that bordered on mechanical, but the sounds she made were raw—low moans that vibrated through her chest, sharp gasps when he hit something deep.
"Fuck," she said. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
He grabbed her hips. Pulled her down harder. She leaned forward, her hair falling around them like a curtain, and he could see the sweat on her collarbone, the flush spreading across her chest.
"Say my name," she said.
"Dom—"
"No. Mine."
"Aiko."
"Again."
"Aiko."
She came with a cry that she bit into his shoulder, teeth sinking in hard enough to leave marks. Dom held on for three more thrusts, then followed her over, his vision going white.
The rain hit the window like a drum. The city glowed below. She rolled off him, lit a cigarette, and blew smoke at the ceiling.
"Not bad," she said.
"Not bad?"
"You heard me."
Dom laughed. It hurt his chest, but he didn't stop. "You're brutal."
"I'm honest." She passed him the cigarette. "You're the pilot who landed in the crosswind. Morrison's been complaining about you all day."
"He's an idiot."
"Most captains are." She took the cigarette back. "You've got a reputation."
"What kind?"
"The kind that gets women into bed and leaves them there."
"Are you complaining?"
"No." Smoke curled from her lips. "I'm exactly the same."
They fucked again at three in the morning. Slower this time. She rode him with her hands pinned behind her back, her spine arched, making sounds that he felt in his bones. When he came, she was still going, grinding against him until she followed with a shudder that made her collapse onto his chest.
"Shit," she whispered.
"Yeah."
"I have a flight in four hours."
"Where?"
"Singapore."
"I have one in six. Seoul."
"Small world."
"Getting smaller."
She got up. Dressed. Checked her phone. Dom watched her from the bed, the way she moved with that same efficiency she'd brought to everything else.
"You're not going to ask for my number," she said.
"Should I?"
"No." She smiled. It was the first real smile he'd seen from her. "But you should remember this."
"Remember what?"
"That you don't have to be alone." She opened the door. "You just choose to be."
Then she was gone.
Dom lay there for a long time. The rain kept falling. The city kept glowing. Somewhere in the distance, a train rumbled through the underground.
He didn't sleep.
---
Kenji's door opened, and Dom blinked.
"You gonna stand there all day?" Kenji was in a robe, hair disheveled, holding a cup of coffee. "Yuki's already threatening to feed your breakfast to the dog."
"Sorry." Dom shook his head. "I was—somewhere else."
"I could tell." Kenji stepped aside. "Get in here. You look like you need coffee and a shower. Not necessarily in that order."
Dom walked in. The apartment was small and warm, filled with the smell of miso and grilled fish. Yuki stood at the stove, her back to him, already scolding in rapid Japanese.
"Tell her I'm sorry," Dom said.
"Tell her yourself."
"Yuki. I'm sorry."
She turned. Her face was stern, but her eyes were kind. "You look terrible."
"I know."
"Sit. Eat. Then talk."
Dom sat. She put a plate in front of him—rice, fish, pickled vegetables, a bowl of steaming miso. He ate without thinking, tasting nothing, feeling everything.
Aiko's words echoed in his head. You just choose to be.
He didn't know if that was true. Didn't know if he'd been choosing loneliness all these years, or if it had chosen him.
But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to find out.
Kenji sat across from him, watching. "So. You going to tell me what happened last night?"
Dom looked up. "I met someone."
"Someone? Or someone-someone?"
The second one, he almost said. But that wasn't right either.
"I don't know," he said. "Ask me again tomorrow."
Kenji laughed. Yuki set down another bowl of rice. And somewhere in the distance, a guitar began to play.