Chapter 4: The Dormitory Dare
The Salamanca train station smelled like diesel and old stone. Dom stepped off the platform at half past nine, bag slung over one shoulder, uniform still crisp from the flight into Madrid. The connection had been tight—forty minutes to clear customs, find the regional line, and collapse into a seat that felt like it had been designed for someone four inches shorter. But he was here now. Twenty-three years old. First officer. Alone in a city that had been standing for two thousand years.
The hotel was a converted monastery near the Plaza Mayor. His room had a view of the cathedral and a bed that creaked when he sat on it. He showered, changed into jeans and a black shirt, and stared at himself in the mirror.
Twenty-three. The lines around his eyes hadn't come yet. The salt-and-pepper was still just pepper. He looked like a kid playing dress-up in his father's clothes—except the wings on his jacket were real, and he'd earned them the hard way.
He left the room before he could second-guess himself.
The bar was called La Bóveda, tucked into a basement off Calle Mayor, all exposed brick and candlelight and noise. Students crowded the tables, shouting over each other in Spanish and English and something that might have been German. Dom pushed through the crowd, found a spot at the bar, and ordered a beer he couldn't pronounce.
"That's a tourist order," someone said.
He turned. A woman stood beside him, dark hair cut short, silver hoops in her ears. She was maybe twenty, twenty-one—young enough to make him feel ancient even though he was only two years older. Her smile was crooked, like she'd already decided he was worth talking to.
"What should I be drinking?"
"Vino tinto. Or if you want to fit in with the professors, vermut."
"The professors?"
She gestured at a corner table where three old men sat with glasses of dark liquid and expressions of profound disappointment. "They've been coming here since before we were born. They hate everyone under fifty."
"Sounds like pilots."
"You're a pilot?"
"First officer. Just flew in from Madrid."
"Ah." She nodded, like that explained something. "American?"
"Guilty."
"Don't be. We like Americans. Mostly." She held out her hand. "Lucia."
"Dom."
"Dom." She repeated it slowly, tasting it. "Is that short for something?"
"Dominic."
"Dominic." She grinned. "I had a boyfriend named Dominic once. He was a prick."
"Should I be worried?"
"Depends." She leaned against the bar, close enough that he could smell wine on her breath and something floral underneath. "Are you a prick?"
"Sometimes."
"Good." She signaled the bartender. "Two vermuts."
They talked for an hour. Maybe two. Dom lost track somewhere between her second glass and his third, the conversation veering from her studies—art history, which she described as "useless but beautiful"—to his job, which she described as "terrifying but hot." She asked about the worst turbulence he'd ever experienced. He told her about the time he'd hit a microburst over Kansas and thought he was going to die. She asked if he'd been scared. He lied and said no.
"You're lying," she said.
"How can you tell?"
"Your jaw does this thing." She reached up and touched it, her finger tracing the line of muscle. "Right here. It tightens."
"I don't do that."
"You do." She pulled her hand back, but her eyes stayed on his. "You're doing it now."
The bar was emptying out. The professors had left. The students were drifting away in groups of two and three, their laughter echoing off the stone walls. Dom checked his watch—nearly midnight.
"I should go," he said.
"Why?"
"I have a flight tomorrow. Early."
"So?" Lucia shrugged. "It's midnight. The night's just starting."
"I don't—"
"I live in a dormitory. All girls. Strict curfew, evil matron, the whole thing." She leaned closer. "But there's a fire escape."
Dom laughed. "You're kidding."
"I never kid about sneaking men into my room." She pulled a pen from her bag and scribbled something on a napkin. "Calle de la Compañía, number twelve. Third floor, window on the left. Wait until two. The matron does her rounds at one-thirty."
She pressed the napkin into his hand and stood up.
"Are you coming or not?"
He looked at the napkin. Looked at her.
"I'm coming."
She smiled. It was the kind of smile that made him feel like he'd already lost something, though he couldn't have said what.
"Good," she said. "Bring wine."
---
The fire escape was rusted and narrow and made a sound like screaming every time Dom shifted his weight. He'd bought a bottle of Rioja from a corner store that had been closed—he'd had to knock on the metal grate until a man in his underwear appeared, grumbling in Spanish, and sold him the bottle for twice what it was worth.
Now he stood on the third-floor landing, three stories above a cobblestone courtyard, and wondered if this was the stupidest thing he'd ever done.
The window opened. Lucia's face appeared, flushed and grinning.
"You came."
"You doubted me?"
"Always." She reached out and grabbed his wrist. "Get in here. Quietly."
He climbed through the window into a room that was barely big enough for the bed, the desk, and the two women sitting on the floor.
The first was Lucia, of course—still wearing the same jeans and silver hoops, her hair now pulled back in a messy knot. The second was taller, with dark curls and glasses, wearing a faded university sweatshirt and nothing else. Her legs were bare, crossed under her.
"This is Ines," Lucia said. "My roommate."
Ines raised an eyebrow. "So this is the pilot."
"I'm not just a pilot."
"You're also American." Ines said it like it was a diagnosis. "Lucia has a thing for Americans."
"I have a thing for interesting people." Lucia grabbed the bottle from Dom's hand. "Ines is here because she's nosy and because I told her she could watch."
Dom blinked. "Watch?"
"Watch." Lucia uncorked the bottle with her teeth—a trick that should have been disgusting but somehow wasn't—and took a long drink. "She likes to watch. Don't you, Ines?"
Ines didn't answer. Just looked at Dom with those dark eyes, and he felt something shift in his chest.
"Is this a joke?" he asked.
"Does it feel like a joke?"
It didn't. The room smelled like cheap perfume and old books, and the moonlight coming through the window painted Lucia's face in silver and shadow. Ines was still watching him, her hand resting on her bare thigh, and the silence stretched like a wire.
"No," he said. "It doesn't."
"Good." Lucia handed him the bottle. "Drink. Then take off your clothes."
He drank. The wine was rough and sweet, and it burned going down. Then he set the bottle on the desk, pulled off his shirt, and watched Lucia's eyes go wide.
"Holy shit," she whispered.
"What?"
"You're—" She gestured at his chest, his arms, the scars on his shoulder from a childhood bike accident. "You're really fit."
"I fly planes. Lots of sitting."
"That's not sitting." Ines spoke for the first time, her voice low and rough. "That's something else."
Lucia stood up. Crossed the room. Put her hands on his chest, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle.
"I'm going to fuck you now," she said. "Is that okay?"
"Yes."
"Good." She pushed him onto the bed. It creaked—loudly—and they both froze.
"The matron," Ines whispered.
"She's asleep."
"She's not."
"Then be quiet."
Lucia pulled off her shirt. Her breasts were small, the nipples dark against pale skin. She unbuttoned her jeans, shimmied out of them, and stood there in nothing but a pair of black underwear that looked like it had been designed to make men stupid.
Dom reached for her. She stepped back.
"No," she said. "Not yet."
She climbed onto the bed, straddled him, and kissed him. Her mouth tasted like wine and cigarettes, and her hips moved against his with a rhythm that made his thoughts go white.
"Condom," she said against his lips.
"Wallet."
She found it, rolled it on, and then she was sinking down onto him, and Dom forgot about the matron, about the creaking bed, about everything except the heat of her around him.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Fuck, you're big."
"You're—"
"Shut up. Just—" She started moving. Slow at first, then faster, her hands braced on his chest, her hair falling loose from its knot. "Just let me—"
The bed creaked louder. Ines said something in Spanish that Dom didn't understand, but the tone was clear: be quiet or we're dead.
Lucia bit her lip. Her hips kept moving, but slower now, more controlled. She was trying not to make noise, and failing, little whimpers escaping her throat with every thrust.
"Look at me," Dom said.
She looked. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and she was biting her lip so hard he thought she might draw blood.
"I want to hear you," he said.
"We can't—"
"I don't care."
She moaned. It was loud enough to make Ines hiss a warning, but Lucia didn't stop. She leaned forward, her breasts brushing his chest, and whispered in his ear.
"Then fuck me harder."
He grabbed her hips. Pulled her down. Thrust up into her, and the bed slammed against the wall—once, twice, three times.
"Jesus—" Lucia's voice cracked. "Jesus, fuck—"
Somewhere below them, a door opened. Footsteps in the hallway.
Ines moved. She slid off the top bunk—Dom hadn't even seen her climb up there—and crossed to the door, pressing her ear against it.
"It's the matron," she whispered. "She's checking rooms."
Lucia froze. Her body tensed around him, and Dom had to bite his own hand to keep from making noise.
The footsteps stopped outside their door.
Silence. Long enough for Dom to count his heartbeats. Long enough for him to feel the sweat cooling on his skin.
Then the footsteps moved on.
Ines waited until they faded, then turned back to the bed. Her sweatshirt was gone. She was naked, and Dom's brain short-circuited.
"She's gone," Ines said. "But you need to be quieter."
Lucia laughed—a breathless, manic sound. "Fuck quieter."
She started moving again. Faster this time, harder, her nails digging into Dom's shoulders. The bed kept creaking, but neither of them cared anymore. She was panting, moaning, saying his name like a prayer, and Dom was right there with her, his hands on her hips, pulling her down to meet every thrust.
"Come," he said. "Come for me."
"I'm—"
"Now."
She came with a cry that she muffled against his neck, her body shaking, her nails raking down his back. Dom held on for three more thrusts, then followed her over the edge, his vision going white.
When he opened his eyes, Ines was sitting on the edge of the bed.
"My turn," she said.
Lucia rolled off him, laughing. "Greedy bitch."
"You promised."
"I promised you could watch."
"You promised I could have a turn." Ines crawled onto the bed, her dark curls falling around her face. "You said, and I quote, 'You can have him when I'm done.'"
Lucia looked at Dom. "Is that okay?"
He should have said no. Should have gotten dressed, climbed back down the fire escape, walked back to his hotel. But his body was still humming, and Ines was looking at him like he was something to be devoured, and he'd never been good at saying no.
"Yes," he said.
Ines didn't waste time. She pulled off his condom, rolled on a new one—where had she gotten it?—and straddled him in one smooth motion. She was taller than Lucia, leaner, her body all angles and sharp edges. She didn't kiss him. Just looked down at him with those dark eyes and started to move.
She was different from Lucia. Slower. More deliberate. Every thrust was measured, controlled, like she was conducting an experiment. Her hands rested on his chest, her fingers splayed, and she watched his face the whole time.
"You're close," she said.
"How can you tell?"
"Your jaw." She smiled—the first time he'd seen her smile. "It does this thing."
She moved faster. Dom grabbed her hips, but she pushed his hands away.
"No," she said. "Let me."
So he let her. Let her set the pace, the rhythm, the angle. Let her use him, and found that he didn't mind. Found that he liked it, actually—the way she took what she wanted, the way she didn't apologize for it.
Lucia watched from the corner of the bed. Her hand was between her legs, moving in slow circles, and she was biting her lip again.
"Fuck," she whispered. "Fuck, Ines, you look—"
"Shut up."
"You look so good."
"I said shut up."
But she was smiling, and Lucia was smiling, and Dom was caught between them—two women, one bed, a city full of old stone and older secrets.
Ines came first. Her body clenched around him, her head falling back, her mouth open in a silent scream. Dom followed a moment later, his hands gripping the sheets, his teeth clenched against the noise.
For a long moment, nobody moved.
Then Ines climbed off him, flopped onto her back, and started laughing.
"What?" Lucia asked.
"I can't believe we just did that."
"Neither can I."
"You're going to get us expelled."
"You're the one who joined in."
"Because you promised—"
"I know what I promised."
Dom sat up. The room smelled like sex and wine and sweat. The window was still open, and a cool breeze drifted in from the street below.
"I should go," he said.
"Not yet." Lucia reached for him. "Stay. Just for a little while."
He stayed. They passed the bottle back and forth, talking in whispers about nothing—her classes, his flights, the way Ines snored when she was drunk. The moonlight moved across the wall. The city slept.
At some point, Dom drifted off. When he woke, the sky was gray with dawn, and both women were curled against him, their breathing slow and even.
He untangled himself carefully. Found his clothes. Dressed in the half-dark.
At the window, he paused. Lucia was watching him.
"Come back," she said.
"Maybe."
"You won't."
"Probably not."
She smiled. It was the same crooked smile from the bar, but softer now. Sad.
"You're going to leave a lot of women," she said. "You know that?"
"You're the second person to tell me that."
"Who was the first?"
He thought about Tokyo. About Aiko, who'd said he chose to be alone.
"Someone I met," he said. "A long time ago."
Lucia sat up. The sheet fell away, and she didn't bother to cover herself.
"Will you remember me?"
"Yes."
"Liar."
"I never lie about that."
She looked at him for a long moment. Then she lay back down and closed her eyes.
"Goodbye, Dominic."
"Goodbye, Lucia."
He climbed out the window. The fire escape groaned under his weight, but nobody woke. The courtyard was empty. The sky was pale gold, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang.
He walked back to his hotel through streets that smelled like bread and coffee and yesterday's rain. The cathedral loomed above him, ancient and indifferent. He thought about Lucia's hands on his chest. About Ines's dark eyes. About the way they'd both said his name like it meant something.
At the hotel, he showered. Packed. Checked his watch—four hours until his flight to Madrid.
He sat on the bed and stared at the wall.
The logbook was in his bag. He'd been keeping it since his first solo flight, a leather-bound notebook where he wrote down every city, every landing, every woman. It started as a joke—proof that he was living the life everyone said he should want.
He hadn't looked at it in months.
Now he pulled it out. Flipped through the pages. Tokyo. Bangkok. Singapore. Manila. Seoul. Amsterdam. Lisbon. Madrid.
Salamanca.
He uncapped his pen. Wrote the date, the city, the name.
But for the first time, the words felt wrong.
He closed the notebook. Put it back in his bag.
Tomorrow, Madrid. The day after, London. Another city. Another woman. Another night.
That was the life he'd chosen.
That was the life he wanted.
That was what he told himself, anyway.
The train to Madrid was crowded, but Dom found a seat by the window. The countryside rolled past—olive groves, stone walls, hills that looked like sleeping animals. He closed his eyes and saw Lucia's smile. Ines's eyes. The way the moonlight had painted their bodies silver and shadow.
He wondered if he'd remember them in twenty years.
He wondered if he'd remember anything.
The train picked up speed. The sun rose higher. Somewhere ahead, a plane was waiting.
He didn't know it then, but Salamanca would be the last city he wrote in the logbook for a long time. The pages after it were empty. Not because he stopped finding women—but because he stopped wanting to remember their names.
That was the year he learned to forget.
That was the year he started to become the man he'd been running from all along.
The plane lifted off from Salamanca's tiny airport with a shudder that rattled the windows and sent a flock of pigeons scattering across the tarmac. Dom watched them scatter from his jump seat in the cockpit, and something about the way they scattered—frantic, directionless, all instinct and no thought—made him feel like he was looking at a mirror.
He didn't like it.
The flight to Madrid took forty minutes. Short hop. Routine. He went through the motions—checklists, radio calls, the familiar litany that usually soothed him—but his mind kept drifting back to the dormitory room, the creaking bed, the way Lucia had looked at him when she said goodbye.
You won't come back.
She'd been right.
Madrid was a blur. He had six hours before his next assignment, enough time to eat something, shower, change. He did all three mechanically, moving through the airport hotel like a ghost. The room was identical to every other airport hotel room he'd ever stayed in—beige walls, generic art, a bed that had seen a thousand strangers.
He sat on the edge of the mattress and stared at the wall.
Twenty-three years old. First officer. The world spread out before him like a map, every city a destination, every destination a woman.
He should have felt alive.
He felt nothing.
The knock came at seven. Dom opened the door and found Kenji standing there with two cups of coffee and a grin that was too bright for the hour.
"You look like shit," Kenji said.
"Thanks."
"You get any sleep?"
"Some."
"Liar." Kenji pushed past him into the room, set the coffees on the desk, and flopped into the chair by the window. "You look like you've been up all night fucking."
Dom didn't answer.
"Holy shit." Kenji's grin widened. "You did get laid. Who was she?"
"Nobody."
"Nobody doesn't leave marks like that." Kenji pointed at Dom's neck, where a bruise was blooming just above his collar. "That's a hickey, my friend. A very enthusiastic hickey."
Dom touched his neck. He hadn't noticed. Hadn't looked in the mirror.
"Was she hot?"
"Yes."
"Younger?"
"Yes."
"Crazier?"
"Definitely."
Kenji laughed. "You're going to die young, Vale."
"Probably."
Kenji sobered. "You okay, man?"
Dom wanted to say yes. Wanted to brush it off, change the subject, go back to the version of himself he'd been building for the past three years—the version that didn't care, didn't feel, didn't look back.
But the words stuck in his throat.
"I don't know," he said.
Kenji didn't push. Just handed him a coffee and sat there, waiting, until the silence felt less like a wall and more like a room they were both standing in.
"Let's get to the gate," Dom said finally. "We've got a job to do."
The job was a return flight to Newark, then a layover, then another flight, then another. The job was always another flight, another city, another night.
Dom went through the motions.
---
Newark. Terminal C. The gate agent called for boarding, and Dom walked the jet bridge, nodding at the flight attendants, taking his seat beside Kenji in the cockpit. The passengers filed in—businessmen, families, a honeymooning couple who couldn't stop touching each other.
Dom checked the manifest. First class was full. Coach was full. The flight would take seven hours and forty minutes.
He closed the cockpit door and began his pre-flight checks.
That was when he saw her.
She came through the cockpit door with a clipboard and a smile that was too sharp for customer service. Dark hair pulled back, lips painted red, eyes that assessed him in a single sweep and clearly found something worth a second look.
"Captain," she said.
"First officer. Dom."
"Dom." She repeated it like she was filing it away. "I'm Maya. Cabin lead."
"Nice to meet you."
"We'll see about that." She handed him the passenger count, turned, and walked back into the cabin.
Kenji leaned over. "What was that?"
"What was what?"
"She looked at you like you were a meal."
"She looked at me like I was a checklist item."
"Same thing, with that one." Kenji laughed. "You're in trouble."
The flight itself was easy. Smooth air, clear skies, no complications. Dom went through the motions—monitoring, communicating, adjusting—and tried not to think about the way Maya had said his name. By the time they began their descent into Newark, he'd almost convinced himself he'd imagined it.
Then she came back into the cockpit for the landing brief.
"Any issues I should know about?" she asked.
"None."
"Good." She leaned against the bulkhead, her hip cocked, and looked at him with those sharp eyes. "Where are you staying tonight?"
"Crew hotel. Jersey."
"Alone?"
Kenji suddenly became very interested in his instrument panel.
"I don't know yet," Dom said.
"You do." Maya smiled. "You just haven't decided to tell me."
She left before he could answer.
---
The crew hotel was in Secaucus, a glass box surrounded by parking lots and chain restaurants. Dom checked in, rode the elevator to the seventh floor, and stood in his room staring out the window at the Manhattan skyline, distant and glittering beyond the river.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Room 714. Ten minutes. Bring nothing.
He didn't ask how she got his number. Didn't ask who she was, or what she wanted, or why he was already reaching for the door handle.
He just went.
Room 714 was two doors down from his own. He knocked once, and the door opened instantly, as if she'd been waiting on the other side.
Maya was still in her uniform, but the jacket was gone, the tie unknotted, the top two buttons of her blouse undone. Her dark hair was loose now, falling in waves past her shoulders. She looked at him like he was exactly what she'd ordered.
"Good," she said. "You're on time."
"You didn't give me a choice."
"I gave you a choice. You just made the right one." She stepped back, letting him in. "Close the door."
He closed it.
The room was identical to his—beige walls, generic art, a bed that had seen a thousand strangers. But Maya had transformed it somehow. She'd opened the curtains, letting the city light spill in. She'd turned on the radio, some low jazz station that filled the silence with saxophone and static.
She stood by the window, silhouetted against the skyline, and watched him.
"Why me?" Dom asked.
"Do you need a reason?"
"Usually."
Maya shrugged. "I've heard about you. The pilots talk. The flight attendants talk more."
"What do they say?"
"They say you're very good at what you do." She stepped closer. "On and off the plane."
"And that's why you asked me here?"
"No." Another step. Close enough now that he could smell her perfume—something floral and faintly metallic, like rain on warm asphalt. "I asked you here because I wanted to."
"Wanted to what?"
Maya reached up and touched his face. Her fingers were cool against his skin, tracing the line of his jaw, lingering on the bruise at his neck.
"This," she said. "And this."
She kissed him. It wasn't tentative. Wasn't questioning. It was a declaration—her mouth on his, her tongue sliding past his teeth, her hands already working at the buttons of his shirt. Dom responded in kind, pulling her closer, feeling the heat of her through the thin fabric of her blouse.
"You've done this before," he said against her lips.
"So have you."
"Not like this."
"Sure you have." She pulled back, just enough to look at him. Her eyes were dark, unreadable. "Every city. Every night. You fuck them and you leave them."
"Are you complaining?"
"No." She pushed his shirt off his shoulders, let it fall to the floor. "I'm telling you I know the game. I'm telling you I play it too."
"Then we understand each other."
"Completely."
She unbuttoned his trousers. Pulled them down. Knelt in front of him without ceremony, no preamble, and took him in her mouth.
Dom's breath caught. His hands found her hair, tangled in it, as she worked him with a skill that bordered on clinical. She knew exactly what she was doing—every stroke, every flick of her tongue, every hollow of her cheeks calibrated to bring him to the edge and hold him there.
"Fuck," he whispered.
She hummed in response. The vibration shot through him like electricity.
"Stop," he said. "Not yet."
Maya pulled back, licking her lips. "Why not?"
"Because I want to fuck you. Not your mouth."
She smiled. It was a dangerous smile. "Then fuck me."
She stood up, stripped off the rest of her clothes with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a hundred times, and lay back on the bed. Dom took a moment to look at her—the lean lines of her body, the small breasts, the tattoo on her hip that he couldn't quite read.
"Condom," she said.
"Wallet."
He found it. Sheathed himself. Then he was on top of her, inside her, and she was gasping, her nails raking down his back.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
The bed slammed against the wall. The radio played something slow and mournful. Maya wrapped her legs around his waist, pulled him deeper, and started saying things in Spanish—filthy things, the kind of things that made him want to shut her up and keep her talking at the same time.
"Look at me," she said.
He looked.
"I want to see your face when you come."
"You first."
"No." She thrust up against him, meeting him stroke for stroke. "I want to watch you lose control. I want to see the great Dominic Vale fall apart."
He fell.
It was violent, sudden, like a plane hitting turbulence out of nowhere. He gripped the sheets, bit his lip until he tasted blood, and came with a sound that was almost a growl.
Maya followed a moment later, her body clenching around him, her nails drawing blood from his shoulders.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then she pushed him off, sat up, and reached for her cigarettes.
"That was," she said, lighting up, "exactly what I needed."
Dom laughed. It hurt his chest, but he didn't stop. "Glad I could help."
"You did." She blew smoke at the ceiling. "You want to tell me what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong."
"Bullshit." She looked at him through the smoke. "You fuck like a man who's trying to forget something. What are you trying to forget?"
He didn't answer.
"That's what I thought." She stubbed out the cigarette. "Second round?"
"Give me five minutes."
"I'll give you three."
---
They hooked up again in Chicago. Then Denver. Then Phoenix. Every layover, every city, Maya was there—or she wasn't, and he found someone else, but more often than not it was her. She was on the same rotation for three months that fall, and by the end of it, Dom knew her body the way he knew a cockpit.
He knew the mole on her back, just below her left shoulder blade. He knew the way she liked her hair pulled, hard enough to hurt. He knew the sounds she made when she was close—a low, guttural moan that started in her chest and ended in his mouth.
He knew her.
And she knew him.
They were in Seattle when she asked about the logbook.
"What's that?" she said, pointing at his bag.
"Nothing."
"It's not nothing. You write in it every night."
He did. He'd been doing it for years—recording the cities, the dates, the names. A ritual. A way to remember.
"Show me," Maya said.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it's private."
She looked at him for a long moment. Then she shrugged and reached for her drink.
"Fine. Keep your secrets."
They fucked that night like they always did—fast, dirty, rough. But something was different. Something had shifted. She didn't ask him to stay after. He didn't ask her to.
At the airport the next morning, she kissed him on the cheek and walked toward her gate.
"See you in Dallas," she said.
"See you."
She didn't look back.
The logbook stayed in his bag. He didn't write in it that night. Or the next.
The pages after Salamanca were still empty.
He told himself he'd pick it up again when he had something worth writing.
He never did.