Chapter 6: New Crew, New Rules
The crew room at Barajas smelled of stale coffee and industrial cleaner.
Dom sat in a plastic chair, his flight bag at his feet, watching the departure board flicker through its rotations. Madrid to Buenos Aires. Eleven hours and forty minutes in the air. A new route, a new crew, a new set of faces to learn and forget.
He'd said goodbye to Carmen that morning. She'd kissed him at the door, her lips soft and tasting of sleep, and told him to come back when he could. He'd said he would. He'd meant it, too—which was strange, because he never meant it. Not before.
The logbook was in his bag. Three new pages filled since Madrid. Not just names anymore. Details. Moments. The way Carmen laughed when she burned the toast. The way she argued with the taxi driver in rapid-fire Spanish. The way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't watching.
He didn't know what he was doing. But he was doing it.
The door opened.
A woman walked in—tall, lean, dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her uniform was crisp, her posture military. She carried herself like she owned the room and everyone in it.
"Captain Vale?"
"That's me."
"Valeria Ruiz." She extended a hand. Her grip was firm, almost challenging. "Your new first officer."
Dom shook it. Held it a beat longer than necessary. "Nice to meet you."
"I'm sure it will be." She smiled—not warm, not cold, just sharp. Like she was sizing him up. "I've heard about you."
"All good things, I hope."
"Depends on who you ask."
She dropped his hand and took the seat across from him. Crossed her legs. Watched him with eyes that were almost black.
"I don't like surprises," she said. "I don't like egos. And I don't like captains who think their reputation flies the plane."
Dom leaned back. "Anything else?"
"Yes. I'm better at this than you were at my age. And I don't need you to protect me."
"Noted."
"Good."
They sat in silence for a moment. The departure board flickered. Somewhere down the hall, an announcement played in Spanish and English.
"I'm not trying to make enemies," Valeria said. "I just want to know who I'm flying with."
"And?"
"And I'll decide after we land."
Dom smiled. He couldn't help it. "Fair enough."
---
The flight attendants arrived ten minutes later.
Three of them. All in their late twenties, all impossibly beautiful, all wearing the same knowing smile.
The first was Ines—tall, blonde, Scandinavian cheekbones, a laugh that sounded like bells. The second was Paula—curvy, dark-skinned, eyes that promised trouble. The third was Sofia—quiet, watchful, with a mouth that looked like it had been designed for sin.
They introduced themselves to Valeria first. Professional. Efficient. Then they turned to Dom.
"Captain Vale," Ines said. "We've heard stories."
"Only the good ones, I hope."
Paula laughed. "There are no good ones. That's the point."
Sofia said nothing. Just looked at him. Her eyes traveled down his body and back up, slow and deliberate, like she was cataloging him for later.
Dom felt the heat rise in his chest. The old familiar pulse. The hunger that had driven him across two decades and a hundred cities.
He pushed it down.
"Let's get to work," he said.
---
The pre-flight checks were routine. Valeria ran through the checklist with mechanical precision, her voice flat, her eyes on the instruments. She didn't look at him. Didn't need to. Her competence was a statement, and she'd made it clear.
Dom watched her hands move across the panel. Long fingers. No rings. Steady.
"Something wrong?" she asked.
"No."
"You're staring."
"Just admiring the work."
She glanced at him. That sharp smile again. "You're not as smooth as you think you are."
"Never said I was."
The flight attendants moved through the cabin, preparing for boarding. Dom could hear their laughter through the cockpit door—light, flirtatious, the kind of sound that made men do stupid things.
"They're going to be a problem," Valeria said.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean they've been talking about you since they found out who was flying. Ines has a bet going. Paula thinks she can make you break first. Sofia hasn't said anything, which means she's the dangerous one."
Dom adjusted the trim. "You seem invested."
"I'm observant." Valeria turned to face him. "And I don't like distractions."
"Neither do I."
"Then we'll get along fine."
---
They took off at 11:47 PM local time.
The 787 climbed through the Madrid sky, the city lights shrinking below them like scattered embers. Dom felt the familiar pull of gravity, the shift in his chest as the plane leveled off. The autopilot engaged. The stars emerged.
For a while, there was only silence. The hum of the engines. The blue glow of the instruments. Valeria beside him, her presence a steady pressure he couldn't ignore.
The flight attendants came and went. Coffee. Water. A sandwich Dom didn't eat. Each time one of them entered the cockpit, there was a shift in the air—a charge, a current. Ines lingered by his seat. Paula brushed his shoulder. Sofia just stood in the doorway, watching.
"You're enjoying this," Valeria said after the third visit.
"Enjoying what?"
"Being wanted."
Dom didn't answer.
"It's not a criticism," she said. "Just an observation. You're used to it. You expect it. And you don't know what to do when it's not there."
"That's a lot of assumptions."
"I'm good at reading people."
"And what do you read in me?"
Valeria turned. Her eyes were dark, unreadable. "A man who's tired of running but doesn't know how to stop."
The words hit harder than they should have. Dom looked away. Checked the instruments. Checked them again.
"You don't know me," he said.
"Not yet."
---
The Atlantic stretched below them, black and endless.
The cabin was dark. The passengers were asleep. The flight attendants had retreated to the galley, their laughter a distant murmur.
Dom sat in his seat, his hands loose on his thighs, his mind somewhere over the ocean. He thought about Carmen. About the way she'd looked at him when he left. About the logbook in his bag and the pages he'd filled.
He thought about Kenji. About the photograph in his notebook. About what it meant to have something worth coming home to.
"You're thinking too loud," Valeria said.
"Sorry."
"Don't be." She stretched, her arms above her head, her uniform pulling tight across her chest. "What's her name?"
"Whose name?"
"The woman you're thinking about."
Dom hesitated. "Carmen."
"Carmen." Valeria repeated it like she was tasting it. "Is she beautiful?"
"Yes."
"Do you love her?"
The question landed like a slap. Dom turned to look at her. Her face was calm, curious, no judgment in it.
"I don't know," he said.
"Honest answer."
"It's the only kind I've got."
Valeria smiled. It was different from before—softer, almost warm. "Good."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small flask. Unscrewed the cap. Took a sip.
"Whiskey," she said. "For emergencies."
"Is this an emergency?"
"Depends on your definition."
She offered him the flask. He took it. The whiskey burned going down, but it felt good. Grounding.
"So," Valeria said. "Truth or dare?"
"What?"
"It's a game. You've heard of it."
"I know what it is. I'm just wondering why you're suggesting it."
"Because we have eight hours left and I'm bored." She took the flask back. "And because I want to know what kind of man you really are."
Dom laughed. "You could just ask."
"Where's the fun in that?"
She took another sip. Handed the flask back. Her fingers brushed his. Lingered.
"Truth," he said.
"Boring."
"It's safe."
"Safe is boring." She leaned back in her seat. "Fine. Truth. Why did you never settle down?"
"Jesus. You and Kenji both."
"Who's Kenji?"
"My co-pilot. For eleven years. He asked me the same thing."
"And what did you tell him?"
"The truth."
"Which was?"
Dom looked at the instruments. The stars. The endless black ocean below.
"I don't know how," he said.
Valeria didn't respond. Just watched him. The flask sat between them, a small metal promise.
"My turn," Dom said. "Truth or dare?"
"Truth."
"Why are you really here?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean—" He gestured vaguely. "This. The game. The questions. You could be anywhere. You're choosing to be here, with me."
Valeria was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "Because I've been flying for eight years, and I've never met a captain like you. And I want to know if the stories are true."
"Which stories?"
"All of them."
She stood. Walked the two steps to his seat. Stood over him, looking down.
"Your turn," she said.
"Truth or dare?"
"Dare."
Dom's mouth went dry. "I dare you to kiss one of the flight attendants."
Valeria raised an eyebrow. "Which one?"
"Your choice."
She turned. Walked to the cockpit door. Opened it.
"Ines," she called. "Come here."
---
Ines appeared a moment later, her expression curious, her lips curved in a smile.
"What's up?"
Valeria didn't answer. Just stepped forward, took Ines's face in her hands, and kissed her.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was deep, hungry, the kind of kiss that made the air in the cockpit change. Ines made a small sound—surprise, then pleasure—and her hands came up to grip Valeria's waist.
Dom watched. His heart hammered. His cock stirred.
The kiss lasted ten seconds. Twenty. When Valeria finally pulled back, Ines's lips were red, her eyes wide.
"Wow," Ines breathed.
"Go get Paula and Sofia," Valeria said. "Tell them to come watch."
Ines left. Valeria turned back to Dom. Her smile was different now—feral, hungry.
"Your turn," she said.
---
The flight attendants filed in. Paula first, her eyes bright with anticipation. Sofia last, her expression unreadable, but her body already leaning toward the heat.
Valeria stood in the center of the cockpit. The autopilot hummed. The stars wheeled outside.
"Here's the thing," she said, looking at Dom. "I've been watching you all night. The way you move. The way you talk. The way you try not to look at us."
"I wasn't—"
"You were." She stepped closer. "And I'm tired of pretending."
She straddled him.
Her thighs bracketed his hips. Her hands found his shoulders. Her face was inches from his, her breath warm, her eyes dark.
"You can stop this," she said. "Say the word and I'll get up. We'll go back to flying. No harm done."
Dom's hands came up. Found her waist. Held on.
"I don't want to stop."
"Good."
She kissed him.
It was nothing like the kiss with Ines. That had been performance. This was pure hunger. Her tongue in his mouth, her teeth on his lip, her body grinding against his with a rhythm that made his vision blur.
She reached between them. Unzipped his pants. Freed his cock—hard, aching, already leaking.
"Fuck," she whispered. "You're big."
"Does that matter?"
"It's a bonus."
She lifted her skirt. Pulled her panties aside. She was wet—slick and ready—and she lowered herself onto him without hesitation.
Dom groaned.
She was tight. Hot. Wet.
"Fuck," he said.
"Shh." She pressed a finger to his lips. "Just feel."
She started to move.
The cockpit filled with sound. The slap of skin. Valeria's breathy moans. The hum of the engines. The stars outside, indifferent.
Paula had moved to stand beside them. Her hand was inside her skirt, working between her legs, her eyes fixed on the place where Dom's cock disappeared into Valeria's body.
Ines knelt behind Valeria. Her mouth foundValeria's clit—finding it, licking it. Valeria cried out. Her hips bucked. Her nails dug into Dom's shoulders.
"Don't stop," she gasped. "Don't you fucking stop."
Sofia moved to Dom's ear.
"Look at her," she whispered. "Look at how she takes you."
Dom looked. Valeria's face was flushed. Her mouth open. Her tits bouncing with every thrust.
"She's beautiful," Sofia said. "Isn't she?"
"Yes."
"Tell her."
"You're beautiful," Dom said.
Valeria laughed—a broken, breathless sound. "Don't lie to me."
"I'm not."
He grabbed her hips. Pulled her down harder. Fucked up into her with a rhythm that made her scream.
Ines kept licking. Paula kept touching herself. Sofia kept whispering.
"You feel that?" Sofia said. "That's what you've been chasing. That feeling. That moment."
Dom closed his eyes. Felt the pressure building. Felt his balls tighten.
"That's right," Sofia said. "Come inside her. Fill her up."
"Not yet," Valeria gasped. "Not until I—"
"Come for us," Dom said.
She came.
Her whole body shuddered. Her nails drew blood. Her cunt clamped down on his cock like a fist.
It pushed him over the edge.
He came with a roar—his hands gripping her hips, his cock pulsing deep inside her, his release hot and endless. Valeria collapsed against him. Her heart hammered against his chest.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then the sun began to rise.
---
The first light of dawn broke over the Atlantic—pink, then gold, then white. It filled the cockpit with a glow that made everything seem new.
Valeria lifted herself off him. Her skirt fell back into place. She didn't look at him. Just returned to her seat and began checking the instruments.
Ines and Paula and Sofia filed out of the cockpit, their smiles knowing, their clothes rumpled.
Dom sat frozen. His cock still out. His chest heaving. His mind blank.
"Clean yourself up," Valeria said. "We've got a plane to land."
He did. Mechanically. Silently.
The logbook was in his bag. He could see it from the corner of his eye. He could see the blank page waiting.
He didn't write anything.
Not yet.
---
They landed in Buenos Aires at 8:30 AM local time.
The 787 taxied to the gate. The engines shut down. The passengers disembarked. The crew gathered their bags.
Valeria walked past him without a word. Ines winked. Paula laughed. Sofia just looked at him—still watching, still knowing—before she disappeared through the door.
Dom sat in the cockpit for a long time.
The sun was up. The city was waking. The air smelled of exhaust and coffee and something sweet.
He thought about what Sofia had said. That's what you've been chasing.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe it was just another empty page.
Or maybe—just maybe—it was the beginning of something else.
He pulled out the logbook. Opened to the next blank page.
He wrote: Buenos Aires. Forty-two. Captain. Valeria.
Then he stopped.
What else?
He thought about Carmen. About the way she'd kissed him goodbye. About the promise he'd made to come back.
He thought about the flight attendants. The way they'd tasted. The way they'd felt.
He thought about the sunrise over the ocean.
Then he wrote: I don't know what I'm doing.
He looked at the words. Felt their weight. Felt their truth.
And for the first time, he didn't try to fix it. Didn't try to make it mean something else.
He just closed the book.
The sky outside was blue, and endless, and full of possibility.
The tarmac shimmered with heat. Buenos Aires sprawled beyond the terminal like a living thing—concrete and jacaranda, the stink of diesel mixing with something sweeter, something flowering.
Dom shouldered his bag and walked through customs.
The crew hotel was in Recoleta. White stone, iron balconies, a courtyard where old men played chess and drank espresso. He checked in, rode the elevator to the seventh floor, and stood at the window looking out at the city.
His phone buzzed.
Kenji: You alive?
Dom: Barely.
Kenji: Heard you had a new crew. Heard things got interesting.
Dom: Who told you?
Kenji: Ines has Instagram. You're all over it. Well—not you. But the cockpit window. And the sunrise. And her caption.
Dom: What caption?
Kenji: "Best flight of my life."
Dom stared at the screen. Laughed despite himself.
Dom: I'm in trouble.
Kenji: You're always in trouble. Question is what kind.
Dom didn't answer. Just put the phone down and went to take a shower.
---
He woke at noon. The sun was high, the room was warm, and someone was knocking on his door.
He opened it.
Paula stood there, still in her uniform from the flight. Her smile was slow and deliberate.
"Room service," she said.
"I didn't order anything."
"You did. Last night. When you looked at me in the cockpit."
Dom leaned against the doorframe. "That's not how ordering works."
"Semantics."
She stepped inside. Walked past him. Sat on the edge of the bed and crossed her legs.
"I'm hungry," she said. "And I don't mean food."
Dom closed the door.
---
She was rougher than Valeria. Less controlled. She pushed him onto the bed, yanked his towel away, and took his cock in her mouth without preamble.
Her lips were hot. Her tongue was clever. She sucked him like she was trying to prove something—to herself, to him, to the ghost of every woman who'd come before.
"Fuck," Dom breathed.
She pulled off. Looked up at him with those troublemaker eyes.
"You like that?"
"Yes."
"Good."
She went back to work.
He watched her. The way her head bobbed. The way her hand worked the base while her mouth slid up and down. The way she moaned around him like she was the one being pleasured.
He grabbed her hair. Not gently. She liked it—he could tell by the way she moaned, the way she took him deeper.
"Stop," he said.
She stopped. Looked up.
"I want to fuck you."
"Then fuck me."
She stood. Stripped. Her body was lush—full breasts, wide hips, skin the color of café con leche. She lay back on the bed and spread her legs.
"Come get it," she said.
He did.
He buried himself in her with one thrust. She was wet—soaking, ready—and she screamed when he bottomed out.
"Fuck yes," she gasped. "Fuck me. Don't be gentle."
He wasn't.
He fucked her hard. The headboard slammed against the wall. The neighbors—if there were any—would hear. He didn't care. She didn't care. She just wrapped her legs around him and pulled him deeper.
"Harder," she said.
He went harder.
"Call me a slut."
"You're a slut."
"Yes. Fuck. Yes."
He grabbed her throat. Not squeezing—just holding. She came instantly, her whole body convulsing, her cunt gripping him like a vise.
He kept going.
He fucked her through the orgasm, through the aftershocks, through the point where she was too sensitive and started pushing at his chest.
"Too much," she gasped.
"You said harder."
"I know. I was wrong."
He stopped. Pulled out. His cock was slick with her, still hard, still aching.
"On your knees," he said.
She obeyed.
He came on her face. Ropes of it—thick, hot, painting her cheeks and lips and chin. She opened her mouth, caught what she could, swallowed.
"Fuck," she whispered.
"Yeah."
She wiped her face with the back of her hand and laughed.
"You're a monster."
"So I've been told."
---
She left an hour later. Kissed him at the door. Told him she'd see him on the next rotation.
Dom showered again. Dressed. Went out.
---
The city was alive.
He walked through San Telmo—cobblestones, street vendors, the smell of grilled meat and incense. A woman with silver hair sold antiques from a stall. A man played tango on a bandoneon. Children chased pigeons through the plaza.
Dom bought a coffee. Sat on a bench. Watched.
His phone buzzed.
Valeria: Where are you?
Dom: San Telmo.
Valeria: Stay there. I'm coming.
She found him forty minutes later. She'd changed out of her uniform—jeans, white shirt, hair loose. She looked different. Softer. Still sharp, but less guarded.
"You ditched me," she said.
"I didn't know we had plans."
"We didn't." She sat beside him. "But I wanted to talk."
"About what?"
"About last night."
Dom stared at his coffee. "What about it?"
"Was it just another page?"
The question hit him somewhere soft. He thought about the logbook. About the words he hadn't written. About the way he'd felt when the sun came up—emptier than before, not fuller.
"I don't know," he said.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
Valeria was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I've been flying for eight years. I've seen captains come and go. Most of them are fine. Some are good. A few are great." She paused. "You're great. Everyone knows that. But you're also—"
She stopped.
"Also what?"
"Broken," she said. "In a way that doesn't show."
Dom didn't respond. Couldn't.
"I'm not trying to fix you," Valeria said. "I'm not your therapist. I'm not your girlfriend. I'm just—" She sighed. "I'm just saying I see you. That's all."
She stood. Brushed off her jeans.
"I'm going to dinner. You can come or not."
She walked away.
Dom stayed on the bench for a long time.
---
He went to dinner.
They ate at a parrilla in Palermo—steak, wine, the kind of meal that demanded hours. Valeria talked about her childhood in Barcelona. Her father, a fisherman. Her mother, a teacher. The brother she'd lost to cancer when she was nineteen.
Dom listened. Didn't interrupt. Didn't deflect.
When she asked about him, he told her. Not everything. But enough. The divorce of his parents when he was twelve. The way he'd learned to disappear into books and, later, into the sky. The way he'd never learned to stay.
"Kenji would like you," he said.
"Who's Kenji?"
"My co-pilot. For eleven years. He's the only person who's ever called me on my bullshit."
"Why doesn't he fly with you anymore?"
Dom shrugged. "Schedule changes. New routes. Life."
"You miss him."
"Yeah."
They walked back to the hotel through streets that glowed with neon and moonlight. Valeria didn't invite him up. Didn't kiss him goodbye. Just said, "See you in the morning," and disappeared into the elevator.
Dom stood in the lobby for a long time.
Then he went to his room. Pulled out the logbook. Opened it.
He wrote: Buenos Aires. Day one. Paula. Valeria. Dinner.
Then he wrote: I don't know what I'm doing.
Then he closed the book and went to sleep.
---
The next morning, he woke to sunlight and an empty bed.
His phone had three messages.
Sofia: Are you awake?
Sofia: I'm in the lobby.
Sofia: Come down or I'm coming up.
Dom stared at the screen. Thought about the logbook. Thought about Kenji. Thought about Carmen, who he'd promised to come back to—and meant it.
He got dressed.
---
Sofia was waiting by the fountain in the courtyard. She wore a sundress that made her look younger, softer. Almost innocent.
She wasn't.
"You've been avoiding me," she said.
"I haven't."
"You have." She stood. "The others got their turn. I've been waiting."
"For what?"
"For you to notice."
Dom looked at her. The quiet one. The watcher. The one who'd whispered filth in his ear while Valeria rode him.
"I noticed," he said.
"Then prove it."
---
Her hotel room was on the tenth floor. The curtains were open. The city sprawled below.
She undressed him slowly. Methodically. Like she was unwrapping something she'd waited a long time to open.
Then she pushed him onto the bed and climbed on top.
She didn't ride him. Not at first. She kissed him—soft, searching, the kind of kiss that asked questions he didn't know how to answer. Then she moved lower. Kissed his chest. His stomach. His hips.
Then her mouth found his cock.
She was slow. Deliberate. She took him inch by inch, her tongue flat against the underside, her eyes on his face the whole time.
"Fuck," he whispered.
She hummed. The vibration made him twitch. She smiled.
She sucked him until he was shaking. Until he was gripping the sheets. Until he was begging—actually begging—for her to stop or go faster or do something.
She pulled off. Crawled up his body. Positioned herself above him.
"You want me?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I want you."
"Say it again."
"I want you."
She lowered herself onto him.
She was tight. So tight. And wet. She moved slowly at first, her hips rolling, her breath coming in short gasps. Then faster. Harder.
The bed creaked. The city hummed. The sun filled the room.
Dom grabbed her hips. Fucked up into her. She cried out—surprised, then delighted—and met his rhythm with her own.
"Fuck me," she said. "Fuck me like you mean it."
He did.
He fucked her until she came. Then he flipped her over and fucked her from behind. Then he pulled out and came on her ass, watching his release slide down her skin.
She laughed. Breathless. Wrecked.
"You're something else," she said.
"So I've heard."
---
They lay together for a while. Her head on his chest. His hand in her hair.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
"I'm thinking I'm tired."
"Of what?"
"Of this."
She lifted her head. Looked at him.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean—" He stopped. Took a breath. "I mean I've been doing this for twenty years. The women. The cities. The nights."
"And?"
"And I don't know if I want to anymore."
Sofia was quiet. Then she said, "Then stop."
"It's not that simple."
"It's exactly that simple." She sat up. Wrapped the sheet around herself. "You either want something different or you don't. The rest is just excuses."
She got up. Walked to the bathroom. Closed the door.
Dom lay there. Staring at the ceiling. The logbook was in his bag. The blank page was waiting.
---
He didn't write in it that night.
Instead, he walked. Through Recoleta. Through Palermo. Through streets that felt like memories he hadn't made yet.
He thought about Kenji. About the photograph in his notebook. About what it meant to have something worth coming home to.
He thought about Carmen. About the way she'd kissed him goodbye. About the promise he'd made.
He thought about Valeria. About Sofia. About Paula. About all the women who'd ever looked at him and seen something worth wanting.
And he thought about himself.
What did he want?
The answer didn't come. Not that night. Not the next morning, when he boarded the flight back to Madrid. Not when he settled into the cockpit and ran through the pre-flight checks.
But it was there. Somewhere. Waiting.
The sky outside was blue, and endless, and full of possibility.
Dom opened the logbook. Wrote: Buenos Aires. Day two. Sofia. I still don't know.
Then he closed it.
And for the first time, he didn't mind the blank pages.
He just had to figure out what to write on them.