One Last Time

Jeffrey traveled naked. He said he loved to feel the plane’s sumptuous upholstery caress his body at 45,000 feet.

At first I protested.

“It isn’t safe,” I insisted.

“What if we crash?” I inquired.

But eventually I followed his example, though in this case I knew it would be the last time.

We soar above the Atlantic.

At 45,000 feet, Jeffrey and I are sprawled across the pink shag carpet. We pretend we are making snow angels, like so many times before. Long cashmere blades, babysoft, tickle the insides of our thighs. We laugh.

Our bodies move rhythmically. We are a pulsating, feverish. Familiar.

At any moment Ghislaine will appear, also naked, offering whatever food and drink I order. Tonight, a celebration.

“Champagne,” I tell Jeffrey.

He pushes a button and waits.

Minutes pass, but Ghislaine does not appear.

I sit up. “Where is Ghislaine?”

Jeffrey ignores me and makes snow angels. His limbs, thick with sweat, slide slickly across the damp carpet.

I am worried. Something is not right.

WHERE IS GHISLAINE.

I promised the Feds both Epstein and Maxwell. Would I get my deal without her? Would Epstein be enough?

Suddenly Jeffrey grabs me. He pulls our bodies close.

“Ghislaine’s not here,” he confesses, biting my neck. “But I hope I am enough.”