CHAPTER THREE
SYDNEY
“Can you tell me where we're going now?” I ask, once we’ve boarded the private jet.
A woman brings me a glass of champagne, which she hands to me along with a napkin. I didn't ask for any champagne and am not particularly in the mood for a drink right now. I put the glass in the cup holder on the arm of the leather seat. Peter takes his glass and sips it, a devious smile on his face as he glances at me from over the rim.
“Do you like skiing, Sydney?” he asks me.
His question brings back memories from high school. A ski trip to Aspen. Sure, there are others, but this one brings back a lot of memories for me that I push away. Memories I don't particularly want to think about.
I shrug. “Yeah, I guess so,” I say. “We're not – ”
My eyes are wide and my stomach churns as I realize I hadn't packed any winter clothing. It hadn't even occurred to me that we might actually be going somewhere other than some expensive tropical paradise because that's usually Peter's idea of a good time. Skiing is more my thing, or rather, was my thing. “Your mom told me about your love of skiing,” Peter says, taking another sip of his champagne. “Said you used to go a few times a year with them. My dad owns a house outside of Aspen, so I figured, why not do something I know you love for a change?”
“I didn't bring anything to wear,” I admit. “Not for winter weather.”
His gray eyes glimmer a bit, and I know there's a flirtatious comment swirling around in his brain that he's dying to give voice to. He holds his tongue though, and for that, I give him some credit.
“We'll pick up whatever you need at the shops,” he says, waving his hand.
A reminder that to him, money is not an issue. Not that money is an issue for me either, but Peter likes to flaunt the fact in everything he does – right down to the Rolex on his wrist he makes sure I see.
Unlike my family, his family is fairly new money. Not that it matters to my folks. Money is money is money. I come from a long line of doctors and surgeons who've all done quite well for themselves. I've never wanted for anything in my life and can admit that I've had a very privileged upbringing.
Peter, on the other hand, is only the second person in his family to have success in business. Well, really, his dad was the successful one. Peter was just earning off of what his father started. Not that I had any doubt he'd be anything less that successful – Peter was a man who took his career, and his potential earnings, very seriously. If there's one thing he's laser-focused on, it's making money.
Allie was right when she said any woman would love to be with a man like Peter. He's six-foot-five, and built like a linebacker from his years of playing college football, still thick through the chest and shoulders –. He still works out every single day, without fail, and follows a strict high-protein diet. His figure is important to him, and it shows. He wears suits that are tailored to his shape, and show off his tight, fit body. Peter can be a bit of a peacock.
His face is just as hard as his body – all angles and sharp edges. High cheekbones that are almost a bit too structured to look real – but they are. It's a family trait as I've seen from old photographs. His entire family are as beautiful as statues, chiseled to perfection, most all of them having nearly jet-black hair and gray eyes that look as if they can see right through you.
I stare out the window of the jet, looking down at the world beneath us. While I grew up with money, my family doesn't own private jets or go on expensive vacations on nothing more than a whim. It all feels so different to me; so alien.
At first, I'll admit, it was exciting. Now, it feels almost irresponsible. Maybe I'm just biased about that since I have my father's work ethic. There's a time for fun, that time though, is structured. It's scheduled. You don't just drop everything to travel to some foreign land because you feel like it.
Peter, on the other hand, lectures me often about lightening up. He constantly tells me to relax and live a little. I'm trying. It's why I'm here on this jet with him now. It's why I keep doing whatever he has in mind for us, because deep down, on some level, I can admit that maybe he's right. Hell, I know he's right. I do need to live a little. This is certainly living, I think, as I look around at the jet. The leather seats we're in, sitting across from each other, are in a group of four. Each side can be folded down into a bed, and yes, when we took off the last time, I was exhausted from applying to med school and I totally took advantage of it. There's a mini bar on one side, fully stocked and flat panel televisions in case you get bored. It blows my mind, to this day, that this is how some people travel. It blows my mind even more to know that this is how I travel now, apparently.
I sip my champagne and stare down at mountains below us. I can't tell if we're still in California or not, but if I want to know, I can pull up all the information I could ever want on one of the televisions, I'm sure. Anything is an option when you have enough money.
“Did your mother talk to you about UCLA?” Peter asks.
I look over at him and blink. “What about it?” I ask.
A sly smile spreads across his face. Setting his glass down, he steeples his fingers and makes me wait for his answer. It's as if he enjoys watching me squirm. Finally, when he speaks up, I can hear the note of pride in his voice.
“My father knows a guy on the admissions board, and he's put in a good word for you,” he says. “You should be hearing from them soon.”
“Thank you,” I say, blushing as I look down at my hands. “You really didn't have to do that.”
“I know,” he says, continuing to smile at me, as if he expects me to fall to the ground and suck his cock as a way to say thanks or something. “I figure you could use all the help you can get. UCLA is a top tier medical school, I'm told.”
“It's a good one,” I say.
I grit my teeth at the comment about needing all the help I can get though. As if I'm not good enough or smart enough to get into a top tier school like UCLA without somebody putting in a good word for me. It irritates me because I work hard and am damn good at what I do. Hearing him speak about putting in good words for me with the admissions boards just strikes me as completely condescending. “It's in my top ten or twenty, for sure,” I say, carefully trying to keep my tone neutral. “Stanford is still my top choice, but UCLA wouldn't be a bad fallback school.”
Not to mention, I stand a good chance at getting into either on my own merits.
“UCLA is closer to home though,” he says.
“Stanford isn't that far off,” I say. Especially when you have a private jet, I think to myself.
“Well, we'll see what happens, won't we?”
Peter cocks an eyebrow as he takes a drink from his champagne flute, finishing the glass. He presses the buzzer for the flight attendant. When she doesn't respond fast enough, he presses it again. Then a third time, harder.
“Dammit. Where is she? ”
The woman scurries out of the back and keeps her eyes low as she apologizes, “Sorry, sir, I was in the restroom.”
Peter continues to scowl as he hands his glass over to her, not saying another word – not even deigning to look at her. The stewardess disappears and then quickly returns, handing his glass back to him with a fresh napkin. Briefly, I catch her gaze and see her wide eyes, and her lower lip trembling. She looks terrified.
“I'm so sorry, Mr.--”
Peter stops her and waves her off. “Just go sit down,” he says. “And remember, you're being paid to be at my beck and call. See that it doesn't happen again.”
“Yes, sir,” she says. “I'm so sorry, sir.”
She starts to walk away, but I grab her arm. She stares down at me, and her eyes are wide, and she looks at my hand on her arm like I'm scalding her. Her name tag says Amy.
“Thank you, Amy.” I speak the words my boyfriend should – but doesn't – offer her. “We appreciate your help.”
She nods and quickly walks away without another word, toward the back of the plane. Out of sight until Peter buzzes her again. Peter shakes his head at me, muttering something to himself that's so low, I can't make it out. I don't even care what he's saying, honestly, so I go back to looking out my window.