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Adrianne. She had put her stamp of style on my place: in the tiny kitchen, the exposed brick wall and the remodeled bathroom with the glass bricks that let in light. I could almost see her sitting at the tiny counter, her dark head thrown back in laughter.
    I hadn’t thought about her in years. On purpose.
    I had added my own touches to the place over the past decade, imprinting myself on it with the black leather couch and stark photographs on the walls. It was spare and modern, like an interior designer had put it together. It gave exactly the impression what I wanted.
    Adrianne had left me the loft when she walked out all those years ago. Left me and our rocket ship relationship for marriage to an investment banker. She had never taken me seriously because I was much younger than her, even though I dominated her in every way. Last I heard, she was living on the thirty-sixth floor of Beacon Court, a luxury glass tower on the Upper East Side. Her kid must be seven years old now.
    I had tried to erase her from my life completely, but that was impossible considering I was living in her old loft. Ghosts of girlfriends past. But she had already been living there for a decade before I moved in with her, and that kind of stabilized rent couldn’t be beat in Manhattan anymore. My neighbors were paying four times what I did.
    I dropped down on the couch, looking through the two large windows that filled the outer wall of the studio loft, over the tops of the surrounding low buildings. Midtown rose beyond the Village, with its skyscrapers filling the view to the north.
    I scrubbed a hand through my hair. Why did I come home so early?
    Before things could get uncomfortably deep, my phone rang. I saw it was the night supervisor from work. I would have ignored it if I had stayed at the Chamber. But now… with nothing better to do.
    I answered it. Sure enough, a guy had called in sick.
    I changed out of my nice clothes and gathered my gear, heading downstairs. It wasn’t far to Houston St. where a cab picked me up and took me over the Williamsburg Bridge, onto the BQE. It took only twenty minutes to make the trip to La Guardia airport, half the time of my normal commute by subway and bus.
    I handed the night supervisor my cab receipt. They always paid for a car when they called a man in. “Busy?” I asked.
    “ Typical Friday,” Kevins griped. “I’m putting you on the ramp. Those other guys don’t listen for shit.”
    I put my stuff in my locker and pulled out my earphones and mic. I figured as much. The guys on the night shift were a bunch of mooks. I could fling baggage with the best of them, but I’d rather handle the boarding ramp, guiding the planes in and out.
    I wasn’t the one who had started the rumor that I was a big airline executive. I had denied it in the beginning, but it must have made for a better story because it kept popping up in the sex clubs and fetish groups over the years. Maybe because I posted photos from the trips I took on my scene profile. Free travel was the reason why I took this job. So I could see the world. And when women saw my place and assumed I was rich, and then wanted to have sex with me because of it, that wasn’t my fault. Sometimes they wanted to have sex because they thought I was hot. Getting sun-baked on the tarmac, and pumping up my muscles lifting baggage helped with that. But most people assumed it came from a tanning bed and a trainer.
    I stepped outside to the roar of a jet engine. I knew if Sierra saw me now, she wouldn’t be interested in me. And that’s what made me so mad that I could mindfuck a beautiful stranger. I wasn’t any different now than I had been in the club, but I could tell from the appraising way she had looked me up and down when she first saw me, taken in by my expensive shoes and shirt, that she changed her opinion about me.
    Only that wasn’t really me.
    That wasn’t this guy carrying the light sticks down to marshal another plane of people into