Mile High Society: CH. 5

CHAPTER FIVE: THE PROPOSITION

NINE HOURS EARLIER

As a flight attendant, you fly all over the world. So, I'm used to being in new places but there's something different about Monte Carlo or maybe it's just the fact that we just had a great night, I won a lot of money gambling and now Mitch with the emerald eyes wants to whisk me off somewhere.

We stumble out of the casino at 3 AM, and the night air hits different—warm, salt-tinged, carrying that particular Monte Carlo perfume of money and Mediterranean jasmine. The streets are still alive, but barely. A few stragglers. A couple making out against a storefront. A guy in a tuxedo smoking like he's contemplating his entire life.

Mitch's hand finds mine as we walk, and I don't pull away. That's the thing about 3 AM in a place like this—the normal rules don't apply. Nobody's watching. Nobody's keeping score.

"Come on," he says, and he's already moving, hands in his pockets, completely at ease. Like he owns the city. Maybe he does. I wouldn't be surprised.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"You'll see."

"That's not an answer."

He glances back at me, grinning. "You always need to know the plan?"

"I'm a flight attendant. I literally live by schedules and flight plans."

"Well, tonight you don't." He slows down so I can catch up, and when I do, he bumps his shoulder against mine—casual, easy, like we've done this a hundred times. "Trust me."

I do. Which is weird, because I don't trust people easily. Not in this world. Not with what I do. But Mitch has this thing about him—this quiet confidence that makes you want to follow him just to see where he's going.

We walk down toward the harbor, past closed boutiques and cafes with chairs stacked on tables. The streets are cobblestone, uneven under my feet, and I can smell salt in the air mixed with something floral—jasmine, definitely jasmine. The city feels like it's sleeping, but not quite. Like it's just resting between acts.

"You know," I say, "I've been to a lot of places. Paris, Tokyo, Dubai. But this—" I gesture vaguely at the harbor, the buildings, the whole ridiculous beauty of it. "This hits different."

"Yeah?" Mitch looks at me. "Why?"

"I don't know. Maybe because I'm not working. Maybe because I just won a stupid amount of money. Maybe because—" I stop myself.

"Because what?"

"Because I'm here with you."

He doesn't say anything for a second, just keeps walking. Then: "You're gonna make me blush, Neil."

"Bullshit. You don't blush."

"You'd be surprised."

We reach a small plaza overlooking the water, and Mitch stops at the railing. I stand next to him, close enough that our arms are almost touching. Below us, the yachts bob gently in the harbor, their lights reflecting off the black water in long, wavering lines.

"I used to come here when I was younger," Mitch says. "Before all the—" He waves a hand. "Before everything got complicated."

"What was it like? Before?"

"Simpler." He laughs, but it's not a happy sound. "Or maybe I just remember it that way."

I lean against the railing, looking at him instead of the view. "You don't strike me as someone who does simple."

"I don't." He turns to face me, and those emerald eyes catch the light from a nearby streetlamp. "But sometimes I think about it. What it would be like."

"To do what?"

"To just—be. Without all the bullshit. Without the deals and the money and the—" He stops, shakes his head. "Never mind. I'm talking nonsense."

"No, you're not."

He looks at me for a long moment, and I can't read his expression. Then he reaches out and brushes a strand of hair off my forehead—casual, easy, like it's the most natural thing in the world. His fingers linger for a second against my skin.

"You're different, you know that?" he says.

"Different how?"

"I don't know yet." He drops his hand. "But I'm figuring it out."

We stand there in silence, and it's not awkward. It's just—quiet. Comfortable. The kind of quiet you can only have with someone when you're not performing, not trying to be anything other than what you are.

"So," I say eventually. "Are you gonna tell me where we're going, or are we just gonna stand here all night?"

Mitch grins. "There's this place. A bakery. Opens at 4 AM for the fishermen. Best croissants you'll ever have."

"You're taking me to a bakery?"

"I'm taking you to the bakery." He pushes off the railing. "Come on. We've got twenty minutes."

And just like that, we're walking again, and I'm laughing because this is absurd—I just made $220,000 at a casino, I got fucked by six men on a private jet earlier today, and now I'm walking through Monte Carlo at 3 AM with a billionaire who wants to buy me croissants.

But somehow, this feels like the most real thing that's happened all night.

Mitch walks a little ahead of me, and I watch the way he moves—confident, unhurried, like he's got all the time in the world. And maybe he does. Maybe that's what money buys you. Not things, but time. Space. The ability to walk through a sleeping city at 3 AM and not worry about anything.

"You coming?" he calls back.

"Yeah," I say. "I'm coming."

The bakery is exactly what he promised—small, warm, smelling like butter and yeast and possibility. An old woman behind the counter doesn't even blink when we walk in. She just nods at Mitch like she knows him, like he's been coming here for years, and hands us two croissants wrapped in paper that's still warm.

We sit on a bench outside, watching the harbor start to wake up. The sky is that particular shade of pre-dawn blue—not quite black, not quite light. Mitch tears off a piece of his croissant and eats it, and I watch the way his jaw works, the way he closes his eyes like he's tasting something sacred.

"Good?" I ask.

"Perfect," he says. And he's not talking about the croissant.

He reaches over and wipes a flake of pastry from my lip with his thumb, and then he's kissing me—soft, slow, tasting like butter and salt air and something I can't quite name. This kiss is also much different from the plane kiss. Different than anything I've felt before.

When he pulls back, he's looking at me like I'm the only thing worth looking at.

"This," he says quietly. "This is what I want. Not the sex. Not the transaction. Just—this. You. Us. Sitting on a bench at 4 AM eating croissants and not pretending to be anything we're not."

I don't know what to say to that. So I just take his hand and hold it, and we sit there as the city wakes up around us, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe—just maybe—something real is happening.

"Come on," Mitch says eventually, when the sky starts shifting from that deep pre-dawn blue to something softer, warmer. Gold at the edges. "Let's get you back."

The walk to the hotel is only a few blocks, but it feels like we're moving through a completely different city than the one we left hours ago. The streets are waking up—delivery trucks rumbling past, a few early joggers in expensive athletic wear, the occasional taxi ferrying someone home from wherever they've been all night. The air smells like espresso and baking bread and salt from the harbor.

Mitch keeps his hand in mine the whole way.

I keep waiting for him to let go—to remember where we are, who might see us, what this looks like. But he doesn't. His palm is warm against mine, his thumb occasionally brushing across my knuckles like he's reminding himself I'm real. And the thing is—nobody cares. That's the magic of 4 AM in Monte Carlo. Everyone's too busy with their own shit to pay attention to two guys walking hand-in-hand through the sleeping city.

The hotel lobby is exactly as I remember it—all polished marble and gold fixtures, crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than most people's houses. But it feels different now. Smaller, maybe. Less impressive. Or maybe it's just that I'm not alone anymore, and when you're with someone, the grandeur of a place matters less than the person standing next to you.

The concierge nods at us without comment. He's seen worse, I'm sure. Probably seen everything.

We take the elevator up to the seventh floor in silence. Not awkward silence—just the kind where words feel unnecessary. Mitch is still holding my hand. I can see our reflection in the polished brass doors—him in his rumpled suit with his jacket draped over his arm, me in my casino clothes that now feel like a costume from another life. We look like we've been through something together.

My room is exactly as I left it. The bed is still perfectly made, untouched. The harbor view still sprawling out below us through the floor-to-ceiling windows—yachts starting to move, the water catching the early light. But with Mitch here, it doesn't feel like a hotel room anymore. It feels like something else. Something private. Something that matters.

"Wow," he says, walking straight to the windows. He's still holding his jacket, and his shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and he looks—tired. Wired. Running on adrenaline and croissants and whatever this thing is between us that neither of us knows how to name.

"Yeah." I close the door behind us, and the click of the lock feels significant somehow. Final. "It's something."

He stands there looking out at the harbor, at the city coming alive, and I watch him. The way the early light catches his profile. The way his shoulders are slightly hunched, like he's carrying something heavy. The way he's gripping his jacket like it's the only thing keeping him tethered.

"You want to sit?" I ask.

He turns to look at me, and there's something in his expression I haven't seen before. Something vulnerable and uncertain and completely unguarded. "Yeah. Okay."

We end up on the bed—not planned, just where we naturally gravitate. He sits first, setting his jacket carefully on the chair, and I sit next to him. Close enough that our shoulders are almost touching. Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his body. For a long moment, we just sit there in silence, watching the harbor get brighter through the windows.

"I don't usually do this," he says finally.

"Do what? Eat croissants at 4 AM?"

"No." He laughs, but it's quiet. Almost sad. "This. The—" He gestures vaguely between us. "The talking. The walking around. The connection. I usually just—"

"Just what?"

"Just fuck and leave." He says it matter-of-factly, like he's stating a fact about the weather. Like it's the most normal thing in the world. "That's my thing. That's what I do. I pay for what I want, I get what I pay for, and then I leave. Clean. Simple. No complications."

"And what are you doing now?"

He looks at me, and I can see the exhaustion in his eyes. The genuine confusion. "I have no fucking idea."

I reach over and take his hand. His palm is warm, slightly damp. Real. "That's okay."

"Is it?" He turns to face me fully now, and I can see everything—the fear, the uncertainty, the desperate hope that maybe this isn't as insane as it feels. "Because I feel like I'm breaking some kind of rule. Like I'm supposed to be—I don't know. Cooler about this. More detached. But I'm sitting here in your hotel room at 5 AM and all I can think about is how much I don't want to leave."

"You don't have to be cool with me."

He leans in and kisses me—slower this time, deeper. His hand comes up to cup my face, and I can feel the slight tremor in his fingers. Like he's nervous. Like this matters. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine, and we just breathe together for a moment.

"I'm terrified," he says quietly.

"Of what?"

"That this is just the 4 AM talking. That when the sun comes up, you're gonna realize I'm just another guy you met while jet setting around the world. That this—" He gestures between us. "—that this isn't real. That I'm making it into something it's not."

I pull back enough to look at him. Really look at him. "Are you?"

"No." He says it immediately, like he's been waiting for someone to ask. Like he's been waiting to say it out loud. "No, I don't think I am. I think—" He stops himself, runs a hand through his hair. "I think this is the most real thing I've felt in years."

I kiss him this time—soft, deliberate. And then I'm pulling my shirt over my head, and he's doing the same, and we're falling back onto the bed together.

But it's not like the plane.

On the plane, there was choreography. There was an audience. There were five other guys watching from the doorway, and to some degree that was a performance. On the plane, I came while Mitch watched, while he held back, while he stayed in control. It was like his only interest was in satisfying me.

This is something else entirely.

His body is exactly as I remember it from the plane—all lean muscle and controlled strength, the kind of build that comes from discipline and money and personal trainers. But it feels different when it's just us. When there's no one watching. When there's no performance. He kisses my chest, my collarbone, my neck, and his hands move slowly over my skin like he's trying to memorize the geography of me. Like he's got all the time in the world.

"You're beautiful," he says, and I almost laugh because nobody says that to me—not in this context, not like he means it. Beautiful is for boyfriends and romance and things that aren't supposed to happen in my world. But he does mean it. I can feel it in the way he's touching me, the way he's looking at me like I'm something precious.

I reach down and undo his pants, and he helps me slide them off along with his boxers. His cock is already half-hard, and I wrap my hand around it, stroking slowly. He groans and buries his face in my neck, and I can feel his breath hot against my skin.

"Fuck, Neil—"

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