“It was.” She frowned. “Do you, by chance, have any questions for me?”

“Never.”

“Very well, then. This concludes the completion of Jake C. Weston’s profile with Elite Airways.” She hit stop on the recorder and tucked it into a white box labeled ‘active pilots.’ “You can leave now, Mr. Owens. Thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, standing. “Best of luck to you with our airline, Mr. Weston.”

“Thank you.” I started to stand as well, but Dr. Cox motioned for me to remain seated.

“I thought this was the end.” I looked at her. “I’m not interested in speaking to you or anyone else any longer than I’m required to.”

“That makes two of us,” she said, her tone far darker than it was at first. “I just have one final, off the record question, and then you can leave and return to whatever shell of a life you think you have.”

She waited until Mr. Owens left the room, and then she slammed a massive red folder on top of the table and glared at me. “I need you to tell me how the hell you passed your psychiatric evaluation six weeks ago.”

“I studied.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Weston.” Her face was red. “The average score for a competent and sane pilot on the PILA test is a five. You scored a nine. “

“Maybe the test was measuring something else of mine.”

She ignored my comment. “A nine means damn near deviant. It means you shouldn’t have passed any of the remaining psych tests at all. Yet somehow, the doctor passed you with flying colors.”

“How very generous.”

“A little too generous.” She plucked a business card from her pocket and tossed it to me. “I won’t deny that your career thus far has been nothing short of outstanding, but—Well...I’m just going to be frank here. You have the most fucked up psych results I have ever seen.”

“It’s an honor, thank you.” I looked at my watch. “I’d like to receive my award via mail.”

“I don’t think you understand how serious this is,” she said. “According to the real test results—not the ones you scammed somehow, you’re exceedingly below the average in three out of four emotional areas. You’re socially detached, yet somehow manage to function in social environments.” She clasped her hands together. “I haven’t personally tested you, but I think you use your career as a means to get away, to cope with some type of issue you’re internally suffering from. Not only that, but your sleep tests showed high levels of...”

I tuned out her voice as she continued to talk, only catching a few words like “psychotherapy” and “threshold” but my attention to her sentences waned with every word that left her lips.

Leaning forward, I flipped through the binders on the edge of her desk, thumbing through the thick pages. I lifted the file baskets and the notebooks, setting them down when I saw nothing underneath.

Still ignoring the sound of her voice, I stood up and walked over to the wall of taped airline policies. I stood in front of the one that announced the ‘100% No Employee-Fraternization’ rule and grabbed the paper’s edges. I slowly peeled it from the wall, glancing at the drywall behind it.

Nothing...

I put it back and checked behind another policy, then another. I was checking the wall behind the fourth one when I heard the sound of her heels clacking closer to me.

“Mr. Weston?” She waited for me to turn around, finally stopping her long-ass spiel. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m searching for the point of this conversation, since it’s clearly not going to fall out of your mouth anytime soon.”

Her jaw dropped.

“Is it attempting to come out now?” I asked. “How much longer do I need to stand here and wait for it?”

She took a step back and narrowed her eyes at me. “The point is, since you have an ‘FCE’ on your profile, I can’t force you into the mandated therapy we offer our pilots here on the health plan. But based on the results of your tests, I think it would greatly help if you saw a professional at least two or three times a month. Hell, five to ten times, if you can manage it.”

“See how brief and concise that was?” I walked toward the door. “You could’ve summed that shit up ten minutes ago.”

“I’m going to find out how you passed that test, Weston.” She followed me. “I refuse to swallow the results as they are, and I promise you, when I figure out how you managed to get our best doctor to give you a clearance—”

“How about just asking me what you really want to ask me?” I interrupted her as I twisted the doorknob. “Ask me.”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms, hesitating. “Did you proposition our lead doctor and trade a sexual favor in exchange for passing clearance results?”

“First of all,” I said as I opened the door. “I’ve never had to proposition anyone. Ever. Second of all, if by ‘sexual favor’ you mean, did I fuck her against her office window until she couldn’t breathe, or did I ask her to get on her knees so she could suck my cock until she swallowed my come, then yes. But not in exchange for clean test results. She’d already promised to pass me after the way I ate her pussy.”

All color left her face. “I don’t—I don’t believe you. No one here on this airline’s staff, let alone someone that high up, would do that.”