Take right now, for example. Instead of eating takeout pizza in a Holiday Inn like Trev and I used to do back in our early days, we’re currently sitting at a table inside Prime—Wes Lancaster’s newest steakhouse—surrounded by the same hilarious guys who kept us company on this morning’s flight. Our biggest problem now is keeping ourselves out of the billionaires’ brand of trouble.
Soon, all of this could change, though…
After months of going through a barrage of tests, medical exams and physicals, psychological assessments, phone conferences, and in-person interviews, I’ve officially reached the final candidate round for NASA’s Astronaut Selection Program.
It’s between me and nineteen other men and women.
And no one knows exactly how many will be chosen.
“So, Luke, any NASA updates?” Thatch asks, taking a drink from his shiny, gold-embossed glass filled with expensive bourbon.
Can he read my fucking mind?
“Nope,” I answer with a slight shake of my head. “Not yet.”
“How many interviews have you had in Houston?” Kline asks.
“Two.”
“The final round,” Trevor chimes in helpfully and pops a piece of complimentary bread into his mouth. “You’re going to hear from them soon, my man. You’re a shoo-in.”
“I don’t know about that.” I shrug. “The competition is pretty steep. I’m up against guys with ten years of experience flying fighter jets for the navy.”
Trevor just grins at me. “Yeah, but you have a master’s in engineering from Columbia, thousands upon thousands of flight hours under your belt, your dad was pretty well-known within NASA before he died, and you’re in better shape than Rambo. I’d bet my next paycheck you’ll be living in Houston by early next year.”
“Which bookie should I sign the check over to?” Thatch teases helpfully. Trevor laughs.
“I hope you’re right, dude.” I shrug again and take a sip of my beer.
Truthfully, I really fucking hope he’s right. This is what I’ve been working for since I was eighteen. This is why I get up at the crack of fucking dawn every morning to run six miles around the city and weight train. Everything I do, everything I’ve accomplished, has been solely focused on getting into NASA’s Astronaut Candidate training program.
This is the dream. The one my father and I started to talk about when I was seven, just two years before he and my mom died in a head-on collision with a drunk driver on their way home from a work party at Johnson Space Center in Houston.
I like to think he’d be really proud of me and how close I’ve managed to get to that dream—our dream. God, I can still remember being six years old and him sneaking me into the famous NASA control room. I was mesmerized. Hooked. Determined.
“Is now the time I should disclose that I’m close friends with someone on the board?” Milo Ives offers with a little smirk on his lips, pulling me from my trip down memory lane.
It takes a minute for his words to sink in, but when they do, I furrow my brow. “Wait… Do you mean NASA’s Candidate Selection Board?”
“Yep.” He nods. “You know, the board that has the final say in who gets into the program.”
“Milo, you motherfluffer,” Thatch says through a chuckle. “How did I not know this?”
It’s Milo’s turn to laugh. “Considering NASA is one of my company’s contracts and we’ve just recently revamped all their security servers, I think you should have assumed I probably knew a few people on the inside.”
“So, what are you saying exactly?” I ask, and I kind of hate that hope is already blooming in my chest.
“I’m saying that you have every reason to be optimistic.”
“Yeah?” My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket, and I’m half tempted to pull it out and check it. But I ignore the urge and focus on the important conversation at hand.
“Oh, c’mon, Ives!” Cap chimes in and slams his hand onto the table. “Why are you beating around the fucking bush with this shit? Just spit it out.”
Quincy laughs. “You are slow-rolling him a bit, Ives.”
Milo just rolls his eyes. “Because we’re talking about NASA, and everything in NASA is fucking classified.”
“You suck, dude,” Thatch retorts. “You suck big donkey dick right now.”
“I second that,” Cap agrees. “And this is exactly why we need to bring book club back. No doubt, we’d get Ives to crack under pressure if we were still having our regular meetings.”
“Fluffing right!” Thatch exclaims, but Wes is quick to cut them both off.
“No!” he shouts. “No more fucking book club.”
“Book club?” Trevor asks and glances around the table in confusion. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Something that never needs to be brought up again,” Wes retorts.
“We’re talking about a book club that was started by Cap for the sole purpose of getting himself laid,” Trent Turner explains through an amused laugh.
Cap waggles his brows. “It worked, by the way.”