Two flights. Two cities. One destination.
The logistics were simple in concept and nightmarish in execution. My Gulfstream would carry the Macau contingent — me, Ethan, Li Bai, and Song Mei — on the seventeen-hour flight from Macau International to Miami. The New York crew would fly commercial first class from JFK. Fourteen people converging on a beachfront villa from opposite ends of the earth.
Ethan boarded first, carrying a surfboard under one arm and a cooler under the other. He was already wearing board shorts and a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to his navel.
"Bro," Ethan said, grinning. "Miami."
"We're not bros, Ethan."
"We're literally best friends."
"Best friends don't wear Hawaiian shirts."
"This is a vacation shirt. There's a difference." He dropped onto the couch. "You're going to love it. The beaches, the clubs, the—"
"The nine women who are about to turn this plane into a warzone," I said. "Though at least this plane only has two of them."
