Mile High Club Quotes

When you see him, I want you to do something for me. Ask him if he feels like he might die if he doesn’t get to touch you again... Because there’s another man who does.

Million-mile-high club,” Martinez said. “Nice!

This is it. I can stop searching. I’ve found her.

You must have done something stupid in your life, Jameson Miles. Yeah. I have. What? I never asked for your number.

When someone shows themselves to you . . . believe them.

I just want everyone to know,” Zanders announces from the backseat. “I joined the mile high club today.

There's a fine line between fiction and non-fiction and I think I snorted it somewhere in 1979

In the darkness, in her arms, I listen to her heartbeat. And I lose sight of mine.

Tristan fucking Miles.

To love is to be brave.

When you see him, I want you to do something for me. " "What's that?" "Ask him if he feels like he might die if he doesn't get to touch you again." I frown. "Why would I ask him that?" I whisper. "Because there's another man who does." The phone clicks as he hangs up.

He pays attention to the small things, and it’s the small things that matter.

I’m watching you,” I whisper. “I’ll tell you who to watch: that middle child of yours. The wizard.

I will not beg for any man to love me.

Welcome to the Miles-High Club, Emily.

Yes . . . you are. I know your scent.” His eyes hold mine. “And . . . today it’s different.” He knows my scent . . . what the fuck?

Who’s hopelessly in love with you.” He leans over and kisses me softly, and I feel my resistance fade. “I love you, cheesecake,” he whispers. “Don’t call me fucking cheesecake.” He chuckles against my lips. “Too far?” “Way too far.

Because diamonds are made under pressure.

So . . . sleeping with only you . . . isn’t a problem for me.” His lips touched mine. “However, not sleeping with you is a torture I won’t tolerate.

There are moments in your life that you know you will remember forever. Certain situations that are poignant and have shaped who you are.

I knew in my heart that I was called to them for a reason. It’s you, Kate, you are the reason.

The sun’s reminder of what I have lost.

I work hard . . . but I love harder.

Don’t even fucking look at her ass, or I will sit you on yours

Why don’t you want to look at me? Because I just find your face really...punchable.

Send two ambulances,” I bark. “I’m about to have a fucking heart attack myself.

When the world gets too much, I go to my sadness sanctuary, the place where I can cry alone. I’ve cried buckets of tears in this shower. If the walls could talk, they would tell a very sad story indeed.

These bugs are from Jurassic Park.” He swings his arms around to get them off him. “No bugs are this big.” I go back to my instructions. Okay, so it says here that this pole goes into this . . . “Ahh,” he cries as he slaps his arm. “I’m getting fucking malaria over here, Emily.” I roll my eyes. “Stop being a baby.” I put the pole into the correct place. “Can you grab the corner and stretch it out, please?

Why do people think that only hardship builds character?

Don’t misjudge my submission as a weakness.

If I don’t look pretty, nobody will notice me . . . and my heart can never get broken again.

Your life has been so perfect that you’ve never had to dig deep to find out who you really are.

Because she wasn't you.

I can see the headline now,” Tristan says. “Death by duck.

For the admission price of $543.90, they were inducted into the exclusive Mile High Club, and it was worth every last penny.

What was your favorite thing you saw today?” He changes the subject. “Honestly?” “Of course.” “It was you.” Our eyes lock. “You were the most beautiful thing I saw today, Tristan Miles.

He puts his mouth to my ear. “Did you touch yourself?” he whispers. His breath tickles my skin and goosebumps scatter up my arms. “Did you?” I ask. His lips dust mine. “Every day. Coming is my favorite pastime.

Claire Anderson,” he calls from the stage. My horrified eyes meet his. “Sit back down.” “I . . .” I take another step toward the exit. “Claire,” he warns. I glance around at the 120 pairs of eyes fixed firmly on me and then back up at him. “I said sit. Back. Down.

So excuse me if the privilege of sucking your golden CEO dick doesn’t excite me any longer.

You can’t heal the wound until you find the sore,

You feel more at home at my home . . . or maybe it’s me that feels at home when you’re there.

You know, intelligent people scare stupid people.

I’m gay, not blind. I can appreciate a fine female form.

Men who look that good can’t be blessed with brains too.

And do tell . . . how would you impress a woman you’re attracted to?” I ask, fascinated. His eyes hold mine. “Offer her a window seat.

Oxygen gets you high. In a catastrophic emergency, you're taking giant panicked breaths. Suddenly you become euphoric, docile. You accept your fate. It's all right here. Emergency water landing - 600 miles an hour. Blank faces, calm as Hindu cows

Sometimes you just know in your gut that you shouldn’t be doing something. The outcome is already written in the stars, and sometimes you should just be stronger and say no. But what if you can’t?

Nobody treats me as bad as you do, Emily. Because you pay them. Good thing you’ve got lots of money, Jameson. You’re going to need it. Nobody would put up with your shit for free. That’s a low blow.

Emily.” He looks at me, and the flashlight strapped to his forehead shines in my eyes. “I smell like a toxic dumping ground of bug poison, and I have never felt so unsexy in my entire life. I wouldn’t be surprised if my dick has been poisoned off like a weed.

Will you say something?” I whisper. “Say something sweet to put me out of my misery.” His eyes come to mine as he cups my face. “I packed your scarf in my luggage.” I smile softly. “It’s nothing new. I’ve taken it on every trip I’ve been on . . . since we met.

I would rather be dead than be divorced. A failed marriage is something that I couldn’t forgive myself for. If I can’t do it right, I don’t want to do it at all.

But it was the way you kissed me that I remember the most.” My eyes search his. “How did I kiss you?” “Like you’d been waiting your whole life to kiss me.

Forgiveness is a choice.

Destiny is fucking me up the ass, that’s what.” Tristan raises an eyebrow. “Strap-on, or cock?

Don’t stop. Multitask. Suck and listen.

If you think I’m sharing your orgasms with a battery-operated device, you’re deluded, Kathryn.

Have a safe trip home this afternoon, don’t walk in front of a bus or anything.

When will you be back?” he asks. I turn back to him. “When my boys are men.

I’m in love with a selfish fucking asshole, and I don’t know how to turn it off, and I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop and for you to walk away again.

to glance through my five thousand emails

I drag my eyes to his. “Why don’t you want to look at me?” I stare at him for a moment. “Because I just find your face really . . . punchable.

Do not speak to me like that and then barge in here with demands. I’m unsure how things work for you with other women, but I can assure you, it doesn’t cut it with me.” I

It’s Mile-High Club . . . not Miles,” I whisper. “No . . . it’s Miles.” He smirks as his eyes darken. “Trust me—it’s Miles.

He leans over and whispers, “You have Zuckerberg on speed dial now?” “Huh?” I frown. “FB . . . that stands for Facebook, right?

Is your mother there making you call me?” “Yep.” “Are you really sorry?” “No.” I narrow my eyes . . . what I really want to blurt out is I screwed your mother every which way, and she fucking loved every inch of my cock, you little shit. But I won’t. I’ll be the adult here.

Really?” he whispers as the flight attendant walks past us. “Excuse me, can we have two more champagnes, please?” he asks her. “Of course, sir.” His eyes come back to meet mine. “Well, do tell. What was your first impression of me?” I pretend to look around for Jessica the flight attendant. “You may need something stronger to drink to hear this, Jim. You’re not going to like it.” He laughs out loud, and I find myself smiling broadly as I watch him. “What’s funny?” I ask. “You are.” “Why am I funny?” I frown. “This sense of righteousness that you have.” “Oh, like you don’t have that too . . . Mr. I’ll Have Two Champagnes.” Our drinks arrive, and he smiles as he passes mine to me. His eyes linger on my face as he takes a sip.

We caught up for a while until my Xanax began to kick in, and I eventually leaned my head on his shoulder and dozed off. When I woke up, we were already landing. “I wasn’t sure you were breathing there for a while.” I stretched in my seat. “I was really out.” “I know. I tried to wake you to join the mile-high club, but you didn’t budge. Got as far as slipping off your panties, but after that you were like dead wood.

And then I came to your office, and you treated me like a two-bit whore that you ejaculated in the night before.” He clenches his jaw. “I’m nobody’s whore, Jameson, least of all yours. No job is worth my self-respect.

I don’t like social media, that’s all.” I shrug. “What’s not to like?” She keeps taking her own photo. I stare at her deadpan. “A misrepresentation of society with unrealistic images that portray a fake lifestyle with impossible ideals,

Anywhere will do. I don’t care if we go camping. Maybe next time we can?” “Yeah, okay.” He chuckles as he opens the door. “My brother has told me all about camping, I’ll meet you there.” I smile: that’s code for I’m never going camping.

it is indeed possible for humans to copulate in weightlessness. However, they have trouble staying together. The covert researchers discovered that it helped to have a third person to push at the right time in the right place. The anonymous researchers…discovered that this is the way dolphins do it. A third dolphin is always present during the mating process. This led to the creation of the space-going equivalent of aviation’s Mile High Club known as the Three Dolphin Club. Stine

Wade still lives here with us, just not in flesh and blood. He’s dead enough that I’m lonely . . . but alive enough that I can’t fathom moving on. I’m stuck in the middle, halfway between heaven and hell. Madly in love with my husband’s ghost.

I can’t help it. I tried to stop it, and I couldn’t. I think I’ve loved you since our first night together in Boston. You stayed with me. I fought it, and still, I couldn’t forget you. I’ve been carrying your scarf around like a lovesick fool for more than a year.

Emily Foster, I would like to introduce you to Mr. Miles,” Lindsey says. I stare at him, unable to speak because there’s no air in my lungs. His eyebrow rises, and he sits back in his chair as he smirks. “Hello, Emily.” His big eyes hold mine, the same beautiful deep-blue eyes that hypnotized me twelve months ago

Look, I never believed in fate. I always thought that I would meet some beautiful young woman and it would be easy,” Tristan says. I listen intently. “And then I met Claire, and everything I thought I wanted went out the window. Her kids hated me and I had to fight tooth and nail to convince her to love me. Never in a million years did I ever imagine my life as it is now. But I honestly believe I am where I’m meant to be. Claire and those kids were meant for me, and the bigger picture of my destiny was already mapped out. They were my family long before I even met them; perhaps before they were even born it was decided that they would end up being mine.

I screw up my face; what the fuck is he going on about? “Elliot, I don’t—” “Open it,” he barks. Jeez, psycho . . . I open the envelope and my eyes widen. I flick through the images, confusion takes me over. I know these paintings . . . I did these paintings. My eyes rise to meet his. “All those years, all that time . . . it was you,” he whispers. Goosebumps scatter up my spine. He drops to his knees on the floor in front of me, takes my hands in his. “It was you who was calling me through those paintings.

I’m just usually upset or ruffled after she leaves. You know when you spend time with someone and they kind of suck the life out of you.

Being in love is like being on a deserted island, Jameson. You focus on them and them only, and you make everything else fit around that person.

I’m not fucking stupid, Kate, he’s all over you like a rash.

You didn’t need me to be anything else. I was enough.

When someone shows themselves to you . . . believe them.” My chest constricts

It’s the silence that kills you. The things that aren’t said.

He shakes his head in disgust. “When I find my woman, I’ll move heaven and hell to keep her.

What are you doing here with me?” I whisper. “You should be out chasing girls.” “You’re my only girl,” he whispers

She will put your needs and your happiness before her own because when Hayden loves, it’s forever.

Is this particular girl going to be the one you trust with your heart, or is she going to be the one who got away?

I am not a fucking snack,” he yells. “I am a main meal. A ten-course fucking banquet, for your information.

He’s dead enough that I’m lonely . . . but alive enough that I can’t fathom moving on.

This isn’t directions to put up a tent—this is a map for an escape from Alcatraz.

In some strange way, I feel like this is the changing of the guard. The family he loved . . . is now with me. In my care, for me to love. “Nice to meet you, Wade,” I whisper.

Your things are already in the trunk.” “In Bessie?” I stammer. “Yes, in Bitchy. I borrowed her from Viagra Mike. Although I must tell you, I’ve ordered you a new Range Rover. Bessie is unbearable.

There was something spiritual in this, as if my soul had clenched and expanded and coruscated outward to find Shane’s own essence, and together they braided, tangled, and twined into something other.

That you’re a coward.” He clenches his jaw. “That you’re too scared to love me.” Our eyes are locked, and an undercurrent of anger runs between us. “And I deserve someone who knows that I’m worth the risk.

He rushes me and grabs my face in his hands and kisses me. His tongue swipes through my lips, and he pushes me up against the wall. “Believe me, Claire Anderson . . . the last thing I feel when I look at you . . . is pity.

Tell me how to make this right? Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.” I turn to him. “Move on . . . I have.” His face falls. “Okay . . . I deserved that.” “I didn’t.” I push through tears as I brush past him and keep walking.

Last year CNN brought me on live TV to discuss a proposal to create “kid-free planes,” and I explained if we were really going to start segregating passengers I’d prefer to ride in an “a-hole-free plane” because babies almost never ask you to join the Mile-High Club, or clip their toenails while in flight, or do any of a plethora of horrible things I’ve witnessed from others.

It is no easy thing to be in your mid-twenties and realize that, holy shit, this is it, this is as good as it gets, and from here it's all downhill, the fun's over, the hijinks have jinked their last, nothing lies ahead but drudgery and toil and a sagging belly and death. It's harder yet when a stupid bitch, a numbfuck cunt, one of those horrible sweet-smelling OMG types who wouldn't talk to you in high school and sure as fuck won't talk to you now, takes position on your elbow with a cell phone jammed into her cheek, yammering away. Because who wants to listen to the stream of shit coming out of her mouth? Gossip about friends. Gossip about enemies. Gossip about celebrities. Gossip about gossip. Not a thought in her head. Not a fact. Nothing of interest. Nothing of worth. Just an avalanche of verbal rubbish. The Patriots took on the Redcoats, the Blue fought the Gray, the National Guard stormed the beaches of Normandy, so this submoronic cretin could stand here in her designer boots and talk about what happened at the club last night.

The country, it seemed, was on the verge of a second civil war, this one over industrial slavery. But Frick was a gambler who cared little what the world thought of him. He was already a villain in the public’s eye, thanks to a disaster of epic proportions three years earlier. Frick and a band of wealthy friends had established the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club on land near an unused reservoir high in the hills above the small Pennsylvania city of Johnstown, 70 miles east of Pittsburgh. The club beautified the grounds around the dam but paid little attention to the dam itself, which held back the Conemaugh River and was in poor condition from years of neglect. On May 31, 1889, after heavy rainfall, the dam gave way, releasing nearly 5 billion gallons of water from Lake Conemaugh into Johnstown and killing 2,209 people. What became known as the Johnstown Flood caused $17 million in damages. Frick’s carefully crafted corporate structure for the club made it impossible for victims to pursue the financial assets of its members. Although he personally donated several thousands of dollars to relief efforts, Frick remained to many a scoundrel, the prototype of the uncaring robber baron of the Gilded Age.

The life of a cigarette girl. Hawking cigarettes, breath mints and the occasional condom wasn’t actually the end-all and be-all job occupation for Linda. But without a high school diploma, and a sincere lack of interest in what some would consider a career, she knew her options were limited in today’s society. Oh, no, here at the Club Festival, ethics and morality were only gauged as highly as the limits of an individual’s cash in the wallet. Money, honey, that made things move all about her. Linda Avery was a city girl, born and bred. She was born in the big city of Portland, Oregon, and although raised in a small town a few miles away, came to the big city for excitement. She came to the city both with her parents as a child and as an adolescent on her own. She remembered that back in the day, coming into Portland with her parents was a matter of finding the main drag, Burnside Street, that connected the west side with the east side; now there’s more than one freeway route through town.

Our team’s vision for the facility was a cross between a shooting range and a country club for special forces personnel. Clients would be able to schedule all manner of training courses in advance, and the gear and support personnel would be waiting when they arrived. There’d be seven shooting ranges with high gravel berms to cut down noise and absorb bullets, and we’d carve a grass airstrip, and have a special driving track to practice high-speed chases and real “defensive driving”—the stuff that happens when your convoy is ambushed. There would be a bunkhouse to sleep seventy. And nearby, the main headquarters would have the feel of a hunting lodge, with timber framing and high stone walls, with a large central fireplace where people could gather after a day on the ranges. This was the community I enjoyed; we never intended to send anyone oversees. This chunk of the Tar Heel State was my “Field of Dreams.” I bought thirty-one hundred acres—roughly five square miles of land, plenty of territory to catch even the most wayward bullets—for $900,000. We broke ground in June 1997, and immediately began learning about do-it-yourself entrepreneurship. That land was ugly: Logging the previous year had left a moonscape of tree stumps and tangled roots lorded over by mosquitoes and poisonous creatures. I killed a snake the first twelve times I went to the property. The heat was miserable. While a local construction company carved the shooting ranges and the lake, our small team installed the culverts and forged new roads and planted the Southern pine utility poles to support the electrical wiring. The basic site work was done in about ninety days—and then we had to figure out what to call the place. The leading contender, “Hampton Roads Tactical Shooting Center,” was professional, but pretty uptight. “Tidewater Institute for Tactical Shooting” had legs, but the acronym wouldn’t have helped us much. But then, as we slogged across the property and excavated ditches, an incessant charcoal mud covered our boots and machinery, and we watched as each new hole was swallowed by that relentless peat-stained black water. Blackwater, we agreed, was a name. Meanwhile, within days of being installed, the Southern pine poles had been slashed by massive black bears marking their territory, as the animals had done there since long before the Europeans settled the New World. We were part of this land now, and from that heritage we took our original logo: a bear paw surrounded by the stylized crosshairs of a rifle scope.