Read Online The Frog Prince by Elle Lothlorien - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elle Lothlorien
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the two sets of passenger seats facing each other in the rear of the plane.
I lurch to the cockpit, too disabled by drowsiness to even explain to him that I plan to do both: sit with him and sprawl out and sleep. I slump into the seat and buckle my seatbelt with fumbling fingers while he shuts the plane door.
“What did you give to me?” I try to say. It comes out instead as Whudja gimme?
Roman fishes the plastic bottle from his pocket, looks at it briefly, and hands it to me. “It's just an over the counter anti-emetic. I didn't want you to yarp all over the instrument panel.”
I look over the label more carefully this time. “Uh-oh.”
“What?” Roman has donned a headset with a microphone. I do not tell him that he looks like a hard-core telemarketer.
"I haven't taken this stuff in a while because of the side effects,” I manage to say before my eyes drop shut.
“What side effects?"
I take a deep breath. “The reason people don’t get sick when they take this is because…”
By the end of my pronouncement, my words have turned to mush and I give up, choosing to simply demonstrate instead. My head flops to the right against the wall of the plane and I fight to remain conscious. I don't have enough energy to even get irritated when I hear him chuckle.
There is still amusement in his voice when he says, “Centennial Ground Control, Citation two-niner-three Juliette requesting permission to taxi to active runway.”
This sounds very official, and my fears of dropping out of the sky and dying in a fiery crash begin to dissipate.
A voice from somewhere on the instrument panel replies: “Two-niner-three Juliette, proceed to taxiway Charlie, proceed to run-up area and contact Departure Control at one-one-eight point nine.”
I feel the plane roll forward just as I start to fade out.
*****
It seems like only seconds later when I hear Roman's voice again. “Aspen Approach, Citation two-niner-three Juliette requesting permission to land.”
“Citation two-niner-three Juliette turn right to heading three-three-zero, descend to eleven thousand feet, reduce to approach speed and intercept glide slope.”
I have no idea what a “glide slope” is, but I fervently hope we won’t be slowing our airspeed by doing a death spiral into the side of a mountain. I will my eyes open, and watch as the plane descends into a long valley. In the distance I see the runway and surmise that landing is imminent. I immediately shut my eyes and pull the plug on my brain.
The next thing I hear: “Citation two-niner-three Juliette, clear the active, contact ground control one-two-one point niner.”
This time I actually lift my head, automatically swiping my cheek for any drool that may have overflowed en route. We’re on the ground, taxiing off a runway to an airplane parking lot.
“And here I thought we’d be able to have some conversation on the way,” says Roman with a smile in my direction. The plane comes to a halt.
“Sorry,” I say. “That stuff knocks me out every time. And I was tired already so that didn’t help.” I watch as he removes the headset and pushes random buttons on the instrument panel. “So…is this your plane?”
“I wish I was in that income tax bracket. It belongs to a friend of mine. He’s nice enough to let me borrow it whenever I want.” The engine whine slowly drops in pitch before going silent. Roman unbuckles his seatbelt. “I’m going to pick up the car. We'll get some coffee for you in town–oh, wait…you’ll probably want tea, right? Wait here.”
My ears pop when he opens the jet door. I watch him walk across the tarmac. When he’s out of sight I dive into my purse. I chuck a napalm breath strip into my mouth, and while it’s killing bad breath germs and giving me pre-cancerous oral lesions, I flip open a compact and reapply my lipstick and powder my face. My impromptu nap has flattened the hair on the right side of my hair, I notice. Other than that the damage
I lurch to the cockpit, too disabled by drowsiness to even explain to him that I plan to do both: sit with him and sprawl out and sleep. I slump into the seat and buckle my seatbelt with fumbling fingers while he shuts the plane door.
“What did you give to me?” I try to say. It comes out instead as Whudja gimme?
Roman fishes the plastic bottle from his pocket, looks at it briefly, and hands it to me. “It's just an over the counter anti-emetic. I didn't want you to yarp all over the instrument panel.”
I look over the label more carefully this time. “Uh-oh.”
“What?” Roman has donned a headset with a microphone. I do not tell him that he looks like a hard-core telemarketer.
"I haven't taken this stuff in a while because of the side effects,” I manage to say before my eyes drop shut.
“What side effects?"
I take a deep breath. “The reason people don’t get sick when they take this is because…”
By the end of my pronouncement, my words have turned to mush and I give up, choosing to simply demonstrate instead. My head flops to the right against the wall of the plane and I fight to remain conscious. I don't have enough energy to even get irritated when I hear him chuckle.
There is still amusement in his voice when he says, “Centennial Ground Control, Citation two-niner-three Juliette requesting permission to taxi to active runway.”
This sounds very official, and my fears of dropping out of the sky and dying in a fiery crash begin to dissipate.
A voice from somewhere on the instrument panel replies: “Two-niner-three Juliette, proceed to taxiway Charlie, proceed to run-up area and contact Departure Control at one-one-eight point nine.”
I feel the plane roll forward just as I start to fade out.
*****
It seems like only seconds later when I hear Roman's voice again. “Aspen Approach, Citation two-niner-three Juliette requesting permission to land.”
“Citation two-niner-three Juliette turn right to heading three-three-zero, descend to eleven thousand feet, reduce to approach speed and intercept glide slope.”
I have no idea what a “glide slope” is, but I fervently hope we won’t be slowing our airspeed by doing a death spiral into the side of a mountain. I will my eyes open, and watch as the plane descends into a long valley. In the distance I see the runway and surmise that landing is imminent. I immediately shut my eyes and pull the plug on my brain.
The next thing I hear: “Citation two-niner-three Juliette, clear the active, contact ground control one-two-one point niner.”
This time I actually lift my head, automatically swiping my cheek for any drool that may have overflowed en route. We’re on the ground, taxiing off a runway to an airplane parking lot.
“And here I thought we’d be able to have some conversation on the way,” says Roman with a smile in my direction. The plane comes to a halt.
“Sorry,” I say. “That stuff knocks me out every time. And I was tired already so that didn’t help.” I watch as he removes the headset and pushes random buttons on the instrument panel. “So…is this your plane?”
“I wish I was in that income tax bracket. It belongs to a friend of mine. He’s nice enough to let me borrow it whenever I want.” The engine whine slowly drops in pitch before going silent. Roman unbuckles his seatbelt. “I’m going to pick up the car. We'll get some coffee for you in town–oh, wait…you’ll probably want tea, right? Wait here.”
My ears pop when he opens the jet door. I watch him walk across the tarmac. When he’s out of sight I dive into my purse. I chuck a napalm breath strip into my mouth, and while it’s killing bad breath germs and giving me pre-cancerous oral lesions, I flip open a compact and reapply my lipstick and powder my face. My impromptu nap has flattened the hair on the right side of my hair, I notice. Other than that the damage
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