First Flight Out

Chapter 1

First Flight Out

By Michael P. Thomas

The flight was full. Call lights had been dinging since take-off. The forty-five minute delay out of Orlando had been just enough to push a long duty day into the “grueling” category, and the slender young flight attendant—sassy on a good day—was in no mood. When “Flight attendants prepare for landing” at last echoed over the tinny public address, he flitted into the aisle to eyeball seatbelts and tray tables, but his mind was already on the frosty gin and tonic he planned to sip by the hotel’s rooftop pool provided these pilots put ‘er down in Vegas in time to hit the last minute of happy hour. He didn’t even look at the passenger—it was certainly nothing personal; he saw a seat belt dangling into the aisle, delivered the FAA-required request that it be buckled, and made to move on, stopping only because the scoff had been purposely pitched at a volume that dared him to do so.

Still, he was all business. “Please fasten your seat belt.”

“I won’t.”

“We’re landing,” he said. Not everyone, he knew, was as attuned to phases of flight as the cabin crew, who started counting the seconds to Prepare for landing as soon as the pilot said Prepare for take-off.

“I don’t care if we’re crashing. I won’t be told what to do.”

He rolled his eyes. “Okay, well, we’re not crashing, but the fasten seat belt sign is on. Please just fasten your seat belt.”

“You clearly have no idea who you’re talking to.” Was her accent supposed to sound phony?

The flight attendant took stock of the passenger and of her situation. She was sitting in coach, dripping in cheap costume jewelry, and he knew a fake fur when he saw one. “Why? Are you like a famous stripper?” he ventured.

“How dare you?” The mascara-spackled, middle-aged miscreant clutched at her throat with a faux-bejeweled hand. “I won’t be spoken to in this manner. Do you realize, where I come from, I am considered a princess?” She raised her eyebrows to imply a capital P.

If she expected obsequious back-pedaling, or even widened eyes, from the flight attendant, she was to be disappointed. “Big deal,” he said. “Where I come from, they consider me a Queen. Which means I outrank you. So drop the act and fasten your seat belt, honey.”

Maybe she fastened it and maybe she didn’t—the flight attendant denied the Princess the satisfaction of refusing his request again. Instead, he turned on his polished heel and swished back to the galley, his slender hips unimpeded by even the brawniest shoulder.