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Money has always been a bone of contention between my wife and I.

"What is mine is mine, David."

I understand that.

"What's yours is mine, David."

That I never understood.

The power is in her name but I paid. The telephone is in mine ... I paid. The rent ... I paid.

She designs imaginary clothes for imaginary people on the internet and gets paid with REAL money ... but help out with the internet costs? Not on your life.

It's not my fault she's really good at it.

"Bring me back something yummy," she said. The unspoken was... use your own money.

The limo ride to Island Home airport was luxury personified.

"Booze is in the pulldown between the seats, Mr. Austin," the cutie in leather said just before the divider sealed me off from her.

I looked.

Nolet's Reserve Gin, Wray and Nephew Rum, Diva Vodka, Isabelle's Scotch ... and several wines. I'm allergic to grape of any kind so I didn't bother with the wines ... I wouldn't know a good one from Boone's Farm.

The bottles were all sealed and they weren't dusty ... I'm not believing that nobody else didn't sample ... so ... I wonder what happened to the bottles with a shot missing. While I was contemplating the existence of partial bottles of eleven hundred dollar bottles of scotch we stopped at a secure post. My ID didn't get us through but the cutie did.

Sure enough ... after passing through the secure gates at Downtown, we pulled into a posh hangar.

"That's NOT a Cessna!" I said.

"Nope," said the pilot. "It's an Angel 44."

"Where's my X?"

"Island Home is too short," he said. "Too short for any jet."

"Oh." I gave the airplane a second look. "It's cute." I shrugged. "Close enough, let's go."

"Wanna ride right seat?"

"Sure," and moved across the isle.

"Up here," he said, pointing at the righthand seat in the cockpit. The unspoken IDIOT was as loud as if he'd shouted.

"Ulp ... mother may I?"

I was waiting for one of two things ... getting booted off the airplane ... or Homeland Security stepping up.

"Mr. Austin ... you're on our No Fly list." I was expecting it ... assuredly they would have plenty of reason... (s) ... like in the early Seventies a Franco Fascist gave a series of lectures in my living room. To say nothing of the often expressed rumor of my wilder days of dealing ... just a rumor ... not a speck of truth in it.

But ... the side door closed and a light on the instrument panel went from RED to GREEN and the fella in the left seat asked me to read a list.

He handed me a large sheet that had been laminated.

Oh joy ... big letters. COCKPIT READINESS.

He pointed at the first line. "Start here ... and stop until I say some form of GO ... then read the next on the list.

I was half way through the list before the engines finally started ... one on each wing. The surprise was the instruction to wave aside the fella with the fire extinguisher. I had no idea he was there. He walked to the left side of the nose. I felt rather than heard a small hatch open and close ... although I did mention a new RED light to the pilot. Before he could explain the light turned GREEN.

"Instructions from Tower," I read.

I haven't a clue what was said ... even though I could hear every word.

"Roger, Tower."

That I understood.

The pilot reached over and checked my belts.

"Don't touch anything," he said.

The plane gave a little jerk...

Oh, sure. Don't touch anything. There was a perfect grab-bar half circle immediately in front of me ... I choked that fucker to death.

I noticed we weren't moving.

"Let go!"

"What?" I noticed my knuckles were whitely clenched around the grab-bar. "Oh." I let go.

"Ever flown before?"

"No."

"I'd have never guessed."

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I was absolutely gutted. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Thoughts of mutiny were running through my head as I sat and fumed.A slide show of all the fun things I was supposed to be doing this summer played through my mind as I sat in my room and muttered angry words not quite loud enough to be heard. I had just turned eighteen and finally had my license, not that I had enough money yet to buy a car. I could legally drink and I could go into a bottle shop or a bar and not worry that my mum...

Incest

Schoolgirl Most Likely to Succeed Ch 1 a Frankel story

Originally written by Frankel They say you only get one shot at fame and I knew the day I turned 18 was that day. Each year at my school the teachers voted for the student most likely to succeed. Normally it was just another entry for the year book and would amount to nothing but another meaningless award. This year, however, was different. This year a major TV network was going to make a reality series on life after school for the student from my small town high school who won...

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