Free Froggy Style by J.A. Kazimer

wasn’t as experienced with men, twenty-eight former fianc és aside. She did wear a lot of flannel....
    “Not that,” she said, reading my mind. “I wanted to thank you for standing up for me. Not many men would argue with their future father-in-law, let alone embarrass a king in public eight days before a marriage the king orchestrated.”
    When she put it like that . . .
    “I mean, my stepfather wanted to boil you in oil after we left.” Beauty let out a half yawn, half laugh, and then sneered, “You’ll be happy to know Pretty managed to talk him out of ending our engagement.”
    “Not you, madam? You didn’t stand up for your man?”
    This time her snort of laughter rang through loud and clear. “Not bloody likely.”
    Her words slammed into me, shaking the tendrils of sleep instantly from my mind. Did my future bride hate me? What’d I do to her? Well, besides the whole hiring a killer to smother her with a pillow. “Excuse me?”
    “What?”
    “You said, not bloody likely.”
    “Did I?” Her yawn traveled through the phone line.
    “Yes, madam, you did. Are you averse to marriage in general or just marriage to me?” Twenty-eight other fianc ées suggested the latter to be true. Damn.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said with another yawn. “I can’t wait to become Mrs. Jean-Michel La Gray . . . La Gro . . . Mrs. Frog Prince. Isn’t that every girl’s dream?”
    My eyes narrowed. Was my intended being a wee bit sarcastic or did she truly mean what she said? I couldn’t tell, and neither reaction boded well.
    But before I could question her further, my bride’s soft snores echoed through the phone line.
     
    Following my phone conversation with Beauty, I couldn’t fall back to sleep. Guilt tickled in the back of my throat like leftover puddin’ and pie. The poor chit seemed to think I was some sort of hero for standing up to her father, but the opposite was true. I was a coward, too afraid of turning back into a frog to warn her of her impending death by an assassin I’d “accidentally” hired. Her snide face floated in my mind’s eye as the light faded from her grape-lollipop eyes. Dead, unfocused eyes stared back. I swallowed hard.
    I’d make this up to her, somehow.
    Maybe buy her a nice fluffy pillow or new Prada pj’s.
    Since sleep had deserted me, I decided to start my campaign to force Ms. Bliss to take me to her boyfriend. Jumping out of bed, I tossed on a pair of jeans, a baseball cap, and a sweatshirt.
    Once I was properly disguised as a commoner slash peasant, I dialed Karl’s hotel room. The phone rang once, twice, and a third time. The mechanical voice of the hotel messaging center whirled to life. “The guest you have dialed is unable to answer. Please leave a message at the beep.”
    I scowled at the receiver. Where the hell was Karl? Normally, my faithful manservant answered on the first ring, no matter what the time. Was he still pouting from our earlier argument? I’d said I was sorry . . . well, I’d said something to the effect of he’d be sorry, but really it was close enough.
    At the time, our argument hadn’t seemed like much of one, just two friends disagreeing over my lack of moral fiber. Karl insisted, even after my disaster of a dinner with Beauty’s family, that I tell her the truth. I, on the other hand, insisted Karl keep his big, bald mouth shut. In the end, after threatening Karl with a pair of shears, I’d won the argument. Beauty would never know the truth.
    Unless Spindle killed her.
    Then she might suspect something was amiss.
    Or not.
    Beauty didn’t strike me as the sharpest princess in the kingdom. With a sigh, I hung up and dialed Karl’s room again; this time when the recorder kicked on I left a rambling message about honor, loyalty, and my need of a ride to the Rose. Then I sat on the edge of the bed to wait.
    And wait.
    And wait some more.
    Three and a half minutes later Karl still hadn’t called back. Frog it. And