Free The Boss by Rick Bennette Page A

work only thirteen minutes late, meaning my new measures of efficiency had clipped off seven minutes from my normal prep and travel time. I might use them on a regular basis, and who knows, it might end up saving eight minutes some days. Not too shabby. Not good enough, though, because my truly unhappy-go-lucky boss is waiting for me at the front door with her proverbial broomstick tucked between her legs. Had I been able to locate a real broom, and were I to become suddenly independently wealthy, the temptation to place the real one under her would be a temptation I would not be able to resist.
     
    “Where on Earth have you been?”
    “Let’s see, took a right out of my driveway, traveled south on -”
    “- Never mind. I hope you didn’t forget about our flight to the Bahamas. I have a plane waiting for us at the airport.”
    “Of course I forgot. It’s Monday, isn’t it? I hope you got a twin engine this time. Over water flights in a single, well, that just doesn’t show me that your genius switch is turned on.”
    “I guess you never heard of something called a budget?”
    “Guess you never heard of something called insanity? Oh, wait. I might be wrong on that one.”
    “Let’s just get going. The meeting is in two hours, and I want to arrive early.”
     
    Abbey learned early on that my greatest hobby of all time is flying. I’m not independently wealthy. My half percent raise only cuts into the seven percent cost of living just a tad. I’m sure most of you get the picture. Flight time is expensive in my financial bracket. So whenever the witch needs a ride, I can rack up a few free hours of left seat time in the old Cessna acting as her mechanical flying broom.
     
    Our little publishing business successfully fills a market niche, but let’s just say we’re never going to give Random House a run for their money. Still, it’s a job, and one I rather like. One I’d like a whole lot more if not for Abbey. Still, moody as she is, and that’s all the time, she’s easy on the eyes. And she doesn’t smoke. That counts as two pluses in my book.
     
    Abbey and I fly from venue to venue giving seminars to would be authors on how best to market their books. Almost no one else in the business does this, so she’s well sought after for these seminars. Poor saps are under the impression we’re going to make them millions on their manuscripts, but rarely do we find one worth publishing. Abbey collects several thousand dollars per venue, so it’s something we do as often as we can. Which, did I mention, is great for logging free hours of flight time. Forget that Abbey saves hundreds of dollars a week not having to actually pay a commercial pilot. She gets my service at no additional cost over and above my already meager salary.
     
    We arrive at the county airport early enough to get a prime parking space. Not only do I fly her around, I have to drive her, too. At least we use her car, which is worlds nicer than mine. She’s probably too embarrassed to be seen in my car. Works for me. I save the gas money.
     
    The flight crew has topped of the Cessna as I requested. Because I know the guys so well, they always reserve the best plane for me. It’s the only 172 on the field with air conditioning. Abbey wonders why we can’t run the AC during take off. She doesn’t know that the little Cessna barely gets off the ground as it is, and running the AC on climb out would add a few hundred feet to our roll down the runway and trim our climb rate substantially.
     
    Abbey just sits there numb as a tooth being drilled, as I in my momentary glory pilot the Cessna down the runway and into the sky. It is the best part of my job, even though I know I’m being taken advantage of by Abbey for my piloting skills. If she knew how much I loved these moments in the sky, I am sure she would make me pay her for each flight.
     
    Crabby bitch or not, when I arrive at the airport as pilot in command with a good looking lady in