Freed: Fifty Shades Freed as told by Christian novel Chapter 38

She’s in fine, fine shape.

Like my fiancée.

Ana is still watching me as I run a hand over the tip of her wing.

“She’s good,” I say when I return to Ana’s side. She slides on her cap and threads her ponytail through the gap at the back.

“You look mighty fine, too, Miss Steele,” I whisper as I slip on my aviators.

Darius and Marlon join us, and together we push the ASH 30 onto the runway.

Once in position, I help Ana into the front seat of the cockpit and have the pleasure of strapping her in once more. “These should keep you in your place,” I whisper with a wicked grin, then jump in behind her and close the canopy.

Darius attaches the tow cable and, with a thumbs-up sign, heads to the waiting single-engine Cessna Skyhawk.

“Ready?” I ask Ana.

“You bet!”

“Don’t touch anything.”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“You’ve not flown this before.”

I laugh. “Nope. I hadn’t flown the Blaník L23 before, but we survived that.”

She remains silent.

“Ana, they’re all the same really. And you have your chute. Don’t sweat it.”

“Okay.” She sounds a little uncertain.

“Honestly. It’s going to be fine. Trust me.”

I do a thorough check of the controls to orient myself: elevator, ailerons, the stick are all full and free. Straps good. Brakes good and now locked. Canopy locked. Flight instruments good—no cracked glass; shouldn’t be, she’s new.

Darius’s voice crackles over the radio and I let him know that we’re ready. A quick glance to the starboard side reveals Marlon standing by, holding the wing tip as Darius fires up the Skyhawk.

“Here we go! Let’s chase those thermals and the midday sun,” I shout above the shrill whine of the Cessna’s engine.

Darius eases forward, and suddenly we’re racing across the tarmac. Using the pedals at my feet and the stick in front of me, we sail into the air before the Cessna has left the runway.

She’s so quick off the ground!

We climb higher and higher. The Ephrata office building is a child’s toy as it disappears into the distance. Darius banks his aircraft and we sail toward the Beezley Hills, where we are sure to find some lift.

“That was so smooth,” Ana says, an edge of quiet awe in her voice.

“Much smoother than the Blaník,” I agree. ASH is awesome. She’s so light and responsive.

We reach 3,000 feet and I radio Darius to let him know I’m releasing the cable. He’s flown us into a thermal, and as he pulls away, I hold us in a wide circle, keeping the attitude constant as we rise and rise and rise. Washington falls away beneath us in all her checkered glory.

“Wow,” Ana breathes.

“On the port side, you can see the Cascades.”

“Port?”

“Left.”

“Oh, yes.”

There is still a sprinkling of snow kissing the top of the mountains, even in July.

“What’s the water down there?”

“Banks Lake.”

“Christian, this is beautiful.”

We’re at 7,000 feet, and I know we could go higher. We could go for miles and miles, and land in some field leagues and leagues away. The thought is appealing—Ana and I alone in some wilderness—but I don’t think Sawyer or Reynolds or maybe even Ana would appreciate it.

“Look!” Ana calls. Below us, a substantial dust devil swirls into the air.

The lift!

I make a beeline for it and we travel higher. Fast.

“Wow!” Ana cries, with exhilaration. “No acrobatics today?” she asks.

“I’m just getting the feel of her first.”