Compulsion

No lights on in gazillion-dollar hill houses full of sleeping rich people. The same kind of idiots she had to deal with at La Femme.

Women like Mother, pretending they weren’t shriveling or fat as pigs.

Thinking about work made Kat tense up and she deep-breathed. That made her burp real loud and she cracked up, drove faster.

At this rate, she’d be over the hill and at her apartment real soon.

Stupid little dump in Van Nuys, but she told everyone it was Sherman Oaks because it was on the border and who cared?

All of a sudden her eyes began to close and she had to shake herself awake. A hard shove down on the gas pedal and the car shot forward.

Saaiiiling… You go, girl!

Seconds later, the Mustang sputtered, whined, stopped.

She managed to steer to the right, stop just off the road. Let the car sit for a sec and tried again.

Nothing but a whiny noise.

Two more attempts, then five.

Shit!

It took a while to find the switch for the interior lights and when she brightened the car, her head hurt and she saw little yellow things dancing in front of her eyes. When they cleared, she looked at the gas gauge.

E

Shit shit shit! How had that happened, she could swear-

Mother’s voice nagged at her. She put her hands over her ears and tried to think.

Where was the nearest gas station… nowhere, nothing for miles.

She punched the dashboard so hard it hurt her hands. Cried, sat back, drained.

Realizing she was exposed by the interior lights, she switched them off.

Now what?

Call the Triple A! Why hadn’t she thought of that?

It took what seemed like a long time to find her cell phone in her purse. Even longer to locate her Triple A card.

Tapping out the toll-free number was hard because even with the phone light the numbers were teeny and her hands were shaky.

When the operator answered, she read off her membership code. Had to do it twice because her eyes had blurred and it was hard to see what was a 3 and what was an 8.

The operator put her on hold, came back and said her membership had lapsed.

Kat said, “No way.”

“Sorry, ma’am, but you haven’t been active for eighteen months.”

“That’s frickin’ impossible-”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but-”

“Like hell you are-”

“Ma’am, there’s no reason to be-”

“Like hell there isn’t.” Kat clicked off.

Now what?

Think, think, think – okay, plan B: Call Bethie’s cell and if that interrupted something, too frickin’ bad.

The phone rang five times before Bethie’s voice mail kicked in.

Kat hung up. Her phone went dead.

Jabbing the Power button did nothing.

That brought back a vague memory of something she’d neglected.

Charging up before she went out tonight – how the hell had she forgotten?

Now her whole body was shaking and her chest was tight and she was sweating.

She double-checked to make sure the car was locked.

Maybe a highway patrol dude would come by.

What if another car did?

Don’t talk to strangers.

What was her choice, sleeping here all night?

She nearly fell asleep before the first car showed up, speeding toward her, headlights startling her.

Big Range Rover; good.

Kat waved out the window. Bastard sped right by.

A couple of minutes later, headlights brightened her rearview and enlarged. This vehicle stopped right next to her.

Crappy pickup, stuff piled in the back, under a tarp.

The passenger window rolled down.

Young Mexican guy. Another Mexican sat at the wheel.

They looked at her funny.

The passenger got out. Small and scruffy.

Kat slid down low in her seat and when the Mexican came over and said something through the glass, she pretended he wasn’t there.

He stood there, really freaking her out.

Kat kept making believe she was invisible and the Mexican finally returned to the pickup.

It took five minutes after the truck drove away before she was able to sit up and breathe normally. She’d wet her thong. Rolled it off her butt and down her legs and tossed it into the backseat.

Soon as the undies made contact, her luck turned.

A Bentley!

Screw you, Range Rover!

Big, black, and glossy, that aggressive grille.

And slowing down!

Oh shit, what if it was Clive?

Even if it was Clive, she could handle it, better than sleeping here all -

As the Bentley rolled to a halt, she opened the window, tried to get a look at who was inside.

The big black car idled, moved on.

Damn you, rich bastard!

She jumped out of the Mustang, waved frantically.

The Bentley stopped. Backed up.

Kat tried to make herself look safe by shrugging and smiling and pointing to her car.

The Bentley’s window lowered silently.

Just a driver inside.

Not Clive, a woman!

Thank you, God!

Kat said, “Ma’am,” in the syrupy voice she used at La Femme. “Thank you so much for stopping I ran out of gas and if you could just take me somewhere where I could maybe find a-”

“Certainly, dear,” said the woman. Throaty voice, like that actress Mother liked… Lauren Lauren… Hutton? No, Bacall. Lauren Bacall had rescued her!

Kat approached the Bentley.

The woman smiled at her. Older than Mother, with silver hair, huge pearl earrings, classy makeup, a tweed suit, some sort of silk scarf, purple, looked expensive, draped over her shoulders in that casual way that came easy to the classy ones.

What Mother pretended to be.

“Ma’am, I really appreciate this,” said Kat, suddenly wanting this woman to be her mother.

“Get in, dear,” said the woman. “We’ll find you some petrol.”