“Just don’t get a speeding ticket.”
“I’ve talked my way out of the last three, so don’t you worry, little sister.” I take my foot off the gas, though, because there’s a car on the shoulder up ahead, and while I’m sure I can get myself out of another ticket if I need to, I’d rather avoid the delay.
I’m currently on an open stretch, having just passed the Arizona-Utah border. The road before me is flat and straight, with the desert spanning on both sides, not a cloud in the sky, and the sun is beating down, hot and bright. I adjust my sunglasses, slowing a little more as I approach the car.
It’s old, definitely a classic. Those happen to be my kryptonite. When I moved to New York to be closer to my sister, I managed to score a really cool job restoring classic cars at a very exclusive body shop.
My recent trip to Vegas was spent checking out a couple of options for one of the shop’s very regular clients. I’m being paid to drive across the country and tell him whether or not I think it’s worth it to purchase and restore the car.
Obviously, I’m going to use the opportunity to check out a few more on the way home, and make a stop in Colorado for the weekend to hang out with my sister on her birthday.
I let out a low whistle and slow even further as I drive by the beautiful car that’s apparently experiencing some engine trouble based on the propped up hood. “Oh man.”
“Oh man, what?” Cosy asks.
“I just passed a 1969 Alfa Romeo Spider.” I glance in the rearview mirror, noting long blonde wavy hair.
“Uh, I’m guessing that’s a car and not an actual spider.”
“Ha-ha. It’s not just any car, Cosy. It’s one of the top ten convertibles of all time.”
“I’m taking it that’s a big deal.”
“It is if you know anything about cars.” I glance in the mirror again, the car turning into a pinprick.
The road ahead of me is empty, not another car in sight. It’s only nine-thirty and the temperature is already registering in the high eighties. It’s only going to get hotter and there isn’t a gas station within a five-mile radius.
I’d hate to leave a fellow woman stranded in the sweltering desert with a broken-down car. I’ve been that woman before. Thankfully, I know how to fix cars and I also know self-defense, two skills not all women possess, but probably should.
I take my foot off the gas and drop to the shoulder. Giving myself enough room to pull a U-turn, I spin the wheel all the way to the left and hit the gas. Gravel and sand spray across the road and my back end fishtails before the tires hit the pavement again with a screech.
“What the hell was that?” Cosy shrieks.
“I’m going back to help.”
“Whoa, what? Aren’t you in the middle of the desert right now?” The sound of things dropping filters through the speaker. “You are totally in the middle of the desert right now! Oh my God! You’re in Utah! I can see you on the tracking app! You are not going to stop and help some random person on the side of the road, Nevah! What if it’s a trick? What if they kidnap you and stuff you in the trunk and you end up in some polygamist compound?”
“I’m not going to end up in a polygamist compound, Cosy. It’s a woman. Alone. And there is literally no room in that trunk for a body, at least as long as it’s in one piece. I can’t leave her out here without stopping to see if I can help. I’m almost at the car. I’ll ring you back in ten.” I end the call in the middle of her screaming at me not to hang up.
I check my rearview mirror before I cross the yellow line and pull onto the shoulder facing oncoming traffic.
The blonde lady bangs her head on the roof of the car as she tries to look over her shoulder.
That is when I realize the blonde lady isn’t a lady at all. She’s a dude.
So much for helping a damsel in distress.
Miss Ratchet
Lawson
“SONOFA—” I RUB the back of my head and duck out from under the hood of my awesome, but crappy new car.
Awesome because it’s a classic, and it’s damn well beautiful. Crappy because as sexy as it is, it spluttered and coughed and stopped moving, so now I’m stuck in the middle of the desert sweating my balls off.
I don’t even know why I bothered checking under the hood. It’s not as though I know what to look for. I’ve changed my oil before, once, when I was a teenager, and I filled my windshield washer fluid last year, but otherwise, professionals always deal with my cars.
The woman in the shitbox convertible calls out an apology. I shield my eyes, the glare of the sun reflecting off her windshield, blinding me.
“You need some help?” She opens the driver’s side door of her dusty, rusted out Caddy. It boasts a Nevada license plate.
One of her sandal clad feet hits the ground. Her toenails are painted hot pink. Her legs are cut off at the ankle by the door as she steps out of the car.
“Looks like you’re having a little trouble with your baby.” She uses her hip to close the door and I get a full view of my potential knightess in rusted steel and chrome.
Holy shit.
This woman’s body is the thing wet dreams are made of. Her legs go on forever, long, toned, and tanned, and they’re encased in a pair of denim shorts that ride high on her thighs. Three inches of equally tanned and toned stomach peek out from under the hem of her cropped tank, which has the letters STW stamped across her chest along with a set of cherries over her right boob.
She’s wearing a baseball cap
