Her foot is on the pedal and her head is in the stars. Joy was a Bettie Page styled hottie on a mission. After a chance encounter with Nick Joy finds a kindred spirit but is she just too much for him to handle?
Hang on tight, this girl drives as...
"I'm Joy," she said, put one black leather booted foot on the running board, and reached out across the roof to shake my hand.
"The name's Bond, James Bond," I quipped stupidly, taking her hand.
She didn't care, didn't laugh, didn't even break character. She had a firm grip for her small hands.
We climbed inside, and I started the truck and pulled away.
"I'm not really Bond," I said bashfully, feeling the need to explain.
"No shit." She replied.
"I'm Nick Adams."
She finally broke.
"Nice to meet you, Nick, and thank you for doing this. I'm bummed about Josh. He was good help, a nice guy too. He hooked me up with the food. That could be a problem," she said, leaning closer to me for a second or two as I shifted gears.
"I eat a lot more than you would think."
I glanced over, hoping to make eye contact, but she stared between my feet at the clutch pedal and the tachometer on the dash.
"These babies are sweet, fucking tractor, though." She murmured.
"He might still give you free food." I offered.
She shrugged, folded her arms, and went back to her icy stare straight through the dirty windshield.
"Never know."
I drove her to the nearly deserted parking deck and pulled in next to her Jeep.
"You work here?" she sounded a slight bit surprised.
"Not anymore."
"You want to work with me?"
"Sure."
"Wait a second."
She smiled, opened the door, and jumped out. After starting her Jeep, she returned with a business card, Betty Boop embossed, holding a set of keys on her extended finger. Betty's Recovery was in bold black with her name underneath and a phone number.
"Call me in the morning. I'm knocking off early tonight."
"What time?"
"About 9."
"Good. Is this really what you do?"
She smiled again; her cheeks spread wide this time as if she were about to laugh.
"Repo Cars? Yes."
"Good."
"Know what? I'll call you," she said. Send me your number."
I did. And I followed her green Jeep down the freeway in light traffic, but as usual, she lost me. Things were looking up. I had only been out of work for one day, and I had a line on a new short-term career and a full stomach, and the bonus feeling that it would be a productive night of writing. I stopped at the package store and splurged on a wooden box of Warsteiner dark. When I got home, I opened it directly, lit several candles, and blew up my air mattress. I drank and wrote until early morning, then fell asleep with my clothes on.
TUESDAY 5:30 AM
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