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 woke up with a splitting headache. It wasn't the alcohol either, probably the stress. I never did too well internally under stress. On the outside, I was one cool cucumber, but on the inside, I had a tangled web of nerves, and every one of them red hot-wired into my brain. I lay there looking up at the ceiling of the camper in the growing morning light and started to nod off again. After a few more moments, I forced myself up, snagged my tee shirt from the corner of the bed, and began the hot water running for a quick shower.
The shower's hot water was only good for about 8 minutes, so I was quick about it. I brushed my teeth afterward and then began pulling my clean clothes out of the stacked plastic totes in what was going to be the sitting area one day. It was then that I noticed the yellow note tucked inside the screen door frame.
I snatched it from the door and opened it.
'I made breakfast!' Was all it read in neat penmanship.
It made me smile, even laugh a little. She must have come in when I was in the shower. I was starving, too, so the prospect sounded fantastic. I towel dried, dressed, and smoothed my hair back as best I could then walked around the building for breakfast.
The door was open, so I went in.
"Mornin' sunshine!" I announced.
"Come on in!" She yelled from the kitchen.
"It's almost ready!"
It smelled terrific. If I wasn't mistaken, it was French Toast. I walked past the slightly open curtain and into the apartment where Joy worked diligently on the stove, her back to me. The smell was unmistakable. It was cinnamon, egg, brown sugar, and slightly seared bread.
"French Toast!"
I was so excited. But there was more. She had already cooked bacon on the table and finished the scrambled eggs.
I poured two cups of coffee and sat at the little round table while she dished out the warm food. As she stood next to me, I fought the urge to put my arm around her waist and draw her in. She felt familiar; almost everything about her felt familiar. I wanted to touch her but didn't.
She was stunningly cute that morning too. She had obviously woken early and showered. Her hair was in a sloppy bun. She was make-up free, entirely, and smelled like some pleasant floral body wash, though in stiff competition with the bacon and French Toast. It was the first time I saw her legs too, they were lovely! She was wearing cool camo cargo shorts and, be still my heart, a vintage Dead Kennedys tee shirt.
"I was starving when I woke up, and I figured you would be too, so why not?"
She put the empty pan back onto the stove.
"Okay, powdered sugar or maple syrup?"
"Ah, yes, please," I answered.
She returned to the table with both, and we went to work on our breakfast. I coated my French Toast with soft butter, then poured on just enough maple syrup, finally dashing it with powdered sugar.
Joy was watching me the whole time giggling.
"You've got that down pretty well," she said, taking the syrup to her French Toast, avoiding the rest.
"Yeah, have to layer in all that goodness. Thank you for doing this," I said, looking at her across the table. She was angelic in the dim morning light coming through the high glass cube window behind her.
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