Page 5 of Property of Azrael

All good in the hood and ready to roll, boss man.

I send him a thumbs up and fire off the few remaining emails I have left from three new prospective clients. I shift through my messages one more time to double check that nothing pressing is still lingering before I shut down my laptop and slump back into my chair.

Mexico is calling my name, and it’s about fucking time we get this trip started.

HALLIE

“Hi,Mom. Can you hear me okay? I’m trying the Bluetooth thing you sent me.”

“I can hear you just fine, honey. Is your trip going okay?” Her voice is muffled by a combination of road noise and the crappy connection from my aging iPhone 5. Another piece of metal junk, just like Wanda. But hey, if it works, no need to replace it, right?

“It’s fine. I’m making good time.”

“That’s good, honey. I wish you’d have let your dad ride with you.”

“Mom,” I groan. “I’m an adult. I don’t need Daddy tagging along with me on a road trip.”

Truthfully, my mom had argued with me until she was nearly blue in the face about having Dad come with me, but with her health and mobility issues, I couldn’t stomach the idea of her being home alone. Dad is her only caregiver, save for me, and with one of us out of the state, she needs him more than I do.

“I know, I know. But I’m worried about you traveling all that way with Wanda.”

“Wanda is fine. I took her to the mechanic Dad suggested, and he gave her the go ahead.”

The little white lie slips too easily past my lips. Rick, the mechanic, was cautiously optimistic that she’d make the trip. He’d even used air quotes on the optimistic part of his speech when I picked up Wanda last night from his shop. He’d done all he could to make her road worthy, and even that was a bit more than I could afford. I have to hope that if this weekend goes well, I’ll be on my way to being able to afford something a little better than Wanda.

“Hallie, you’ve had that car since you graduated high school. That it’s still running right now is a shock to both your father and I. We bought it so you’d have something to drive to campus and back. We didn’t intend for you to drive it forever.”

“I know, Mom,” I force out, trying to hide my annoyance the best I can. She means well, I know that, but I can’t afford to drop several thousand dollars on a new car. Money doesn’t grow on trees. I’m grateful—very grateful—for what my parents have given me. We never had much, but what we had, we shared it. “I promise I’ll find a new car as soon as I can.”

“If it’s a matter of money—”

“No, Mom. I’m not letting you or Dad give me money for a car.”

“Hallie, we just want you to be safe. If you’re going to be doing more of these little book events, you’ve set your heart on, you need reliable transportation.”

I ball my hand into a fist and bite down to keep from replying with a biting comment. She means well.

“Yes, Mom, I’m aware,” I try to say calmly, but my annoyance ends up coming through in my tone.

Mom continues on with the conversation, but I zone out while focusing on the road. The more I engage, the more pissed I’ll get. My little writing career, as she called it, goes staunchly against my conservative upbringing. While my parents support me and my pursuit of writing, Mom has been more outwardly critical of my choice of genre. On more than one occasion, she’s pleaded with me to write something more appropriate, like mystery, or women’s fiction. Anything but steamy romance, because explicit sex and violence is far too taboo of a subject for an educated woman like myself. In her opinion, anyway.

Growing up, we didn’t talk about sex. I’d learned about the birds and the bees in school, not through her. In her mind, it was easier to ignore that exploring my sexuality was a part of being a teenager than to acknowledge it. If she only knew the things I had done under their very noses. Mostly with the preacher’s son in the church during Sunday school, but we will not mention that bit of my past to her. And it wasn’t like I was doing much exploring these days. Between writing, my job, and Covid, I’ve had little to no opportunity to dip my toes back into the limited dating pool in our area.

“Are you listening to me, Hallie?” Mom asks, drawing my attention back to the one-sided conversation she’d been having over the past several minutes.

“Yes, Mom.”

“Then what did I just say?”

Shit. She knows. Think of something. Anything.

My phone beeps from its spot in the holder, hanging from my windshield. I draw my eyes away long enough to spy Eden’s name on the screen. Saved by the freaking bell.

“Mom, can I call you back? Eden’s calling.”

“Fine,” she scoffs. “Call me back once you’re done.”

“I’ll try. I’m about to hit rural Arkansas. I’m not sure how good cell service will be, but I’ll try.”

---