Page 14 of Fast and Dirty

Ughh. Speaking of, I should probably find a way to clean out this basket I just purged pure evil into. I look to my right where I left it sitting and reach for it only to find a decent-sized foliage protruding from it.

Shit. I just yacked in a plant. Some innocent ficus has felt the wrath of my debaucherous night, and I don’t know how the hell I’m going to clean it out. Thank God West wasn’t here to witness this glamorous incident. Speaking of which, where is he? I’ll have to figure that out after I use his absence to my advantage and dispose of the evidence.

Ugh. Even if I weren’t feeling like roadkill on a hot day, I wouldn’t be able to clean this out without destroying the plant that looks half dead already.

Standing on wobbly legs, I reach down and grab the defiled plant, frantically looking for a place where I can dispose of it or find a place to hide it until I can.

Not firing on all cylinders, I shuffle over to the window, despite the asshole sun still out there mocking me, and raise the glass. When I look out, I see the battered trashcan down below me. And mercifully, the lid is off, like some trash panda could predict the future and did me a solid.

I’ll buy West a new plant. There’s bound to be a charming little farmer’s market around here somewhere. I’ll tell him it looked like it was dying so I put it out of its misery.

God speed, little plant.

I let go of the basket planter, and a few short seconds later, hear the clang of it hitting the bottom of the can.

After helpingmyself to a second shower in the man’s bathroom - I can neither confirm nor deny that I stood up for it - I wander downstairs in a pair of palazzo pants and a white tank top that I hope aren’t too ostentatious for a Sunday morning in a sweetly modest town as this.

Placing my Gucci sunglasses on my head, I gingerly step down the stairs to the auto shop, lest my stomach decide on round two, and find West in the back office.

Reclined in his office chair, he frowns at his computer screen while taking his frustrations out on the toothpick sticking out of his mouth.

“Hey,” I announce my rising from the dead as I lazilystroll through the door. His eyes look tired even as his brows go up at my entrance.

“Hey, how do you feel?” He sits forward. His hair looks clean and is pushed back and he’s changed into a t-shirt much like the one I borrowed - and would give anything to put back on - and a different pair of jeans.

I push my sunglass up on my head. “Physically? Like someone scraped off the freeway. Spiritually? Pretty amazing. The last twenty-four hours of shameless self-indulgence were just what I needed.” I sit down across from him with a sigh. “Although, I suppose I should square things away with you and get back to reality and out of your hair,” I give a self-deprecating smirk, looking down at my lap.

Speaking of which, I suppose it’s time to look at my dreaded text messages, find out whoever the Rolls actually belongs to, and … go back home to Chicago, I guess.

But then what?

“Well, I’ve completed the assessment on the car, and I’ve got an estimate written up, but I’m afraid it’s not very good news.” West sighs, hints of regret tinging his tone as he stands. “Coffee?” He turns towards a carafe in the corner.

“Please.” The word comes out in a low drone and my chin desperately wants to rest on the edge of his desk, and something occurs to my slow, hungover brain. “Where did you sleep?” I ask, feeling my brows pinch together. “Did you sleep?”

“A little,” he says on a tired breath as he turns around with two steaming mugs. “Here in the office.” He nods at the small couch in the corner. “I usually only grab a few hours a night anyway and I wanted to see what I could do about the Rolls.”

Once he’s re-seated, and I’ve doctored my coffee with an unacceptable amount of cream and sugar, West delves into the damage, and he’s right. It’s not good news. Something about the car not being serviced for a while and the timing belt or something blew. It’s not the cost that worries me so much, as I grew up with a silver spoon in my ass, but the time and labor it willtake. Apparently a lot of metal components broke between the time of the belt breaking and the car actually stopping on the side of the road. And it being an expensive and vintage vehicle, the parts are hard to come by, and have to be special ordered, if they can even be tracked down. Bottom line, it’s going to take almost five figures and at least three weeks.

“Hoookay,” I breathe out after a swallow of my coffee. “Guess it’s time for me to contact my parents and face the music.”

They’re going to feel so righteous when they find out I didn’t get far and am now calling for help. I really was hoping I’d make it to an airport, hide the keys for the rightful owner somewhere under a floormat or something, and hightail it to my honeymoon or some other destination where I could go into hiding while I figured out my next move. Although, I supposed I could do the same thing right here in this cozy little town, or rather, the next one over, once that event clears out and their hotel has vacancies. But I have to find out who the car belongs to and tell them I broke it.

I draw in a breath to tell West that I’d like to put down some kind of deposit just to keep the car here while I figure things out, when someone takes two cymbals and crashes my head between them.

“Holy mother of Hell!” I shriek, almost spilling what’s left in my coffee as I jump sky high in my seat.

“Fuck,” West draws out as his shoulders drop and his head lists back, dropping to rest on the back of his chair as his eyes close in dismay.

I look around and once I’ve confirmed there are no marching band members in sight, I ask, “What the hell was that?”

“Agnes,” West supplies, without opening his eyes.

After a few beats, he stands and seems to slap a pleasant customer-service smile on his face, and I follow him out of the office and into the blinding Monday morning sun. When my eyes adjust, I notice the trashcan is on its side and halfway underthe bumper of a dark green Jeep that has its top off and an eighty-something - I’m assuming – year-old woman behind the wheel.

She sits back, cool as a cucumber, protecting her eyes from the morning sun with a pair of sunglasses so big they make her look like a tiny, elderly grasshopper.

“Agnes, how do you manage to knock over my trash can every fucking time you pull in here?” West asks, with a grin I’m guessing is just for her.

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