Page 14 of Space Junk: Houston, We Have a Hottie
“Whatever.” I pocket her number and head out the door. Leave it to Rose to send her late night designated driver in for car repairs. Fucking Rose. When the heck did she have time to dent the girl’s car? Now I probably have to pound out an expensive car door and eat the labor cost in addition to apologizing.
Out of everything, though, the fact that Jackie thinks Rose is my girlfriend pisses me off the most. ‘Cause that’s just incestuously disturbing. No other reason.
The front parking lot has three cars. A BMW M3 Manhart, a 1957 Pontiac GTO that I personally restored, and a rusted-out Honda of unidentifiable age, except to sayancient. The BMW is a Space Ex executive who came in earlier for a tire rotation. That leaves the clunker.
A bad feeling starts churning in my stomach. None of Rose’s rich-ass friends would be caught dead driving this junker. Maybe this isn’t her car. But when I step up to the driver’s side door and insert the key, the lock pops.
Shit.
Okay, plus side, Rose isn’t making friends with any more privileged asses. Con, once again I’ve been a complete dick to Jackie, this time by assuming she is a rich, privileged ass.
I look down the highway to the right. Nothing. To the left I can just make out a blond ponytail swishing back and forth a few blocks away. Damn, the women can move fast. I pocket her keys and get out my own, jogging over to the GTO.
This baby needs a drive anyway. It’s just convenient and practical to take her for a spin.
Nothing to do with impressing the enigma of a girl with the sexy as fuck glasses.
* * *
Jackie
My anger lasts two minutes outside in the Texas heat. It might be cooler than normal for June, but cool in Texas means 82 degrees. Not counting the heat index. I have about three miles to walk to my apartment. Uncool.
One, I cannot believe I yelled at the hot guy. Kudos to me.
Two, he will now only be referred to as Hot Guy, or even better, The Asshole That Shall Not Be Named. He doesn’t deserve a name. Especially not one as cool as Flynn West. I mean, honestly, who’s named Flynn West? It’s almost as ridiculous as Jackie Darling Lee.
Three, he, at least, has lived up to his cool name potential. He’s a hot mechanic who owns his own business and lives in a house worthy of John Glenn.
Argh.
Angry again, I stomp one block closer to my apartment. A horn beeps close behind me.
I turn to see the freaking Asshole That Shall Not Be Named driving the bad boy car from the garage parking lot.
Of course he is.
He pulls into the Whataburger parking lot I’m currently bypassing. Some say they can hear a car purr, but this car doesn’t purr. It growls. And I feel that growl in my downtown so fiercely, I shiver.
ATSNBN climbs out of the car and jogs over to where I’m standing.
One, why is he following me?
Two, who can jog wearing folded down and tied coveralls without a wardrobe malfunction?
Three, why am I severely disappointed when the aforementioned wardrobe malfunction does not occur?
Four, why am I still counting things?
“Yo.”
This is how he greets me. Not ‘I’m sorry for being such a douche canoe,’ or ‘Please let me give you a ride as it’s hotter than hell outside and you’re too pretty to sweat,’ or even a polite ‘Hello.’ No, I get, ‘Yo.’
I cross my arms and let my cocked eyebrow speak for me.
“I...” His mouth seems to stall.
I’m about to try and harness my earlier kick-ass-and-take-names attitude, but I’m distracted when he runs his hand through his hair. It does seriously wonderful things for his arms.
