Page 95 of Stone Coast
He returned a moment later with a pink baseball cap that read Queen Bitch. He placed it on my head. “Then you, my dear, are beautiful.”
I sneered at him.
“There,” he said, looking over his handiwork. “Perfection. My work is done.”
He escorted me out of the salon.
“Perfection, huh? What about the lip?”
“Just tell everyone you’ve got herpes.”
I gasped and smacked him playfully.
We hit the dock and walked to the parking lot.
“So, tell me about the Queen Bitch.”
“Not much to tell. The hat says it all.”
“Is this a recent breakup? Is there a chance you might get back together? Spill the beans.”
“No, no, and no. Next subject.”
I laughed. “Okay. But obviously, there were signs going into the relationship.”
“Well, she had certain attributes that clouded my judgment.”
“Apparently.”
“If I would have known you were this nosey, I wouldn’t have offered you room and board.”
“I’m just excited at the possibility that someone else’s life is more complicated than mine.”
“Trust me. You’ve got us all beat in the complications department.”
A sad chuckle escaped my lips. “Probably right.”
TJ clicked a key fob, and the lights flashed on his truck.
“That’s a sweet ride.”
“She gets me where I’m going.”
The candy apple red 1955 Ford F-250 was a resto-modded beast. Glorious curves, a lowered suspension, satin clear coat, and a supercharged 4.6L V-8.
TJ grabbed my door.
“A true gentleman,” I cooed, impressed.
“There are a few of us left.”
I slid into the bucket sports seats. The truck had been completely rebuilt and restored from the ground up.
TJ hustled around the truck and climbed behind the wheel. He twisted the ignition, and the Borla exhaust growled like a pissed-off lion. He put the 6-speed manual into gear, and we pulled out of the lot, the engine snarling.
TJ had style.
Calm and cool. Unflappable.
