Page 741 of Hell Hath No Fury
DRIVEN
A RETRO ROMANCE
SIERRA GLASS
CHAPTER ONE
Elizabeth
Drivenis a bite-sized romance about Owen and Elizabeth, set in 1978. The main characters have minor roles in other Concierge, Inc. books, but readingDrivenwill not spoil the series.
“Elizabeth. I need you to run the Town Car over to the garage. The intern splashed blood all over inside the trunk. Again.” At Director Brand’s order, I make anickface and back toward the door. The Auditor’s young apprentice gives me the creeps. He’s barely 18 and already takes way too much delight in his interrogation training. “Oh no you don’t.” Brand, aka my father, pins me with his stare until I raise my hands in surrender.
“Okay, okay. I’ll take the Town Car to the shop.” I try to look like it’s a chore, but going to the shop is definitely no hardship. Concierge, Inc., the criminal services network I work for, has a fleet of gleaming black automobiles, and I try to make a habit of getting over to the motor pool whenever I get a chance.
To be sure, the security guards and other Concierges I work with at headquarters are intimidating men, fit and clean-cut when most of the people our age sport beards and long hair. The mechanics, though? They’re another beast entirely. A frisson runs through me thinking of the scents of engine grease and the orange hand cleaner they use at the shop.
“Elizabeth. Town car. Blood. Garage.”
“Right, sir. I’ll head straight over.”
“Here. Charlene left a stack of receipt books and a new phone book for the office over there, too. Take a look their ledger. Thesecretary is still out, and you know how bad we men are at all that bookwork. Get it all in order if it needs.”
I think to tell him I’m pretty sure I’m worse than anyone at accounting, but give up. Maybe my vagina can do the calculations.
On my way out to the gory metal behemoth, I replay my conversation with the Director, only in my version I tell him to stick it where the sun don’t shine and run his own adding machine. Or maybe stick his adding machine where the sun don’t shine. Either way. It’s difficult to stay grumpy behind the wheel of the powerful automobile, though, and I beep the horn twice as I drive by the entrance to headquarters.
There’s a cool breeze rolling in off the Pacific, blowing the smog inland to the unfortunate folks in the Valley. I’m lucky to live and work down near the waterfront, where the air is the clearest.
A few minutes later I roll to a stop on the crunchy gravel in front of the C.I. auto garage. I get a couple of head nods as I walk into the office, where the harried-looking head mechanic, Len, has his son Junior and his little daughter Jenny at a desk working on homework and coloring. I ruffle the boy’s hair and he rolls his eyes at me while his ears turn red.
“Hey, Old Len. I brought the Town Car over to be cleaned. Martin got carried away again. The Director said if it’s too much of a mess, chop the car.” Lenny and I exchange a sad glance, but it’s the inevitable end for all our vehicles. Besides, it’s an older model. “Oh, here. Charlene sent over new receipt books and a phone book.” I plop the heavy tome on the desk with the little carbon copy books on top of it.
Lenny looks at them distastefully. “I don’t suppose you’d mind—” He sees my wide eyes and mutters, “Never mind.” Then he says, “Maybe the new kid knows how to do bookwork. He seems bright enough.”
I perk up. “New guy? From where?”
Lenny shakes his head at me. “Owen’s from the Houston branch. Leave him alone, Elizabeth. He’s just getting settled in and doesn’t need distractions.”
I huff. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ignoring his scoff behind me, I walk out the office door toward the garage bays. The garage is hot, even with the ocean-facing bay doors open to collect the breeze and the big fans blowing.
Zeppelin plays on the radio, punctuated by the clanking of tools and occasional curses when they slip and knuckles are scraped. I’m wearing my signature 501’s with a flowy, cool blouse and platform leather sandals, which make my already considerable height even taller.
I hear a wrench set down under the hood of a Suburban (black of course), then see grimy fingers futilely wiped on an even grimier shop towel. The suspense is killing me as the man holding the rag slowly reveals himself. On closer inspection his hands are large and strong, with healing as well as fresh scrapes on the knuckles. Thick forearms, big biceps, and finally a powerful chest with a black t-shirt stretched across it.
He moves out from behind the hood at the same time I reach the front fender, and we come face-to-face. Under a mop of shaggy, too-long dark brown hair, warm brown eyes and a wide jaw and full lips are punctuated by a strong chin and what I suspect will be dimples.
While I’ve been inspecting his face, he has shamelessly drunk in mine. I know what he sees: dark blonde hair bleached at the ends by the sun. California Girl features and an expensive smile. My most striking feature is my eye color. Very light brown with gold flecks, they’ve been described as anything from honey to tiger’s eye.
I ogle his body, skating over his broad shoulders and barrel chest, what is no doubt a hard stomach, and worn jeans, looseenough to work in but still not hiding tree-trunk legs and a generous package, which, if proportionate with rest of him, promises to… I start guiltily and look up, cheeks hot.
Fortunately, he missed my lascivious assessment as he was busy perusing me as well. My flowy shirt hides average tits and a flat stomach, toned from swimming, surfing, and horseback riding. My hips are narrow and my legs, too long. At least they no longer earn me the moniker “chicken legs” like they did when I was growing up. Strangely enough, though, his eyes aren’t pausing at the usual places: my hair, tits, or legs. Instead, they light on my toenails, painted a garish coral I use for the sole reason that it pisses my mom off. His gaze skims up my legs and pauses on my matching coral fingertips and a polished tiger’s eye bead bracelet. Then up to my earring, also polished stone. Jasper, I think. When he finally meets my eyes again, his are sparkling with intelligence and humor and I feel little butterflies. Then he opens his mouth.
“Hold on, foxy. I gotta take a leak.”Record-scratch.Take a leak? Men are pigs. I stand there disappointed by his crudeness until he exits the toilet, thank God drying his hands. At least he washed aftertaking a leak. I feel my lip curl. Ugh.
I feel a weird energy coming from him, and when I glance quickly over, dragging my eyes away from his large hands, I catch a flash of dimples. He quickly smooths his expression but can’t dull that sparkle. Is he fucking with me? I narrow my eyes and recite in full princess mode.
“The Town Car has blood in the trunk. The Director wants it cleaned or chopped if it’s too much. It’s ready to scrap anyway.”
