Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
I let out a low whistle and slow even further as I drive by the beautiful car that’s apparently experiencing some engine trouble based on the propped up hood. “Oh man.”
“Oh man, what?” Cosy asks.
“I just passed a 1969 Alfa Romeo Spider.” I glance in the rearview mirror, noting long blonde wavy hair.
“Uh, I’m guessing that’s a car and not an actual spider.”
“Ha-ha. It’s not just any car, Cosy. It’s one of the top ten convertibles of all time.”
“I’m taking it that’s a big deal.”
“It is if you know anything about cars.” I glance in the mirror again, the car turning into a pinprick.
The road ahead of me is empty, not another car in sight. It’s only nine-thirty and the temperature is already registering in the high eighties. It’s only going to get hotter and there isn’t a gas station within a five-mile radius.
I’d hate to leave a fellow woman stranded in the sweltering desert with a broken-down car. I’ve been that woman before. Thankfully, I know how to fix cars and I also know self-defense, two skills not all women possess, but probably should.
I take my foot off the gas and drop to the shoulder. Giving myself enough room to pull a U-turn, I spin the wheel all the way to the left and hit the gas. Gravel and sand spray across the road and my back end fishtails before the tires hit the pavement again with a screech.
“What the hell was that?” Cosy shrieks.
“I’m going back to help.”
“Whoa, what? Aren’t you in the middle of the desert right now?” The sound of things dropping filters through the speaker. “You are totally in the middle of the desert right now! Oh my God! You’re in Utah! I can see you on the tracking app! You are not going to stop and help some random person on the side of the road, Nevah! What if it’s a trick? What if they kidnap you and stuff you in the trunk and you end up in some polygamist compound?”
“I’m not going to end up in a polygamist compound, Cosy. It’s a woman. Alone. And there is literally no room in that trunk for a body, at least as long as it’s in one piece. I can’t leave her out here without stopping to see if I can help. I’m almost at the car. I’ll ring you back in ten.” I end the call in the middle of her screaming at me not to hang up.
I check my rearview mirror before I cross the yellow line and pull onto the shoulder facing oncoming traffic.
The blonde lady bangs her head on the roof of the car as she tries to look over her shoulder.
That is when I realize the blonde lady isn’t a lady at all. She’s a dude.
So much for helping a damsel in distress.
Miss Ratchet
Lawson
“SONOFA—” I RUB the back of my head and duck out from under the hood of my awesome, but crappy new car.
Awesome because it’s a classic, and it’s damn well beautiful. Crappy because as sexy as it is, it spluttered and coughed and stopped moving, so now I’m stuck in the middle of the desert sweating my balls off.
I don’t even know why I bothered checking under the hood. It’s not as though I know what to look for. I’ve changed my oil before, once, when I was a teenager, and I filled my windshield washer fluid last year, but otherwise, professionals always deal with my cars.
The woman in the shitbox convertible calls out an apology. I shield my eyes, the glare of the sun reflecting off her windshield, blinding me.
“You need some help?” She opens the driver’s side door of her dusty, rusted out Caddy. It boasts a Nevada license plate.
One of her sandal clad feet hits the ground. Her toenails are painted hot pink. Her legs are cut off at the ankle by the door as she steps out of the car.
“Looks like you’re having a little trouble with your baby.” She uses her hip to close the door and I get a full view of my potential knightess in rusted steel and chrome.
Holy shit.
This woman’s body is the thing wet dreams are made of. Her legs go on forever, long, toned, and tanned, and they’re encased in a pair of denim shorts that ride high on her thighs. Three inches of equally tanned and toned stomach peek out from under the hem of her cropped tank, which has the letters STW stamped across her chest along with a set of cherries over her right boob.
She’s wearing a baseball cap that casts a shadow over her face, and a huge pair of sunglasses.
“Hello! Everything okay there?” She runs her finger along the hood of her car, stopping when she reaches the grill.
I realize I’m gawking. “Oh, uh, yeah, I mean, no. My car broke down.” I thumb over my shoulder at the propped up hood.