She rounds on me, plants her heels, squeezes her hands into fists, and shouts at me. “I don’t care either. I was trying to save you some trouble, you musclebound meathead. If you’d stopped to listen you might have realized that instead of biting my head off for trying to help you. Get lost.”
“No. Get in my fucking car.”
She snaps back, blinking.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not going to let you walk wherever you’re going in this heat on the shoulder of the goddamn road. Get in my car.”
She looks at me. “Apologize.”
“Excuse me?”
“Apologize. For last night.”
“Lady, I’m not your kid—”
“If you’re not the inconsiderate asshole I think you are, you will apologize.”
My mouth falls open. Are you fucking kidding me?
I’m tempted to refuse her, just to see her get more pissed off. She’s cute when she’s angry.
“Fine. I’m sorry. Now get in the car.”
“You didn’t mean it—”
“Lady, if you don’t get in the car I am going to throw you over my shoulder and lock you in the trunk. I am giving you a ride to work and you are going to shut up and accept it.”
Fuming, she just stares at me.
Then she looks at her watch and rubs her wrist.
“Fine,” she mutters, “but you better not try anything.”
“What are you expecting me to try?”
She flushes red and hurries ahead of me, but I have to open her door for her anyway. She slips into the front seat and sighs audibly before leaning over to unlock my door.
Good girl.
I slip inside and close my door, and she folds her arms and pointedly stares straight ahead, but she flinches a little when I turn the key and the motor starts up.
She’s a ’68 Impala. When I picked her up she was a complete mess, and I had to strip the car down to a subframe and start from scratch. Took me almost three years to get her in perfect shape with all new running gear, a big block crate engine, new brakes, better suspension, the works. My little side project. Kind of a retirement party on wheels.
The exhaust rumbles a throaty note as I roll back out of the driveway onto the street, and…
Wait, what’s…
“What’s your name?”
“Rose,” she says curtly.
“Cute name.”
“Shut up,” she snaps.
“I’m giving you a ride, here,” I say, stretching my arm across the bench seat.
She shrinks back. “Because you sprayed me with a hose.”
“You walked into my stream. I was just minding my own business. You violated the sovereignty of my spray.”
“There’s a water restriction, by the way,” she says haughtily, turning up her chin. “You’ll probably get a ticket for violating the water conservation rules.”
“Ooh.” I make a little motion with my hand. “I’m scared. Not a ticket!”
She huffs and crosses her arms harder, wriggling in the seat. Her face keeps turning red.
I stop at a stop sign and wait.
“I don’t know where I’m going.”
“Dentist’s office. It’s in town. I’ll tell you where.”
I nod.
Then I put the pedal to the floor.
The acceleration throws her back into the seat and she screams, sliding across the bench. I feel her hands on my chest and ease off the gas, grinning. She sits back, brushes her hair from her face, and glares at me.
“Are you crazy?”
“We’re going forty-five, Rose.”
“Don’t do that again,” she says, breathless, and sinks back into her seat.
“So you’re a dentist,” I say. “Fits your personality.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Besides, I’m not a dentist.”
“Dentists are sadists. Hygienist?”
“Sadists? Says the jackass that sprayed me with a hose for his own amusement. I bet you thought that was real funny.”
“Honey,” I sigh, “seeing you sopping wet, funny is the last thing that comes to my mind.”
She glares at me, pouting.
“You planned that, didn’t you? You just wanted to get me in the car. Well, people know where I am, so you better not try anything, and if you do—”
She whips out a can of Mace from her tote bag and holds it in her fist.
I sigh.
“You can put that away, I get the message,” I say smoothly. “Look, the hose thing was an accident. I’m trying to make amends. That’s all.”
“Right,” she says bitterly. “We’re almost there. Turn left.”
She points at a sign. “There.”
It’s just a house, but I guess most dentists’ offices are. I pull into the lot and she hurriedly fumbles her door open and steps out.
“Hey, Rose, you want a ride home?”
“No,” she snaps back, “I’ll take the bus. Thanks…” she trails off.
“Quentin. I’m Quentin.”
“I don’t care,” she says hurriedly, and then rushes inside.
I lean back in the seat and drum my fingers on the steering wheel.
Rose. An apt name. Something about her lights a fire where there’s been only embers for a long time. I can feel them swirling around hot in my stomach as the real heat kicks over and spreads. The image of her sopping wet in those clingy scrubs stiffens my dick.
She’s got a spark, too. Most girls just fawn over me and try to hop into bed. Normally I oblige them. A wise man once told me a good fuck is like breakfast: never pass it up, you don’t know the next time you’re going to get it.