What can it hurt to tell the whole truth? “I’m headed to San Diego,” you say as you slip the Thunderbird into first and pull back out onto the road. The speedometer climbs and you work smoothly through the gears. “I’m driving this car there from Baton Rouge.”
“So…this isn’t your car?” Jessie asks.
You shake your head. “No. It’s a driveaway. The owner wants the car transported to California, and I’m the driver. It’s a cheap way to travel, and I still get where I’m going.”
“Hmm,” Jessie replies. “Too bad it’s not yours, ‘cause it’s real nice.”
The Thunderbird settles in at a solid cruising speed of ninety miles-per-hour. The wind rips by and the sun shines brightly. Beside you, Jessie gets comfortable, reclining the seat slightly so she can stretch out. She pulls the front of her tank top up and ties it into a knot, exposing a flat expanse of tanned belly. Her navel is visible. It’s pierced with a pretty silver ring.
“Why’d you pick me up?” Jessie asks at last.
“Why?”
“Yeah, why? This is a real expensive car. How’d you know I wouldn’t do something crazy and fuck it up? I could slash up the seats, or something. I mean, you got to keep this thing looking nice, don’t you?” |