Free Fender Bender Blues by Niecey Roy

telling him to drop dead. God, she needed a cigarette. She popped two more buttery pieces in her mouth and chewed with great concentration.
    With a sudden smile and tilt to her head, she asked, “So, what’s the word on that pretty blue Camaro?”
    His smirk disappeared and Rach thought, Bingo, jackass.
    “Fine,” he replied with at tight smile. “How’s your…red thing.”
    Okay, so that backfired . She glared at Leah giggling from Rick’s side. She couldn’t think of anything witty to say so answered, “My car is just fine, thanks.”
    But she hadn’t heard from Dick’s Repair yet on the estimate. She was a little worried.
    Thinking Craig deserved all the pain she could dish—his car was the reason she was in this mess in the first place—she dug inside her purse until she found the emblem. She slapped it down on the tabletop beside his beer with a triumphant smile.
    “Thought you might want this back,” she said and savored the pained expression on his face. Rick broke out into full-blown laughter and slapped the table.
    Craig grabbed up the bow tie and stuffed it into his pants pocket. “Great, thanks for returning it. It’s the least you could do.”
    “The very least.” Her tone dripped honey, but she sucked in a breath when, instead of snapping back at her, he gave her a breathtaking smile that made her heartbeat accelerate. Speechless, she dropped her gaze from his amazing lips and concentrated on the bowl of popcorn. She needed to get out of there—fast.
    When the waitress scooted in between Rach and Craig’s chair she chose that moment to get up and go to the bathroom, hoping cold water on her face would sober her up so she could go home.

Chapter Nine
    Outside, the warm breeze ruffled Craig’s hair and he inhaled deep the fresh scent of rain to come. He loved spring, a relief after a long winter of snow and cold—Midwest winters were harsh and uncompromising.
    After Rach had left the table his brother and new girlfriend hadn’t much to say, not with their lips attached. Which was just as well, the bar wasn’t his scene; he wasn’t even sure why he’d accepted the invitation. He stuffed his hand into his pocket and palmed the chrome emblem and the image of red curls danced through his mind.
    Brat.
    He blinked as that very woman tottered down the sidewalk, a little more off-kilter than when she’d gone to the bathroom ten minutes before. Her curse drifted down the quiet street as she searched through a humongous purse beside a powder blue Toronado. It would be a miracle if she found what she was looking for—he had never understood a woman’s need for an oversized purse. After she found her keys, she fumbled with the car door lock, swearing again.
    He sighed, wondered when his life had become so complicated, and went to confront the brat.
    He approached from behind and caught a whiff of floral scented shampoo when her hair lifted toward him in the breeze. It threw him off balance in a way he didn’t understand. Not caring to analyze his reaction, he brushed a hand over hers and seized the keys, though not expecting the elbow to the gut or the pointed toe of her shoe kicking painfully at his shin.
    “Red! It’s me!” He grabbed at his shin and backed up so she couldn’t do any further damage. Damn , the woman was dangerous!
    Recognition dawned on her face just as she aimed a fist at his nose. Her mouth dropped open into an “O” of surprise. She unclenched her hand and grasped him by the arm so he wouldn’t fall while he hobbled on one leg. He looked around, hoping no one had witnessed her almost lay him out in the street.
    “I’m sorry! I thought you were a thug,” she apologized and followed it up with, “Quit calling me Red.”
    Jesus , he pitied any thug with the misfortune of crossing her path. Rubbing at his sore shin, he shook his head in wonder. Her bloodshot eyes peered into his. “You’re tanked.”
    “Yes, I know this.” She sighed and leaned against the car.