Free Fender Bender Blues by Niecey Roy Page A

“I hadn’t meant to drink so much tonight.”
    By her tone, he got the feeling she considered her over-indulgence to be his fault somehow.
    Just his luck. No matter how much he’d like to get in his car with his bruised shin and go home, there was no way he could let her drive in her condition. Craig was many things but he wasn’t a prick.
    “Hey, don’t worry about the shin. I’m sure the bruise will fade eventually.” He straightened and grinned around her at the car. “Where’d you get the rental?”
    She crossed her arms and the look of guilt for kicking him disappeared. “Not everyone can afford a high dollar rental. My insurance sucks.”
    “I didn’t ask you to hit my car, Red,” he said, not sure why he felt he needed to defend himself. “And the insurance company assured me you had full coverage.”
    She gave an impatient groan and stepped past him, picking up the keys she’d dropped in the tussle. “Not my policy, just my rental car agreement. As in I didn’t choose that option to save money on my premium. I don’t know why it matters to you what I think of my crappy insurance anyway, it’s none of your business,” she huffed, stumbling in her heels. She gripped the hood, her keys clenched in her right hand. “But if you must know, this is my dad’s car. You got something against big-ass blue boats?”
    He laughed. He couldn’t help it. The frown on her face told him she didn’t find the subject matter as amusing as he did.
    “I don’t have anything against Toronados, they’re kind of a classic.”
    “Wow, my dad would love you,” she mused, giving him her first genuine smile since he’d met her. She finally got the door unlocked and pulled it open. Sliding inside, she flipped her hair back over her shoulder and looked up at him as he held the car door open. “I can’t drive with you hanging on like that.”
    “I know that. And you aren’t driving anywhere. Scoot over,” he ordered.
    He didn’t wait for her to argue. Instead, he hunched over to get in and gave her a firm shove to push her across the seat even as she dug her heels in to stop him. She didn’t succeed and in seconds he was behind the wheel, enjoying the irritation that flitted across her face. The whites of her eyes might have been red but the centers were a shocking green in the dome light of the car that was immaculate except for the Buster Burger sack on the floor at her feet.
    “Give me the keys,” Craig demanded, hand out. Her expression obstinate, she shook her head. He repeated, “Give me the keys.”
    He assumed she was being stubborn to piss him off. Strange, but this time he remained calm instead of firing back.
    He kept his hand out, looked straight into her eyes and said what he’d been dying to tell her since he’d first laid eyes on her in the bar: “Don’t be an idiot.” She sputtered, and he added, “You’ve already been in one accident this week, doubt you can afford another.”
    Knowledge dawned behind her green orbs before she thrust the keys into his open palm. He was used to winning. It was his job to win. The winner made sales and had the best lot in town. The winner made money and got what he wanted, even if only keys from a drunk brat. He sat back in satisfaction and started the car.
    And jumped in his seat when the motor roared to life.
    Rach broke out in laughter beside him, the sound of it startling him in ways the roar of the engine hadn’t, and he threw an aggravated glare at her.
    “You’re a pain in the ass,” he muttered.
    “Yeah, so I’ve been told.”
    He smiled. “Your dad?”
    “All the time,” she grinned back.
    He’d never driven a Toronado, and he’d driven many, many vehicles in his lifetime. At six-foot-three he had a hard time seeing over the end of the hood and he wondered how many things she’d run over in it—probably many, given her driving history.
    “How are you going to get your car if you take me home?” she asked, busy with buckling her