Fender Bender Blues
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Fender Bender Blues
by
Niecey Roy
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Fender Bender Blues
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Niecey Roy
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Champagne Rose Edition, 2013
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-741-0
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-742-7
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my husband,
for putting up with me through this journey.
To my family,
for believing in me.
To my friends,
for putting up with all my writerly drama.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to:
DJ Hendrickson, my editor,
for working so hard on this book.
The Wild Rose Press
for being such a great publisher to work with and making my dreams come true.
Donna Sturgeon
for critiquing my book and not being afraid to tell me what wasn’t working.
Casse NaRome
for critiquing the first few chapters of the book and encouraging me to keep going.
The ladies of Prairieland Romance Writers
for giving me the inspiration to reach for the stars and answering all of my questions.
Chapter One
“You are
not
coming home without a job,” Rach muttered to herself and swung the dated sedan around in her townhome parking lot to face the street.
So she felt like crud and had a kink in her neck, those were small discomforts in light of the task ahead—finding the perfect job, maybe even her dream job, if such a thing existed. She would prove to her parents and anyone else who had their doubts about her current circumstance that she, Rachel Marie Bennett, failed social worker, had a plan for her future.
Prince’s “Little Red Corvette”
blared through the speakers from a mixed CD of her favorite songs as she rolled out of the parking lot at a crawl, reaching up to tilt the rearview mirror just so. She whipped open a tube of lip gloss to apply a generous swipe. Opportunities were endless when armed with lucky lip gloss.
The blare of a car horn assaulted her ears, and she slammed on the brakes. The crunch of metal on metal sounded at the same time the impact jolted her body and she sucked in a quick breath.
Rach squeezed her eyes shut and whispered, “I’m fine. The car is fine. Everything
is
fine.
”
She took a few deep breaths to calm her nerves then opened her eyes.
“Lucky, my ass,” she huffed, and threw the car into park. She glared at the tainted lip gloss still clutched in a shaky hand and tossed it to the floor where it dropped between a candy wrapper and a fast-food bag. Smoothing wavy auburn locks back over slim shoulders, she leaned forward to assess the damage through the windshield.
The car sat in limbo halfway out of the parking lot with a shiny blue Camaro eating the driver’s side front fender. The sports car looked as if it had driven off a dealership lot and straight into her car.
All signs pointed to her fault. She wiped clammy palms on her pants legs and summoned a brighter thought—at least she had full coverage. Her dad would gloat about it later. He’d been needling her to keep it instead of swapping for the cheaper liability, all to save a few hundred bucks a year.
With a sigh, she pushed her car door open to face the music. When she shoved it shut behind her, the unhealthy sound of protesting metal made her frown. A quizzical glance at the fender showed it bent in at the doorjamb. No wonder she’d had a hard time pushing it open. “Just
perfect
,” she muttered.
Any optimism she had for a lighthearted insurance card exchange went up in smoke when she met the eyes of the man staring at her from the other side of the Camaro. She took in his handsome face and sharp features, the neat, tawny hair trimmed close to his head, and endless broad shoulders tucked into an expensive dark gray business suit. He reeked of money and ego—and restrained anger.
Not a good combination
. She sighed miserably. Ready to apologize, she stepped forward and lifted her hands. “I am so—”
“I hope you have insurance,” he interrupted with a growl, and she dropped her hands. A muscle twitched in his well-defined jaw, still looking very GQ despite the grimace he wore. His linebacker body was planted in a rigid stance, as if he were holding back a few swear words.
Offended by his jerkiness—she hated growly guys, they were right up there with shitty jobs—Rach adjusted her purse strap over her shoulder and taunted, “It would really suck if I didn’t.”
Exasperated, he strode around the back of his car and she took a step backward. She bumped into the side of her car, and with nowhere to go, she plastered on a tight smile. Since he didn’t react well to sarcasm she decided to cop the funny stuff and held out her insurance card without another word. The man yanked it from her fingers and she bit her tongue.
Peering at it as if he doubted its authenticity, she fought the urge to tap her shoe. Finally, he looked up at her with reproachful, cornflower blue eyes. “You weren’t even looking. You could have hurt someone.”
She didn’t need this. She’d be hearing the same lecture from her mom later. Rach glared back at him. “Thank you, Mr. Driver Safety Educator. Now give me your insurance information and we’ll be on our way. Unless you want to call the cops.”
God, she hoped not! She had a way with cops wielding traffic tickets—they brought out her snotty side and when that happened they happily wrote out the pink slip. A ticket on top of an insurance claim would be a disaster. Especially without a job.
She breathed a sigh of relief when he shook his head.
“Forget it,” he said through gritted teeth. “This is private property—your car’s mostly in your parking lot.”
He seemed upset by the fact no one would be hauling her away in cuffs. Rach glanced at his mangled bumper and supposed it was understandable. The car had been immaculate before...well, before she’d pulled out in front of him. She felt awful. Rach blamed it on the lip gloss. Apparently she’d overestimated its worth.
She decided to try the apology again, but he interrupted her with, “I’ll be calling this in today.”
He handed her a card from his wallet.
Rach rolled her eyes and swallowed the apology. She stuffed the card into her purse, deep down where it joined the crumpled papers, ATM receipts, and junk mail. Turning her back on his pissy attitude, she yanked her car door open and pretended not to hear the sad noise it made.
“Great, nice to meet you, you’re very charming, have a wonderful day,” Rach articulated and wrenched the door shut behind her.
He stood glaring at her with his hands in his pants pockets, as if considering a reply. After a moment, he shook his head and stalked around his car to the driver’s side. She gave him a simmering stare before backing up. As the vehicles disengaged, a loud screech of bending metal broke the quiet of the morning, sending birds fluttering in surprise from the surrounding trees. There was a tug as her car dragged his bumper along with it, sounding a high-pitched scraping noise across the pavement.
Horrified and unsure of what to do, she floored the accelerator. The car shot out of the parking lot sideways and jumped the curb. A look in the rearview mirror showed the man standing in front of his car holding the front clip in his arms. He wasn’t smiling.
To keep the depression at bay she did the only thing fathomable in her situation—she hit the Buster Burger drive-thru for fast-food therapy. Rach ignored the curious stares of fellow drive-thru motorists who were no doubt wondering if the other person’s vehicle had fared better than hers. She told herself not to worry so much as she took the bag and cappuccino from the college kid at the drive-thru window, but the knot in her stomach would not go away. She had just wrecked her car. Her insurance would most certainly skyrocket after this event.
“It’s okay. Really. The rest of the day will be better.” She needed to stay optimistic while dropping off résumés, except the pick-me-up speech did little for her nerves.
Rach’s last job hadn’t been horrible, but she wasn’t interested in being a file clerk for the rest of her life. After three months of working in a basement with no windows and only filing cabinets for company, Rach had given her notice. For an entire week she’d lazed around her apartment, slept until her eyes hurt, and watched
sitcom
reruns. A much needed vacation—that’s what she’d told herself the downtime had been. Now, it was time to get back to reality.
Another month without any income rolling in would put a major dent in the savings she’d worked so hard for. If she didn’t find a job in the next three months, she would have to move in with her parents. A twenty-seven year old woman did not pack her bags to move into her parents’ basement. That would be a blow to her ego she would never overcome.
I’m a college graduate, for Pete’s sake!
Rach parked the cappuccino in the cup holder and picked up her cell phone to dial her best friend. When Leah answered, Rach told her, “I was just in a car accident.”
“Oh my God! Are you
okay?
” Leah screeched into her ear. Something crashed to the floor in the background and Rach winced, sorry she hadn’t been more specific.
“Just a fender bender with Angry Hot Guy. I’m fine.”
“Oh. Okay. Angry Hot Guy, huh? So what happened?” The clippers resumed buzzing.
Leah owned her own hair salon. She had employees. Rach had played around with the possibility of going to beauty school so she could work for her best friend, but she didn’t trust herself with scissors and someone else’s hair. The one time she’d attempted to cut her own bangs she ended up with a hack job, which Leah managed to feather into a decent hairdo. Rach hadn’t played with hair since.
“I was applying lip gloss,” she stated simply.
“Ah, lip gloss.” Leah chuckled. “Dangerous stuff.”
Rach finished off the breakfast burrito, disappointed the tortilla had been nuked a few seconds too long. She crumpled up the wrapper and stuffed it back inside the bag. It joined the discarded lip gloss on the floor. The inside of her car resembled her life—a complete catastrophe. People who’d known Rach her entire life wouldn’t recognize the mess that surrounded her. They weren’t alone because she didn’t understand it, either.
