good with guns—running joke was that every time he put his hands on her he’d come back with a grenade, an assault weapon, a six-inch throwing knife.
She turned again, hit the pose, caught the light.
Grey thought, Yeah, that’s her.
They closed out the bar together and hung back while the last of the locals staggered away. The bartender moved off and started wiping down the tables and turning over chairs.
Perfume the scent of jasmine. He also smelled aloe and a veggie body wash. Kendra slid to Grey’s side, eased in nice and tight, breathed in his ear, and said, “So?”
3
They crossed the parking lot together, shoulder to shoulder, and when they got to his car she spoke with just the right amount of reverence.
“A ’69 Chevelle.”
“Yeah,” Grey said.
“I used to date a stunt driver who owned one. He usually managed to talk the directors into using it on set. He’d drive it onto the lot, just purring along in a couple of background shots. That car saw more screen time than I ever did.”
That’s how she broached the subject, as if it were an accepted fact that he already knew who she was. Could she tell when someone had seen one of her flicks? Did he look at her differently than everybody else did? Could she tell he was a buff? He didn’t think he was starry-eyed, but you could never tell about yourself.
“Pop the hood,” Kendra said.
“What?”
“I want to take a look at the engine.”
“It’s three A.M.,” he said.
“You’re in a rush all of a sudden?”
“I meant it’s dark out here.”
She had a penlight on her key-chain. He popped the hood and she inspected the engine, whistling, asking questions about original parts, when was the last time he’d flushed the transmission. The stunt man had taught her a lot. She knew more than Grey did about cars, that was for sure.
They got in and she said, “Drive.”
It was a loser question to ask where, so he just drove. She fiddled with the radio for a while until she came to an oldies station. He had bad associations with it for reasons he couldn’t name, but that was true about everything from his childhood.
She asked, “What makes a man drive a classic muscle ride like that and not take it to a car wash? It’s a damn shame seeing it with covered in so much grit. When was the last time you waxed it?”
He pressed down on the pedal, let the night flash by, and tried to hold on to his fading buzz. He didn’t like talking about himself but there was something about her that was dredging up the past. He could feel it moving sluggishly inside him again, seeking the surface. He fought to keep it down, or at least shove it aside. He hadn’t had any of the intense dreams for a few months now, but he could tell that they were going to start up again.
“That was too tough a question?” she said. She took off her shoes and curled in the seat, put her bare feet out the open window. “I can see you’re not going to tax my conversational skills.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Grey said.
“You going to tell me you hate talking about yourself?”
“No.”
She held her hand to his upper thigh, squeezed just enough to get the pulse in his neck snapping. “Ah ha, meaning you don’t have to because it’s already implicit in your attitude. Right.”
They kept to it like that for mile after mile. He’d been hanging around Reno for three weeks and knew the lay of the land. He thought she was starting to doze when she cleared her throat and asked, “Okay, so what’s chasing you?”
It wasn’t a perceptive question. She was appealing to his vanity. Every guy liked to think that his demons were meaner and crazier than anybody else’s. He could see her asking the same question of the stuntman as the guy nudged his Chevelle along the back lot, brooding and self-involved as hell.
Grey smiled, turned on the charm by dashboard light. “I’m just drifting.”
“Adrift,
She turned again, hit the pose, caught the light.
Grey thought, Yeah, that’s her.
They closed out the bar together and hung back while the last of the locals staggered away. The bartender moved off and started wiping down the tables and turning over chairs.
Perfume the scent of jasmine. He also smelled aloe and a veggie body wash. Kendra slid to Grey’s side, eased in nice and tight, breathed in his ear, and said, “So?”
3
They crossed the parking lot together, shoulder to shoulder, and when they got to his car she spoke with just the right amount of reverence.
“A ’69 Chevelle.”
“Yeah,” Grey said.
“I used to date a stunt driver who owned one. He usually managed to talk the directors into using it on set. He’d drive it onto the lot, just purring along in a couple of background shots. That car saw more screen time than I ever did.”
That’s how she broached the subject, as if it were an accepted fact that he already knew who she was. Could she tell when someone had seen one of her flicks? Did he look at her differently than everybody else did? Could she tell he was a buff? He didn’t think he was starry-eyed, but you could never tell about yourself.
“Pop the hood,” Kendra said.
“What?”
“I want to take a look at the engine.”
“It’s three A.M.,” he said.
“You’re in a rush all of a sudden?”
“I meant it’s dark out here.”
She had a penlight on her key-chain. He popped the hood and she inspected the engine, whistling, asking questions about original parts, when was the last time he’d flushed the transmission. The stunt man had taught her a lot. She knew more than Grey did about cars, that was for sure.
They got in and she said, “Drive.”
It was a loser question to ask where, so he just drove. She fiddled with the radio for a while until she came to an oldies station. He had bad associations with it for reasons he couldn’t name, but that was true about everything from his childhood.
She asked, “What makes a man drive a classic muscle ride like that and not take it to a car wash? It’s a damn shame seeing it with covered in so much grit. When was the last time you waxed it?”
He pressed down on the pedal, let the night flash by, and tried to hold on to his fading buzz. He didn’t like talking about himself but there was something about her that was dredging up the past. He could feel it moving sluggishly inside him again, seeking the surface. He fought to keep it down, or at least shove it aside. He hadn’t had any of the intense dreams for a few months now, but he could tell that they were going to start up again.
“That was too tough a question?” she said. She took off her shoes and curled in the seat, put her bare feet out the open window. “I can see you’re not going to tax my conversational skills.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Grey said.
“You going to tell me you hate talking about yourself?”
“No.”
She held her hand to his upper thigh, squeezed just enough to get the pulse in his neck snapping. “Ah ha, meaning you don’t have to because it’s already implicit in your attitude. Right.”
They kept to it like that for mile after mile. He’d been hanging around Reno for three weeks and knew the lay of the land. He thought she was starting to doze when she cleared her throat and asked, “Okay, so what’s chasing you?”
It wasn’t a perceptive question. She was appealing to his vanity. Every guy liked to think that his demons were meaner and crazier than anybody else’s. He could see her asking the same question of the stuntman as the guy nudged his Chevelle along the back lot, brooding and self-involved as hell.
Grey smiled, turned on the charm by dashboard light. “I’m just drifting.”
“Adrift,
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