Page 8 of The Tomorrows After You
There had been nothing remarkable about her. She wasn’t one of the smart girls. She didn’t play sports. No musical talent. But she was involved in the church and Junior League and Daughters of the American Revolution and every other community activity. She wore fake pearls and long skirts and pastel-coloredheadbands.
So, Little Miss Perfect Katie Plainbottom is shacking up with a convicted killer.
The idea almost impressed me.
I started to search forPlainbottom Auto Shop Godotwhen my phone went black. Groaning a sigh of frustration, I plugged the new charger into the cigarette lighter.
I spotted a liquor store across the street. I grabbed some cash from my glove compartment, letting my phone charge while I picked up wine for thenight.
The sun was already warm and a thin layer of sweat started to humidify my back as I jogged across the street. I pulled the door handle but fell backward.
Of course, it wasn’t open yet. I rested my hands on my hips and cursed at the sky before re-crossing the street to my car.
I grabbed the driver’s side door handle and once again fell backward.
No, no…
“Ughh!”The frustration broke from my chest. My keys were in the ignition, powering the car that powered my phone. And I was locked out.
Fighting the overwhelming sense of defeat, I sank to my heels, pulling my hands through my hair so I didn’t punch something.
“Are you alright, sweetheart?”I peered up at an elderly woman who gazed at me with such concern I felt self-conscious.
“I locked my keys in my car,”I said, deadpan.
“There’s a garage one block down. I’m sure one of those handsome young boys can help you. They’re so good. They helped me reprogram my radio last week.”She smiled as if it were the greatest kindness in the world.
I stood up.“That’s not the garage that Mr. Plainbottom runs, is it?”
“Well, I don’t think he does much work himself anymore, what with the cancer and all, but yes that’s his.”
The auto shop was just as the old woman described, a garage withlotsof handsome young men. I pulled my hair into a loose braid that hung over my shoulder and I shifted my boobs in my bra, so my cleavage popped. I smacked my lips with the cheap tube of lipstick I bought at the Piggly Wiggly.
I strutted into the garage and walked up to the front desk. The back of a desk chair faced me, and a low voice grumbled into the phone cord. I looked around and smiled at a few of the gazes through the glass window that peered into the work bays.
I waited for the person to get off the phone.
And waited.
The phone clicked back on the cradle. I turned my smile up a watt.
But I still waited. Whoever was on the phone hadn’t turned around.
Maybe they hadn’t heard me walk in. I shuffled my feet and coughed, calling attention to myself. But they still didn’t turn. My impatient shoe tapped the cement floor. The chair turned a few degrees but then turned back.
My patience snapped.
“Excuse me, can you tell me where I can find Riot Asher?”I said in my sweetest, damsel-in-distress voice.
The chair spun around. My smile fell to a scowl. The same moss-faced man from this morning stared at me, his expression bored. His fingers were peaked with his elbows on the side of the chair.
“Not here,” he said, impassively.
Rude.
“Well, can you tell me when he’ll be in?”I smiled, reaching a hand up to stroke my braided hair.
The man-beast followed the motion for only a second beforescowling at me.
