Page 4 of Plentywood
His square jaw and cleft chin added to his already masculine look. I figured nineteen, maybe twenty years of age, although he could be thirty. Who knew these days? The interior of the station was dead silent, just me staring at him, and him oblivious to my presence. His legs were spread wide. Worn, lace-up, leather boots rested on the concrete floor, propping him up against the wall.
“Jesus,” I mumbled, realizing I was drawn to this kid. Of course, there was no way in hell I’d be seen dead with someone like him. Country-club men like me didn’t associate with country hicks like him.
I kicked the front of the counter, causing him to nearly fall out of his chair. “Holy fu…” he squealed, kicking his legs straight out to keep his balance. “Where’d you come from?” he asked, removing his headphones.
His sparkling blue eyes caught me off guard. This guy could model. New York talent scouts would shit themselves if they could see what I was looking at. He possessed, naturally, what agencies would kill to discover—or invent with another model.
“I need gas,” I stated, locking eyes with him.
He pointed outside, his eyes doing to me what I’d just done to him when he wasn’t noticing. “Out there,” he said, his deep voice surprising me with its rich texture.
“I know it’s out there, but I didn’t see the thingy that you stick your credit card in.”
“We don’t have those,” he replied, coming to his feet. I exhaled slowly, gathering my wits, when I noticed he was roughly six feet tall. He pointed to the countertop and one of those contraptions I’d only seen in a picture. A small device that you place your credit card on and zip back and forth over it, making a carbon copy of the bill. “We use this if you don’t have cash,” he explained. “But we’ve never had anyone without cash.”
“I’ve never pumped gas before,” I admitted.
Stud puppy looked outside at my car and then back to me. “You?Nooo,” he dared. “You’re joshin’, mister.” I had a suspicion he spoke like a hick because he assumed I saw him that way. He was correct. I did.
“I’m not…” I almost repeated his word, but it got stuck on my tongue. “I’m not joking,” I said. “And I need a carwash too.”
“And you need a carwash too,” he repeated, smiling at me, his perfect teeth glinting with his amusement. “Maybe some of thatGrey Pouponwhile I’m at it?”
His intelligent humor surprised me. I’d already filed him in mylocal hickfile, but he wasn’t some dumb-witted country boy after all. “Funny,” I commented.
“City boys are a cute bunch,” he said. “And you must be their leader.”
His wit pissed me off more than I cared to admit. I’d spent five minutes sizing him up and attaching judgmental labels to him that he now was obliterating. “I’m serious,” I stated.
“I know you are,” he responded.
“So?” I asked, nervously looking between him and my car.
“So, am I gonna fill your fancy ride up with some fuel? Is that what you’re wondering?” he asked. He grinned and continued studying me. He wasn’t threatening in his action but more good-humoredly ribbing me. “Don’t wanna get those expensive clothes dirty?” he asked. “Trust me, yourHugo Bossshirt will come clean when your maid washes it for you.”
I looked down at my stylish silk shirt. “Versace,” I corrected. “The slacks areBoss, though.”
“Is that fact?” he asked, coming around the counter and gesturing toward the exit. He stood next to me while he waited for me to open the door. I’d seen him as a boy a minute ago, but he was a tall hunk of a man, and I couldn’t deny that I was attracted to him. A feeling I hadn’t felt about a guy in a hot minute.
I hurried out, walking in front of him. “You’ll fill the car for me?”
“I will,” he answered. “But I won’t wash it.”
“And why not?”
He surveyed the area around the pumps, cupping his eyes and pretending to look in the distance. “Don’t see no signs advertising a carwash,” he stated. “Maybe the Mercedes dealership in the next town will give you a complimentary wash. I hear they do that when you buy one of these quarter-million-dollar AMG models.”
“One-forty,” I corrected. “It was a hundred and forty. Can you direct me to the dealership, then?”
“Check your receipt, city boy. More like two-hundred-thousand, minimum.” He lifted the pump handle and opened the gas cap on my car, grinning at me. “You actually bought that shit?” I stared at him in confusion. “That was a joke. The part about there being a dealership,” he added.
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
“You ever been to Montana, Slick?”
“My name is Ben Hawthorne, not Slick,” I protested. He damn near dropped the gas pump, his eyes doubling in size, but he quickly composed himself. “I was hoping there was a Mercedes dealership in Plentywood,” I added.
“There’s barely a thousand folks in Plentywood. And you think they’d build a Mercedes dealership there?”
