Page 83 of Missile Tow
Glancing at the time displayed on the radio screen, it read just before seven PM. The male caller stated they’d missed the Missile exit and tried to drive across the median to head back. That brilliant idea is why he was stuck in a three-foot snowbank.
“How far away?” Van asked, rubbing his hands in front of the heater vent.
“Mile outta town,” I said. Van shivered, his teeth chattering. “You can stick those hands in my pants if it’d help,” I teased, raising my brows suggestively.
“Love to,” he said. “But that kind of distraction leaves our customer stranded for an hour or so if I do that.”
“Fuck the customer.”
“How about fuck me instead?” Van suggested.
“Sounds fuckin’ great!” I exclaimed. “At the mercantile? In the tow truck on our way?” I joked. “You name the time and place, and I’m in, pretty boy.”
Van pointed out the windshield. “Drive, horndog. You’ll get yours.”
We retrieved the tow truck, and stowed extra chains in case the idiot was down a steep embankment, and headed to milepost 117, his stated location.
“We’re looking for a silver Benz with Washington plates. The customer could be at any point now,” I stated, swiping the driver’s side window free of fog.
Van’s head spun around. “Mercedes Benz?” he repeated, giving me a strange look. “And the customer said Washington plate?”
Just as I was answering him, I spotted a tall figure standing along the highway. The man was hugging himself, completely underdressed, exposed to the freezing temps, and practically huddled over.
“Jesus!” I huffed. “He could freeze and die in these temps. Why the hell ain’t he in his car?”
Van leaned closer to the front windshield. “No fucking way,” he whispered.
Van wasn’t much of a curser. He didn’t pressure me to clean up my act, but I’d rarely heard him swear. “What is it?”
“That’s Evan,” he said, turning to me in disbelief.
“Are you sure?”
“No doubt!” he exclaimed. “That’s his car. It’s definitely him in expensive loafers standing in a foot of snow, with no jacket on. And who else could it be with Washington plates on a Mercedes?”
The man spotted us pulling over and rushed to the driver’s side window, his hands waving and words coming out of his mouth that we couldn’t hear yet. I rolled the window down just in time to get an earful.
“What took you so goddamned long?” he snapped. “It’s practically a million degrees below zero out here in this godforsaken place.”
I was too stunned to reply. His perfectly styled hair had a fresh layer of white powder on it. He wore an obviously expensive sweater, snow piling up on his shoulders, a button-down shirt under that, and looked like he’d been transported from a rich country club.
“Evan?” Van spoke, leaning toward me and the open window.
Evan bent closer and peered into the cab of the truck. “Vance?” he asked, a look of surprise and shock on his face. “What the hell are you doing with this redneck tow truck driver? Did you break down, too?”
“Fuck you, buddy,” I responded. “If you’d like, I can leave your ass right here.”
Van’s prick of an ex diverted his attention back to me. “Not likely, country boy,” he hissed. “When I’m done reaming the owner of your business a new asshole concerning your delay, you’ll find yourself unemployed.”
“That’d be me, dipshit,” I announced. “How about I go back and wait for your call?”
With that, I put the truck in drive and drove away. Van turned around and watched the silhouette of his asshole ex growing smaller. As far as I was concerned, Evan could call St. Regis and its tow service. At nearly fifty miles away, their arrival should only be another hour away, while the jerk spent the time in sub-freezing temps.
“We can’t leave him, Chip.”
I was too pissed to listen to reason, so I focused on the road. Evan’s behavior was one thing for sure, but I preferred to avoid having Van’s ex in my hair. An unexpected home visit from John was one thing, but another visitor? And this one was the ex of both JohnandVan? No fucking thanks.
“Sure, we can,” I grunted. “Just sit back and watch me.”
