by Amy Craig
“You’re leaving out the girl.” Nolan switched lanes. “There’s always a girl.”
Rikard snorted. “She hasn’t qualified as a girl since puberty hit and she decided to use what her mother gave her.” His silence said more than a character assassination ever could. “Lisa was gorgeous and she knew it.”
Unsure of how to respond, Wylie looked back and forth between the men.
Their gazes connected in the rearview mirror and Rikard took a deep breath.
“I fell hard for Lisa and followed her west,” he said. “You could say she found me at a vulnerable moment, but I admit I was looking for an excuse to bail on the east coast. Our relationship didn’t last long once we landed in the midst of Hollywood glamour, but she introduced me to Nolan and the co-living commune.”
“That’s a mature way to look at it.”
“That year was a dumpster fire,” Rikard said.
She swallowed.
“Either way, Lisa made herself scarce, but I realized I still had a community.”
Wylie nodded and thought about her parents. They’d done everything they could to raise her in Los Angeles, but their achievements had fallen short of the wealth needed to shield her from the realities of bills and a mortgage. Was that awareness a blessing or a curse? Either way, she sympathized with Rikard’s loneliness, but his desperation felt too close for comfort. She wondered how far she would take her attraction to Nolan under normal circumstances. Candy’s distraction had given her a reason to bail on the Social Club kiss, but she had been on the verge of leaving with the man. Shaking her head, she looked at Rikard’s aloof, sun-bleached profile. “But you didn’t go back to Denver?”
He nodded. “My family comes from Croatia. Croats are Slavic people, but it turns out I also hate the cold.”
She laughed and turned back in her seat, wondering if Nolan would tell her his origin story. But instead of giving her a chance to fill in the missing pieces, he turned the tables on her instead. “What about you?”
“Born and bred here,” she said, fighting to hide the vulnerability of her situation. Isn’t that what they all want? A carefree California blonde with a comical situation? She thought of Penny Lane and wondered what Nolan would have done if her skin bore the effects of the sun and crow’s feet framed her eyes. Well, for one thing, he probably wouldn’t have been as amused when I kissed him.
“Family?” he asked, prompting her to respond.
She blushed and hoped the open top would disguise the color on her cheeks. “Oregon.”
Nolan glanced at her yoga gear. “Like, new-age mysticism Oregon?”
His frown made her wonder if he had decided to reevaluate his interest in helping her.
“No, just mainstream retired urbanite.” She smiled to reassure the man, but she made herself laugh, imagining what she would have done if she’d followed her parents to the Pacific Northwest and found herself at a rally for a twenty-first-century cult leader. Hell, I would have turned around and come home. Los Angeles has no problem doling out new gender identities, but religious quirks might be the last frontier of social diversity.
She thought about stringing Nolan and Rikard along, but she felt too vulnerable. “They just wanted a lower cost of living.”
Both men nodded like the concept resonated.
Does it? She ran her hand over the fine-grained leather of the passenger seat. I shouldn’t try to mix with the finance and entrepreneurial crowd, but I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth…unless it’s creepy. Please, don’t let this turn creepy.
Her phone chirped with directions and Nolan changed lanes, following the navigation system into a maze of one-story industrial buildings. A sign for Tommy Tee’s Tow Service marked a parking lot near a weathered cinderblock building and a chain-link fence guarding a tow yard.
Exposed steel beams presided over an overhang near a loading dock, and rust stains dripped down the building’s exterior. Knowing she would have to start in the office, Wylie focused on the front door, where concrete breeze blocks sectioned off a walkway and overgrown begonias filled two terracotta pots. Someone had paid good money to erect the mid-century feature, but she eyed the yellowed polycarbonate panels serving as a roof and figured that person had probably moved on. “I guess this is it,” she said.
Nolan put the Bronco in park and reached into the back seat to grab a shirt from a small pile of belongings stashed in the footwell. “I’ll go in with you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
He pulled the shirt over his head. “You’ll get bored without me.”
“You’re not even wearing shoes,” she said, watching his lean muscles flex. I think I hate his shirt.
He grinned and retrieved a pair of surf-inspired flip flops from the center console. “Happy now?”
“Getting there.” she said. She did not bother to suppress her grin.
“How long have you two known each other?” Rikard asked.
Nolan opened the driver’s-side door. “She kissed me last night at a bar.”
Wylie met Rikard’s gaze and saw dismissal in the way he shook his head, like she had never learned to hold her liquor. “It wasn’t like that,” she said.
“Whatever.”
Whatever? She opened the passenger door and hurried to catch up with Nolan. Maybe it was like that? One kiss from a good-looking man and I’m reevaluating my priorities when I’ve never been more desperate? The admission slowed her steps and she looked back at Rikard for a moment. Nolan might have left his friend sitting in the back seat of the truck like a faithful hound, but it was not her job to wait patiently at Nolan’s side until he issued a command or asked her to follow a scent.
She jogged toward Nolan to overtake him, but he ignored her approach and strode toward the entrance of the building. She reached for the door’s metal bar and seized it first. “It’s my car.”
“After you.” He gestured toward the shadowed interior and fell back.
Squaring her shoulders, she faced the painted cinderblock structure and considered its weathered façade. More than a decade had passed since the building’s architect eschewed the privilege of windows and placed his faith in the palm tree struggling in a thin bed of gravel. “They’re probably going to be ruthless.”
Nolan met her gaze and nodded.
She focused on a series of printouts taped to the door. The yellowed papers listed the company’s hours and identification policies. “Standard stuff.” She continued reading and bristled when she realized she would have to add ATM fees and processing charges to her impound fees. “Why can’t they just make it seem fair?”
“It is fair. They’ve combed the rules books for decades to squeeze every last dime out of their business.”
“Maybe I’ll send them a potted plant with my thanks.”
Nolan put a hand on the small of her back, but she shook off the calming influence, raised her head and marched into the office. An ancient black vending machine offered a bag of Doritos and a package of Hostess cupcakes. The wood wall paneling marked Tommy Tee’s Tow Service as a member of the American Trucking Association and a proud sponsor of a local golf classic. She attempted to reorient her perception of the place as a bastion of the community before she noticed a certificate of appreciation from law enforcement. Why do I get the feeling they’ve been working together longer than I’ve been alive?
“May I help you?” a receptionist asked. The woman’s tight, bleached curls paled against her tan and lined skin. Wylie glanced at the bottle of lotion sitting on her desk. Its sweet floral fragrance failed to hide the scents of stale cigarettes and grease originating from behind the desk.
“Yes,” Wylie said. “Your company towed my vehicle this morning.”
The woman nodded and reached for a stack of tickets. “Name?”
“Wylie Winidad,” she said.
The receptionist flipped through her stack of paperwork, licking her finger between each sheet. The black and white clock on the wall ticked as the
older woman made her way through a stack of tow yard receipts.
Nolan shifted on his feet.
She wanted to touch him and anchor his restlessness, but she kept her hand pinned to her side. How many vehicles could they have possibly towed before noon?
“Yep. Your vehicle was parked illegally. Property owners have the right to remove cars from their driveway after the car has been parked there for more than one hour.”
“Can you prove that it was parked illegally? I think I was clear of any driveways.”
“Did you take a picture?”
“Who takes pictures of their cars when they park?”
The woman raised her eyebrows and turned the paperwork to reveal an inkjet image of the SUV’s shadow blocking a tapered driveway. “We do.”
Wylie took a deep breath. “What do I need to do to get my car back?”
“Documents and cash,” the receptionist said. She put more lotion on her hands.
Wylie gritted her teeth. “How much?”
The woman pulled out a handheld calculator and began adding up the fees. “Are you paying with cash or credit?”
“Credit,” Wylie said while she struggled not to grind her teeth.
The woman nodded and looked at a list of processing fees. The total bill went up by two and a half percent before she put down the calculator. “Towing and storage charges related to the impoundment come to three hundred seventy-two dollars and forty-eight cents.”
“What?” Her gaze widened at the total. “The SUV was there for less than three hours.”
“Oh, we only operate in twenty-four-hour increments.” She unleashed a saccharine smile and pointed toward the yellowed printout behind a drugstore frame. “A minute past midnight is as good as another day in my book.”
“Are you even open at midnight?”
The woman pointed toward a sign. “Twenty-four hours.”
Wylie had the urge to jump over the counter and rip the aged paper from the wall. The thought of leaving the office in handcuffs kept her sane and she pulled her wallet from her purse. “Just give me back my car.”
“Sign here,” the receptionist said.
Nolan cleared his throat. “She changed her mind and she’s going to pay cash. Take the convenience fee off the bill. I also want to see a signed copy of the property owner’s towing authorization.”
The receptionist glanced over her shoulder. “That paperwork’s in the back.”
He smiled and leaned across the desk. “So go find it,” he said, his voice as measured as his presence in a room reeking of lemon wax and abandoned cigarettes.
Wylie responded to the glimpse of the steel beneath Nolan’s good humor and stepped closer to him. What had Cynthia said? ‘Your food’s good, but your charming sense of humor is better?’ Had the studio instructor known about the strength behind Nolan’s smile before she propositioned him? “You don’t have to do this,” she whispered, afraid of sounding vulnerable within earshot of the candy-scented plywood vulture.
“It’s just business,” he said. “I don’t like seeing people take advantage of their customers. Bandit tow trucks aren’t allowed to actively look for cars to tow. Even if a scout spotted the violation, someone had to authorize the tow on behalf of the property owner.”
The receptionist returned and shuffled the papers on her desk. “Charlie’s out on another call and said he forgot to turn in the signature page.”
Nolan cocked his head, but Wylie cupped his arm and smiled at the receptionist. Nolan had given her a lead and she felt more than capable of taking it. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars to release my car,” she said to the woman.
“But the fee’s more than three hundred.”
“This feels a lot like a towing scam. How much does it cost to respond to a police report?”
The woman shook her hair-sprayed head. “I could tell you two would be trouble the moment you walked into the office.”
Wylie smiled. “Given the state of the office, we’ll take that as a compliment.”
Nolan pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet and placed it on the counter. The receptionist looked at the pair of them and shook her head before she tested the bill for forgery, ripped up the paperwork and radioed for Wylie’s vehicle. “Charlie will bring it out front?”
Wylie turned to Nolan and raised her eyebrows. “I thought Charlie was out on a call.”
He laughed, but the receptionist frowned. She opened her mouth to respond, but the phone rang and she inclined her head toward the door. “Have a nice day.”
When neither of them moved, she looked over her shoulder and beckoned a second woman to come to her aid. The receiver rang again, its digital shrill too loud amid the soft whir of the air conditioning and outdated computers. The receptionist cleared her voice for the new customer. “Tommy Tee’s Tow Service. How can I help you?”
The second woman came to the counter. “Is there a problem?”
Nolan shook his head and turned his back on the woman.
Left to choose from his wake or the frowning administrator, Wylie fell in behind him, too dazed by the encounter to consider other alternatives.
“You shouldn’t have given them anything,” he said.
She eyed the chips waiting behind the grimy glass of the vending machine and decided against rounding up her bill with the addition of an impulse purchase. “You’re probably right, but I’m ready to get this mess over with.” She considered his easy confidence amid the wood paneling and craft store frames. “You already saved me a few hundred bucks. I’ll pay you back as soon as I get to a bank branch.”
He glanced at the ATM shoved in the corner, its buttons worn smooth and ringed by black grease. “What? You don’t want to use these fine facilities?”
She grinned and opened the door for him, hoping road noise would disguise the growl of her stomach. “I promise you I’m good for it, eventually.”
Nolan looked at her lips.
She took a deep breath. For a moment, she considered giving him the casual kiss of a girlfriend, something as soft a meaningful as a thank you. I can’t afford that risk right now. I have nothing to back up the gesture and no right to push the limits of our friendship. She pulled back and the pleasure of extracting her car faded against the reality of the day. She shielded her eyes and added up the debts behind her promises. “I’m going to pay you back, Nolan, and we’re going to forget about those kisses. If you’re serious about letting me join this commune thing, I need to know where I stand. I need to know that we’re even.”
“Even?” he asked.
She nodded.
“How can two people ever be even?” He walked toward the Bronco and slowed, matching his stride to hers. “Are you keeping score?”
“I saved your ass last night when Rusty would have taken a swing at you. You got me out of this mess, so we’re all good.”
“Sure, we’re good.” He glanced at her, smiled, and waved to Rikard lounging in the back seat. “Let’s go.”
The man’s amusement undercut the sincerity of his comment and gave her reason to doubt her actions outside Rusty’s club. “I’m going to pay you back.” She reached for his arm to affirm her intent.
“I heard you.”
“Why can’t I say thank you?” She felt her skin warm against his arm.
He shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. Anybody would have done it.”
Anybody. Letting go of his arm, she exhaled and approached the truck. The Bronco’s polished hood reflected their image and she defended her line in the sand. I’m going to see this man again. Every morning if this commune thing works out. I’m not just anybody. Anything that happens between us has to start from common ground.
She shook her head as a tow operator in a jumpsuit returned her vehicle to the freedom of the street. He flipped her the keys and saluted their ingenuity as he headed into the main office. Wylie held her freedom in her hand, but she looked at Nolan standing near the driver’s side door and admitted her attraction t
o him. His eyes were as green as the hood of the Bronco and she wanted to remember the taste of cardamom on her lips. Knowing she had her limits, she acknowledged her attraction and redefined her terms. Consensual and based on common ground. He raised his eyebrows and she asked him, “What’s the address of the house?”
Nolan nodded and gave her an address on Monument Street in the hills of Pacific Palisades. He opened his mouth to say more, but stopped and turned to Rikard. “All good?”
The blond leaned back, his hands supporting his head. “I mean, a few people offered to buy the Bronco, but I told them you wouldn’t part with it.”
Nolan climbed into the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition. “Why not? Everything has a price.”
Rikard glanced at Wylie as she approached the customized truck. “Trust me,” he said. “They weren’t offering enough.”
* * * *
Wylie rolled down her windows, turned up the radio and picked up a live concert from KXSC. The independent, student-run radio station from the University of Southern California reminded her that other twenty-six-year-olds were still figuring out their lives. “It’s called getting an advanced degree,” she muttered as she turned up the volume.
The wind and the music filled her senses. She climbed the hills of Pacific Palisades and turned onto Monument Street, expecting to find a rambling structure from the 1970s—something mismanaged and made of stucco that had escaped modernization and vexed the neighbors for years.
As the street rose, she scanned a stately eucalyptus tree. It presided over homes that pushed the boundaries of local building codes and tight lot lines. So it’s an economically diverse neighborhood. She followed house numbers and watched pavers and ornamental shrubs flash at the edge of her vision. When the scale of the white shingled façades and terraced rooflines only grew with the views, she shook her head and wondered if she had misheard the commune’s address.
Then she passed a late-model Mercedes parked on the downhill side of the street, its wheels turned toward the curb. “No way,” she said to herself. “This is way out of my league.” Yet her phone chimed to indicate she had arrived at the correct address.
