Chameleon

by Ashe Barker

  The queue stops and I crawl on, passing the now stationary man. I take the opportunity to peer up at him as I pass—no harm in looking, after all—at the exact moment he loses interest in his phone. He glances across, straight at me.

  Shit! I drop my gaze immediately, embarrassed to be caught ogling. Christ, what was I thinking? It’s not even as though I’m overly fond of men, except in a purely functional sense. I like them well enough on the television or in films, but here in real life I generally manage to avoid them for the most part. The occasional tumble across the mattress with a randy student after a night out in Leeds is okay, but not something to get terribly excited about—not in my experience. And I don’t much like clearing up afterwards. If children and drunks seem messy, how much more chaos could Mr. Sex On Legs cause? My upholstery was never designed for the likes of him.

  I make a point of keeping my eyes locked on the taxi in front, refusing to let my gaze slide so much as a fraction sideways, even when I’m fully aware he’s again alongside. No point tempting fate.

  Suddenly the family with the children and buggies seem to have some sort of epiphany. They realize they’re booked on a minibus shuttle service and won’t be needing a taxi after all. With a great deal of fuss and a frantic gathering of bags, toddlers and jelly tots, they collect their brood together and head for the row of bus stops, leaving a gaping hole in the cluster of eager passengers. There ensues a deal of shuffling and dragging of suitcases, checking who’s before who in the line, and before my very eyes, the shell suits disappear into the taxi two cars ahead of me.

  Ho hum, so much for that little game. But I really cannot be held accountable for the vagaries of parents who clearly are getting even less sleep than I am.

  To my relief the Liverpool fans clamber into the back of the taxi in front. I’m next. The rear door of my car is opened and I turn just in time to see Mr. Smart and Sexy Dusseldorf easing his long frame into my back seat.

  “Excuse me…” I start to form some sort of protest. There’s a queue. It’s not his turn. Can’t be. There were people in front of him.

  “Queens Hotel please. Leeds.”

  He has a trans-Atlantic drawl, and I’m stunned to note that he is considerably more devastating up close than he was on the airport forecourt. Who would have thought that was even possible? His accent is as sexy as his hair, which is just starting to flop over his forehead. He swipes it back with his hand as he hauls the small case onto the seat alongside him. He opens the lid with a decisive snap and pulls out a sheaf of papers.

  I don’t move. I stare at him, transfixed. What? What did he say? Where…?

  “Is there a problem? Do you know the Queens Hotel? Just head for Leeds and follow signs for the station.” He glances at me under his brows, just a fleeting suggestion of eye contact before he returns his attention to the papers in his hand.

  “I know where it is.” I don’t go out of my way to snap at my customers, not usually. It’s not good for repeat trade.

  A raised eyebrow signals that he caught my waspish tone. He makes no comment, though, just offers me the merest hint of a nod before gazing out of the window at the now almost deserted airport frontage.

  The lack of other potential fares decides the matter for me. Business is business. I turn my back on him and put my nearly new Ford Focus into gear. The sooner I can get Mr. Dusseldorf to Leeds and dump him on the steps of the Queens Hotel, the better I’ll like it.

  I punch my car into first gear with perhaps slightly more force than strictly necessary and pull out into the now thin stream of traffic heading for the exit. Despite my annoyance at my passenger, I do enjoy the drive from Leeds Bradford airport to central Leeds. It’s early evening, the afternoon rush of traffic has cleared, the weather is pleasant, and my new car is performing beautifully. I stretched my financial limits to buy it, and I do realize a Ford Focus is not everyone’s dream machine, but it suits me fine. It represents the start of my business empire.

  I like driving. I like people—mostly. So I put the two together and came up with my dream job—I’ll drive people. Ergo, I’m a licensed private hire driver. This means I’m allowed to pick up fares from designated stands and I also work on a sort of freelance basis for a taxi firm in Leeds. The money’s not fantastic but it’s good enough. I can generally earn enough to meet my bills and put a bit by. The plan is to pay off my loan for the car and perhaps invest in something else as well—a limousine hopefully. I could do weddings, hen nights, that sort of thing. Eventually I’d like to have a few drivers perhaps working for me, but I’m still a long way from that.

  I didn’t always intend to drive for a living, but it’s odd how things turn out sometimes. How the best laid plans can be overturned by some twist of fate, just by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. In my case, I chose the wrong time to jog along Roundhay Road in preparation for the under-sixteens county trials. I was in serious training for the five thousand meters, and even though I say it myself, I should have been a decent prospect for London this summer if all had gone according to plan. A van driver turning right wiped out that glittering future when he hit me and broke my right leg in three places. I spent two months in traction and a further two on crutches. The medics at St. James’ hospital did a smashing job. There’s hardly any scarring where the surgeons pinned my femur back together. Intensive physiotherapy helped too, and these days I hardly limp at all. But competitive sport became a thing of the past as far as I was concerned. I’d do well to run for a bus, let alone my country. I’ll never compete as an athlete. I might still go to London, but as a spectator.

  I was just fifteen when I was run over, more than eight years ago now. It was my GCSE year and I missed those exams as well, though to be fair I hadn’t had especially high expectations. I’d always been into sport, always on the athletics track, never the academic type. I’d done the bare minimum necessary to get by and might have scraped a couple of Bs and Cs with a bit of luck and a good following wind, but I wasn’t interested. Sport was my future. Then suddenly it wasn’t and I had to think again.

  I sat my GCSEs the following year and did okay. I’d realized I needed those bits of paper after all so I made an effort. I’m good at that. I can set my mind to something when I have to. I had no idea what I would do with my life, but qualifications meant options, and I wanted some of those. Six Bs and an A in maths was good enough to get me into sixth form, and I left school with A levels in maths, English and geography. I decided to leave it at that. I may live among students but university is not for me—or at least not yet.

  The compensation for my accident paid for driving lessons and there was enough left for a clapped out Mini when I passed my test. I might have been able to wring more out of the van driver’s insurance company but I’d been wearing ear buds as I’d jogged and their legal advisers had claimed that I’d contributed to my own downfall. Personally I have always thought that was rubbish, but my solicitor had advised me to accept the out of court offer they’d made me, so here I am. It’s not too bad. I’m in one piece again, not far off solvent and gainfully self-employed. It’s a lot more than many can say these days.

  Now all I need to do is deliver Mr. Dusseldorf safely to the Queens Hotel, then I can get back to the airport and collect my next punter.

  The journey takes around forty minutes, and Mr. Dusseldorf makes no attempt at conversation. I don’t mind chatting with fares on occasions, but today I’m glad of the silence from the rear seat. I concentrate on the late afternoon traffic, threading my way easily through the city streets and gliding smoothly to a stop in the drop-off zone at the bottom of the steps leading to the hotel’s main entrance. I notice the red carpet, the sure signal that this evening will see some visiting dignitary arriving or a high-end dinner event. The Queens is one of the top venues in Leeds for such dos, a favorite haunt for the rich and privileged as they do their sparkly bit for charity.

  I turn to my passenger. “Queens Hotel. That’ll be twenty-seven pounds, please
.”

  Mr. Dusseldorf nods and reaches into his jacket. His phone buzzes and he grabs that before his wallet, glancing at the screen.

  “Fuck.” The one word is delivered in a deep drawl. He frowns, glances back at me. “Excuse me.”

  I’m not sure if he’s apologizing for swearing, or if he wants me to wait a moment. I settle for waiting, but I hope he won’t take too long. I want to get back to work. He punches a reply into his phone then re-checks his papers. He glances at me again. “Sorry about this. I won’t be a minute.”

  I nod. “Will you be needing a receipt?”

  “What? Oh, no, that’s fine.” But my hint has worked and he’s again digging for his wallet. I reason that he might as well wait for his reply in the hotel foyer as in my taxi. Some of us have work to do.

  He pulls thirty quid from his wallet, all in crisp new ten pound notes, fresh from the airport cash machine, I daresay. With any luck he’ll not be bothered about his change so that’s three pounds extra for my limo fund. I reach to relieve him of the cash just as his phone buzzes again.

  Mr. Dusseldorf’s attention is back on his phone, his payment of his fare temporarily forgotten. I clear my throat meaningfully. He ignores me.

  “Do you need any help with your luggage?” Another hint—it usually works.

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  Not this time apparently. “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve changed my mind. I want you to take me somewhere else, please.”

  “Are you sure? The Queens is one of the best hotels in Leeds.”

  “I don’t need to be in Leeds after all. My meetings tomorrow are canceled.” He shoves his papers back into his suitcase and turns back to me. At last I have his full attention.

  “Oh, right. Is it back to the airport then?” Double fare. Bingo!

  “No. Kilmuir. I fancy a little detour.”

  I turn to fish in the little tray beside my gear lever for the remote control that operates my satnav. I don’t have much need for it. I grew up in Leeds and I know my way around. It comes in handy occasionally, though, and was fitted as standard when I bought the car. “Do you have an address, please? Or a postcode?”

  “Neither. Sorry.”

  “How are you spelling it?”

  “K-I-L-M-U-I-R. It’s in Scotland.”

  Now he has my undivided attention. “Did you say Scotland?”

  “I did. Skye. It’s an island off the west coast.”

  My patience is already stretched thin. It’s close to snapping now. “This is a taxi, not a boat. I don’t do islands. And I don’t do bloody Scotland. Have you any idea how far that is?”

  “Not exactly. I expect you can find out from the satnav, though. And there’s a bridge.”

  “A bridge?”

  “A bridge over to Skye. You won’t get your tires wet.”

  “I’m not driving you to bloody Scotland. Or Skye. Sorry. You can get a train. The station’s next door. I’ll drop you there instead.” I reach for the ignition key to restart my engine.

  “No station, no trains. I don’t like trains.”

  “Well, get a flight then. Like I said, I don’t mind taking you back to the airport.”

  “I’ve spent the last twenty-two hours on planes or in airports. Now I want to drive. Correction, I want you to drive while I get some sleep.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Have you any idea how much that would cost? Or how long it would take to get to Scotland. And it does not take twenty-seven hours to fly here from Dusseldorf.”

  “No doubt you’ll be able to tell me. And where does Dusseldorf come into this?”

  “You came off the Dusseldorf flight.”

  “I flew in from New York, though what the hell that has to do with my forward journey is beyond me. So, go on then. What are your terms for driving me to Kilmuir?”

  New York? Via Dusseldorf then. Shit, who cares? “I don’t have any. It’s not happening. So, are you getting out here or not?”

  “I prefer not. Tell me, Miss…? He lifts one eyebrow, clearly expecting me to introduce myself to him.

  I fold my arms and glare at him. Perhaps hotel security could help. I look hopefully up the hotel steps for someone who might be on sentry duty. Mr. Not-Dusseldorf shrugs. “Okay. So, tell me, how much do you make in a day? Usually?”

  “What does that have to do with you?”

  He ignores my belligerent tone. “Whatever it is, I’ll pay you double.”

  “You’ll what?”

  “You heard. Twice what you normally earn. All you have to do is drive.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Is he quite mad? “Skye’s hundreds of miles away. It’d take hours. A day at least. And there’s all the way back, too.”

  ”I’m thinking it’d take at least two days to get there. Possibly three. I want to go the pretty route and see a bit of the scenery. I’ve heard it’s stunning up there. So, what’s your daily rate then, for taking me on a tour of the Highlands and ending up in Skye?”

  “More than you can afford. I can easily earn three hundred pounds a day.” This is perhaps a slight exaggeration, but I feel justified. This man is crazy and I need to put him off this idiotic notion.

  “So, I’ll pay you six hundred a day. Plus expenses. And I’ll pay for the gas.”

  “The what?”

  “Gas. Petrol. Whatever. Shall we start by saying three days at six hundred pounds. Do we have a deal?”

  “No we bloody don’t. Apart from anything else, I’d have to drive all the way back.”

  “Ah yes, of course. I’ll add on an extra day for that. Four days then. Shall we say two and a half grand for the round trip?”

  I can only stare at him, baffled. I don’t know many Americans, in fairness, but the ones I’ve come across haven’t usually been so ready to throw their cash at me. And this man makes me distinctly uneasy. For one thing, who in their right mind carries that sort of cash on them? No, this mad scheme is not for me.

  “You could get to Scotland on the train for a fraction of that. And in just a few hours. The station’s your best bet, definitely. I’m not driving you and that’s final.”

  “I’ll double my offer. Five thousand pounds.”

  I stare at him, totally perplexed. He doesn’t look mad, but even so…

  “Look, go to Scotland if that’s what you want to do. You’re right, it’s lovely—or so I’m told. Hire a car. You could hire a bloody helicopter and still have change from five grand, I bet, and you’d get a really good view if you want to play tourist. Just leave me out of it.”

  “Is that your final word then?”

  Ah, at last the penny’s dropped. “It is. So, are you getting out here?” Now I do start my engine. I’m done talking.

  He smiles and dips his head. He looks…regretful. “It seems I am. Pity, though. I would have enjoyed your company on the way to Skye. It was nice meeting you, miss.” He leans to open his door and shoves the case out first. He follows it onto the pavement.

  Enjoy my company indeed. I hardly wait long enough for him to close my car door behind him before I’m streaking back out into the Leeds traffic, retracing my route to the airport. Hopefully my next pick-up will be sane. Even shell suits would be an improvement.

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  About the Author

  Ashe has been an avid reader of women’s fiction for many years—erotic, historical, contemporary, fantasy, romance—you name it, as long as it’s written by women, for women. Now, at last in control of her own time and working from her home in rural West Yorkshire, she has been able to realize her dream of writing erotic romance herself.

  She likes to write about people, relationships, and the general cock-up and mayhem that is most of our lives. She often writes about places she’s known but her stories of love, challenge, resilience and compassion are the conjurings of her own imagination, with a hefty dose of kink to keep it interesting. We all need to have a hobby.

  Ashe loves to craft strong, enigma
tic men and bright, sassy women to give them a hard time—in every sense of the word.

  When she’s not writing, Ashe’s time is divided between her role as resident taxi driver for her teenage daughter, and caring for a menagerie of dogs, rabbits, tortoises, and Colin the hamster.

  Email: ashe.barker1@gmail.com

  Ashe loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com

  Also by Ashe Barker

  Carrot and Coriander

  Red Skye at Night

  The Dark Side: Darkening

  The Dark Side: Darker

  The Dark Side: Darkest

  Sure Mastery: Unsure

  Sure Mastery: Sure Thing

  Sure Mastery: Surefire

  The Hardest Word: A Hard Bargain

  The Hardest Word: Hard Lessons

  The Hardest Word: Hard Choices

  A Richness of Swallows: Rich Tapestry

  A Richness of Swallows: Rich Pickings

  A Richness of Swallows: Rich Promise

  Paramour: Re-Awakening

  Jolly Rogered: Right of Salvage

  What’s Her Secret?: The Three Rs

  Totally Bound Publishing