Running on Empty

by L. B. Simmons

  “Rylie – we don’t say shit. Don’t. Say. Shit. Do you understand me?” Rylie nods her head, but smiles as though she has no intention of listening to me. I point my finger at her. “Don’t say it, Rylie. I’m serious!” I watch her big brown eyes glance over at her sisters, mischievous grin still intact.

  I look over and see Nycole and Kyndall covering their mouths and giggling as they watch our interaction. They’re definitely not helping this situation any. And, although I really want to laugh with them, I can’t. I know it will only encourage her, so I force the giggle back down my throat and address the other two. I can feel my mouth start to turn upwards, but I try to keep my face straight. I’m pretty sure it’s not working, judging by Rylie’s smile. I turn my eyes to the other girls in a last ditch effort to remedy the situation.

  “Sorry guys. I should’ve handled that better. Can we just forget that any of this happened?” I look at them with pleading eyes. I watch a sly smile slowly spread across Nycole’s face.

  “I don’t know, Mom. I think you should have to buy us something. You know, to keep us quiet.” She throws in an exaggerated wink to make sure I get her point.

  “Nyc, have you lost your ever livin’ mind? You know I don’t do things like that!” I look at all of them with my serious mom face and then I can’t help but let out a chuckle, pain long forgotten. I roll my eyes in defeat. “Oh, alright…One thing at the gas station and that’s it! Got it?”

  They all squeal at once. “Yay! Love you, Mommy!”

  I sigh. “I love you too, girls. More than you know.”

  Sitting behind the steering wheel, I let out a long, deep breath. Gas or no gas…that is the question. I was just at the freakin’ gas station! I can’t believe I didn’t notice this sooner. Actually, now that I think about it, the low fuel level warning has been chirping at me for a couple of days now.

  Looking at the needle, I contemplate whether or not I can make the twelve mile drive from Rylie’s daycare to my office without stopping for gas. 7:58 AM. It’s not like I’m actually worried that Harlow will be pissed that I’m late…again. It just makes it easier to rationalize my decision to not get gas. I’m pretty sure there’s a reserve gas tank built into these things, right? For procrastinators like me? Unless I’m already dipping into the reserve tank, which would prove to be rather unfortunate.

  Shifting into drive, I inhale deeply and turn right to jump onto the interstate. I lose myself in my thoughts, thinking about this morning and how the chaos continued full force. After the gas station, where none of my children picked anything remotely healthy as their replacement breakfast, Nycole and Kyndall found themselves in a very heated discussion about whether or not one of Nycole’s friends actually had Justin Bieber’s phone number. A discussion that ended with high pitched screaming that I swear could have broken the sound barrier, and quite possibly my windows, but I had to side with Kyndall on this one.

  Finally ridding my car of the feminine theatrics, I drove Rylie to her daycare. A bad habit I’ve developed is brushing her teeth while in the car at the parking lot of her school. A bad habit she’s developed is literally aiming her sneezes at people. Both habits rolled into one? Well, that equaled another ill-fated incident involving toothpaste. Rylie laughed heartily at my expense after she aimed her toothpaste filled sneeze spray at my black shirt. I think my girls have decided to gang up on me using toothpaste as their ‘modus operandi’. Seriously. With a toothpaste-splattered poplin top, I carried my four year old baby girl (who was still laughing by the way) into her classroom, quickly kissed her goodbye, and jetted out of there before she could use me as her latest show and tell demonstration.

  I noticed the familiar warning regarding my gas level when I got back into my car. I guess I didn’t hear it earlier this morning over my lovely children yelling and screaming at each other. Days like this, I really miss Derek. He always made sure I had enough gas to make the morning rounds. He absolutely hated when I had to get gas by myself and made every effort to make sure I never had to. After three years, you’d think I would have managed to not depend on my husband to still do certain things for me. Yet, three years later, here I am, once again on empty.

  And now I find myself driving down I-35, becoming increasingly nervous that I made the wrong decision. I push my foot down on the gas pedal to pass some poor old couple that evidently started driving when the Model T came out, when…nothing. My car starts slowing and as I push down on the pedal, I realize that I have indeed made the wrong decision. My car has stalled. I pull over to the side of the interstate and throw my car into park.

  “Seriously? Can anything go right today? Harlow’s going to freakin’ kill me!” Ten minutes late is still within Harlow’s “not going to kick ass” window, but I have a sneaking suspicion that this is going to throw me into some unknown realm of Harlow fury.

  I pull out my cell phone and punch in the number to our office.

  “Prestige Staffing, Harlow Reed speaking.” She sounds flustered already, so I’m definitely not looking forward to this conversation.

  “Um, Harlow…it’s Alex.”

  “What’s up love? Are you on your way? We have that interview with the potential candidate for Synergy Accounting in, like, twenty minutes. So please, tell me you’re on your way.”

  Not really sure how to break this to her, I opt to remain quiet while she figures it out herself.

  Three…two…one…

  “Tell me you’re on your way, Alex! I can’t do this one on my own. We both need to be here to make the decision. This one’s too big for only my opinion. It’s a freaking senior executive potential hire, Alex!”

  Okay, Harlow’s usually a little high strung, but this is a little out of the norm…even for her. Odd. Maybe the pressure has finally gotten to her.

  You see, Harlow and I started our own staffing firm right out of college – Prestige Staffing. We started our own business so that we could smoke in our office all day long, consume adult beverages during work hours, and do nothing but giggle and gossip all day. However, we both eventually quit smoking, quickly figured out that we were no good at anything while drinking and, since we couldn’t get any business while intoxicated, we had absolutely nothing to giggle or gossip about. So, we decided to start taking our business seriously.

  Currently, we’re responsible for recruiting and interviewing potential hiring candidates for almost every company in Waco. Together, we can usually tell whether or not the person will be a good fit for the position before recommending them to the company for their own interviews. We have a proven track record, with over 95% of our referrals being placed with the companies. The commission on this potential candidate is HUGE. Yeah, Harlow’s definitely pissed.

  “Listen, I know you’re upset–”

  “Upset? Are you fucking kidding me? I. Am. Pissed!” Yes, just as I’d figured.

  “Listen, I ran out of gas on I-35. See if you can stall him for half an hour. I’ll flag down an 18-wheeler if I have to. I will be there. I’ve never let you down and I’m not going to start now. Just hold him there as long as you can, okay?”

  “Okay, Alex. But hurry the hell up! I have no idea what to stall him with. We only have enough coffee for one pot and no breakfast because you were supposed to pick that stuff up this morning, remember? I can’t stall him forever with my witty banter and mile long legs; there’s only so long that the poor man can ogle me. Your ass better be here in thirty minutes. Get. Here. ASAP.” I’m pretty sure I hear about three more F-bombs before catching dead air.

  Oops. Maybe it’s a good thing I ran out of gas because neither the coffee nor the donuts made it into my possession today. I knew there was an actual reason I went to that gas station this morning!

  “I’ll be there soon.” I say to absolutely no one but myself.

  I step out onto the interstate...well, the side of the interstate, and attempt to flag the first few motorists I see. No luck. Obviously I’m not the only person running extremely late for wo
rk this morning. Sighing out loud, I resign myself to the fact that I’m probably going to have to walk to the nearest station, which will definitely put me outside Harlow’s thirty minute time requirement. Turning on my heel to start the trek, I hear the rumble of a motorcycle slowing down behind me.

  I hesitantly turn around, using my hand to shield the sun from my eyes, to catch a glimpse of whatever scary biker man has decided to be my hero this morning. I fully expect to see an old man with a beer belly and bandana covered head; complete with B.O., missing teeth, and a sweat stained wife beater. Like the hook-handed truck driver from Adventures in Babysitting! I am, however, pleasantly surprised by the delicious mirage that appears before me.

  I watch the man lift his right leg over the bike and place it on the ground. Wow. This guy is huge and freakin’ tall. But anything would be tall to me, considering my five foot frame.

  I hear the slow clanking of the buckles on his boots as he starts to walk toward me. Man, those are some freakin’ masculine boots. My eyes slowly graze upwards and I notice the worn look of his jeans; frayed a bit at the bottom, holes at the knee and snug at the hips. Do I dare keep going? Seriously, the temperature just raised 20°C out here. And this is Texas…in late August…

  Not easily deterred, I do, in fact, keep going. His white v-neck t-shirt is stretched as far as it can go across his chest and biceps, falling a little more loosely over his stomach, while still managing to hug his hips. OMG. I’m totally not going to look any further; I can sense disappointment on the horizon.

  Damn it. My eyes have a mind of their own as they keep wandering upward. I catch a glimpse of his light brown hair. It falls to his neck, with shorter layers everywhere, making the ends turn up slightly all over his head. It’s a hot mess. I never knew what that term meant until this moment right now. It’s perfectly messy. I wish my hair looked that good. I reach up and attempt to push down the bubbly toothpaste section of my hair. Okay, I’m actually starting to find this guy annoying.

  I figure it’s better to just look at his face and get it over with. Like ripping off a band aid, the quicker the better, right? Either it will be horrendous, which at this point I’d prefer because no one should be this perfect, or he’ll be completely gorgeous and then I’ll keel over and die right here of embarrassment. Either way, I’d like to just get this part over with.

  I quickly glance to his face. I privately note his sculpted jaw, perfect nose, and his beautiful mouth, his perfectly kissable mouth. And his perfect teeth, all of which I can now see because as he’s getting closer to me he’s…laughing at me? What the hell?

  I’m about to give this random man a piece of my mind when I happen to catch a glimpse of his eyes. I find them a vaguely familiar shade of green, a light olive green. I narrow my eyes, allowing myself to really look at him. I look at his eyes, then his face, then his hair, then his shirt, jeans and boots. Oh. My. God.

  “Well, Blake Morgan. What the hell are you doing back in town?”

  I watch him while he rakes his hand through his hair and shakes his head, chuckling to himself. Oddly enough, this seems to make his hair look even more perfect.

  Internal eye roll.

  “I really don’t see what’s so funny, Blake.” I say his name in some weird new octave that I have never heard myself use. “I’m sure it’s easy to laugh when it isn’t you sitting on the side of the interstate at eight o’clock in the morning.”

  “Actually, Alex, I am sitting on the side of the interstate…at eight o’clock in the morning. I think that automatically gives me some allowance to laugh at the situation. However, that’s not what I’m laughing at. What I’m actually laughing at is that I’m literally just driving in to this god-forsaken town when I see you, stranded on the side of the road and because I’m such a nice guy, I’m forced to stop and help. Fate tends to be cruel sometimes.”

  Um…ouch. And completely unnecessary. What the hell did I ever do to Blake Morgan? I mean, I haven’t seen him since high school, so either I did something really massive back then that you’d think I’d remember based on his latent anger, or he’s just a bonafide asshole. At this point, I’m leaning toward the latter.

  I raise my hands in mock surrender. “Look, I didn’t ask you to stop so don’t take it out on me that you’re a nice guy, although I think your definition of nice might be a little skewed when compared to normal people’s. If you don’t want to help, then don’t. I don’t have time for this shit, Blake. I have to get to a gas station, get gas, get back here, get my car started, and get to work so that I can avoid being strangled by my business partner…all in about twenty minutes. So if you don’t mind, please be on your way and find another damsel in distress so you can meet this nice guy quota that you must have to complete. It was wonderful to see you again, Blake. I hope to not see you around anytime soon.”

  I turn quickly and start double-timing it, in the opposite direction of Blake, toward the gas station. I would love to just take off running, but unfortunately Nike has yet to make a great pair of heels. Or any heels for that matter…

  Directly behind me, I hear him get on his motorcycle and start the engine, revving it a couple of times for added dramatic effect. Bonafide asshole, definitely. I mean, what kind of man leaves a woman stranded on the side of the road? I feel a knot in my throat and my eyes begin to form tears, but I refuse to let Blake Morgan see me cry.

  I’m not sure if it’s the stress of the morning, or the fact that seeing Blake brings back all sorts of memories that I can’t emotionally deal with right now, but I’m starting to feel that empty feeling in my chest that’s never a good sign. I’m usually equipped with enough strength to keep all my emotions effectively buried throughout the day, and I mean every day, but I think the craziness of this morning has weakened my defenses. So I start walking faster in an effort to get out of the current situation as soon as possible.

  I hear Blake’s motorcycle growling as it pulls up next to me. I keep my eyes forward and walk faster.

  “Get on!” I hear Blake yell over the sound of his engine.

  I shake my head. “Um, no. Thanks.” The Dory song from Finding Nemo keeps running though my mind…“Just keep walking, just keep walking, just keep walking, walking, walking…”

  He continues coasting alongside me. “Get on the bike, Alex!!”

  “Seriously, Blake, get on with your good deeds for the day! I. Am. Fine!” I yell back at him to make sure he hears me over his ridiculously loud motorcycle. I seriously think he’s over compensating for some part of the male anatomy.

  I start walking again and the sound of the engine ceases. I hear the familiar clanking rapidly approaching me from behind. Suddenly, I feel a hand grab my arm and I’m forcefully whipped around to find myself about two inches from Blake’s irritatingly handsome face. We’re so close that I can smell the mint on his breath as he speaks. It reminds me of how much I hate toothpaste.

  “Alex, get your ass on this bike. I’ll take you to your office. We can deal with your truck later. I can still get you there within the now,” he pauses to look at his watch, “fifteen minute time frame to make sure you don’t getting strangled by your business partner. Think about it. Is your pride more important than your business?”

  I wiggle free from the vice grip holding my arm.

  “Get on your bike? In this?” I move my hand, performing a perfectly executed Vanna White demonstration of the black and white striped pencil skirt I’m wearing. Does he not understand the simple design of the pencil skirt? There’s no way in hell I’m going to be able to straddle that bike seat. And I’m pretty sure I can’t side saddle it either, not with those pesky safety laws. Nope...there’s absolutely no way I’m getting on that stupid ass bike. “Not gonna happen, buddy.”

  “Alex, if I have to pick you up, put you over my shoulder, and physically place you on my bike, I will. So yes, it’s gonna happen. You can either do so with dignity, or we can do it my way. Your choice.”

  I stare at him with the best mo
mmy death stare I can conjure up, and he holds it with no fear. Shit…this stuff always works with the girls. I’m now in a very unfamiliar territory. And unfortunately, it starts to seep into my brain that I have no more time to argue with him about this stupid situation if I want to keep both my business and my best friend.

  “Fine!”

  Blake breathes a sigh of relief and I notice his face slowly turning back to its normal color. He turns to walk back to his bike and I hesitantly follow him. He takes a helmet from the back compartment and hands it to me, then looks directly at the top of my head.

  “Um…I think you have something in your hair.” He makes a move to touch my toothpaste bubble and I knock his hand away, rather vehemently.

  “It’s a present from my daughter,” I state with annoyance, slamming the helmet down onto my head. Not really knowing what to do with the strap, I attempt to buckle it under my chin. He in turn slaps my hand away from the strap, the nerve of this guy, and buckles it, tightening it until it fits perfectly. His fingers stall for a minute, grazing across my chin and as they do, I find myself looking him dead straight in the eyes. I do this for two reasons. One, to let him know that touching me is not okay. He must get this one pretty quick because he promptly removes his fingers from my chin. And two, as much as I hate to do it… “Thank you, Blake.”

  Blake looks at me for a brief second and I watch the left corner of his mouth slightly curve upward. He turns quickly and begins to fish his keys out of his pocket. When he turns back around, his face is completely void of any effect the last two seconds had on him. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  For some reason, this sends a pang of hurt to my heart. What the hell is wrong with me? First the “almost” tears and now this…I need to get the hell out of here.

  “I agree,” I quickly bite back.

  Approaching the bike, I mentally work through several different strategies for conquering the seating issue at hand. Landing on the most plausible, I know what I have to do. But, I need to make sure he’s on his bike and facing forward for this to happen.