Fender Bender Blues

by Niecey Roy

  After Craig hung up the phone, he sat back into the oversized executive chair and closed his eyes, settling his head against the plush black leather. He willed the tension to leave his body with a roll of his shoulders and enjoyed the feeling for a few seconds.

  Until the image of the gorgeous, fiery-haired woman invaded his mind.

  The name on the insurance card caught his attention. Rachel Bennett. Menace of the Road, he fumed, folding the card between his fingers.

  He swiveled around to look out the floor-to-ceiling windows to the car lot below. American Dream Autos was his pride and joy. After returning from business school seven years ago with a Masters degree in hand, Craig had been more than ready to take over the family business. His dad had gone into retirement knowing the dealership would be in Craig’s capable hands. And it was. At the age of thirty-six, through stringent management, Craig had made himself a very rich man. Cars had always been his one true love. He bought them like some collected rocks or movie memorabilia, and he knew how to sell. As far as he was concerned, he’d been born to run this company and he made certain the sales numbers reflected his sentiment. The only other dealership in the state larger than this one was also his and opening it had been his first business decision after his dad’s retirement.

  So far the current economic crisis hadn’t affected sales here in Lincoln, or at the new location in Omaha, and he was grateful, but he wasn’t a fool. If the economy didn’t make a turn for the better he knew eventually his own business would suffer. With the implementation of strategic in-house financing options, he hoped to continue moving units on both lots. Right now, business was good.

  The only major annoyance in his life—besides the wrecked car—was a lawsuit against American Dream Autos. The man suing him claimed he’d hit a tree due to faulty brakes on a used vehicle. Despite the fact the man had blown a point-one-O on a breathalyzer at the scene of the accident, there was a still a question of contributory negligence. It had been Craig’s intention to keep the lawsuit quiet, but a few weeks ago he’d scowled as the anchorwoman on the ten p.m. news mentioned American Dream Autos’ involvement in a messy lawsuit. He remembered all too well crumpling the soda can in his hand and throwing it at—not in—the trash.

  He set the insurance card on his desk and clicked on his e-mail.

  “You can’t go in there. Mr. Larsen is busy,” Kathy argued from the reception area.

  “I’m pretty sure he won’t mind my visit,” came Maggie’s lilting voice, more sweet than the woman herself. He would know. He’d made the mistake of dating her for six miserable months.

  “Craig asked me to hold his calls,” Kathy tossed back, dropping formality in the face of irritation. She made no attempt at cloaking her disapproval with the other woman. Kathy considered Maggie the bane of the dealership.

  Maggie didn’t skip a beat. “His calls, not me.”

  “You just can’t—” Kathy began, but Maggie shoved open his office door and stepped inside. He caught a glimpse of Kathy’s outraged expression just before Maggie closed the door on her.

  A second later his intercom buzzed. Eyes on his ex as she strutted toward him, he picked up the phone. “Yes, I see.”

  “Good,” Kathy said loftily, loud enough so Maggie could hear through the door. “Then you know it’s not my fault—the woman has no manners.”

  Craig’s dad called Kathy cantankerous, but Craig liked her no-nonsense ways. He’d updated everything in the business with the exception of Kathy. She was meticulous and loyal and she ran his office with an iron fist. Railroading Maggie was one of her dearest pleasures.

  Maggie settled into a chair in front of his desk and crossed her long, shapely legs. She preened for a few moments, then said, “She’s rude. You should get rid of her.”

  Craig ignored the comment and wondered again how he’d gotten involved with the woman sitting across from him. At first he’d respected what was an admirable trait of knowing what she wanted and going after it, tooth and nail. But he’d grown wary when she began applying that to their relationship. After six months she’d begun pushing marriage and commitment, wanting to move in and demanding a key to his apartment.

  She’d continued to press the matter and he’d ended their relationship. When her tears hadn’t worked, she’d called him a heartless bastard and accused him of using her for sex. Maggie then turned to an ex’s bed for comfort, solidifying Craig’s conviction that she wasn’t the woman for him. Maggie still denied it, but his source was golden. He really didn’t give a damn either way.

  Her main interest in him was money. He’d spotted it early on, should have gotten rid of her sooner, and still wasn’t sure why he’d taken so long to break up with her. He only wished he’d been smart enough to not get involved with an employee—not only was she a pain in his ass, but she’d also become a liability.

  “I take it you haven’t heard the latest?” She looked far too pleased for someone bearing bad news.

  “Apparently not, but there are five messages on my voicemail I haven’t had time to listen to.” He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. She really was beautiful with her delicate features and cerulean blue eyes, but it was the woman behind all that beauty who made him uneasy. Three months after their break-up, she still wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  She shrugged flaxen blonde hair over thin shoulders, ignorant to the fact he wasn’t thrilled by her playing messenger. “It seems there’s been another media leak and now they’re talking about the settlement amount on the news.”

  “Fuck.” He sighed and looked up at the white paneled ceiling in frustration.

  How the hell had a number gotten out? Craig’s attorneys had only just received a settlement demand letter from the plaintiff’s attorney three days before. Damn it! If he ever got his hands on the person talking to the media…

  He fisted his hands at the back of his head before dropping them onto his desk.

  “How did you find out?” He narrowed his eyes, suddenly suspicious. He doubted the media would contact her, an employee—an ex-girlfriend—for comments. Or that Phil, his lead attorney, had felt the need to call Maggie with the news.

  Leaning forward, as if to share an intriguing secret, she grinned. “I came in this morning before Kathy was in, thinking you’d be here, and there was a written message on her desk that I happened to read. Phil must have left it there last night. I’m sure he thought no one would see it, but it was right there in the middle of Kathy’s desk. Silly him.”

  “Silly him,” Craig agreed dryly. “Thanks for the information. I’ve got some things to take care of so I’ll talk to you later.”

  The smile vanished from her lips at the short dismissal, but only for a second. She recovered quickly and stood, smoothing the dark blue skirt that hugged her hips and small buttocks like a second skin. She flashed another dazzling smile. “Right. Of course. Would you like me to bring you lunch today since you’re so busy?”

  “No, I have a business lunch,” he lied. “Thank you, though.”

  He wasn’t heartless. The crushed look on her face left a guilty knot in his stomach. Why couldn’t she get the picture and move on?

  “Maybe tomorrow, Maggie. Thanks.”

  He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. He wanted to call her back and tell her it wasn’t appropriate for her to drop in the way she did, but confrontation with her made him uneasy. She was another lawsuit waiting to happen and without a misstep on her part she’d be at the dealership for a very long time.

  Kathy knocked on his door then stepped inside with a cup of coffee in one hand and a stack of mail in the other.

  “If you’d just tell her straight out that you’d rather be hit by a truck than deal with her again, she’d go away,” she scolded and he laughed.

  “You know I’m too nice to do that.”

  She harrumphed and set the coffee mug on the coaster beside his desk calendar. “Nice, my butt. If you had stuck to your guns and been firm, she’d b
e looking for another job by now. Did you get your insurance claim called in?”

  “Yeah. I was assured it’d be taken care of promptly.”

  “Well, you are a lucky man, Mr. Larsen,” she answered in a tone that made him wonder if she meant it. She plopped the mail on his desk and said, “Not everything in life is about cars and work, young man. You look tired. You need a vacation. Have you eaten breakfast?”

  Kathy treated him like a son, sometimes fretting over the littlest things. In a move that often annoyed him, she would call his mom and they would worry over how little time he spent having fun. They both accused him of being a workaholic. They were right, of course.

  He was used to the way she fired questions at him as statements and he absorbed them as he took a drink of the coffee—strong and black and exactly what he needed.

  “No, I haven’t been sleeping well. Yes, I do need a vacation. No, I did not eat breakfast,” he answered and flipped through the mail. Most of it was junk.

  “I’ll order you a sandwich,” she told him. “A little early for lunch but it will be good for you. You aren’t taking care of yourself.”

  He stared at the door after she left. Maybe she was right. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a break from work.

  “Five years,” he muttered. Just after he’d opened the new dealership. He didn’t have time to vacation. There was too much on his plate.

  Craig threw all of his time into his business, thus a nonexistent personal life. But was he happy? His doubts perplexed him. Never before had he questioned his happiness. To him, happiness had always been measured by his success. But how could a man who took no vacations, had no woman to share his life with, really be happy? Craig practically lived at work and ate most of his meals sitting at his office desk. He’d never complained about it before.

  He shook his head to snap out of the uncharacteristic thoughts.

  Successful, wealthy and respected by his peers—Of course I’m happy.

  Chapter Three

  Rach hadn’t always been a loser. There had been a time not so long ago when she’d been on the right track, following the plan, checking off accomplishments as she went, fully satisfied with the direction she’d chosen in life. She’d been what most would call uptight, high-strung, and career driven. Never before had she regretted not living the exciting life of keg-stands and frat parties. There’d been no time for that nonsense.

  After college she’d taken an entry level position as a social worker’s assistant, eager to learn all she could. After two years as an assistant, Rach’s supervisor offered her a social worker position for the state. Rach took her job seriously, wanting to change lives and make a difference in the world. She was on the job just over three years, thoroughly confident in her career choice and loving every stressful minute of it. All that changed the day an angry mother knocked Rach out cold. She shivered with the memory. Even after four months it unnerved her. Rach’s loved ones assumed she left her job because of fear and she’d never corrected their assumptions. They wouldn’t have understood the real reason.

  She was overwhelmed by guilt. Rach had been reluctant to allow a five-year-old girl and a three-year-old boy to transition back into the home of their mother, a recovering alcoholic. The woman had jumped through all the hoops, went to all the counseling, passed all the drug tests. Rach was the only one who didn’t feel comfortable with the transition. She should have trusted her instincts. It could have been the little ones on the floor instead of Rach, unconscious because of their mother’s rage. It terrified her.

  Two hours after leaving Copy Masters, Rach was utterly deflated. She’d been offered a job from a pimply, teenage boy who had proudly announced the position would pay a measly eight dollars an hour. A photocopy assistant was not her dream job. Not even close. But she’d taken it anyway because she needed to make something in order to pay her bills.

  Eight dollars an hour was for high school teenagers working in fast food, not for adults with a Bachelor’s degree and five years of work history under the belt. What about her pride? What about moving on to bigger and better things?

  Sitting at the desk in the spare room of her townhome, she sighed. She fixed a typo on her résumé and pondered at how truly shitty her life had turned out for all the planning she’d done to avoid this kind of setback. Here she was at twenty-seven years old, with a degree that was useless unless she went back to social work. Her car was wrecked and she’d accepted the least rewarding job thus far. Surely things couldn’t get any worse than they already were. Right?

  Tapping her fingernails on the desk, she knew what she had to do. She needed wheels and there was only one place she could go for that—her parents’ garage. Picking up the phone, she took a deep breath and made the call.

  ****

  Susan Bennett began hyperventilating when Rach told her about the car accident. Eventually she’d calmed down enough for Rach to explain she was fine, though her car was not. The difference between the lecture she’d been given by Angry Hot Guy and the one she was enduring now from her mom was that she couldn’t cut it short and drive away.

  The rant went on for five more minutes before her mom’s air supply deflated and she calmed down enough to say, “Well, I hope you’ll think about your life now that you almost died.”

  Because Rach was an only child, there was no one else to help balance out the overprotective tendencies of her parents. She tried not to let it bother her—at least she was loved—but she couldn’t keep from rolling her eyes to the ceiling. A cobweb in the corner caught her attention. With all her free time there was no excuse not to take care of it.

  “It was just a fender bender, hardly a life and death situation,” Rach stressed. She stuffed a résumé into an envelope addressed to a local staffing agency and licked the lip to seal it. She scrunched her nose at the tacky taste left on her tongue. A sudden idea of inventing envelopes with grape flavored seals made her perk with excitement—but if she’d thought of it then someone else no doubt already had. Her shoulders slumped a little. Plus, she wouldn’t have the slightest idea of how to go about inventing anything, anyway. But the internet would know...

  Rach grabbed a pen and wrote in rushed, sloppy cursive “grape flav env” on a utility bill. She’d look into it later.

  “I don’t see the difference,” her mom complained.

  “Well, you’ll be happy to know I found a job today.” Before her mom could comment, she rushed to tell her about the position. “I’ll have my own office. It’ll be great. A real opportunity to establish myself with a great company.”

  She didn’t feel wonderful about embellishing to the point of fabrication, but knowing it would go a long way in soothing her mom’s nerves helped to justify the act. The last few months had been hard on her parents. They were worried about her and she hated being a constant stress in their lives.

  “It’s about time you fix your employment status. Now I can tell that Tina Krcilek at ceramics that you’re running an office. All we ever hear about is Stephanie the Nurse, Stephanie the Perfect Mom, Stephanie the Chamber of Commerce Board Member, yadda, yadda, yadda.”

  Rach bit her tongue.

  “You are so lucky you didn’t drop your insurance,” her mom rambled on. “Your father’s been telling you for years you’d need it and look what happened. He was right. Your father always is.” There was a slight pause before she added, “But don’t tell him that, I’ll have to hear about it for hours.”

  The hand on the clock ticked forward while she impatiently tapped a pencil eraser on the pine desk. She’d been on the phone for twenty minutes while her mom danced around the reason Rach called in the first place, something she was a pro at.

  “Yes, Mom, I know this. Can I borrow the Toronado? I just need it for a week, maybe two. Just until I get my car back. It needs to go to a shop ASAP.” Rach clicked the print button on the computer. She waited while the machine did its thing, her eyes drifting back to the note she’d just written. She
was certain grape flavored envelopes would be a success. At least ninety percent of the American population had to love that flavor. There was probably a statistic on it she could find.

  She picked up the fresh résumé and wondered how much different a big machine would be from a little printer. Pinching her brows together, she considered it. She’d never been in charge of making fliers or cards before, but it couldn’t be too difficult. Piece of cake, I’ll be awesome at it.

  “You know how your dad is about that car,” her mom cautioned.

  “Yes, Mom. And I promise to be super careful with it.” Rach snatched up the last résumé from the printer tray and set it in the pile on the corner of her desk.

  Rach’s dad owned a 1975 Oldsmobile Toronado with a 455 Rocket V8. It was a monster with roaring dual exhaust, impressive even to Rach’s ears despite the ugly exterior. The car drove like a boat, the front end so long that even she, at five-foot-ten-inches tall, had hard time peering over the hood. But it had power windows and power steering and she was in need of wheels. She was in no position to be picky.

  “I know you will be, Sweetie. I’m not worried at all. That darn thing takes up half the garage unless he’s pulling it out to wax it or take it to those car club meetings of his,” her mom complained and Rach listened dutifully. “You know, I tried to get him to sell it a hundred times but he says it’s a classic. A classic—ha!”

  The whole I-hate-your-father’s-car spiel was not a new grievance, but telling her so wouldn’t earn Rach any points.

  “When are you coming to get it?”

  “Tomorrow.” The familiar sound of a thwack on her mom’s end made Rach perk up. “Are you making fried chicken?”

  It was her dad’s favorite. He was convinced his wife’s fried chicken was so amazing because she made it from a whole chicken, as if the grocery store butcher somehow tainted the poultry. Rach didn’t argue with his logic. She’d never tasted fried chicken like her mom’s, and if it was because the bird was cut up on the aged laminate countertop, then she was all for at-home butchery.