Page 56 of Thick

He was Becker Wallace.

I became flustered and my face went flush. I tore my eyes away from him and fixed my gaze on the doors ahead of me. “Are you, uhhm. Are you…are you ready?” I stammered.

“Suppose so.”

“Follow me.”

I led him through the doors, and to the front steps of the wing. “That’s Bauchet Street. It leads to Vignes. Vignes will take you to--”

“I know my way out of here.” He inhaled a deep breath, tilted his head back and let it out. He looked at me. “What time you get off work?”

I checked my watch. “An hour and ten minutes.”

“I owe you a ride and a cup of coffee,” he said. “Pick me up at the corner of Vignes and Cesar Chaves, and I’ll add dinner.”

“Done,” I said without hesitation. “I’ll be there and 3:35.”

He walked halfway down the steps and then turned around. “See you then, Officer Madden.”

It dawned on me that he didn’t even know my name.

“Bobbi.” I smiled. “Call me Bobbi.”

Chapter Twenty

Tate

I leaned against the light post and watched the cars pass for almost an hour. It came as no surprise that no one offered me a ride. I wondered if I was dressed differently if someone would have. If I didn’t have tattoos. If my face was shaved clean and my hair was neatly combed.

My first tattoos were on my forearms. I got them in hope of warning those who would otherwise want to strike up a conversation not to bother. It discouraged a few, but not everyone. It seemed the ink was an invitation for people to ask me questions about the tattoo’s meaning or my thought process in getting them. The more ink I got, the fewer questions were asked. Now? People avoided me like the plague.

The unmistakable sound from a muscle car’s exhaust caused me to look up. A black 1971 Chevelle with white racing stripes came around the corner at the end of the block. The rumpity-rump from the racing cam and the sound of more than four hundred horsepower from the big block Chevy engine was music to my ears. One of my all-time favorite cars, the iconic machine was on my bucket list of things to own one day.

The engine accelerated, paused, and then accelerated again after the driver shifted gears. I gawked in admiration at the quality of the bodywork and the mirror-like reflection the black paint provided.

The driver shifted another gear. There was no showboating, no spinning the tires, and no overrevving the engine. It was apparent the owner admired the car as much as I did. Completely lost in admiring the piece of machinery, I gazed blankly as the car approached. When it rolled to a stop at my side, I blinked a few times and stared in disbelief.

The passenger side window opened halfway.

“Hey mister, want a ride?”

I wiped my hands on the thighs of my jeans and reached for the door handle. After opening the door and peering inside, I realized traffic was backing up behind her.

I hopped inside and pulled the door closed. “Holy fucking shit. This thing is spotless.”

Her mouth curled into a prideful grin. Her dirty blond hair was no longer twisted into a bun. It was loose, curly, and tumbled over her shoulders and onto her chest. Wearing a fitted Heather Gray dress with pink accent stripes, she looked nothing like she did at work, and everything like I imagined she would.

She checked over her shoulder, saw a break in traffic, and let out the clutch. As the car lurched forward, she pressed the gas and merged into the long line of cars.

“My dad gave it to me as a graduation gift.”

The interior of the car looked – and smelled – new. “Whoever restored it did a great job.”

“He did it. Even the paint work.”

I buckled my seatbelt and then shot her a look. “Your dad?”

“Every nut, every bolt. In his shop.”