The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,106

care less. Turning my attention to my phone, I waste the next twenty minutes on stupid internet sites and email before the tow truck arrives.

“The groceries in my front seat,” I say to her, pointing toward my car. “Grab them and put them in your trunk.”

She hops down, transferring brown paper bags to her Prius one-by-one as I eye the tow truck a few blocks away and hope to God it’s mine.

Five minutes later, I breathe a sigh of relief when he slows down and positions his truck in front of my baby.

By the time my 911T is loaded up and I hand off my key, the tension running through me is getting harder to ignore. It was easy to be cool about this shit an hour ago, when I assumed all I was dealing with were some scratches and paint. But now I’m fucking stranded in a city where everyone needs a car and my pride and joy wheels are going to sit in some oily mechanic’s parking lot overnight.

I tell the driver to haul it to my buddy’s shop in Pasadena, giving him the address, and I watch as my Porsche disappears into traffic on the back of a bright yellow truck with Tim’s Tow-n-Haul painted across the side.

“You ready?” the waitress asks, nodding toward her car.

Saying nothing, I climb into the passenger side, realizing I have no idea what her name is and fuck if I can remember what she said it was this morning at breakfast.

I had other things on my mind then.

I didn’t have time for niceties, small talk, or worrying about remembering the name of some woman I was never supposed to see again.

She flicks off her hazard lights and I retrieve my phone from my pocket, pulling up the image of her insurance card.

Maritza Claiborne.

“So where are we headed?” she asks, placing her phone in a cup holder. A palm tree air freshener hangs from her rearview and the fading scent of coconuts and pineapples fills the space.

“South-Central LA,” I say, my words dry, unapologetic.

She’s quiet at first, the silence palpable. Everyone around here knows you don’t go to South Central unless you have to. It isn’t the safest of places, but this time of day she should be fine as long as she’s in and out.

“Take a right at the next light,” I tell her.

It’s going to be a long hour, maybe longer depending on traffic, so I close my eyes and rest my head against the cool glass of the passenger window. Fortunately, being in the army my entire adult life has taught me how to sleep anywhere, any time with comfort being the least of my concerns.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice slicing through the quietude I was just beginning to enjoy, “for the tip earlier. It was really generous of you. I don’t always get a chance to thank people when they do that.”

I don’t open my eyes, instead I mumble a quick, “Yep.”

“Can I ask … why?” The car pulls to a sudden LA stop.

I open my eyes to make sure we’re not about to become minced meat. “Why what?”

“Why did you tip me a hundred dollars on a twenty-dollar tab?” she asks.

Shrugging, I sit up straight, accepting the fact that she’s probably one of those types who are going to want to talk the whole ride home. Some people just can’t handle silence. It’s like they don’t know what to do with it.

“Does it matter?” I ask.

Maritza turns to me, her dark eyes fanned with even darker lashes. “It’s just that you were so rude to me at first. I actually expected you to stiff me. So when you went in the complete opposite direction … it just caught me off guard.”

“I don’t know. Token of appreciation for bending the rules.”

“Not like I had a choice.” Her foot presses into the gas pedal and we start moving again. “You all but demanded I give you another pancake.”

“Turn left at the next light,” I tell her, changing the subject.

“For the record, I only caved because you were so damn persistent. And you’re military. I have a soft spot for you guys.”

People always mean well when they glorify you for serving in the military, for when they thank you for your service or offer you free things or discounts, but I’m not some saint and I don’t deserve any kind of special recognition.

I’ve only ever done what I had to do.

No credit is due.

I check the time. Forty more