No Dominion The Walker Papers - By CE Murphy Page 0,18
off the car’s hood and stepped over one of the men surrounding it. Long legs and Daisy-May shorts: the man she’d stepped over grinned until he couldn’t anymore, and one of the others hit his shoulder in a combination of envy and praise. Walker ignored them and came up to me, stopping a few feet away. I was taller, but only just, and she was barefoot, which put her at the disadvantage.
It didn’t seem to bother her. She tipped her aviator shades down, revealing hazel eyes that tended toward green. She looked me over from head to toe and back again, then gave me a slow smile. “Hi. I’m Joanne Walker. Joanie.”
The hand she offered me to shake had a beer in it. I tapped my own beer bottle against hers and then took my first drink of the day, because she drank and it seemed the natural, polite, and social-class-appropriate response. “Mike Morrison,” I said when we’d both drunk. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“You too. You’re new, or your car never breaks down. Which is it?”
“New.”
“Thought so. Come on, have a drink.” She turned away and sauntered back to her crew, stepping over someone else as she approached the car. With me a step behind her, the man didn’t have time to appreciate it, which gave me a faint smug satisfaction I had no right to. “Guys, this is Mike. Mike, this is everybody. Nick, he runs Motor Pool, that’s Dave, this is Benny, that’s Jake—” She ran through another eight or ten names, ending with, “And yes, there will be a quiz.”
“Nick, Dave, Benny—” I repeated them all back to her, earning a round of applause from the mechanics and laughing approval from Joanie Walker. She even swept a hand over the purple car’s hood in invitation, and one of the mechanics wolf-whistled while another two looked put-out.
Protocol would be dissembling, but I was already past the end of the rope. I sat on the car’s hood, shoe heels braced on the bumper, and Joanne scooted forward to sit next to me and tsk. “You always this formal, Mike? Shirt sleeves and leather shoes in the middle of July? You obviously haven’t been drinking enough. There’ll be another quiz,” she added, mock-severely, “once you’ve had enough to loosen up that collar.
“I’ll pass,” I promised her.
She arched an eyebrow. “The quiz, or on loosening up?”
“You decide.”
Her grin came again, slow and long and amused before she took a pull on her beer that emptied the bottle. One of her crew chortled and Joanne threw the bottle at him, not hard. He caught it and offered an un-credible apologetic look. She slid a glance at me, winked, then shrugged innocently at the guy on the ground.
This was going to be a mistake. I had no business trying to flirt with employees, even if—especially if—they didn’t know I was the boss. But it had been a while since a woman had caught my eye as quickly as Joanne Walker had, and even knowing nothing could come of it, indulging was a rare satisfied temptation.
I glanced over my shoulder at the long hood of the car we sat on. It was a classic, and every model of classic car I’d ever known slipped out of my mind. “What is this, anyway? A Corvette? A—” I was only certain of one classic Corvette line, and offered it up: “A Stingray, maybe? 1963?”
Joanne Walker laughed out loud, a bray that sounded delighted, but it faded into jaw-dropped disbelief when she saw I’d meant the question. “Are you serious? Oh my God. You think Petite’s a Corvette?” She glanced at her crew, most of whom were watching with reserved glee, though the two who’d been irritated by my invitation onto the car’s hood were openly grinning already.
Walker, all too clearly egged on by their quiet delight, repeated, “Oh my God,” and launched into . “No, Corvettes are curvy, you idiot. I mean, the classic ones are. They came straight out of the fifties, shaped like the women, you know? Hips and boobs, that’s what all those curvy wheel wells are, and the Stingrays had a split back window, swear to God they were supposed to look like a woman’s butt. Petite’s a Mustang, a 1969 Mustang, a muscle car, you moron. Twiggy, not Bettie Page, that’s the kind of model she’s built on. She’s a Boss 305, there were only a few thousand like her made, oh my God, a Corvette, really? How can you not