The One

Before I came back, I turned in my lease on my BMW, and eventually, I’ll upgrade again, so I have something when I need to make an appearance. I just don’t want to rush things. Make my little Wagoneer feel she’s not enough.

I’m not quite a hoarder, but not even close to the ‘if it doesn’t spark joy get rid of it’ Kondo lady.

I like my stuff. It comforts me. I remember where I got everything I have and getting rid of it feels a bit like I’m growing up.

Not quite good enough.

I’m shivering by the time I slip across the vinyl seat patched with duct tape. The musty storage scent still accents the interior.

I slip the key into the ignition and turn.

The engine returns my movement with a half cough and a tired moan.

“Come on. Not now. Not tonight.” My fingers are freezing, and my muscles are so tight in my back they ache. “Not with them watching, please.”

Another turn. Less cough. Less moan.

More nothing.

“Shit.” I bring the heels of my hands to bang on the wheel, letting my hair fall over my face as I battle the stinging in my eyes.

One thing growing up the poor girl with the birthmark and the inhaler in the rich world taught me.

No crying. Tears are blood in the water, especially around mean girls. The last time I cried was sixth grade.

When I got my period. At school. Soaked through my yellow plaid Cranbrook uniform skirt.

Guess who noticed and proceeded to announce it as we were leaving assembly?

Ruby Thorn Ashby.

Shit. They are walking this way.

Why do mean girls always travel in threes?

I turn the key one more time.

Cough.

Groan.

“Please, please…puuuhleese.” I glance over my shoulder through my hair to see them two cars away.

One more turn of the key, I say a little prayer which is returned by eardrum popping sound.

BOOM. BOOM.

The Wagoneer backfires so loud, it sounds like a cannon. Black smoke rises from the engine and the exhaust.

Just when things couldn’t get any worse.

I see flames coming out from under the front of the hood.

F.M.L.

Five

Van

“GOOD EVENING, SIR. Anything I can get you?” The doorman nods as I approach.

“Not tonight. Just grabbing something from my car. You keep warm tonight, supposed to get a lot colder.”

“Thank you. I’ll do my best.” He tips his hat and gives me a sincere smile.

I reach into my wallet and hand him a five as he holds the door open.

“Sir, not necess—”

I give him a half salute. “Keep warm. I know what it’s like to work in the cold, believe me,” I repeat and step outside. My mind still hooked on those haunting eyes that haven’t let me go since I looked at that picture yesterday.

I reach down to zip up my Carhartt when I hear the screaming.

Immediately, my head snaps toward the noise and see the three girls from the bar—Ruby Thorn Ashby and her friends—huddled together. They are screaming, but they are also laughing.

Then I see it.

The flickering. Through the windows and windshields of the other cars, I see flames coming from a car close to where the three are standing.

Why the fuck are they laughing?

Working on oil rigs you learn to stay calm, but you deal with shit like this all the time. Believe me, fire is never a laughing matter, especially where a fuel source is also involved.

I spin on my heel and yell at the doorman. “Where’s the closest fire extinguisher? And call 911!”

The older man hustles inside, returning in a few seconds holding a large red cylinder.

In a split second, I calculate that I can get to him and back to the car in enough time to hopefully keep a bad situation from turning into a disaster.

My feet smack the pavement at a dead run, grabbing the canister and turning back toward where I see the flames now above the other cars.

“Get back!” I scream as I run forward.

A few steps more and I see her.

“Fuck,” I grunt.

Issi is standing on the other side of the car. Far enough away to more than likely be out of harm’s way, but that doesn’t matter. She’s close enough that my radar goes off and if anything happens to her I’ll never forgive myself.

“Issi!” I scream as I’m two cars away. “Back away! More! Back away over there.” I throw an arm up, pointing to the other line of cars as I pass the trio of Cartier queens who don’t have enough sense to get the hell away. “You too! Get the fuck back!”

I want to add the word, idiots, but I refrain, instead focusing on the task at hand. In my experience, people do stupid things when they’re irritated, and calling people names doesn’t tend to calm a situation.

It’s a classic Jeep Wagoneer, the hood now engulfed in flames and without the hood open, it’s a slim chance the fire extinguisher will do any good. But that doesn’t stop me. Something tells me this is Issi’s car, and from the glance I got of her face, it means something to her.