Screwdrivered (Cocktail 3)

Parked in the driveway was the Blue Bomber. Two point motherfucking 0. “Yes!” I yelled out, almost forgetting to put my rental car into park. I slid out from behind the seat belt and danced to the Bel Air, which looked like it was ready to fly. Top down, chrome sparkling, it was a killer car. And dangling from the rearview mirror? Fuzzy dice. Yes!

I ran my hands down the smooth lines and the gleaming paint. It was decently waxed and buffed to a picture-perfect shine, and I bent down to admire the fat, puffy whitewall tires.

“Fucking awesome,” I breathed, then heard the crunch of footsteps behind me.

I peered around, not yet straightening, to see brown loafers. Brown chinos. Blue-and-green plaid shirt, green knit tie. Tweed jacket. Hands in pockets. Straight, even teeth behind a smile. Dusty eyeglasses, one fingertip pushing them up a perfectly healed nose. Warm brown eyes. Neatly parted wavy brown hair.

“Hiya, Clark,” I said, slowly straightening and turning to lean against my car. I smiled as I saw his gaze drop down to my legs, as it often did, and slowly rise up my body. I don’t know if all librarians ogled the way this one did, but he had it down to an art form. He took his time, leaving no curve unseen. Did I arch my back when his gaze finally made it to my chest? Of course I did. And was rewarded with a nostril flare, the equivalent of a facial boner.

When his eyes finally made it to mine? His grin deepened. “Vivian,” he breathed, in that warm-honey way. But then his grin faltered with shyness. “I trust you had a good flight?”

It was okay; I wasn’t really ready to be face-to-face with Nighttime Clark. Daytime Clark was a piece of work in his own right.

“Seriously? You want to talk about my flight right now?” I asked, pushing my shoulders back more, internally giggling when he immediately pushed his eyeglasses up his nose again.

“Um, well, what did you want to talk about?” He gulped, and I decided to take it easy on him.

I grinned and patted the car. “Let’s take this baby out for a spin.”

His face flashed something close to gratitude, which was quickly masked. “I trust you have insurance for this car?”

I laughed out loud, which earned me an “impossible woman,” but said with a touch more fondness than usual.

I slid in behind the wheel, he took shotgun, and we drove that beauty straight up the coast.

We drove for an hour, passing Fort Bragg and beyond. The coastline was even more wild and curvy up here, just dangerous enough to add an extra thrill to the day. The ribbon of blacktop cut a winding trail along the cliffs, the Pacific crashing on our left, the mountains soaring majestically on our right.

And between me and the mountains? Clark, who regaled me with stories of the pioneers who first settled this coast, the gold miners who brought their families out seeking riches, the towns that rose around a lucky vein and then expired just as quickly when the gold ran out. The pirates that navigated these waters, pillaging and plundering. Oh yes, the plundering.

And in between the stories, we tuned in the local oldies station and gave the Bel Air what it deserved: doo-wop. Rama lama. Shoop shoops. And a few dingdongs for good measure.

It was good, it was easy, it was fun. The car was slick, speedy when the road was straight, and a smooth, easy boat on the curves. A total bubble of awesome. And we rode around in that bubble all afternoon, me and my Bel Air, my librarian, and my shoop shoop.

The librarian.

Yes, that’s what I said. The librarian.

We headed toward home as the sun began to sink over the ocean, painting the blue with strands of gold.

When we reached town, Clark directed me to turn left into a driveway.

“Why are we stopping here?” I asked, pulling up next to a perfect saltbox Cape Cod.

“I need to pick something up,” he answered, jumping from the car and hurrying around to my side. He held the door open and closed it behind me.

“This is your house?” I asked, looking all around.

“Yes. Why do you sound so surprised?”

“This isn’t surprise, this is excitement. I’m dying to see where you live,” I announced, running up the front walk. I peered in through the windows on either side of the door and saw books everywhere, stacked neatly on bookcases and on tabletops. An easy chair. The perfect shade of green on the walls, soft and comforting. A fireplace with a stacked stone hearth.

“I have a key, you know,” he said, right behind me. I could feel his breath on the top of my head, he was so much taller than I was. “You don’t have to look through the windows.”

I laughed. “Only if you want to show me.”

“Of course I want to show you. But don’t you want to see the Legless Knight? He’s waiting for you in the garage.”

Looking back at the windows, I asked, “Rain check on the house?”

He nodded. “Rain check.” Then he led me around the house. In the tidy backyard I saw a fire pit, gas grill, and Adirondack chairs arranged on the patio into conversation circles. He paused next to the garage.

“So the knight’s standing guard over the Taurus, is he?” I joked.

“The Taurus is one of the most stolen cars in America, Vivian. Statistically speaking, if you were going to have your own personal knight in shining armor, wouldn’t you want him guarding something you knew was likely to be stolen?” He smiled down at me.

“I suppose. Think that’s why he was in Aunt Maude’s bedroom? Maybe she was afraid someone was going to steal her fourteenth stack of tube socks.”