The blonde’s looking at me. It took him some time to get out of the car, and now he’s standing in front of me with a limp right arm. He looks like he’s trying to smile but it keeps lapsing into a grimace. With a twinge of sadistic pleasure, I realize he was quite serious about having a broken arm. Then reality comes, smacking me into full understanding of the circumstances I have found myself in. If he really is gimped, I’m held captive my aversion to being sued. By circumstance, must I be his personal assistant—
“I apologize,” says the blonde suddenly. “But you may have to begin your duties earlier than expected.”
I glare back at him, daring him to order me around. I haven’t agreed to anything.
“We have a long walk ahead of us.”
I follow his gaze up the long driveway…the long driveway that curves _uphill_ like a snake.
“You’re rich,” I say not relishing the idea of helping him, let alone helping him uphill, “You can call one of your lackeys to pick you up.”
“Pick _us_ up,” he corrects before wincing.
I smirk. It looks like the full brunt of his injury is kicking in. Bye-bye endorphins, bye-bye to nature’s natural painkillers.
“It’s better that I’m seen like this,” murmurs the blonde, “before…” He glances at the wrecked car.
I snort. He probably wants to hold off on telling daddy that his prized Porsche looks like a giant crushed beer can.
I hear chirping, but it doesn’t sound like anything that would naturally come from a bird, at least one that isn’t being choked or plucked.
“It’s my phone,” says Blondie. “It’s in my right pocket. Could you?”
I make no move to help him.
The phone stops its chirping. I return Blondie’s gaze. He can check his voicemail, on his own time.
The phone begins chirping again.
“He’s persistent,” says the blonde. “We could stand here for hours, and he would continue to call, without leaving a message.”
After 5 minutes of being in a stand-off, I reach into the blonde’s pocket and yank out the phone. In the process, I ding his arm. But he’s a control freak and only lets out a gurgle of pain. I shrug. I’ll just have to try harder next time.
I flip open the phone and after a moment of deliberation, I put it to his ear. I’m no one’s secretary.
“Hello, this is Quatre Winner speaking.”
I snort. Mr. Professional even with a broken, lame arm.
“…Yes...I’m very close. No, No, it went fine.”
I arch an eyebrow. What’s this? A change in Blondie’s demeanor? Where’s the calculating, amused bastard who decided to intercede on my life? He sounds like a prisoner in front of a parole board, trying to bargain for his freedom.
He lowers his voice, “I can take care of this myself. I’m coming up the hill right now—Hello? Hello?”
The blonde was hung up on. But I have little time to consider this before I hear a vehicle roaring down the hill. I close the phone and pocket it as I cast my gaze up the hill to see a black tow truck speedily weaving its way towards us. Every so often I lose sight of it as the brush blocks it from view.
And here is the mysterious black tow truck, with a red flame as a racing stripe on its side, parked in front of us. The windows are tinted, but that does not matter. The driver side door is thrown open, but before I can get a look at the person responsible for the blonde’s dip in poise, I’m disturbed by loud wailing…loud male wailing. And it’s coming from the driver.
“What the fuck??!!!! My Baby, NO!” I think the driver is heading for the blonde, but I am mistaken. I catch a glimpse of a frenzied face with two accusing bluish-purplish eyes as he runs to the ravaged Porsche.
“What the hell happened here????” He’s not talking to anyone but the car. The strange and still raving guy backs away from the car. For a moment, he glances at the blonde who appears to have gone white. But I am distracted when I see a ropelike braid hanging over the raving maniac’s chest. It goes to his waist. I rethink my earlier assessment. Am I looking at a really ugly woman?
“This is just great,” mutters the homely woman while rubbing the front of the car and looking ready to weep.
She/he turns away from molesting the car to look at me.
“Were you driving?”
Sounds like a guy. Maybe she’s post-op. Or he’s pre-op…
“Yeah,” I say, while looking for some sign of cleavage.
I’m sitting in the tow truck watching the greenery blow by. Somehow, with the crash, Blondie’s manipulation, and the appearance of the braided maniac, I’d almost forgotten about my burnt down apartment and the fact that the only things I have left of my old life are my pants and a smoky, stained shirt. And then, as I use my left big toe to dig a pebble out of the sole of my right foot, I realize my folly. Did I just think “old life”?
“Hey, you, get out. We’re here,” says the braided gender-bender.
I get out of the tow truck and glance back at the Porsche. It’s still hoisted, front end up, by the tow truck. I hear some muffled bickering, but it’s only going one way, from the braid to the blonde. I look to see them in front of, in all probability, the biggest house I have ever seen, except something is not quite right. This “house” resembles an office building more than a mansion and appears to have 9 levels…
Finally, the blonde heads for the front door, a front door that is opened by a butler. The door closes behind him and I’m left with the braid.
“Well, Heero, looks like you’re stuck with me until Quatre gets seen by a doctor.”
I raise an eyebrow at the sound of my name. So, they were talking about me.
“I’ll get you some shoes and something to eat.”
The braid seems polite enough, not that it means anything to me. But there’s something there behind his smile. After a moment, I realize it’s not a smile. He’s baring his teeth.
I have shoes now, in my size no less. And I’m eating some kind of sub with too much lettuce in it. I’m in a garden, sitting at a white table across from the braid. I’m expecting some old lady to walk by and offer me a crumpet.
“I’m Duo, the Winners’ mechanic extraordinaire,” the braid says loftily, “I thought by now you’d ask my name. Quatre’s right. You don’t have any people skills.”
“He said that?” I frown. It was not my intention to speak.
“Not in those words. He was a bit more forgiving,” said the braid. “You don’t know how lucky you are. I can be forgiving, too. Now, I want what you were handing over to Quatre.”
“Handing over?”
“Yeah, yeah. The car, you moron. Where is it?”
“What car?” I keep munching my lettuce. I feel like a rabbit, but one who has access to some weird form of entertainment. The braid is losing patience with me. He’s leaning across the table and his face is red. He’s wasting his time. I have no idea what he’s trying to get at.
“The trade,” he says while backing away. “Quatre told me to prepare the Porsche. He said he was trading it.”
I stop my munching. I can feel a piece of lettuce hanging from the side of my mouth. “Trade?”
Both the braid and I seem to be hit by the same thought.
His mouth hangs open for a moment before he murmurs, “Here I was expecting a car…but you’re it. You’re supposed to be what he gets in return.”
“He gave me the car,” I say. Somehow I’m composed. “I’m not some bargaining chip.”
“Who gives away a Porsche without expecting anything in return?”
The braid has a point but I still have a rationale spurred by denial. “He fired me. He said it was compensation.”
“Compensation, my ass. You don’t look like you’re worth half a mil, dead or alive.”
I take that still hanging piece of lettuce from the side of my mouth. “It’s not your concern what he does with his property.”
“It’s my concern as long as he’s giving away something I spent a lot of time working on.”
I’m getting bored. I’ve finished my sandwich and want this freak to move along.
“And it’s my concern as long as I see some guy trying to move in on what’s mine.”
That gets my attention.
The braid is staring at me like he wants to take a red-hot poker and stick it up my nose, one nostril at a time. But that’s not what unnerves me.
“Yours?”
“I’m his lover,” clarifies the braid. “And I want you out of here before his arm is fixed up.”
Our gazes are locked. And then his expression suddenly changes. His eyes widen from the slits they’d formed. And his mouth grows large, clown-like.
“Can’t believe you fell for that!” he says guffawing, no braying like a donkey in heat. “But your face. Oh, boy. It was like I just took a machine gun out and aimed it at your dog.”
I’m not amused.
But he stops laughing and looks back at me somewhat soberly. I’m motionless as he remarks, “I hit a nerve, a deep one”. He snorts, “But I’m wondering…was it the lover comment or the possibility that you’d have to leave this place? Or, maybe both?”