Heated Moments. Phyllis Bourne
that had darted out onto the road.
“Come on, Lola. We’re talking the Hamptons here.”
Lola frowned. She hadn’t wanted to take it there, but he’d left her with no other option. “Be that way, Sherman.” She emphasized his real name.
“You wouldn’t.” Pablo quickly lost his faux accent.
“What? Start a rumor that international stylist to the stars Pablo, who’s led folks to believe he hails from Barcelona, is really Sherman Meeks from Shelbyville, Tennessee?”
“Don’t you dare!” Pablo shrieked.
“Of course I wouldn’t do that to you,” she said in a syrupy-sweet tone as fake as “Pablo’s” persona. “Besides, I’m sure your A-list friends and high-profile clients already know the real you.”
“All right, you win,” the stylist said in a huff. He rattled off a time on Sunday. “But you’d best be punctual, earlier if possible.”
Lola glanced at the GPS, which estimated her time of arrival. She thanked her friend and assured him she’d be there.
“Good,” Pablo said. “Otherwise, you’ll be out of luck.”
Lola tossed the phone back onto the passenger seat just as the GPS beeped. Here we go again, she thought.
“Accident ahead,” the robotic voice warned. “Detouring to an alternative route.”
Following its directions, Lola exited the state road. She steered the car along winding smaller roads that all seemed to lead deeper into nowhere.
“Turn left onto Old Mill Road.”
She made the turn, and then noticed the gadget had recalculated her arrival time, adding another half hour to her journey. She also noticed a sign warning drivers to be on the lookout for cows in the road. The next sign took the speed limit down to forty-five miles an hour.
“At this rate, it’ll take me a month to get there,” Lola muttered.
Peering through the windshield, she didn’t see any cows. In fact, she hadn’t even encountered any other cars. Just a stretch of two-lane road cutting through acres of cornfields.
She nibbled on her bottom lip and shifted her gaze to the speedometer and then to the GPS’s ever increasing arrival time. A life-changing career opportunity awaited her, and what was she doing? Slowpoking down back roads that looked like a corn maze, Lola thought.
The big toe of her driving foot twitched.
Giving in to the overwhelming impulse to floor it, she pressed the accelerator pedal. The muscle car lunged forward as the powerful engine roared its approval.
“This is more like it,” Lola muttered, steering the car along the deserted road.
She didn’t own a Mustang to drive it like the chauffeur in Driving Miss Daisy. The GPS took the faster speed into account and shaved ten minutes off her arrival time.
Lola switched on the sound system and the acerbic lyrics of Nicki Minaj poured through the car’s speakers, filling the interior. With the afternoon sun on her face, Lola drummed out the fast, thumping beat with her fingertips against the steering wheel.
She saw the speedometer needle inch toward the seventy-five-miles-an-hour mark and then beyond. She was clocking eighty-five miles an hour when her killjoy of an inner voice reared its head, admonishing her to slow down.
The GPS shaved another twenty minutes off her estimated arrival to Manhattan. Lola scanned the windshield and then checked the side and rearview mirrors. No cows. No cars. Nothing but cornfields and open road. There was absolutely no reason for her not to make up some of the time that detours and delays had cost her.
She cranked up the radio and sang off tune in an off-key attempt to rap along with Nicki about being a badass.
A flash of blue lights caught her eye.
“No, no, no, no,” Lola chanted, hoping it was just her imagination.
The wail of a siren drowned out the music. She spotted a police car in the side mirror, and her stomach did a free fall to the floorboards. She definitely wasn’t imagining it. Maybe he wasn’t after her, Lola thought, taking her foot off the accelerator. She saw a tractor in the distance plodding across a field.
Yeah, right, her inner voice scoffed.
Braking, Lola slowed the car enough to pull over to the side of the road. Her talent agent’s warning about trouble and not to screw up played through her mind as she moved the gearshift into the Park position.
Lola eyed the side view mirror and watched the officer get out of the police car. She rolled down her window and narrowed her eyes as he walked toward the Mustang. With his lanky build, awkward gait and uniform a size too big, he looked like a teenager playing cop.
He fumbled with a notebook before dropping it on the ground. When he bent over to retrieve it, his hat fell off. She shook her head at the sight of him trying to get himself together. If she weren’t facing what would undoubtedly be a pricey speeding ticket, she would have felt sorry for the guy.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said, when he finally reached her car.
She removed her sunglasses. The officer blinked and then gawked at her, openmouthed. Lola was used to it. In a moment his face would register one of the looks she regularly got from strangers, recognition or, in the case of men, instant adoration.
She smiled, and his face flushed red. Yep, she thought, adoration.
“Officer.” Lola looked at the name tag pinned to the shirt of the baggy uniform. “Officer Wilson.”
The sound of his name appeared to snap him out of his stupor. “Um...ma’am, do you realize how fast you were going?” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “The posted speed limit on this road is forty-five miles an hour. I clocked you doing ninety-four.”
Talking her way out of a ticket would be a chip shot, Lola thought. Feign ignorance, smile a lot and hit him with the facial expressions the camera loved.
Easy peasy.
You’re in the wrong. Take the ticket and be on your way.
Lola sighed. Maybe it was time for her to finally allow that inner voice to take the wheel.
“Sorry, Officer,” she said simply. No explanations. No excuses.
Her goal was to get to New York City as quickly and uneventfully as she could. Sitting here trying to sweet-talk her way out of a ticket would only delay her further, or even worse, get her into trouble she had gone out of her way to avoid.
The blush rose from Officer Wilson’s neck to his thin face. “I’ll need to see your driver’s license and car registration.” He fumbled with the pad in his hand, but this time he managed to hold on to it.
Leaning over, Lola opened the glove box and retrieved a small plastic folder containing both her car registration and proof of insurance. She handed it to Officer Wilson, then winced as it slipped from his grasp.
While he looked over her registration, Lola hefted her designer tote from the floorboard of the passenger’s side to the seat. Her arm muscles strained from the effort. Geez, she thought, if the thing got any heavier she’d have to put wheels on it and roll it around like a piece of luggage.
“Your registration is in order.” Officer Wilson returned the plastic folder. “Driver’s license, please.”
“Just a sec.” Lola stuck her hand inside the black hole of the oversize pink bag in search of her wallet. She rifled through the contents, unearthing a camera, next a flashlight and then a packet of protein powder.
One of these days she was going to have to clear out this bag, she thought, her arm elbow-deep in the mouth of the purse. She pulled out a small bottle of hand sanitizer and