Other People's Business. Pamela Yaye
Autumn shook her head some more as her face twisted into a frown. Leaving her car by the side of the road wasn’t even an option. It was a traffic-congested street, but there was no telling what would happen if she abandoned it. It could end up being vandalized, stripped or, worse yet, stolen. When Tyrell started to suggest another dim-witted idea, she cut him off in mid word. “Are you out of your damn mind? I can’t flag down a perfect stranger and catch a ride with them!”
“I can call my father and ask him to send his driver to come and get you. How does that sound?” Tyrell asked, sounding rather self-satisfied. But after a reflective pause, he reneged on the offer. “On second thought, I’d better not. He’s still pissed off at me for not attending his annual Politicians of Tomorrow fundraiser last night. Scrap that idea.”
Jacob C. Wellman, the African-American mayor of D.C., had expected his son to follow his political footsteps and carry on the family legacy. But instead of diving into the political waters after graduating from Georgetown University with a degree in political science, Tyrell had announced that he was taking six months off to “find himself.” Ten months had passed and the only thing he’d found were new ways to blow his parents’ hard-earned money. But Mr. and Mrs. Wellman didn’t seem to mind their son’s laziness. In fact, they supported his lifestyle by giving him a handsome monthly allowance and turning a blind eye to his destructive behavior.
“I don’t even know why I bothered calling you. I should’ve known you wouldn’t come help me,” Autumn said more to herself than to him. She raised her voice and spoke directly into the mouthpiece. “Don’t bother picking me up tonight, Tyrell. I’ll manage just fine at the party without you. I always do. Just stay home and nurse your hangover. And while you’re at it, lose my number permanently.”
“Come on babe, don’t start this sh—”
Click.
Autumn kicked a pebble into the ditch, imagining it was Tyrell’s backside. She was sick of him bailing on her when she needed him most. She deserved more than this. Much more. Autumn had never been first in Tyrell’s life, and, if she was honest with herself, she had never even rounded out the top five. There weren’t going to be any more chances for Tyrell and no amount of persuasion would change that. They were through. Autumn didn’t care if he got down on his hands and knees and begged like R. Kelly before a grand jury. Tyrell could grovel until he wore out the knees of his khakis for all she cared. She wasn’t taking him back. Sighing wearily, she clicked open the glove compartment and rummaged around inside for the roadside assistance brochure.
L. J. Saunders wasn’t a mechanic, not even car literate, but he didn’t feel right driving by the marooned motorist. What if the driver had engine trouble? Or was in need of medical assistance? The charring heat of the sun and the balmy wind made the temperature feel much higher than its seventy-five degrees and with traffic backed up for miles, the motorist could end up waiting for hours before help arrived. L.J. didn’t bother turning on the indicator light; it was broken, along with a host of other things on this banged-up truck. Cars whizzed by as he maneuvered into the far right lane, pulled up behind the stopped vehicle and threw his truck in Park.
Autumn was punching in the 1-800 number for roadside assistance when the crunch of tires on gravel reached her ears. She peeped out the back window just in time to see a dark-skinned man step down from a dilapidated truck. The battered vehicle looked as though it had been submerged in a pool of mud. The color and make were unrecognizable, and although Autumn tried, she couldn’t decipher a single license-plate number. The stranger wore an Atlanta Braves baseball cap, a soiled white T-shirt and equally filthy nylon shorts. He had a slightly crooked nose, which added to his mysterious aura, a faint moustache and a powerfully built body. He had the well-muscled shoulders and defined legs of a track star.
He’s attractive in a handyman sort of way, Autumn decided, eyeing him warily. She gripped her cell phone in one hand, and her car keys in the other. The man could be a serial killer for all she knew. Sure, he looked normal, but most serial killers did. Poised to dial 911 if the man made any sudden moves, she got out of her car and took baby steps towards the grimy-looking stranger.
Behind the veil of his Ray-Ban sunglasses, L.J. checked out the smartly dressed woman moving cautiously towards him. Her white fitted blazer and knee-grazing skirt were conservative, but the high-heeled, pointy-toe shoes were anything but. She moved towards him with a wealth of confidence and grace. L.J.’s eyes skimmed over her frame appreciatively. The woman had a pear-shaped figure and a perfect pair of legs. He had always been drawn to women with simple elegance, and that she had. Her skin was the color of lush, brown soil, her eyes a much lighter shade.
“What seems to be the problem, miss?” he asked, his voice coffee-rich.
Autumn’s shoulders tensed. He had a faint Southern accent and gave a slight nod when he stopped in front of her, but that didn’t count for much. Psychos, rapists and serial killers came in all different shapes, colors and sizes. What if he tried to assault her? Or snatched her necklace? With few options, and no help on the way, there was little Autumn could do. She was stranded and unless she was willing to hitchhike, which she wasn’t, he was all she had. Besides, she was on a busy road. If anything happened, she could easily flag down a car. Positive she was in no real danger, Autumn conquered her thoughts. She smiled at the stranger. In an attempt to calm her nerves, she joked, “I have a flat tire and I don’t know how to fix it because when my father was trying to teach me, I was busy inspecting my manicure.”
He chuckled, revealing a slim dimple in his chin. “Well, do you have a spare, Miss Manicure?”
“I think so, Mr. Mechanic.” Much to Autumn’s surprise, he burst into a hearty laugh. She joined in. Clicking open the trunk and stepping aside, she said, “Hopefully, it’s in here somewhere.”
Autumn watched him dig around in the trunk and stared at his hands. It was hard not to. They were filthy. Her mother’s voice echoed in her ears, You can tell a lot about a man by how he carries himself. Check out everything. His walk. His posture. Even his fingernails. Taking her mother’s advice, Autumn surveyed the man before her. His thin, ashy fingers were covered in nicks and cuts, a faint burn mark was in the middle of his left hand and dirt was lodged beneath chipped fingernails. Mud marred his jawline, but it was his wretched body odor that made Autumn’s stomach jolt. Mr. Mechanic was in dire need of a shower and the strongest deodorant money could buy. For a half minute Autumn thought of reaching into the trunk for the air freshener and slinging it around his neck. The smell was that bad. When the stranger tossed her a backward glance and caught her eyeballing him, Autumn buried her eyes in the trunk and pretended to be aiding in the search.
“Here we go.” L.J. pulled out a full-size tire and a steel jack and rested them against the bumper. “Can you close the trunk?”
Autumn did, then looked on as the muscle-bound stranger wheeled the tire with one hand and carried the jack with the other. She watched with keen interest as he jacked up the car and removed what was left of the tire without breaking a sweat. The sun beat down on them with no mercy, elevating Autumn’s anxiety with each passing second. Sweat trickled down her back, and her clothes were sticking to her body. The moisture between her thighs made her long for an ice-cold shower. She swept a hand across her forehead, grabbed the roadside assistance brochure from the passenger seat, and fanned wildly.
“You picked a prime time to get a flat,” he said as the blare of beeping horns rained down on them. Their cars were safely off the road, but heavy-footed drivers were forced to slow down as they approached the scene.
“I know and it doesn’t help that it’s the hottest day of April, either. I’m roasting out here.” Her stomach let loose a monstrous grumble. Autumn patted her stomach. She had more problems than she knew what to do with.
L.J. glanced up just in time to see her unbutton her blazer and fling it into the backseat. The sight of her alabaster lace camisole aroused thoughts of its softness under his fingers. He wondered if her toffee-brown skin was as smooth as it looked. She plucked at her camisole, lifted her mid-back-length braids off her back and rolled her head forward. The mindless act left L.J. gasping for air. He gulped down