Driving Heat Read online

  She wasn’t sure the doorbell worked. So after pushing the button several times, she knocked and then pounded on the front door, with no response. Cynthia pulled out her cell phone.

  After reaching the mother and learning that she had no clue as to her daughter’s whereabouts, Cynthia continued. “Ava, for legal reasons I am required to tape this portion of our conversation. Do I have your permission? Okay, thank you.” She tapped the Record icon. “Ms. Thompson, I, Cynthia Hall, am attaching the final warning notice for your daughter to appear in our offices near the bottom of your inside door, the part hidden by solid metal. Is that okay? Good. I will also send a copy to the e-mail address listed in our files.” She confirmed the e-mail address. “She needs to contact our office ASAP and get this meeting rescheduled. It has to happen this week, per the conditions of her probation. If she does not comply, a warrant will be issued for her arrest. Do you understand?”

  Mission accomplished, Cynthia headed back to her car. “I understand, Ava. This isn’t something I want to do, but unfortunately it isn’t up to just me. These actions have been mandated by the court. If she makes it to my office, I’ll do whatever I can to keep her out of jail.” She opened her car door and stepped inside. “You’re welcome. Have a good day.”

  Cynthia placed her key into the ignition and turned. A whining, grinding noise accompanied the car’s attempt to start. This is different. Undaunted, she tried again. This had been a pre-owned purchase, but this regularly washed, regularly serviced vehicle had not given her an ounce of trouble since its purchase two years ago.

  Whine. Grind. No start-up.

  “Really? When the meeting starts at one? Come on. Please start.”

  Following Ivy’s suggestion and as best she could, Cynthia thought about turning the key and hearing the car engine rev, imagined pulling away from the curb and heading downtown. But after a third attempt with continued silence, she admitted the obvious—the car wasn’t going to start.

  Stay calm, Cynthia. Just call Triple A. She pulled out her phone, dialed the 800 number, and received the disheartening news that because of an unusually high number of calls and where she was located, her wait time would be anywhere from ninety minutes to two hours.

  She called a taxi company and scheduled a pickup. The operator said it would be fifteen minutes. Thirty minutes later, she called another company. They said she’d be picked up in ten. Ten minutes after this lie had been told, Cynthia’s calm threatened to join positive attitude, which had already disappeared. It was almost noon. Time was running out!

  She banged the steering wheel. “Dammit!” This cannot be happening right now!

  A slight tap on her window almost caused a heart attack. She turned to see a kindly older man with a pleasant smile.

  She eased down her window. “Yes?”

  “Good morning, miss. Having car trouble?”

  She nodded. “Cab trouble, too.”

  The older man scratched his scruffy black and gray beard, smiling to show even, white teeth. “Hard to get a cab on this block.”

  “Why? This seems to be a nice, quiet neighborhood.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” the old man responded. “A driver who was resisting a robbery got killed a month or so ago. Haven’t seen one on this block ever since. One young fool makes it hard for everybody.”

  With head in hand, she muttered, “How am I going to get back to work?”

  “Where do you work?”

  “Downtown.”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard. The number 53 runs about every thirty minutes and will take you straight there.”

  Cynthia looked at herself in the rearview mirror. Did he just suggest that I walk down a street where a man got killed . . . and then catch a bus ?

  2

  “Did you say take a bus?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Like . . . a city bus?” Even though she’d never ridden one, Cynthia hadn’t meant for the question to sound snobbish. This unexpected delay on a most important day had thrown her for a loop.

  “You could catch the blue line, the train, but you’d have to walk farther.”

  What he’d said about robbers and murderers made a long walk in these parts about as attractive as getting a root canal without Novocain. “Where do I catch the bus?”

  “Right on the corner there, just two short blocks up. There’s a bench and a sign on the light post. You can’t miss it.”

  The old man found humor in Cynthia’s horrified expression. “It’s clear you’re not the type to take one much, having this fine car and all. But short of walking, that’s the best option.”

  With every other option exhausted, Cynthia reached for her purse. She exited the car and locked it. “You say the stop is at the corner?”

  The friendly neighbor nodded as he pointed. “Not this corner, the next one. That main intersection where you see the traffic lights.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re very much welcome, pretty lady.” He winked. “What about your car?”

  “I’ll have it picked up later.”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine until somebody comes and gets it. I’ll make sure of that.”

  Cynthia headed for the bus stop. Her four-inch heels quickly helped her forget that Grandpa had tried to flirt. Had she been planning a stroll today, she would have worn sensible shoes.

  Just before chucking all decorum and walking a public street in bare feet, she reached the corner and an empty bench beneath the bus stop sign. Here the area’s blight was more noticeable: empty fast-food bags, broken bottles, smashed cans, and cigarette butts littered the street. Pulling her purse closer, she prayed for the bus, a bit embarrassed at the fearfulness among her own. A homeless man pushed his worldly possessions in a red cart bearing a Target logo. She gave him a dollar when he passed. She continued to watch this area’s meager every day unfold amid liquor stores, pawn shops, nail salons, and check-cashing establishments, and realized she often took her comfortable salary, spacious Culver City condo, and pristine neighborhood for granted.

  The relief she felt as the express bus pulled up was palpable.

  “Are you headed downtown?”

  The bus driver gave her the once-over. “Even if I wasn’t, I’d give you a ride.”

  Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she got on, almost falling when the bus pulled away from the curb. The quick reflexes of the bus driver kept her upright. “Careful now.”

  She leaned against the meter to steady herself and pulled out her wallet. “How much does this cost?”

  The driver glanced her way again. “Metro card only. No cash.”

  “Will a debit card work?”

  “I said Metro card, not debit card.”

  At the end of her patience, Cynthia snapped. “I don’t have a Metro card!”

  He reached the end of the next block where more passengers waited, and pulled to the curb. “Guess you’ll have to get out here, then.”

  “You can’t be serious. What business doesn’t take a debit card these days?”

  Cynthia stepped aside so that Metro card–carrying passengers could place what she didn’t possess into the metal machine. Once they’d all entered, the driver looked at her.

  “I have got to get downtown,” she said softly. “It’s important, for work.”

  “You’d better be glad you’re fine and I’m in a good mood,” he said, looking into his rearview mirror and pulling away from the curb. “Sit down, gorgeous. You’re a pleasant distraction that could become a liability if you trip and fall in those nice-looking pumps.”

  First gramps and now the bus driver. She ignored the comment, but was totally aware of how his sexy eyes framed by curly lashes had caused her core to clench. And how the scent of whatever cologne he wore teased her nose. A shame, she admitted, as she slyly eyed the short, thick fingers that had gripped her arm so tightly. That’s the first time I’ve been manhandled in about nine months. She was tempted to fake a fall again, jus
t so he could catch her.

  “Why are you still standing here? It’s not safe.”

  “Oh, um, I need to be sure I’m on the correct bus. Do you go to Seventh and Wilshire downtown?”

  The bus driver slid his eyes down her body once more, with a crooked, confident smile. “You’re on the right bus.”

  Cynthia looked to her right and took the first available seat. She covertly eyed the cocky driver, wondering why he was smiling and even more why did she care? She knew guys who were way better looking, passed them in her office building every day, and her body didn’t react this way. He couldn’t be a DHOP—degreed, home-owning professional—and after where breaking the rules and “dating down” had gotten her the last time, she had no desire to go there again.

  So opening an app where notes were stored, she tried to focus on the talking points for her department that she planned to present at the meeting. But unless they included big brown eyes, juicy lips, thick fingers, and a smile, her attempt was not at all successful. Something this important coming up and yet her attention was on a man she wouldn’t see again? The dictation drought was worse than she’d realized. Dictation, the code word her friends used for sex, which combined a word describing what she craved with the word situation, had never consumed her. But getting moist at the touch of a stranger was proof that something must be done. Her friend Lisa was a regular Adam & Eve patron. Cynthia felt it was about time for her to visit the garden. Especially when her thoughts kept returning to him. Sexy eyes. Musky scent. Juicy lips. Thick fingers. She looked. He winked. Her body had the nerve to react with pitter-patter heartbeats and squiggles down south. Traitorous flesh!

  Cynthia turned her body away from the driver, determined to occupy her mind with something important, something that mattered. Something like making sure that a certain Margo-come-lately didn’t undermine two years of hard work and get the job that Cynthia felt she deserved.

  3

  “What’s your name?”

  Cynthia heard him. Felt his gaze. But she’d been riding in the bus for ten minutes and had regained hormonal control. He could be talking to someone else. He wasn’t. She knew this, but played it off anyway. Working to look preoccupied, she found a name and began tapping the keyboard.

  You won’t believe where I’m at and what I’m doing! I’m—

  “Okay, you’re a newbie, so I’ll give you a pass and explain how this particular Metro operates. This is Byron Carter’s bus, and there are rules. Number one: Never ignore the person who is responsible for your safety, has travel information you just might need, and because of the unfortunate events of 9/11, can put you out at any stop no questions asked and police for backup.”

  The chance that she might miss the meeting immediately improved her hearing. She raised her head, glanced around, and then looked at him. “Oh, are you talking to me?”

  “He sure isn’t talking to me!” The gray-haired, pleasant-faced lady sitting next to the door, an obvious regular, had been chatting nonstop since Cynthia boarded. “I’ve been riding this route for going on fifteen years. Remember this boy from when he first got the job, but he was over on Slauson then.” She leaned over and whispered, so loudly that she needn’t have bothered. “Got so close to cars you couldn’t push a toothpick between them. I never prayed so much in my life.”

  Byron laughed. “That wasn’t a mistake. That was skills, Ms. Davis. Have I ever hit anything?”

  “Other than football players or your girlfriend? I don’t think so.”

  The other regulars joined Ms. Davis in laughter. Byron side-eyed her. “You know you’re wrong for that.” He shook his head, chuckled low and deep.

  The sound—smoky, beguiling—stirred something in Cynthia’s heat as the thought of that voice whispering commands in the dark popped up unbidden. A subtle headshake dispelled the thought. The garden. This weekend. Definitely.

  “I’m just kidding, baby. That’s a good man.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Davis.” At the next stop light, he again looked over at the side seats. “What is it?”

  “Cynthia.”

  “So you did hear me.”

  “I heard the question. I didn’t know it was aimed at me.”

  “Only because I can’t prove otherwise, you can stay on for a few more stops. But”—he paused to focus while he navigated a turn—“you’ve got to comply with rule number two.”

  “Which is?”

  “Smile. Can’t have anyone too serious riding my bus.”

  Curt smile and then Cynthia returned her eyes to the cell phone screen.

  “What brought you over to the south side?”

  A soft sigh helped quell her premenstrual/car broke down/important meeting irritation. A good thing, because “shut the eff up” might get her literally kicked to the curb. “Why do you assume I don’t live there?”

  That chuckle, more of a snicker this time, trickled from his mouth and tickled Cynthia’s earlobe. And why’d he have to offer just a glimpse of his tongue as his teeth briefly pulled on his lower lip, right side, in that sexy way only certain brothers could do.

  After what seemed like an eternity—during which time she could have finished her text but was distracted by thoughts of tongues down low and sexy done right—he answered her question. “You don’t live there.”

  “You’re right.” Delivered in a clipped, professional voice that meant “please leave me alone I don’t want to be bothered.”

  “So why were you there, if you don’t mind my asking? And how did you end up on my bus.”

  A great bus driver, maybe, but his translation skills needed work.

  “I was visiting a client. My car broke down. I have an appointment for which I’m preparing, so while I don’t want to be rude—”

  “You want me to shut the hell up.” A few riders who’d been watching the exchange reacted: laughter, head shakes, and a he-told-you-snort from the woman in the first forward seat, the one who’d eyed her coldly since she’d boarded the bus.

  “I wouldn’t have worded it that way, but basically, yes.”

  Byron laughed, gave her a wink in his rearview mirror.

  Cynthia didn’t catch it, but first forward did. “Why didn’t you say so instead of acting ignorant? For people to know what you want, you have to speak your mind.”

  “Tanya, stop harassing my riders.”

  “Okay, baby.”

  The answer to a question I hadn’t even considered. And how cute, the girlfriend keeps him company while he works. Cynthia’s e-mail indicator pinged. It was Ivy with perfect timing. The answers to the assistant’s questions thankfully kept Cynthia occupied until they reached downtown and she got off the bus.

  Byron lay stretched out on the couch. It had been a long day, yet he couldn’t relax. The ex-high school and college football standout before a knee injury ended his promising career had his eyes on the TV screen, but his mind was on the sexy woman who’d brightened his bus. He liked them chocolate, but something about all that butterscotch beauty had him ready to change flavors.

  His cell phone screen flashed in the darkness. He picked it up and checked the ID. “Hey, sis.”

  “Hey.”

  “You don’t sound good. What happened?”

  “It’s your niece, again.”

  Byron sighed as he returned his head to the comfy couch pillow. Unlike the ex who tried to beg, borrow, and steal her way through life, his sister, Ava, was an excellent mother: hardworking and involved. After her marriage ended, she’d sacrificed her own dreams and desires to give her two children everything they’d need for a successful future. The bullet that reached her twenty-year-old son didn’t know this, took the life of a promising college freshman during a fun-loving weekend out with friends. Ava had been devastated, but the real emotional carnage was endured by Leah, the younger sister by four years, who’d not been the same since his death.

  “What’d she do this time?”

  “Disappeared again; hasn’t called since Friday. She miss
ed a court-appointed meeting with the counselor today.”

  “Aw, man, Ava. She knows better. That girl acts like she wants to go to jail.”

  “All she wants is to run behind Redman.”

  Byron sat up. “Redman? Are you serious?”

  “Yes, that’s who she was seen with yesterday. She swears nothing has happened between them, but forgets that I was once seventeen.”

  “He was what, two or three years older than Lance? And messing with a minor? I’m getting ready to go have a talk with him.”

  “Don’t, Byron. That’ll just make it worse. He’s filling the void left by Lance’s death.”

  “You know Redman’s a dog, Ava. His brother taught him everything he knows, and you know Gavin is rotten to the core.”

  “I tried to tell her. But he’s not my biggest worry right now. Leah’s appointment has been rescheduled for tomorrow. She can’t miss it. If she does, they might revoke her parole. She could be placed in juvenile detention or, since she’s seventeen, county jail. I’m trying to keep my baby out of the system.”

  “Isn’t she already in there?”

  “Technically, yes, but her counselor says if she completes these sessions, gets on the right track, and doesn’t have any more legal problems, her juvenile record can be expunged so she can still be eligible for scholarships to get into college, and not have that on her record when she looks for a job.”

  “So do you need me to go look for her?”

  “I hope it doesn’t come to that. Maybe, for now, a call will do. She looks up to you. When seeing your number, she might answer her phone. Maybe you can talk sense into her, get her to understand that she can’t miss this appointment. She doesn’t listen to me anymore, but you know she loves her Uncle Byron.”