Show Low


Show Low - Novel

Show Low – Novel

“Well – Mr. Vincent Roberts, I don’t even want to know what a senator’s grandson is doing hitchhiking, I am sure it’s a fascinating story, but for now, I suggest you may want to hold on to your butt, because we’re about to go for a long ride on a bumpy road.”

He had barely time to grab the roll bar, when she floored the gas pedal and the little six-cylinder Jeep engine jumped in response.

They both fell silent as the wind whipped around their heads making it impossible to hear the other person.  She had taken her hat off and tucked it down between the seats, securing it under a small toolbox she had there.  Her hair flowed around her face, swirling across her eyes as the wind took it.  She reached up, grabbed a handful in her left hand and with her right expertly wrapped a hair band around the clump making it into a ponytail.  All this while steering with her left knee and doing 50 mph.

I am going to die today, he thought.  Nevertheless, she drove confidently, foot propped up on the doorsill, left arm propped on her knee.  She is very familiar with this Jeep, he thought.  God she has a pair of legs on her, nothing hidden.  Smooth – I doubt they have ever seen anything except a Nair jar.  What’s this?  A chrome plated Smith and Wesson revolver tucked between her legs.  He hadn’t seen that before.  He envied that gun.  Big enough to be a 357.  No wonder she wasn’t afraid to talk to him.  He didn’t have any doubt she’d use it.

Vince couldn’t tell her age, but she was used to working and not just a model as he first thought.  Although she had some age on her, small crow’s feet wrinkles common to people who live in sunny dry climates, she could still be a model with her looks.  There was no doubt that she could walk the same runway with Heidi Klum, Kathy Ireland, or even some of the younger models.

Her long fingers ended in short cut – painted nails that had a few battle scars to show for their labors.  Little nicks here and there, maybe a scar from a cut that hadn’t fully healed.  Vince could see they were well cared for, matching her looks and youthful appearance.  He wondered if her hands were as warm as they appeared.

She also had fantastic breasts, perfectly molded into a beige bra, the outline of which he could see through the lace of her white shirt.  She had the shirt tails tied high up on her waist and there was not an ounce of flab showing.  He could tell she didn’t need that bra either because if her breast weren’t real, a master in plastic surgery had built them.

She slowed the Jeep just barely enough to keep it on two of its wheels as they turned eastbound onto a washboard road.  Vince found himself mesmerized by her movements.  She had body language that spoke volumes.  Graceful, practiced, confident offering no apology for whom or what she was.

“Are you getting a good view Mr. Roberts, anything missing?”

She caught him off guard; he was taken aback by her question, but he quickly recovered when she laughed. “No, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to be staring, but frankly – you are a very beautiful woman and I’m curious how you came to live out here in this little hole in the wall part of the world.  You look as if you should be gracing a fashion runway, or running a modeling agency, instead of riding the inside of a rusty old Jeep.”

“So you’re familiar with fashion runways are you?  He started to answer when she said, “Why of course you are – you are a senator’s grandson.  Silly me.  Forget I asked,” she said, but she left his ‘hole in the wall’ statement still dangling, as if pausing to catch her breath before she cocked her gun.

Vince could tell that he had touched a sensitive nerve and before she could launch into a defensive tirade; Vince stuttered, “I am sorry – you have to forgive me.  I’ve been on the road by myself for too long.  My social skills need polishing.  With no one to talk to, I get a little out of practice.  I didn’t mean to imply it was not a beautiful place; it’s just that you appear so out of place here.  And yes, as you point out, I do have some knowledge of fashion runways.  My sister was a model with the House of Christen Dior for a while.  I can tell a model – when I meet one,”


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